Antónia wanted to grab every one of them by their ears like her grandmother used to do to her and drag them back to their hovels, locking them in the dark until their thirst for blood waned.
Her men had been brought to the dock at low tide, for their execution, where their hung bodies would dangle for the remainder of the day. Not bloody going to happen. Antónia glowered at the nooses already knotted and waiting. Her men would not dangle today. She was going to help them escape and she’d like to take a few lives of the bastard yeoman standing guard. However, that would interfere with her plans and, so, she’d have to save her revenge for another time.
Though if she was being fair, she’d pardon the English captain and his disciples, for they were only following orders and laws they thought reasonable. Alas, Antónia wasn’t going to be fair. Not today, or tomorrow. She was a pirate by blood and she did not make exceptions for fools.
In fact, if she ever came across the bloody captain again, she’d be hard pressed not to pull out her blunderbuss and put a bullet between his eyes.
Antónia tucked her hat lower, shielding her eyes. She’d ashed her hair that morning to hide the red luster of its color and tucked it into a nondescript lace bonnet with a gray feather. Damn her Irish roots for giving her away when she wanted to be discreet. Her two men, who stood behind her, stooped to hide their Viking-Scots height—they, too, were cursed with an appearance that was hard to miss.
She glanced back at them, giving a slight nod. All their plans would soon be underway and this day would either end in death or victory.
Just before dawn, she’d approached the dock, examining the scaffold and happened to come across a man who had death in his eyes. An executioner, though he’d not admit it without his cap on to hide his face. One wayward soul could always tell another. She’d asked the man if he was the sort to end a life, could he be bribed with Spanish coin to look the other way.
He’d told her, politely of course, to bugger off, though his eyes had said something different, and an imperceptible nod had been all the permission she’d needed to accidently drop a leather pouch full of Spanish gold doubloons near the foot of the scaffold. Inside the pouch, she’d tucked a strip of parchment that read simply: Look the other way when we release the Irish. – Her Grace, the Queen of Pirates.
Of course, she’d used her grandmother’s name, but all the same, one did such things when needing to save their crew from certain death.
Now, Antónia saw that man, standing there, his eyes as stormy gray as they’d been that morning, met hers, and again that imperceptible nod. She returned the gesture. Thank the sea gods for Spanish gold.
A man approaching the scaffold caught her attention and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from shouting her anger at the man who’d brought them into this mess. The English captain.
He was more handsome than she remembered in his crisp and starched white linen shirt, blue doublet with gold buttons, white breeches, and shiny black boots. His sword gleamed at his hip, and beneath his captain’s cap, his hair was dark as night—not powdered or wigged like most men of his ilk.
A silent rebellion? If she didn’t despise him, she might have respected that. But she did despise him, so he could take his lustrous hair and shove it up his arse.
Antónia quickly ducked her face toward the ground; her hat shielded her gaze. When he glanced in her general direction, he’d not see her seething, nor did she risk the chance of him recognizing her despite the soot she’d smeared on her face and in her hair to appear inconspicuous.
The captain had no idea what was coming for him.
Waiting at a dock a half-mile north of this spot, was more of her crew, manning a barge large enough to fit them all but not large enough to draw attention.
One of the prison guards had been replaced by a man in her crew. He would be the one to cut the ropes at the right time. Three men near the wagon would overtake the driver and her crew, if they were smart, would hop back behind the barred cart and hold on for dear life as they rode off.
They would meet at the barge, hide them beneath blankets and row quietly from the Thames out to the Channel where her merchant ship awaited them at a small port in All-Hallows, a small village just at the mouth of the Thames that would take them out to sea.
If it all worked…
Which, it must!
For, if it did not, she would haunt the dreaded captain for the rest of his miserable days.
The captain climbed the scaffold, his height at least a head above the executioner, the muscle in his square jaw ticking. She did not remember him being so tall. So broad. Why did he have to be so fine-looking? The feminine side of her, despite her irritation at his gall to arrest her men—even if she and her crew had been in mid-plunder—enjoyed the sight of his fine physique, his ruggedly handsome face.
“The accused stand before you all, charged with piracy and assault on the queen’s property. They are sentenced to be hung until dead.” The captain stood tall as he spoke, listing the names of the men within the covered wagon. Then he signaled to the guard standing by the cart and that was Antónia’s cue.
She flicked the feather in her bonnet and the poor wench she’d paid to scream did so at blood-curdling levels. All in the crowd turned to look and that was when Antónia’s crew knocked the guards senseless and took hold of the horse drawn cart.
The queen’s men shouted. The captain bellowed.
Antónia smiled.
“Come, Sweeney, Tavish,” she said to the two guards behind her. “We must be away now.”
Slowly they turned and headed toward the quay, walking quickly, but not enough to draw attention, a half-mile down river to their newly acquired barge.
They reached the craft just as the cart did. Sweeney hacked at the lock with his axe and her men spilled out, along with two strangers who immediately swore an oath to her. Into the barge they went, climbing beneath benches, blankets and a few into pine crates.
Tavish smacked the horses’ rumps and they took off back toward the city, hopefully leading the guards in a different direction.
