by Amy McLean
"Goodness! And how did that go?"
"I...I don't know," was her honest answer. "Do you expect she was frightened?"
"I can't imagine anybody would ever feel prepared to be standing in front of Elizabeth I, not even this notorious Grace O'Malley! One wrong move and you could have had your head chopped off before you knew what was happening. I dread to think how many executions were carried out..." He scooped up the last of the sauce. "I mean, can you imagine walking out into the street to find somebody's head being axed off right in front of you? I'm so glad public executions don't happen here anymore. I'm sure that we'd all be traumatised from it."
Grace caught her breath. She had been so worried about finding a way to save Tibbott that she hadn't even considered the dangers of visiting England in the sixteenth century, and she had no idea how her own timeline would be altered if she were to be captured just as Tibbott had been.
"I'm telling you, Grace, this is your chance to do the right thing!"
"The right thing, yes..." she murmured, her thoughts drifting.
"It's about time somebody stood up to Mr Barrie. I think your approach is just the wake-up call he'll need. You're a real warrior woman, taking on that man. He shouldn't be taking advantage of his staff. It's not fair that he gets away with treating us like we're dirt. It's not as if he'd be able to operate the business without us either!"
Grace stared as Andy chewed his food, smiling at her as he remained oblivious of the fears that were now invading her mind. She returned the smile weakly, but her attention was distant. She knew the pressure upon her to speak with Elizabeth I—and she knew she'd have to act on it soon—but fear held her back. As Andy raised his glass to toast the prospects of Grace's article, she started to consider the possibility that she might not actually make it back alive.
14
Caroline beamed at Grace as she approached the gates of Westminster Abbey.
"Grace, darling! I'm so glad you could make it." She leaned in to air-kiss her cheeks before draining the last of her takeaway coffee. "Ever had one of these toffee nut things?" she asked, gesturing to the festive polystyrene cup. "To die for!" She tossed the empty cup into a nearby bin and straightened herself up: "Right then, are we ready?"
"Sure. But I've got to be back at the office within the hour or my boss will go insane."
This wasn't entirely true: Mr Barrie had announced that he was going to an important business meeting and wouldn't be back all day. By the look of the golf clubs he had tried to sneak out of his office without anybody noticing, Grace was sure she'd be fine if she stayed a little longer, but she didn't exactly wish to spend any more time with Caroline that she had to. She was an old friend, but she could be quite a handful, too.
"Seriously, Grace, you need to get yourself out of that place. You're kept on such a tight lead. It can't be fun, surely! You really should look for something else."
"I know," Grace muttered as they approached the visitors' entrance. She wasn't in the mood to explain everything to her. Instead, she admired the grand Gothic architecture as it towered above them, a dark cloud floating in the sky casting alluring shadows over its features. "It's really quite beautiful, isn't it?"
"What? Oh yeah, sure," Caroline replied as she fished into her bag for her change purse. "I can't believe they charge us to get in here."
"I know what you mean. It doesn't seem right to have to pay to enter a place of worship. I suppose it goes toward the upkeep though."
"You think? Honestly, I don't know what all the fuss is about, but I thought I should make the effort for Archie."
"Archie?"
"That's my boss. He's really sweet. And very cute!"
Caroline paid for her entry and Grace walked up behind her, relieved to find that it wasn't as expensive as she'd anticipated. Maybe this visit would encourage her to start seeing more of the tourist attractions in London. There had been time for her to seek out a few things during her university days, but when she started at Anchor she found she simply didn't have the strength to go gallivanting around London; all she wanted to do on her days off was curl up on the sofa in front of the television or lose herself in a good novel. She had to confess that she had been looking forward to getting out in the open today to explore the Abbey, just as she had promised herself she would do for months but had never bothered.
"What language would you like?" asked a man handing out guide leaflets.
"English please."
He gave them both a leaflet, offered them the digital guide that was included in their ticket price, and moved on to greet the next visitors.
"We definitely don't need to bother with the digital guide things,' said Caroline as she opened the floor plan in her leaflet. 'We can head straight to wherever it is that the kings and queens are buried and then we can leave. We won't waste any time, don't worry."
"Right, okay." Apparently, Grace wasn't going to see as much as she had hoped.
"Did you manage to bring the notes I'd asked you for, by the way?"
"I did, yes." She handed her an envelope containing several sheets of information about the history of the building and those laid to rest inside it. Some of the facts she'd already known but some she'd had to research. It had kept her mind occupied throughout the week, which she'd been quite thankful for. After the fears Andy had put in her about the dangers of Elizabethan England, she wasn't sure she'd be able to go through that door ever again.
They'd had a lovely evening though, despite her concerns. It must have been after ten o'clock by the time he announced he had to head off. They'd spent most of the time after the meal drinking and talking, and, at one point, playing with a bit of string to tease Bella. It hadn't been awkward in the office that week either, but then Grace questioned whether or not there was actually any ground for it to be uncomfortable. She still wasn't sure whether or not it was a proper date, or if Andy had just agreed to the evening so she could repay him for the time they'd spent together at the diner. Perhaps she should just come right out with it and ask him.
