Pirate Queen (7 page)

When she married Donal O’Flaherty, Granuaile had thought she would spend her life in Iar Connacht.

Moor and mountain. Stony earth heaved up like ocean waves. Standing water everywhere, and a constant change of light and colour when the clouds broke to make way for the sun. Then the hillsides were transformed to dazzling green, or mottled in mauve and dark gold. A moment later and the sun would vanish, leaving the scene awash in shades of purple. This land at the edge of the Atlantic shared many of the great ocean’s moods and
mysteries
. Granuaile could have loved Iar Connacht if only she could have loved Donal-an-Chogaidh.

He had made that impossible. Donal could not accept the fact that his wife, a mere female, was responsible for his new prosperity. He constantly belittled Granuaile in front of others. Yet, although he resented her success, he was more than willing to accept the treasure she brought home.

The chieftain of Iar Connacht had been elected by his people in accordance with Gaelic law. He was known as The O’Flaherty and had named Donal-an-Chogaidh as his tanaiste. But if The O’Flaherty died, Donal would have to be confirmed by another election before he could claim the title.

Unfortunately Donal was not a popular man, and he knew it. He adopted two policies to gain support: bribery and battle. He had observed how well bribery worked for the English. Those Donal could not bribe, he attacked. He needed more warriors, he needed gold to buy more weapons, he needed, he needed. His demands were endless.

Granuaile did her best to meet them. She built strong new galleys and began attacking merchant ships on their way to Galway. Since the English had closed the port to the O’Flaherties, she felt it was only fair. The men were overjoyed. They raised a loud cheer in Granuaile’s name each morning before they set sail, and at night they remembered her in their prayers. Her name was given to their daughters.

When Donal accused her of stealing the love of his people she told him, ‘All I have done is remind them of who they are. I have given them their pride back. Without that, one has nothing.’

‘You have enough pride for ten,’ Donal snapped. ‘Someday I hope it will destroy you.’

As her children grew older, her husband’s temper grew worse. Granuaile spent most of her time on
shipboard. While she was at sea a member of the
O’Flaherty
clan, Murrough of the Battle-Axes, began troubling the land. He was young, strong and even fonder of battle than Donal-an-Chogaidh. Murrough led his followers as far south as Thomond and the barony of Clare. There he won a great victory over the Anglo-Norman earl of
Clanrickard
. Many men were slain.

Clanrickard complained to the English, reminding them of his relationship with the Crown. He demanded support against Murrough of the Battle-Axes. But rather than face Murrough on the battlefield, the English set out to buy him. In return for his submission they named him chieftain of Iar Connacht – The O’Flaherty. The old chieftain was stripped of his title without his people having anything to say about it.

Donal was wild with fury. Granuaile tried to calm him before he did something foolish. ‘If the English can overthrow Gaelic law and unmake our elected
chieftains
,’ she said, ‘they now have more power than we do. Be cautious, husband. Bide your time and plan
carefully
before you act.’

But Donal O’Flaherty was incapable of planning carefully.

One of the leading Anglo-Norman families in
Connacht
was the Joyce clan. They were profiting mightily from the port of Galway, so they made a great noise about supporting the English – and Murrough of the Battle-Axes.

For all his bold talk, Donal-an-Chogaidh was not
quite brave enough to attack the English. Instead he declared that he would kill every Joyce within a day’s march.

Donal launched a surprise attack upon a Joyce
stronghold
at Lough Corrib. Anger strengthens the arm. He succeeded in driving out the Joyces and occupying their castle, which stood on an island in the lake. Donal set a guard around the castle and then sent for Granuaile. He wanted to show her what he had accomplished without her help.

She found her husband strutting around the place, dressed in his finest clothes. ‘I am the cock of the castle now!’ he boasted.

‘You have only a toehold here,’ she warned him. ‘I know something of strategy, and I suggest you secure the lakeshore nearest the island.’

But Donal’s head was swollen with victory. ‘Why should I listen to a woman’s blatherings? The Joyces will not dare to come back. They know I have bested them.’

A few days later he left the island to go hunting in the woods on the shore. There the Joyces caught and killed him. The cheer they raised rang across the lake.

With Donal O’Flaherty dead, the Joyces thought his men would panic and surrender the castle to them. From the ramparts, Granuaile could see them putting boats in the water and rowing toward the island.

She met them with a battle-axe and a loaded musket.

Donal’s men fell in behind her, and together they slew many of the Joyces. The few survivors barely made
it back to their boats. ‘Tell your kinsmen that Granuaile holds this island now!’ Donal’s widow called to their
fleeing
backs.

Since that day, the castle in Lough Corrib has been known as The Hen’s Castle.

Granuaile mourned her husband to the exact degree required by tradition, but no more. She hired the best keening women to grieve publicly. But she did not tear her hair, nor did she rend her clothes. ‘Men often die in battle,’ she was heard to remark.

