Celestial Land and Sea (16 page)

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
he 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 speak 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.

"But Daddy, I—"

"No, your father's words are wise. What Gráinne has proposed is our best—and it seems our only—option," Donal agreed, his own words well considered as he tried to make sense of it all. He turned to face Grace: "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning. It wouldn't be practical for us to set off tonight. Nobody is ready, and the darkness will descend much too quickly." Grace wasn't sure how she knew when they should depart—she'd never even been sailing before—but she agreed with herself as the words left her mouth. It seemed to make sense, regardless of how her thoughts had come about.

"I'll round up the men this evening to let them know. What do you propose I tell them?"

"I think it would be best if you just let them know that we will be setting off for England tomorrow. I'll hold a meeting at eight o'clock in the morning to inform them what is to happen."

"I could cook breakfast before we set off!" exclaimed Cathleen.