But since the conversation they'd had that night everything had started to feel like a dream. Perhaps it was because she was going out of her way to ignore the past, but she hardly noticed the door now anyway, and she wasn't cut out for this. She wasn't Gráinne O'Malley. As long as she kept convincing herself of that, then she was certain it would just go away and she'd never have to deal with it again. It was time for her to take a step back.
"I believe she's in here," Caroline said as she jabbed at the map, pointing to a space marked Henry VII's Lady Chapel.
"Where who is?"
"Queen Elizabeth I."
"That's who you're doing your project on?"
"I'm supposed to be looking at all the Tudor line and their relationship to contemporary London, but I thought she'd be a good place to start."
It must be a coincidence, Grace thought. They made their way around the building, manoeuvring around all the other tourists as they followed the marked route. They stopped at a monument rising from the floor. It was taller than either of them had expected, with bars all around it.
"It's quite large, isn't it?" remarked Caroline.
In the centre of it lay a marble carving of the Queen. The entire sculpture was all one colour, with the exception of her crown, which was incredibly detailed and well-crafted. She was well-protected, barricaded from interfering hands. Grace looked into the marble face, studying her features.
"It's quite creepy if you ask me," said Caroline, interrupting Grace's thoughts as she examined the face in front of her. "What was it she'd said? I have a king's body or something?"
Grace wasn't really listening. She was trying to comprehend the situation, fighting with herself to work out whether or not she could dismiss this coincidence without ignoring the obvious sign that lay right in front of her.
For weeks Grace had tried to force any thoughts of Queen Elizabeth I out of her mind. She had finally made the decision that she wanted nothing more to do with
the situation and had determined to ignore the portal back to Clare Island.
And yet, she now found herself standing at the tomb of Elizabeth I. Her body wasn't in the sixteenth century anymore. She was right there, in Grace's own time. Even when carved on her own monument she still possessed a strong sense of power, but Grace couldn't help reminding herself of the fact that she no longer existed as a living person. Just like everybody else, she had faced her end. Nobody was immortal. As Grace looked upon the Queen's solid face, she realised what it was she was meant to see. She couldn't hide from it any longer. She knew what it was that she had to do. It was time for her to stop running.
She needed to speak with Queen Elizabeth I.
15
The curtains flapped gently in the breeze as Grace curled the final letters of her signature. She'd never written with a quill and ink before. This was evident by the first few sentences of the letter, which were misshapen and frequently smudged. She'd wanted to start over, but there was precious few sheets of parchment in the drawer and she wasn't sure whether or not she'd be able to source any more. By the end, however, she'd managed to find a comfortable way to hold the quill, and had become used to dipping the tip into the ink just far enough so that the right amount could be distributed onto the sheet without running everywhere.
She'd spent the entire evening after visiting Westminster Abbey trying to work out what she was supposed to do. She rearranged all her notes, and then continued to rearrange them until she was certain she understood the situation. Once she felt certain enough that she'd approached it from all sides, she could do nothing but climb the stairs with her fingers crossed.
When she found that the door was finally ajar for the first time in days, she sighed with relief. It was the sign she had been hoping for that confirmed to her that she was doing the right thing. Crossing the threshold into Ireland, she knew that this was it. There was no going back now. She knew that she had to forget about her own existence for the time being and concentrate on the matter at hand. She belonged to the sixteenth century now, and all the inner strength she managed to conjure told her that she wasn't to return until Tibbott had been brought home. Now, all that was left to do was hope that everything went according to plan. There was no back-up option if she failed.
Back inside the castle, she stared out the bedroom window, trying to understand exactly what was required of her. She sat back, the material of her skirt catching in the drawer of the desk and nudging it open. Out of curiosity she teased it all the way to discover that it contained the instruments for letter-writing. She knew then what she must do.
She was faced with a peculiar sensation of delight when she sat down to write. She never could have imagined she'd be writing a letter to Queen Elizabeth I. Once she had confirmed to herself that she had to arrange an appointment with Her Majesty, sending this letter seemed like the only thing to do.
Unfortunately, she wasn't sure how to do it at first. Although she was feeling a lot more comfortable performing as Gráinne—was she still performing?—her way of speaking was still in tune with the twenty-first century. It would have been impossible for her to write as they had then. She glanced over the words in front of her, and then began to read them aloud.
'I, Gráinne O'Malley, Chieftain of Clan O'Malley,' she realised how easy the name had been for her to write, free of any self-doubt, 'wish to request an audience with Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. Or should that have been Her Majesty the Queen? Oh help!'
She read the rest of the letter to herself. She hoped that what she'd written wouldn't be too disastrous. The last thing she needed right now was to anger the Queen of England as she thought back to what Andy had said about the public beheadings.
What an awful way to go! she shuddered to herself as she folded the letter. Whatever she had written was going to have to do. Besides, there was little parchment left, and even less time in which to write something else. She was just going to have to hope for the best.
