The Summer King (21 page)

The dagger was lowered from Ian’s throat and the hand from Laurel’s mouth, but they weren’t safe yet.

The pirate queen strode toward Laurel and tugged at her jeans.

“What are you doing here? The sea is no place for a girl.”

Laurel returned her stare. She knew a test when she faced one. She kept her voice firm.

“You didn’t listen when they said that to you. Why should I?”

A heavy silence fell, as everyone waited for the captain’s reaction. Grace’s eyebrow arched. Then she slapped Laurel’s face with the back of her hand.

Ian let out a yell, but was seized before he could move.

Laurel staggered back, her cheek smarting. Recovering quickly, she glared at the sea queen.

“Ní cladhaire í,”
said Grace, with approval. “No milksop.”

They locked eyes. Laurel did her best, but there was no contest. Grace’s gaze was overpowering. In that stare was the formidable will that made her chief and pirate in a savage time. Laurel looked away.

The sea queen grunted her triumph.

“Tell me why you are here,” she commanded.

The warning in her tone was unmistakable. She wanted the truth, and would know if she got it.

“We came to find you,” Laurel answered simply.

Grace nodded.

“Fair enough. And now that you have, you will rue it.”

She signaled to her men.

“Throw them in the hold. If no one offers a ransom, you can string them up for entertainment.”

Laurel and Ian were about to protest, when a cry erupted from the lookout above. An enemy ship was sighted.

“My glass!” roared Grace.

A young boy raced to bring her the telescope. Peering through it, she chuckled loudly.

“One of Her Majesty’s finest. Broad and fat like a goose ready to be plucked. Lost, I’ll warrant, took a wrong turn on his way out of Galway. Doesn’t know port from starboard, English git.”

Her men laughed. But Grace frowned suddenly and raised the glass again. Women’s intuition. She shouted to the lookout.

“Further south! T’wards Inishturk! What do you see?”

When the answer came back that a flock of gulls circled the island, she swore blue murder.

“One or more ships in the lee of the harbor. The gulls wait to feed. It’s a trap. FULL ABOUT!”

The crew sprang to action as she roared a quick succession of orders. Over the rigging they scrambled, like agile cats. Sails were unfurled. The great sheets billowed. Cannon were loaded. Weapons distributed. Up the main mast ran the flag of the O’Malley’s—stallion, helmet, wild boar, three bows affixed with arrows; and at the bottom, the true sign of their strength, a single galley to represent a fleet.
Terra Marique Potens.
Powerful on land and sea.

The minute Grace’s ship turned about, the vessel acting as bait knew the game was up. A shot was fired to signal the others. The second and third ships hove into view.

Granuaile let out a great laugh. The lust for battle glittered in her eyes.

“We’ll outrun the laggards and take the bait.”

The sea chase commenced. The ships that had hidden in ambush were caravels, lighter and faster than the lumbering merchantman in the lead. The latter had a high forecastle and double-tiered deck. But though it was slower, it was better armed and closer. More likely to do damage.

“We haven’t a hope if they catch us,” Ian whispered to Laurel.

The two had been pushed aside when the alarm went up. Scrambling for cover, they found a hiding place behind the wine kegs lashed to the deck. From there they had a good view. Laurel shivered with excitement as well as fear. It was like an old swashbuckling movie! She kept her eye on Grace, who strode the deck, shouting, commanding, encouraging, laughing. Like everyone else onboard, she took courage from the captain’s confidence.

The galley flew over the waves, sails soaring on the wind like wings. The wooden rigging screeched with the strain. The bow rose up in a burst of spray. She was light as a skiff, a proud fast queen.

Taking the helm herself, Grace steered the ship into the maze of islands, reefs, and narrow channels of Clew Bay. This was her domain. Born and bred on these waters which charts had yet to map, she could navigate blind. The threat of running aground forced the pursuing caravels to slow down. But though the others fell behind, the lead ship closed in and fired a broadside at Grace’s hull.

A cannonball crashed through the deck. Wood splintered. Men roared. Now the O’Malley ship returned fire. A volley struck the enemy’s mast. The vessels almost collided. As grappling hooks swung through the air, the English clambered onboard. All over the ship, the two crews clashed in hand-to-hand combat.

Crouched in the shadows, watching with a mix of fascination and horror, Laurel wondered how anyone knew friend from foe. Except when they cursed in their separate languages, the men were alike—hairy, burly, unkempt and unwashed. After observing them a while, however, she grew aware of the differences. The Irish had shaggy moustaches, and their long hair fell over their faces. The English favored beards and shorter hair. Where the Irish wore trousers and jerkins, the English were dressed in breeches and doublets. At the same time, all of them obviously lived in their clothes, universally tattered and matted with dirt. Swords and daggers were the main weapons used, though some of the English had firearms as well.

As the fighting raged back and forth over the two ships and even up into the rigging, it was impossible to tell who was winning the battle.

“What will we do if the Irish lose?” Laurel hissed to Ian.

“Speak English.”

“We need their help. We should join them.”

“Are you out of your mind? We don’t—”

Before he could finish, Laurel had run from their hiding place and grabbed a fallen sword.

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

“Taking sides!” she called back.

Fired with adrenaline, she ran to join a band of Grace’s men where they battled in the stern. She had taken a class in fencing once, but this was nothing like it. There was no room for stance or footwork, no chance to thrust and parry. This was a terrifying scrap involving sharp blades. Slashing wildly with her sword, she yelled, ducked, and even kicked. The absurdity of the situation fueled her courage, as did the sense of unreality. With a little skill and a lot of blind luck, she managed to hold her own for a time.

