by Amy McLean
She pulled her foot closer to her as she picked up the right boot: the one in which she'd found the letter. Between her fingers the material felt thin. They were still quite tough—they weren't old or worn away—but they didn't look or feel as sturdy or as protective as she had expected for a pair of leather boots. Inhaling deeply, she moved her foot so that she could slide it inside the boot. Why placing on a pair of boots was such a strenuous ordeal she didn't know, but something told her that this was important.
She moved slowly as her toes made their way down the opening. The top was tall and narrow. She felt it make its way up her bare leg as her foot worked its way toward the sole. Finally, she felt her toes reach the front of the boot. She wiggled them to ensure her foot was firmly in place.
She pulled the left boot on, much quicker this time now that she was comfortable that there'd be no more unexpected items hidden at the bottom. The top of the boots were folded over—they were surprisingly similar, she thought, to the traditional footwear she had seen as a child when she went to see Peter Pan on stage during pantomime season.
Grace placed a hand on the chest and pushed her weight upon it to help her stand. The boots were neither too tight nor too loose. They were a perfect fit.
It occurred to Grace that any fears she had previously felt, any anxieties that had hit her upon entering these surroundings again, had disappeared. She took in the room again, casting her eyes around her. Everything felt so familiar now. The air wasn't as cold as she'd remembered it either. And it wasn't just the room that felt different.
A peculiar sensation washed over Grace. At first she couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she suddenly started to feel—how could she put it?—experienced. There was something about her mind that began to feel like it had been fed decades of adventures in a matter of minutes. Grace wasn't sure what they were exactly, as she struggled to locate anything specific, but she certainly felt like she'd seen the world. Although the nerves hadn't completely left her, she felt stronger, mentally ready to take on anything life threw at her. Even if she wasn't sure whose life she was living.
Taking a moment to consider her next move, she blushed as she recalled her earlier haste to evacuate. It seemed so bizarre now that she would have wished so eagerly to leave. She was no longer a stranger to the ship. There was nothing stopping her now. She headed for the door in front of her and pulled it open. Unlike her previous visit, however, there was no burst of sunlight to welcome her. The sky had darkened as the day had aged. Undeterred, Grace stormed out onto the ship's deck.
"I thought as much. You're rarely away from it.' He managed half a smile, trying not to let her see the panic on his face. But he had to tell her. "You must come with me immediately. They've got your son, Gráinne. They've caught Tibbott!"
9
The clock chimed and Elizabeth straightened herself in the seat as she made herself more comfortable. It was rare that she had a morning to herself, and she planned to make the most of this occasion. She was always busy, yet she was consistently bored. Perhaps today she could go for a stroll in the grounds or take up some activity to occupy her mind.
"Maybe I'm just going too soft in my old age," she mumbled to herself. How much posset had she had to drink last night? Her health had not been great recently. "The years have been good to me, but what would my mother think?" The mother she had outlived. The mother she had never known.
Her Tudor blood still ran thick through her veins. She wouldn't allow anybody to tell her any different. Not that they'd try to for fear of being struck down. "Would he be proud?" she sighed as she wondered of her father. Had she grown into the Queen he would have wanted her to be? She could only hope that she would have satisfied her parents. She had done all that her strength would allow, that much she knew.
She shifted her body to face the window. Fixing her attention on the river below, she lost herself in the quiet.
Nothing could have dampened Lord Bingham's mood that day. Her Majesty would be so pleased with him, he could feel it. He'd hardly slept all night, too excited to tell her the wonderful news. He could almost taste his reward.
He'd allowed Her Majesty time to stir from her bedchambers but once the clock had struck nine, he found that he could not wait any longer. He had to steady himself as he skipped along the corridor, not wanting anybody to see him so inappropriately merry.
He came to a halt outside the room in which Her Majesty was sitting so that he could compose himself. After straightening out his jacket he stood for a moment, watching her through the gap in the door. She was resting in her chair, one foot crossed over the other. Not prepared for visitors that morning, she was dressed more plainly than usual in a slender dress of red silk. Lord Bingham admired her fiery hair, which had been neatly arranged on her head. She was beautiful. If only she would notice him, think of him as more than a humble devotee.
He sighed to himself, then coughed: "Your Majesty?"
She jumped, startled by the intrusion. "Lord Bingham. You have returned from Ireland. What is it?" She made sure there was a level of anger in her voice to assert her authority over the disruption, but she would secretly confess to herself that she was glad for the company, as the boredom to which she was so accustomed had once again started to develop. She was beginning to grow weary.
Lord Bingham entered the room as Elizabeth stood up.
"Your Majesty, I bring you good news," he spoke quickly, his nervous excitement causing him to rush his bow. "I thought you ought to know that Tibbott Bourke has now been captured. Please allow me to assure you that he is held securely. He cannot escape."
"The boy has been imprisoned? He is no longer free. Very good. And does he confess to his treason?"
"He has spoken very little, Your Majesty. He certainly does not confess anything, but merely asks to see his chieftain."
