Page 71 of The Pirate Queen

“It doesn’t bother you?” The Gallowglass points at Gráinne. “Sailing under a woman?”

He laughs. “That right there is more banshee than woman. Touched by Manannán himself, she is. I would sail under her before ten men who call themselves captain.”

Unconvinced, the Gallowglass spits into the sand beside Gráinne’s head. Pleased with himself. Thinks he’s made some kind of statement. Too good to sail under a woman, is he?

The Scot doesn’t see Ultan’s punch coming. He lands it exactly where he landed the one in Oban, but this time the skin splits along the already tender cheekbone. The Gallowglass grunts, then stumbles forward onto his knees. Ultan catches him by the hair, yanking his head back, then sets his blade to the thick bearded neck.

“Do you know what they say about the banshee? She’s a harbinger of death, isn’t she?” He shoves the Gallowglass closer to Gráinne, until his head is only a foot away. “Best pray she doesn’t open her eyes or it’s your death she’ll foresee.”

Gráinne’s eyes don’t flutter open—they snap. Dark and intense, focused right on the Gallowglass. He screams, then swats at Ultan’s hands, desperate to be let go. Ultan shoves him face-first into the sand.

“Be off with you. Help the crew salvage the cargo. You’ll be needing every bit of food you can carry for the march to Mayo.”

The Gallowglass scrambles away and Ultan glares after him. Only when Gráinne laughs does he turn from the retreating form.

“How did you know I was awake?” she asks, then groans and gingerly touches her scalp.

“Saw you clutching the sand,” he says. “Likely pissed ’imself, didn’t ’e? The fecker deserved it.”

He reaches out a hand and pulls her into a sitting position. She sways for a moment, then rests her forearms on her knees as she makes a slow assessment of her own body, checking for injury. Gráinne touches her head, and her fingers are bloody when she draws them away. She holds them up to Ultan in question.

He shrugs. “Bled something awful, but no real damage.”

“How long was I out?” she asks.

“Hour. Maybe a bit longer. Hard to tell with the sun still hidden. You went into the cabin deck rail when we ran aground. The worst of the wind and rain was gone soon after that. The whole thing went as quickly as it came.”

“Niamh?”

“She’s got a torn hull but no other structural damage. The crew has been unloading the hold.”

“Any dead?”

“Three Gallowglass.”

“What about the fleet?”

“Both Caoimhe and the Róisín Dubh ran aground. Farther down the beach. Caoimhe on sand, but both masts snapped in the storm. They had to cut the rigging loose or they’d be on the ocean floor right now. But Róisín has a broken hull. She got thrown onto the rocks. They both lost a few Gallowglass. Eleven between the three ships, which is no small miracle. We should all be sunk.” He clears his throat once, twice, until she looks up at him. “I am tired of asking. How did you know, Gráinne?”

Ultan cannot name a single time that she has ever lied to him. She has often been silent. Or defensive. But she has never lied to him.

“ ’Tis a thing I got from my father,” she says.

“What? Like that compass?”

“No. Like an eye color—”

“His were blue—”

She glares at him. “You know what I mean. ’Tis a thing he gave me. He called it the Sense. A way of knowing when a storm is coming. Something passed through generations by Manannán himself.”

“I sailed with him for ten years and never heard him say a word about it. I’ve been with you for twenty, and today, after getting thrown onto the rocks, you finally tell me about this gift?”

“Curse,” she reiterates and stretches her jaw, like it aches. “And we’ve never been through a storm like that.”

“We’ve been through plenty, Gráinne.”

“It isn’t every storm. Only the worst ones. We should have turned back for Islay. I knew it and ignored it and now there are men dead.”