Page 89 of The Pirate Queen

Up or down, up or down? she asks herself.

To her children and her bed, finally?

Or to the sea?

Instinct makes the decision for her, and she walks barefoot and numb out of the castle, across the lawn, all the way to the cliff overlooking Clew Bay. She stares into the broad dark sky. The stars are spread above her like yarrow petals thrown onto a blanket.

Grace feels both light and heavy. As though she could fly, or sink into the earth. Wings and roots, all at once. The chaos of grief and exhaustion assails her, and a sob rises in her throat.

“I hate you for taking him from me,” she tells Manannán.

Oh, bird, he was not yours to keep.

Grace spins the fede ring around her right thumb. Spins and spins that metal circle as the O’Malley clansmen file into St. Brigid’s Abbey. The church is two miles from the tower house, on the southern shore of the island. The mourners walked together in a large, somber group, led by the bier carrying her father’s coffin. Even in his old and frail state, it took six men to carry him to this, his final resting place.

Eóin’s coffin lies on a trestle table at the end of the chancel. The O’Malley banner is draped across the simple wooden box. Candles light the space, whispers fill the silence.

A friar performs the funeral ceremony, his rich baritone echoing familiar Latin off the vaulted ceiling. She stares at two images painted on the far wall, dragon and archer, her favorite figures in this church. She thinks of all the days spent in a church like this near Rockfleet Castle, on a similar bench with Donal and Richard as Father MacKenna beat the Latin into them—sometimes quite literally. She hears the words of this friar now, and understands them all, but cannot account for the sudden hatred that rises in her toward the other priest. Yes, Father MacKenna had been cruel to her. It was his job. She hates him today because he did that job so well, because her mind grasps each and every word of this farewell to her father.

The Requiem Aeternam and the Collecta.

The Dies Irae and the Domine Iesu Christe.

The Libera Me.

She recognizes each part of the service, even as her mind wanders.

Her father is dead and he will be laid to rest in this chancel.

Her husband is dead and she has no idea where his body lies.

Her children sit beside her, lost to this language, but still and quiet regardless. Even Merrick. No pinching or poking his siblings today.

There are almost seven hundred people crammed into the abbey. Every seat is taken. Dozens stand along the walls and at the back. Most are clansmen, come to see The O’Malley laid to rest. But there are others present today as well. Ambassadors from neighboring clans. Chieftains. Friends. Emissaries. Even the MacMahons have sent a representative.

Grace stands when expected. Bows her head. Watches as a stone slab is lifted from the floor with great thick ropes. She holds herself together as the priest chants a final hymn. She does not flinch when her father’s coffin is lowered into the hole. St. Brigid’s Abbey is quiet as a final breath when that stone clangs into place again, sealing Eóin inside.

The priest finishes the service and Grace remains standing as the villagers and clansmen rise to form a line outside the abbey. Then the family makes their long procession through the long path of mourners.

Someone grabs her wrist. “No woman should be chieftain,” a man growls into her ear before she can register his face. Then he releases her and slips into the crowd.

She spins in a half circle, trying to find him. An oily sensation settles into the pit of her stomach.

When Grace steps outside, she takes a deep, needed breath of cool air. It is late afternoon and her gaze is drawn—as if by instinct—to a single face. A man. Dark and blue eyed, with a smile for her alone.

Richard Bourke.

In his chainmail shirt. It is no longer loose in the shoulders or hips. Richard in Iron, indeed.

“Gráinne,” he says, stepping forward and pulling her into a warm embrace. He ignores everyone around them. Maeve and Donal and all the children. “I was grieved to hear word of your father.”

“Your last letter,” she whispers so only he can hear. “I meant to respond. I—”

“You’ve been quite busy.”

There, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Da!” a small voice interrupts them. Then a hand reaches up to grab his sleeve. “Da!”