"And who is this chieftain? Where is he now?"
"The chieftain, Your Majesty, is the boy's mother. She—"
"What?" Elizabeth blinked, wondering if she'd misheard.
Lord Bingham gulped: "Your Majesty?"
"You say the boy's chieftain is his mother? A female captain?"
"That—that is correct," he stuttered.
"How extraordinary. And do we know where this female chieftain is now, Lord Bingham?"
"She remains on the west coast of Ireland, on Clare Island."
"And her name?"
"Gráinne O'Malley, Your Majesty." His palms were beginning to sweat as he rubbed them together. Elizabeth stood and moved closer to him now, and he could smell the natural scent that lingered on her pale skin. He couldn't help but notice the eager look that had flared in her eyes.
"Seize her and bring her to me then."
"You—you wish to see Gráinne O'Malley?"
"That is what I said, was it not?"
"Yes, yes. Certainly, Your Majesty. Right away."
"You may go now."
Elizabeth turned her back and paced to her chair by the window. Lord Bingham bowed behind her and scampered out of the room, having accepted his mission. He had a duty to do and he could not let Her Majesty down. He must do whatever was required of him to find this female captain and bring her to the Queen.
Gráinne O'Malley must be captured.
10
Grace's heart had raced when she heard the news, her head weightless and dizzy. She turned pale as Donal grabbed onto her to steady her on her feet. If only in that moment, she was overcome with emotions that were not her own. In those minutes following the news of his capture, she knew also that she had known Tibbott, and that she had loved him as her own.
They sat around the wooden table in the kitchen that Donal had led them to. Grace tried to remain calm as she studied the room. It became apparent that she was currently in the O'Malley household—this was Gráinne's kitchen—and part of her felt as though this were the most natural place in the world for her to be, a sense of belonging, a familiarity, and it provided her with a peculiar comfort that she hadn
't expected.
There was certainly no doubt in the minds of Donal or Cathleen that she belonged there. As far as they were concerned, she was Gráinne O'Malley. They didn't seem concerned in the slightest by the difference in her accent or her lack of understanding of pretty much everything they said to her. They had no knowledge of Grace Byrne, and that didn't seem to matter to anybody. Right now, Grace had to put her own identity aside and concentrate on helping them.
"When did this happen?" she asked.
"Yesterday. Word only reached us this hour."
"Who was it?"
"Lord Bingham's men: I can't be certain Bingham was there himself, but it would not surprise me if he were. His thirst for blood has grown barbaric over the years. I should wonder whether or not he has any control over his own desires anymore." Donal's knee bounced up and down as he pumped his foot in agitation.
"Oh, this is just terrible!" Cathleen interrupted, wailing.
As much as Grace could have done without the girl's dramatic outburst, she knew she was right. There had only been one short paragraph about Tibbott in the article she'd read, but for reasons she couldn't explain she'd found herself drawn to it, and ended up reading it several times. She had learned about this situation, and she knew just how serious it was.
"What should we do?" she asked Donal.
"I was hoping you would have an idea."
"Me?"
"Gráinne, I trust you with this. We all trust you. We know you'll do the right thing. If it were down to me, I would hunt Bingham down and charge straight at him with the sharpest sword I could find, but even I do not believe that that it would be the right thing to do. Not when Tibbott's life is at risk."
"My son..." Grace spoke the words in a whisper with her head bowed toward the table, trying to absorb the situation, and overcome with the emotions that once had belonged to Gráinne. She had carried the boy, endured the pains of childbirth, and spent the subsequent years raising him and watching him grow. How awful it must be, as Grace was now discovering, to hear that one's child has been captured and is locked up somewhere far away.
"Oh, Miss Gráinne!" Cathleen rushed to Grace's side and knelt on the floor beside her. She clutched Grace's left arm and began to sob. 'We must save him; he's too young to die!'
Donal shot her a glance which she instantly understood as a sign to be quiet. She sniffed, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes to dry her tears. "I'm sure that Tibbott will come to no harm; we just need to find a way to bring him back to us. I have every faith that Gráinne will think of something, but in the meantime perhaps we should all use our heads a bit more to try to come up with a plan. And Cathleen, I would prefer it if you didn't spread this around the island. The fewer people who know about Tibbott's capture the better. At least until we can work out what we're going to do, then we can alert the necessary people. Honestly, I can't believe he would do such a thing. He wasn't prepared for it. He never would have succeeded in that state."
"Why did he do it?" Grace asked, already knowing the answer in her heart.
"He is just as fed up as we are, Gráinne. I do not blame him for wanting to fight against Bingham. We are losing more and more land each day, and what little supplies we have left for food are not exactly in the best of condition. Tibbott is fighting for what is rightfully ours, as we all are. He just didn't manage to time it right. It wasn't organised properly. We will defeat the English, Gráinne, I promise..."
