Page 93 of The Pirate Queen

“I will see for myself,” he says.

Grace waves her arm to the door. “Be my guest.”

Bingham remains where he is. “It is a pity you do not keep in better contact with the English council in Dublin, Grace. Otherwise, you would know that they have declared any chieftain found harboring even a single Spanish sailor to be an open rebel and that all his lands are to be confiscated.”

She takes a step closer to him. “Perhaps that is a message you should deliver to my brother, since ’tis well established that he is The O’Malley.”

“Do not think that technicality will keep you from the noose, Grace. Not this time,” he says. “And besides, Donal is not the chieftain I am concerned about.”

“I am no chieftain. Neither in Clew Bay, nor Bunowen.”

“I mean the Devil’s Hook. He wasted no time fomenting unrest and rebellion after securing your release from my tower. Was it his idea to secure those Gallowglass? No matter. I routed them on the banks of the River Moy last September. We ran most of them through with the sword. Then took our time drowning the rest. His little rebellion crumbled after that. Being The MacWilliam will not protect him for long. Not if you’re helping him harbor the Spaniards.”

“I am bored of your accusations,” she says. “G’wan, inspect what remains of El Gran Grin. Take any cargo you find there back to Black Tom. I will see you out.” Grace walks past him and out the door of the Great Hall.

Bingham and his guards follow, then Merrick, with the twins bringing up the rear. She can hear them all thumping along behind her. Grace steps into the watery September light, then moves aside to let Bingham and his men down the steps. She remains at the door, Merrick with her, the twins on either side.

“I will need horses,” Bingham tells her.

“Then you should have brought them. As you can see”—she points toward the byre in the distance—“mine have been let loose to graze for the week.”

Bingham bristles. “One Spaniard, Grace. Just one. That is all I need in order to become lord of your island.”

She laughs at him. “Then by all means go and find one.”

Grace watches Bingham and his men turn down the road that leads through the village. She watches them in silence until they crest the top of the hill before she turns to her son.

“If you ever bring an enemy to my doorstep again,” she tells Merrick, “I will hang you up by your bollocks.”

“What would you have me do? Lose the ship? No.” He shakes his head, and his words are sour when he adds, “Not after what it took to get her back.”

“I will not have this fecking argument again,” she snaps.

“It was you who lost the Scian Catha!”

“Your father got himself killed and lost it on your behalf.”

Merrick’s hand moves to strike her. She flinches, but not fast enough. It is Finn who stops the blow, who bends Merrick’s hand back at the wrist until he growls in pain.

“You know better,” Finn says, his voice low and dangerous.

“She should not speak of my father in such a way.”

“You did not even know the man,” Grace tells him.

And there is the O’Flaherty in him. The snarl. The disdain. “Only because you kept me from him! Hid me away at Bunowen! I would be chieftain if not for you!”

Merrick is a grown man, well past thirty years old, and still he cannot accept the truth: that being an heir does not guarantee the title. She knew it was a mistake to send him to his father’s people for fosterage. He’s never been the same since drinking their poisoned opinions of her.

“Take that up with Rory,” she tells him. “Or better yet, the English queen.”

Merrick jerks his arm out of Finn’s grip, then stomps off down the steps. He only pauses to shout over his shoulder, “Do not cross Bingham, Mam. He’s out for blood.”

Grace does not bother telling her son that Bingham has drawn hers more than once.

Finn scowls as he watches Merrick’s retreating form. “You want us to follow Bingham?”

“Yes. Keep out of sight. He’ll not find anything of interest. But make sure he doesn’t leave any scouts behind.”