Then Laurel found herself pressed into a corner beside the anchor winch. She had no room to maneuver, no way of escaping. A heavier sword beat down on hers and knocked it out of her hand. She cried out with alarm, backing up against the bulwark. Now she looked for the first time into the face of her enemy, and nearly fainted. The rage of battle had obliterated all signs of humanity. The contorted features were a livid red. As he lunged toward her, a last thought fled through her mind.
Not here, not now.

When the plank crashed down on her assailant’s head, it was almost comical. His mouth opened wide and his eyes bulged before he crumpled to the ground. Behind him stood Ian, looking pleased with himself.

“My hero,” gasped Laurel.

“Your shite in knighting armor,” he said, with a mock bow.

Laurel retrieved her sword. Her hands were shaking, like the rest of her body.

The fighting had moved further up ship, and they were alone. Together they disarmed her attacker who was still unconscious.

“He’s very scruffy,” she said, trying to calm down. “I thought the English would be in uniforms. And tidier or something.”

Ian tested the weight of the man’s sword.

“The British navy came later. At this time they were much the same as the Irish, raiding Spanish and Portuguese ships. Sir Francis Drake was a pirate, remember.”

“It slipped my mind,” she said dryly. “How do you know these things?”

“Books. You should try reading sometime. You might learn something.”

“Like fencing?”

“Touché.”

When they returned to the fray, they were happy to find the battle over. With no reinforcements, the English had decided to retreat. The Irish let them go, cutting the lines that held the vessels together. There was no time for plunder. The other ships might arrive at any moment. Wisdom was the better part of valor. Grace ordered her men home.

As they got underway, the crew tended to their wounded and threw the enemy dead into the sea. When Laurel’s attacker staggered up from where he lay, he was taken prisoner.

“Throw him overboard with the rest,” Grace ordered.

Laurel objected, horrified.

“You can’t do that! He’s hurt! And the other ship’s too far away. He’ll drown!”

The pirate queen laughed and so did her men, but the Englishman pleaded.

“My family have money! They will ransom me!”

“Well, that’s a different kettle of fish,” Grace remarked. “Take him below. And see to his wounds. There’s no payment for a corpse.”

The captain regarded Laurel coolly.

“You fought with us. Foolhardy, but brave. I welcome you. For now. But make no mistake, my foreign girleen, you are my guest
and
my prisoner.”

Laurel bowed her head. She understood. She had yet to earn Granuaile’s trust, but she had done enough. For now.

s Grace’s galley sailed for Clare Island, it was joined by the rest of her fleet. Together the ships flew over the waves, bows rising, wood creaking, sails filling with wind. Laurel was thrilled with the speed and beauty of the vessels. So different from the noise and smell of oil and engine! They didn’t slow till they approached the island, where they anchored in its natural harbor. Small boats were lowered to take the crews ashore.

The O’Malley fortress stood strong in its heyday. The tower shone iron-gray in the sunlight. The window slits were like narrowed eyes. Flags battered the air above the parapets. Armed guards kept watch along the battlements. A stream of people poured through the front gates; hunters and fishermen with the day’s catch, traders hawking their wares, women carrying firewood. In the shade of the walls were stone cabins thatched with mud and hay. Beyond the settlement, the beach was striped with black currachs upturned on the sand. Nets lay drying in the sun. The clan lived as much from fishing, hunting, and husbandry as it did from plunder.

Inside the castle, Grace’s wealth was evident. Rich fabrics and fittings told of her trade with the capitals of Europe, while the abundance of gold spoke of her spoils. The main hall was furnished with polished oak, tables draped with damask, magnificent rugs, and tall candelabra. Tapestries warmed the stone walls alongside racks of antlers, war trophies, weapons, and mediaeval maps and charts. A cavernous hearth burned whole logs.

Grace brought Laurel to her own bower to change into fresh clothing. Each donned a floor-length gown of white linen, with long narrow sleeves. Over this was worn an apron-like smock of heavier material. Laurel chose a red brocade with a bodice of pearls; Grace, a dark-yellow wool trimmed with fur. The sea queen clipped a jeweled dagger onto her belt. Around her shoulders hung the chieftain’s
brat
, the broad green mantle that marked her status.

As Laurel pinned up her hair with a golden comb, she kept an eye on Grace in the mirror. It was nerve-wracking to be alone with her.

The pirate queen strode around the room, kicking at her skirt.

“When I was a child, I begged to be taken on my father’s ship bound for France. They told me the sea was not for girls. I hacked off my hair with a knife to look like a boy.”

“Did he take you?”

“Need I say? But enough preening! Let us join the feast.”

The banquet was well under way by the time they arrived in the great hall. Mounds of food weighed down the long tables. There were steaming platters of roast beef, venison, braised mutton and pork, along with jugged hares and braces of pheasant. Grilled salmon lay on silver plates alongside heaps of scallops and mussels. Hills of oatcakes were served with butter, curds, and cheeses. The sweets were presented at the same time as the savories; sugared seedcakes, wild berry pies, and a honeyed paste of forest fruits cut in slabs and swimming in cream. The drink was plentiful. As well as home-brewed whiskey, ale, and mead, there were dark ports from Spain, and French wines and brandies.