Grace was starting to feel more like Gráinne O'Malley than Grace Byrne, but there was still a large part of her that felt out a character. There were times when she felt as if she were possessed by Gráinne's spirit, as if her own had been taken over, but she had to remind herself that she wasn't really Gráinne, was she? And Tibbott wasn't really her son. And she lived in England now. How would Donal react if he found that out? She wanted to confess everything, to stand up and shout that she wasn't really who they thought she was, but even if she decided that doing so would be a good idea, they would likely not believe her. They'd say she was delirious. She wasn't sure what the protocol was for signs of weak mental health in the sixteenth century, but she was certain that appearing to be mad would not do anybody good. As long as she was wearing Gráinne's boots, she had to be Gráinne.
Deciding to remain quiet about her true identity, she went along with the situation. She had to confess to herself that it wasn't too difficult to do. She had a great deal of compassion for Tibbott, something which she could not describe. Not only did she feel that it was her duty to rescue Gráinne's son, but it was something she knew she ached for too.
"How long do you think we have?" she finally asked.
"I'm afraid there's no way of knowing. Although we cannot be sure what Bingham will do to him now that he's locked up, we cannot take any risks. We must act as quickly as possible, that much is certain."
"Yes, of course. I'll think of something. It's not going to be easy though.'
"Nothing is ever easy with that brute Bingham."
"Poor, poor Tibbott," Cathleen added.
"He just never seems to stop. You know how difficult things are now, and I'm certain that all of it is Bingham's fault. We are losing more and more each day. If it continues much longer, I dare say we won't have anything left. There'll be no cattle or land to call our own."
"Whatever are we going to do?" Cathleen wailed once more.
"The harsh weather is a threat to our crops, which are already in a diminished state. Our land isn't just rapidly declining because of that thief Bingham—what little we do have left is also deteriorating in quality. Even if he left us what remains, we would still struggle to produce enough."
Grace could tell that times were difficult for them, but she hadn't quite realised the extent of the situation until now. Their misfortunes made her reconsider the effects of the financial problems everybody was facing back home in her own century, and just how insignificant it was for many in comparison.
"He will be okay, Gráinne, won't he?" Cathleen had finally calmed down but still clung loosely to Grace's arm.
Grace turned to look at her: "Of course he will be, Cathleen. Don't worry."
How she prayed that she was right.
"Good evening to you, Chieftain." The man nodded at Grace. He and another were humping a bundle of straw down the hill when she noticed them. She smiled at them, not paying too much attention to the fact that she had no idea why they were calling her that, but instead thought to herself that it was quite a peculiar time to be working outside in the darkness.
The wind picked up as Grace crossed over the hill. She had left Donal and Cathleen together in the kitchen. Donal suggested she might be able to think more clearly if she went up to her castle—which Grace assumed was Donal's code for encouraging her to escape from Cathleen's hysterics—and Grace's curiosity had overruled the situation. Ordinarily she would not have taken too kindly to being left alone in an old castle in the middle of nowhere on her own at night, but she had been mesmerised by it when she first saw it, and had been longing to take a closer look.
She pulled a woollen shawl tighter around her neck as she continued over the grass. Cathleen had fetched the garment for her before she left, insisting that she wear it so that she didn't catch her death outside. Grace was thankful for the gesture as the evening had turned bitter cold. The material may have been scratchy against her neck, but at least it prevented the wind from reaching her skin.
The houses behind her grew smaller in the distance as she approached the castle. She stopped a few metres outside of it so that she could study its structure. It wasn't what she would have pictured when she considered a castle. There was no drawbridge. It had no moat. There was no sign of any flag flying from the top of it. It was considerably smaller than Grace would have imagined, too.
In the darkness the castle's grey stone walls looked a lot more intimidating than they did when Grace had caught a glimpse of them in daylight. She didn't wish to look directly up at the windows out of the fe
ar that she'd end up seeing a face staring back at her.
The entrance to the castle was facing her now. A little way in the distance she could see the ship. The sea stretched out before her, the castle standing a few metres away from the edge of the island. She could almost feel the sea clinging to her as the waves sprayed and splashed, thrown about by the wind. She clutched onto her shawl and headed for the door.
The entrance was situated inside a small shelter as a grey stone corridor reached out from the main building. It was barely two metres tall and not so long, but it was enough to keep the wind away from Grace's face. She stood in the little corridor, sheltered, facing the door.
The door itself was made of a dark wood. Thin copper strips ran down its front to strengthen it. The handle itself was made from iron, the metal hoop rusting in age. Beneath it Grace noticed a small keyhole, not dissimilar from the one on the door at the top of the landing back in Hampstead.
It suddenly occurred to her that she didn't have a key for the castle. If the door was locked she wouldn't be able to get inside.
Grace placed one hand on the handle and wrapped her fingers round it. The metal was cold against her bare hand. Hoping that the door wasn't locked, she turned the handle counter-clockwise and pushed.
The heavy wood only budged an inch to begin with, taking much more effort than Grace had expected. She leaned her weight against it and forced it open just enough for her to squeeze her body through and into the castle.