Antónia and her men leapt over the rails. “Go, now! Row for your lives,” she hissed.
They pushed off the quay, eight of her crew rowed with all swift speed, knowing that if they were caught it was death for the lot of them.
Oh, but sweet satisfaction would be hers.
A lone rider, suited in white breeches and a blue doublet rode along the quay. Antónia doffed her cap and tossed it into the Thames.
“Until we meet again, dear Captain,” she whispered.
Chapter One
September 7, 1601
Greenwich Palace
Court of Queen Elizabeth
Lady Antónia was dressed in a most proper gown of emerald green, creamy lace at her cuffs and starched at her neck. Whalebone stays pinched her ribs. She’d not eaten since that morning and here it was now high noon. ’Twas hard to breathe and even harder to stand tall. She wasn’t used to wearing such formal clothing. Nay, indeed. She much preferred the loose pantaloons and doublet she wore aboard her ship. The ribbons and cap that kept her hair from her face instead of the tight knot and pins that held her fiery locks now.
If anyone had asked her the previous year when she’d be back in England, she’d not have guessed it would be this soon. Over a year had passed since she’d freed her men from certain death.
Greenwich Palace was unequivocally the most beautiful and ostentatious place she’d ever been. Her family’s castles in Ireland, where she sometimes graced them with her presence, were nothing compared to this. Terrifying towers truly. They were keeps, strongholds, meant for battle and to keep enemies from within. Greenwich looked as though it had been made for a sovereign’s comfort, for parties and plays.
Velvet draped every piece of furniture and even the walls. Gold rimmed every painting, mirror and candlestick. Where there was no gold, there was silver. As if the monarchs wished to impart a message to every bejeweled or bedrag
gled person to grace the halls that their wealth far outweighed any other. Richer than gods. No one in the place seemed concerned with anything other than pleasure.
Antónia scowled. ’Twas no wonder the English had not yet been able to beat back the Irish, her people. When they weren’t attempting to take over every corner of Christendom, they were dancing and playing boules in the courtyard, stroking their gold and silver.
As much as their opulence and frivolity disgusted her, Antónia had to maintain a pretense while here. Granuaille, her grandmother, had made it very clear what her purpose was in coming—to give the queen a birthday gift therefore ensuring that the English Queen believed their ties of friendship were still strong. Some years before, Granuaille had sought out Queen Elizabeth, and though their two countries were at war, they’d formed an alliance with each other. Elizabeth had even freed and pardoned Granuaille’s son, Antónia’s uncle, Tibbot, if Granuaille agreed to continue pirating the Spanish and not the English.
And now, Uncle Tibbot had just been named an viscount—while Antónia’s father had been secretly named by Tibbot as the rebel leader fighting against the English.
Antónia most certainly took after her grandmother in her intelligence, wit and ability to captain a ship, but she had her father’s dark temper. There was a reason he was called The Demon of Corraun. The English even called him Devil’s Hook. He was wild man and fierce in battle.
He didn’t scare Antónia one wit, though, even with the jagged scar on his face that made it look as though he had a permanent vicious smile.
“Lord Dalston,” called out Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s secretary, from the gallery leading from the Presence Chamber into the Queen’s privy chamber. The large wood-paneled door behind him remained closed to those waiting an audience.
Though he shared the same surname as the Secretary of State when Antónia’s grandmother had first journeyed to London in 1593, he was not the same man. A relation, perhaps. For it was William Cecil that Granuaille had dealings with.
Antónia cursed herself for not keeping up with the bloody English’s politics. She should know exactly who this man was.
She despised the English. They’d been tormenting her countrymen, her kin, for years, indeed, all of her own life.
At twenty-three summers this year, she’d seen much in the way of bloodshed from the English to her Irish countrymen.
She watched an older gentleman attempt to hurry toward Cecil, but his aged legs wouldn’t carry him as quickly as he must have wanted and he tripped several times. Only one of the nasty courtiers was kind enough to right him while the rest shied away as though aging were a disease.
Cecil greeted the man, calling him Baron Dalston. The aged courtier wore a dark gray cap with a feather in it, his clothes were rumpled. At least there was one more courtier in the crowd that seemed a little worse off than herself.
Antónia had to hide a smirk. She was probably wealthier than the lot of these puppets and none of them would ever know as her grandmother had begged the queen for money stating she was lacking, and the queen had agreed. If Her Haughty Majesty ever dared to visit Rockfleet Castle, and was allowed entrance into the treasury, she’d be blinded by the gold.
Behind Antónia was Sweeney, the only gallowglass guard she’d allowed off her ship. Any more and the English hypocrites would either shite their pants or think she was bringing a war to their queen. Antónia had grown up with the gallowglass warriors. Scotsmen bred with Norsemen. They were shunned by the Scots as half-breeds, but welcomed by Granuaille into her own personal army. The gallowglass men were well over six feet tall, nearing seven. Hugely muscular. There was wildness in their eyes and Antónia got a particular kick out of their permanent scowls.
While the English all crowded together, there was a notable space surrounding Antónia and Sweeney, as though the puffed up dunderheads thought they might catch something from the two them. Death perhaps?
