Pirate Queen (9 page)

The sky is black velvet. Granuaile has waited deliberately for dark of the moon. She signals to her men to advance cautiously. Twigs crackle underfoot. Leafless branches claw at them like fingers. She passes the word to be as quiet as possible. The clink of metal weapons could give them away. However, they seem to be alone in the night.

Their first venture into Desmond territory is already a success. Granuaile and her men have raided the outlying holdings of the earl’s kinsmen and seized quantities of plunder. Porters have carried great loads of furs, grain, and leathers back to the waiting galleys in the Shannon, to transport to Clew Bay.

Granuaile has not gone back to Mayo with the ships. They were ordered to unload their cargo and return immediately. She plans to have an even larger treasure waiting for them when they arrive.

Together with a handpicked force of her best fighting men, on this night she is striking into Desmond’s very heart.

The earl’s principle residence is Askeaton Castle, which occupies a rocky limestone island in the Deel River. The castle is a typical Norman design. The island is encircled with a stone wall and guarded by a
watchtower
at the southern end. Another stone wall, or bailey, encloses a central court, and a great keep stands on the northern end. The fortress looks too strong to capture, but Granuaile knows better. Any castle so large must have a weakness somewhere.

Desmond himself is away, perhaps in England. Granuaile imagines him grovelling before Elizabeth. Bowing his head. A hound pleading to be petted rather than kicked. She feels contempt for him.

In the earl’s absence, Askeaton’s guards may be careless. The raiding party is counting on it. Granuaile intends to attack the castle and carry Desmond’s
treasures
home to Rockfleet in triumph. If he wants them back, let him come crawling to her as the lord of Howth crawled for his son.

A mighty tide surges through her veins. This is better than wine or mead or even strong French brandy. Granuaile is intoxicated.

The dark outline of the castle looms ahead. She pauses to take a deep breath and enjoy the moment. Then she gives the signal.

Granuaile and her men approach the outer wall of
Desmond’s
stronghold under cover of darkness. They are
delighted
to find a postern gate unguarded. As quick as thought they rush through. Before the last of them clears the opening they are surrounded.

Too late, they realise that the open gate was a trap.

Desmond’s men are well armed with swords and muskets. Granuaile has always valued the element of
surprise
, but this time she is the one surprised. Although her band fights valiantly it is no use. They are greatly outnumbered.

Among Desmond’s men are native Irishmen whose services have been purchased with the earl’s gold. Granuaile even recognises some Scottish gallowglasses fighting beside the Old English. She screams her rage and attacks the nearest man.

Her men are falling, dying all around her. Yet
miraculously
, or so it seems at the time, no one shoots or stabs Granuaile. Desmond’s men are careful to take her alive.

She is thrown into the dungeon of Askeaton Castle. No food is brought to her, nor water, until the next day. Then she is treated like a hound that will not hunt. Her gaolers curse at her and kick her when they can get close enough. They tell her nothing of the fate of her men. They will not answer any questions at all.

Time passes, but she does not know how much. She is too dazed.

When she is weak with hunger Granuaile is bound hand and foot, slung across the back of a horse and taken to Limerick town. For the first time she sees some of her men. At least two have survived. They are tied together and marched along behind her horse. When one of them stumbles, he is beaten.

By the time they reach Limerick Granuaile feels as if her ribs are crushed. But there is worse to come. She and her men are dragged up before an English magistrate who sentences them to prison. For her crimes, Granuaile is condemned to stay in Limerick Gaol for eighteen months. Or more, as the queen sees fit.

At night she sleeps on a bare stone floor, with no straw
under
her and no blanket over her. The stones are gritty against her cheek. Rats scuttle through the darkness. Sometimes one, braver than the others, runs across her feet.

In the morning she is so stiff she can hardly move. She makes desperate rowing motions with her elbows as she raises her upper body. Every muscle screams with pain. Her skin and hair are crawling with fleas. Although she claws at her flesh until she brings blood, nothing will stop the itch of the fleabites.

She struggles to her feet and begins to pace the cell. There is nothing else to do, day after day. Three steps this way, three steps back. No animal would be penned in so small a space. There is no window, only a tiny grille
through which her gaolers can watch her. Twice a day she is given a small meal of coarse black bread and dried fish. The bread contains small chips of stone left from the
milling
process. The fish is almost too salty to eat and makes her desperately thirsty. A small, slimy bucket holds the only drinking water. When the bucket is empty it is not refilled until the next day.

Prisoners are the same as hostages, Granuaile thinks. Under Gaelic law, hostages are treated as well as one’s own family.

English law is different.

The men captured with her are in another cell in another part of the gaol. She is not allowed to see them. She is not allowed to see anyone. Being alone and isolated is part of her punishment.

