Page 35 of The Pirate Queen

“The O’Flahertys’ son. Donal,” he clarifies, then spits the name along with a wad of phlegm to the ground between his feet. “They call him The Cock. Arrogant bastard. Always trying to take what isn’t his.”

Grace cannot argue that fact but is curious as to what her husband is trying to steal this time. “Has this Donal—this Cock, as you say—stolen something from you, then?”

“From us.” The old man whacks his chest with the flat of his hand. “He’s taken Castlekirk on the north shore of Corrib. ’Tis a Joyce castle. Always has been. Never disputed before that piece of maw-wallop laid claim. Cock’s Castle, they call it now. A mockery. But my son will set him straight soon enough. My Seán has always been better with knives.”

Joyce. Seán Joyce. Son of The Joyce.

Grace has never met the rival chieftain before. He isn’t dressed like one now. But perhaps that explains why it’s only the two of them on this log while all the others are packed with bodies from end to end.

Her mouth opens slightly, and she can see that he’s aware she has recognized him.

“Ack.” He waves a hand at her. “Don’t let me scare you off. I amn’t so mean as to make a pregnant cailín stand.”

“Thank you,” Grace says and dips her head, using the show of respect to scan his hands and torso for any weapons. Would he kill Donal’s wife if he had the chance, if he knew who she was? Seeing nary a blade, she relaxes slightly, but looks around to see if anyone else is aware that The Joyce is here.

Ah. At the edge of the clearing, not ten feet away, she sees his guards. Three men dressed in plain clothes, hands on the hilt of their swords. Their chieftain in sight, and she apparently no threat at all.

Spectators file in by the dozens and stand behind the logs, crowding to the tree line. She is looking for her parents, for her children, when a cheer erupts from the crowd. When she turns back to the target, she sees Richard and Walter standing before it.

“Bourkes,” The Joyce mutters. “Clever, the lot of them.”

She can see it more than when they were younger, the resemblance between these half brothers. They are of an even height now, though Walter still has broader shoulders, more muscle. But he also has four years on Richard. They both hold a knife in each hand, pinched at the tip as they approach the line of stones fifteen feet from the target.

Grace has always loved the way Richard moves with a knife in his hand. Has always loved to see him handle hilt and blade. Walter is the elder Bourke, however, and the first throw goes to him. His blade whistles through the air and sinks true, just three inches from the center of the target. But he’s thrown with his right hand, and that was his best shot. The second knife lands farther away and below where he’s aimed.

Richard’s first throw is a similar distance off the target but on the other side. He shrugs, then in one smooth movement throws the blade held in his left hand. The sure, steady whack echoes across the clearing. Dead center.

Richard Bourke takes a small bow, then turns, grinning at the cheering crowd. Grace can see it even from here: he’s looking for her. Show-off. And when he finds her sitting beside The Joyce, he raises his eyebrows and huffs a small laugh. Then he smiles wider. And winks at her.

Grace does not realize she’s caught her breath until she forces the air from her lungs in a frustrated huff. From the corner of her eye she can see The Joyce turn to her, and when she meets his gaze, his eyes are sharp with cunning.

The Joyce looks to her swollen belly, then back to Richard as he returns to the crowd. Walter whacks him on the shoulder and hands him a jug of whiskey. She watches the long line of Richard’s throat as he swallows.

Grace forces her gaze back to the center of the field when her husband and Seán Joyce step into the circle but do not approach the line together. They are both destined to become Chief of the Name. Both the same age. And they are here on the lough that divides O’Flaherty lands from Joyce. She can see the crowd lean in, can see Rory elbow his way to the front row. He’s drunk and ready for a fight, already cheering for her husband.

Who will claim the first throw? The show of dominance matters here.

Her husband turns his back to Seán Joyce and steps to the line. There is murmuring in the crowd. A buzzing. Seán takes one step in challenge, then hesitates. One emotion chases another across his face, anger followed by certainty. He keeps his hands loose, dangling at his sides, blades pinched between his fingers, but doesn’t challenge her husband.

Donal O’Flaherty’s first throw is wide, but his second clips the center of the target. Just enough to send a chip of painted wood flying into the grass. He steps away and she thinks he’s ready to claim the victory.

Seán throws his knives so quickly, one after the other, and with such confidence that the crowd draws a breath all at once. And there is no doubt. Both have landed dead center, knocking her husband’s blade to the ground.

“Told you my Seán was better with the knives,” The Joyce says, and she hears the pride in his voice. “Taught him myself.”

The Joyce clan roars their applause as Donal O’Flaherty’s face burns an angry red. He should take the loss with good humor, then accept any one of the whiskey jugs being held out to him. It’s the only way to save face in this situation.

But her husband—her fecking husband—cannot stomach a defeat. Even when it doesn’t matter, when it’s all in good fun.

“You knocked my blade from the center,” he growls.

“Wasn’t in the center and doesn’t matter anyway, since both of mine hit dead to rights,” Seán answers, his voice thick with disdain.

Grace curses when her husband lunges. Curses him and his father and every fecking O’Flaherty for six generations back while the two men go at each other in the wet grass, punching and growling and spitting. The crowd, though—they think it’s great fun. A proper way to burn off a hangover.

“Beat his arse, Seán!”

“Kill The Cock!”