Antónia bit her lip to keep from laughing.
She’d insisted Sweeney leave his double-headed axe on the ship, though he did not remove his six-foot long claymore attached to his back, which had been prompted an immediate request for removal upon their arrival. Lucky for the liveried men who’d asked it, Sweeney had obeyed her nod to part with the weapon, instead of lopping off their heads with one swing. And her, well, she had a dagger up both sleeves. The liveried ninnies had been staring too hard at Sweeney, afraid he’d bash their heads in, to even bother checking her for a weapon.
Imbeciles.
Another half-hour passed, with her feeling fainter by the minute and not yet called to the back, but many others—who had come into the presence after her—were summoned, piquing her irritation.
“I am going to speak with the footman,” she muttered to Sweeney.
Sweeney grunted. “I wouldna, my lady.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You’d only bash him on the head and slam down the door.”
He shrugged. “Aye.”
“Hmm.” Antónia eyed the door, considering that very suggestion. Oh, but she would love to see the look on these idiots’ faces as her gallowglass warrior shredded the pretty wood.
Sweeney nudged her elbow. “I will if ye like.”
Antónia laughed softly. “I would like that very much, but I will not require it.” Flapping open her fan, she held her head high as she glided over the floor, the crowd parting easily when they took one look at the warrior behind her.
The footmen standing guard of the gallery widened their eyes at her approach. They subtly shook their heads, warning her with their eyes to stay back, but she ignored them completely.
“I have waited quite some time to speak with Her Majesty. I require you to announce me. Now.”
One of their mouths dropped open, the other cleared his throat. “My lady, if you would wait, you will be called when requested.”
“Now would be good,” Antónia said with a sweet smile, though her eyes held no room for argument. “I do not think you understand, sir, but I have come on behalf of my grandmother, Lady Grace O’Malley, I believe she is well known to court.”
The footman whose mouth had popped open before swayed on his feet, while the one she’d been conversing with swallowed hard. She had to keep herself from glancing down to see if they’d wet themselves yet.
The only footman able to form words stared up at Sweeney behind her. “I shall return in a moment.” Keeping his eyes on her guard, he reached behind him and opened the door, fairly falling through in his hurry.
Antónia let out an annoyed sigh and glanced back at Sweeney. Though his scowl was fierce, his eyes danced with humor.
The footman left on his own looked ready to bolt, or faint. Antónia offered him a pleasant smile, but the way he peeled back his lips from his teeth looked more like a man ready to piss himself than a return of civilities. Well, she was used to that. Most of the men she met looked at her that way. Of course, most of the time she had the blade of her cutlass at their throat, or the barrel of her blunderbuss pointed at their heart, or simply Sweeney glowering promises of death behind her. No matter, she wasn’t brandishing any weapons at the moment. Must have been something in the air around her.
Or the fact that her grandmother was the Irish pirate queen.
Or Sweeney. One never knew.
A moment later, the gallery door opened once more and the footman was ushering her in. Though his face turned an ugly shade of purple when he did so, he held his hand up at Sweeney’s follow.
“Nay, there. You must remain behind.”
Sweeney bared his teeth, prepared to, no doubt, tell the slight guard what he’d like to do with him and as entertaining as that would be, Antónia had to stop him.
“’Tis fine, Sweeney. I shall return in a moment. The gift please.” She held out her hand and Sweeney reached into his sporran, pulling out the small velvet pouch.
Antónia clutched it and motioned for the footman to show her the way.
He led her through the
gallery where a few courtiers stood, whispering in corners, their eyes shifting over her, some with curiosity, others with animosity. Oh, how she would have liked to storm these halls with her crew. The lot of these English would writhe with fear. The aging baron was still there, too, looking ready to lay down on the ground in his exhaustion, as he conversed with another courtier.
The footman opened another door, leading into the throne room. More opulence. More glitter and a fluff.
“The Lady Antónia Burke, on behalf of Lady Grace O’Malley,” he announced.
The room, and gallery behind her, fell silent.
Antónia stood tall and sailed inside the room, gliding over the floor much like her ship glided over water. Her eyes locked on Queen Elizabeth, who sat in a cushioned throne chair, her face painted thick with white. Bright red hair, much the same color as her own, was curled and set just so on top of her head.
Her gown was finer than anything Antónia had ever seen. Velvet, crusted in shining jewels and lace. Every finger held a large stone. Her dark eyes were weary as they studied Antónia and she beckoned her forward with one gnarled finger.
“Come here, child. You’ve grown much these last eight years.”
“Your Majesty.” Antónia bent at her knees, deftly perfecting the curtsey she’d been practicing behind the locked door of her chamber aboard the ship.
When she’d first met the queen, her grandmother had refused to curtsey, claiming she did not recognize her as her monarch, but Granuaille had been adamant that Antónia bow before the sovereign now, else all Uncle Tibbot’s careful plans be laid afoul.
Queen Elizabeth held out her hand, expecting Antónia to kiss her ring. That was a matter entirely different than bowing, for she, also, did not recognize the queen. In fact, just this month, there had been a massive battle waged between the English and Irish, and her father could have been killed.
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