"Why don't they just have normal envelopes?" she grumbled as she fiddled with the edges, trying to fashion it into something suitable. Once she had succeeded in creating a passable envelope, having almost resorted to origami, she turned her attention to the sealing wax. She'd positioned the solid stick of red wax at the top of the table next to the stamp when she'd sat down to write, admiring the beauty of the red and gold colours. Somehow, she expected using it would be much trickier to master than it would have appeared.
The only way she could think to do this was to reach for one of the candles in the room and hold it close to the stick of wax. To Grace's surprise—for not for a moment did she think her plan would actually work—the wax started to melt, obediently, and dripped right on top of the fold in the envelope to create a little crimson puddle. Not risking it drying too quickly, she returned the candle to its stand, and drove the stamp down onto the liquid wax. When she moved it away, she found that the stamp left a little crest in the wax. Inside the shape appeared to be some sort of horned animal, a bull perhaps, but it was hard to tell because the image was so small. Beneath the crest Grace could just make out a name: Ó Máille.
It suddenly occurred to her that she'd seen this image before when researching Gráinne's ancestry.
It's the O'Malley family crest!
Of course, it made perfect sense to her now—what else had she expected to find on the stamp upon the writing desk inside Gráinne O'Malley's castle?
When the wax had dried, Grace headed down the stairs. She was thankful that the candles were still burning; although the afternoon sky had yet to darken, the enclosed space allowed little light to be shed on the staircase. She left the castle, closed the door behind her, and crossed over the grass. She held onto the letter tightly, hugging it to her chest. It only took her a few minutes to reach the houses, but in that time her heart had begun to race. She had no idea what the others would think of her plan.
"Miss Gráinne!" Cathleen, who had been standing in front of the window of her family home, noticed Grace approaching and bounded through the door.
"Good afternoon, Cathleen. How are you?"
"I am quite well, thank you. Please come inside, Miss Gráinne. I am just setting the table as we are about to sup."
She led Grace through the doorway and into the kitchen. The room was smaller than the kitchen of the O'Malley household, but it was comfortable nonetheless. Although quite basic, and with little to offer in the way of decoration, Grace couldn't help feeling its warmth and welcome the moment she walked through the door, and the aroma that filled the air smelled so fragrant that she could barely stop her mouth from salivating. Cathleen steered her to an empty seat next to Donal, who had been there for half an hour conversing with Cathleen's family.
"I'm afraid it's not much today. The crops haven't been doing very well, have they Mr O'Flynn?"
"Unfortunately, there's too much truth in that statement, young Donal." Padraig O'Flynn was a short man with a round face, his cheeks tinted pink from constant labouring in the salty winds. But despite the hours of grafting that each day brought him, he always seemed to maintain his cheery disposition. "Good afternoon, Gráinne," he smiled to the new arrival.
"Good afternoon," she responded, not really sure who it was she was talking to.
"Here you are, Daddy." Cathleen presented a plate of salmon and vegetables to Mr O'Flynn before placing one in front of Donal. Grace's plate followed, before Cathleen herself joined them at the table.
Grace waited for Mr O'Flynn to begin eating before she started herself. She decided to try the fish first as she couldn't quite discern what the vegetable portion was meant to be. With her stomach rumbling, she was delighted to find that it was exactly to her liking—better, in fact. She'd never eaten salmon as fresh as this before.
"Gráinne, there must be something we can do," Donal said as she was about to brave a vegetable.
"Well," she said, "I've thought about this carefully, and I've come to the conclusion that the only thing to do is spea
k directly to the Queen."
Nobody knew how to respond. Of course they were used to Gráinne's notorious behaviour—Grace was aware of that—but nobody had expected her to suggest something as outrageous as actually talking face to face with Queen Elizabeth.
"Gráinne, I don't think—"
"Donal, it does not seem that we have any other option." She could tell by the panic in Donal's eyes that this wasn't what he had wanted to hear. "I've written this," she said as she lifted the letter from her lap, "requesting an audience with Her Majesty. We need to send this to the mainland to have somebody take it over to England. Once that's done we can sail to London and free Tibbott." The plan sounded so much more straightforward when she said it out loud. But something told her it was going to be anything but easy.
"Gráinne, do you really think that's a good idea?" Donal didn't want to disagree with his sister, but he couldn't envision this plan working.
"Donal is right, Miss Gráinne!" Cathleen wailed. "It's much too dangerous. You know what they think of us over there, and how frightful it would be if you were to run into that wretched Lord Bingham!" A single tear trickled down her face as she thought about the trouble her beloved Miss Gráinne might face if she were to sail to England.
There was a grumble from across the table. They all turned to look at Mr O'Flynn, who was finishing his last mouthful of fish. He chewed and swallowed before speaking.
"I think we need to listen to what Gráinne is saying. Perhaps seeking out the attention of the Queen directly is the way forward." It was difficult to tell whether Mr O'Flynn actually believed in Gráinne's plan, or if he was just admitting that it was the only option they seemed to have that would allow them to at least attempt to bring Tibbott home.
One thing was certain though: he was right.