Granuaile wants to beat on the door with her fists and howl like a wolf, but she will not give the enemy that satisfaction. From time to time, men come and peer into her cell. Although she can hear the rumble of their voices they do not speak to her. Once she hears someone referred to as ‘Lord Fitzgerald’ and knows the earl of Desmond himself stands outside. Gloating over his captive.

She clenches her fists but will not call out to him for mercy.

In November, one of her gaolers – the one who had agreed to send her letters to Toby – brings worrying news.

Desmond’s loyalty to Elizabeth has long been in question. Great lords act like kings in their own right. The earl’s family, the Fitzgeralds, have rebelled against the Crown before. Years ago they even appealed to England’s enemies on the continent for help. Desmond himself has been trying to appease the queen of late. To prove that he is a faithful servant of the Crown, he is going to surrender Granuaile to Lord Justice Drury. Drury is the president of Munster and stands very high in Elizabeth’s favour.

Granuaile has no idea what Drury will do with her. She is very closely guarded, so there is no possibility of escape. Except in her dreams at night.

In her dreams she goes down to the shore and smells the sea wind. In her dreams she runs barefoot along the strand.

Although Granuaile is now officially in Drury’s custody, he leaves her to rot in Limerick Gaol.

Her thoughts are a thunder inside her head.

The weary months drag on. Nothing changes but
herself
. Until Granuaile was thrown in prison, her active life had kept her as strong as a girl. Now that she is confined in a cramped cell, age is catching up with her. When she holds up one of her arms she sees the flesh sagging from the bone. She feels a hot flash of fury. What remains of youth is being stolen from her!

Smuggled letters from Toby give her hope. ‘We are going to try to get you out,’ he writes. ‘Do not worry, we will be very careful.’

She takes heart, stands taller, imagines herself free.

Nothing happens. Gradually fear becomes a sick lump in her belly. Granuaile wakes with it in the morning, lies down with it at night. But a she-king cannot admit to anyone that she is afraid. It is something she can only whisper to God in the quiet of the night.

Meanwhile Drury writes to Elizabeth’s privy council. In the lord justice’s letter he describes his captive as ‘Granny O’Mayle, a woman that hath impudently passed the part of womanhood and been a great spoiler, and chief
commander
and director of thieves and murderers at sea.’

The Privy Council commends Desmond for his
capture
of such a dangerous person. The earl is back in favour. But not for long – he refuses to pay massive taxes and he refuses to accept the Protestant religion. An open war is declared between himself and the Crown, a war that explodes across the face of southern Ireland.

In the far distance, cannon boom. Deep within the walls of her prison, Granuaile cannot hear them.

Winter becomes spring, becomes summer, becomes autumn.

She is awakened before dawn. ‘Arthur Wilton de Grey, the new lord deputy of Ireland, has consented to grant you an audience,’ a gaoler tells her. ‘Prepare yourself.’

Her clothes are rags, and filthy. ‘I cannot insult the lord deputy by appearing like this!’ Granuaile cries. With an effort, she stands erect and forces her rusty voice to sound strong. Commanding.

Her gaolers exchange glances. They are not
accustomed
to being given orders by a prisoner. But there is something about this woman …

At last one of them fetches a peasant’s gown of coarse homespun that he has taken from some other captive. Granuaile looks at the garment with a mingling of distaste and relief. At least the gown is not badly torn.

She demands that the gaolers leave her cell while she dresses. This they will not do. Turning her back, she strips off her old clothes and pulls the gown over her head. Long months spent out of the sun and air have made her skin too sensitive. Tugging the rough fabric over her body is painful. She bites her lip until it bleeds.

Because she has nothing else she washes her face with her drinking water. Her broken fingernails must serve as a comb. She drags them through her tangled locks. It has been months since she paid attention to her hair. She is startled to discover the raven tresses are streaked with silver.

An armed guard takes her from the cell and leads her through a warren of passages. She tries to memorise the way in case she can break free. It is hopeless, however. Months of captivity have taken the strength from her legs. Besides, the guards have fastened shackles on her ankles as well as her hands. Even if she had the strength she could not run, only shuffle.

Granuaile is taken to a roughly plastered,
low-ceilinged
chamber with several windows set in one wall. In front of the windows stands a long oaken table. She can see very little because the light dazzles her eyes. She fears her sight may have been damaged by months of
near-darkness
.

One of her guards prods her in the back, pushing her forward. When she stumbles, someone laughs.

Squinting, she tries to make out the features of the person who faces her across the table. He gets to his feet as she approaches. He is a thickset man with pale eyes. Eyes as colourless as water in a cup.

To be a leader one must be a good judge of men. Granuaile has spent years reading the character of men from their faces. Lord Grey is newly arrived in Ireland, a place he has never visited before. His features are stern,
but there is a certain watchfulness in his pale eyes that hints of uncertainty. He is a man who has yet to find his sea legs in a new situation.

I can do this
, Granuaile tells herself with a sudden surge of confidence.
I can play this game
.