By killing the Joyces she had made dangerous
enemies
. Sooner or later they would come after her. Granuaile was not willing to sit with folded hands and wait for them.

By this time her sons were grown and going their own way. One was living at Bunowen, the other at Ballinahinch. When the old, former O’Flaherty chieftain took up arms to challenge Murrough of the Battles, they joined him.

Meanwhile, Granuaile’s daughter Margaret had become betrothed to one of the Bourkes, a man known as The Devil’s Hook. The nickname came from his territory of Curraun on Achill Island. With Margaret married, there was nothing to keep Granuaile in Iar Connacht any longer.

‘I am free to return to Umhall Uí Mháille,’ she wrote to her father, Dubhdara. ‘I am coming home.’

Two hundred of Donal’s men chose to go with her.

For Granuaile, it was an unforgettable homecoming. The years since have not dimmed its bright memory.

When the fleet from the south first appeared on the horizon, a lookout on Clare Island raised a shout of alarm. ‘The O’Flaherties are coming!’ Even if they were allies, one could never be certain. This might be a raid.

Then observers noticed a banner fluttering in the prow of the lead galley. It was not the flag of the
O’Flaherties
, with its red lions. This one showed a white seahorse against a blue ground.

‘Granuaile!’ a man shouted suddenly. He threw off his cloak and began waving it over his head in welcome.

Granuaile did not make landfall at Clare Island. She swept into Clew Bay and made straight for the anchorage at Belclare.

Her father, the man they called the Black Oak, was no longer young, no longer strong. Yet he stood as straight as ever on the shore. His wife was beside him. Soon Granuaile’s half-brother, Donal of the Pipes, arrived
hot-foot
from his fort at Cathair-na-Mart to share in the celebration of her return.

She did not wait for her boat to be beached, but leaped out and waded through the shallows, holding up her skirts, splashing and laughing. Granuaile had left Clew Bay as a girl. She returned as a woman. A lean,
muscular
, windburnt woman, her heavy black hair parted in the middle and wearing gold Spanish bracelets from wrist to elbow.

Dubhdara noticed that the men who accompanied her stayed respectfully behind her. The cast of their faces marked them as O’Flaherties.

She greeted her father and mother lovingly, then nodded a greeting to her half-brother, who was gaping at her with his mouth ajar. Her dark eyes twinkled with amusement at his surprise. Then she turned back to her father.

‘I have come back to stay, Dubhdara,’ she said.

That night in the great hall at Belclare she heard the latest news. The O’Malleys were still fiercely
independent
. But the English were demanding that The MacWilliam pay rent on land the Bourke clan had held for generations. Dubhdara was furious. ‘This is extortion! Why should anyone pay money to foreigners in order to live on their own land?’

Granuaile took a long, thoughtful drink from the pewter tankard she held. ‘Elizabeth Tudor has a long reach,’ she said.

A few days later the O’Malleys gave a huge banquet to celebrate Granuaile’s homecoming. People came from all around Clew Bay. One of the guests was Richard Bourke, the man known as Richard-in-Iron.

Usually spring on the Atlantic is a season of winds and storms. The year of 1575 is different. The sun is
uncommonly
frequent, and the sea is uncommonly quiet.
Summer
arrives before its time, with gathering heat and heavy, still air.

The first of the summer merchantmen is becalmed just outside Clew Bay.

Standing in the prow of her favourite galley, Granuaile lifts her arm and points toward the vessel. ‘See there!’ she shouts to her men. ‘With her hold so full of cargo she rides low in the water, our prey is waiting!’

The broad-beamed Dutch cargo ship is laying on all the sail it has, but the canvas hangs limp in the moist still air. The rowers grunt like pigs as they beat the water with their oars. They cannot hope to outrun the Irish galleys.

Granuaile’s fleet encircles them as hounds encircle a wild boar.

The skirmish is brisk and brief. Within half an hour, the she-king of the western seas stands on the deck of the
Dutch ship. Her men are shifting the cargo to their own boats. They are laughing and jesting. The Dutch sailors, who have nothing to laugh about, stand sullenly watching. If they are lucky they will escape with their lives.

The captain of the ship is a stocky Dutchman with a broad, red face. He still cannot quite believe he has been boarded by a woman. It is humiliating. He shakes his fist at her and she laughs.

No woman has ever laughed at him before, and
certainly
not on his own ship. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

When the last packing case has been transferred to the waiting galleys, Granuaile leaps nimbly down onto her flagship. ‘Thank you for your generosity!’ she calls to the Dutchman. He does not understand Irish but he
understands
insult. As the galley pulls away he runs to his cabin and returns with a pistol. He props both his arms on the gunwale and takes careful aim. The distance between the two ships is swiftly widening, but he is a good shot.

And lucky.