The Summer King (22 page)

A riotous revelry attended the feast. The din was deafening. Men and women shouted, laughed, sang, and even wrestled while children raced around the hall. Wolfhound dogs, big as ponies, rolled under the tables in search of scraps. On a dais, a musician strummed his golden harp. The young man’s sun-bleached hair fell over his face, but Laurel recognized him instantly. Fionn from the hippie bus! She waved to him, delighted, but he didn’t respond. Only when he turned his head did she see, with a shock, the pale blind eyes.

It only added to her unease about the banquet. The revels reminded her of the sea fairies in the Amethyst Cave. She studied the company with a cold eye, but they seemed very human. She also regarded the food with suspicion and had yet to touch it. Beside her, Ian’s plate was full. He had foraged successfully, returning with a salad of kale and beetroot, a big slice of artichoke pie, baked mushrooms and leeks, and various cheeses.

He was about to take his first bite when she stopped him.

“Is this fairy food?” she said. “You’re not supposed to eat it.”

He frowned at his plate.

“Bit stodgy for Faerie, isn’t it?”

She knew what he meant. It didn’t have the shimmery look of the food in the cave. And there were none of her favorite dishes to tempt her.

Ian swallowed his first mouthful.

“They can’t be
Sídhe
-Folk,” he said, munching away. “Not pretty enough. Look at your man with the bandy legs, and the one with a face like the back of a bus. They’re ghosts.”

“Don’t Irish ghosts belong to Faerie?” she said, growing more confused.

He shrugged, but kept eating.

“This isn’t Faerie. It’s Ireland’s past. Stop worrying about it. Didn’t Laheen tell you to join Grace? She’s no fairy.”

“And I thought our world was complicated,” Laurel muttered.

He laughed.

“Here, try this.”

Spearing a clump of wet greenery onto a knife, he popped it into her mouth. It was soft and buttery, with a salty taste.

She made a face.

“Dilisk,” he told her. “Edible seaweed.”

He scooped a load of it onto his plate.

“You’re really at home here, aren’t you?” she said.

It was true. She had seen it earlier, when she and Grace first entered the hall. The change was startling. He wore a voluminous long-sleeved shirt of yellow that fell to his knees like a tunic. Over this went an orange jacket, richly embroidered, and over that again, a broad rust-colored mantle. He had chosen to go bare-legged and barefooted as did most of Grace’s men. Like them also, he had combed his hair over his face so that his moody features had the same wild look.

Grace herself had commented.

“That’s a fine-looking Irishman you’ve got for yourself, my foreign girleen.”

When he came to meet them, he had caught Laurel’s admiring look and twirled her around.

“Go hálainn!”
he said. “You’re only gorgeous,
a stór
!”

He had already made friends among the men. Irish was the chief language used and he translated for Laurel, but then she discovered she could speak with those who knew English and French. Spanish also rang out in the hall, along with German and Latin, signs of Grace’s trade and military alliances, as well as her religion.

Laurel and Ian were seated together, not at the high table with the pirate queen, but near enough where Grace could see them. From time to time she looked their way with a keen stare.
Who are you and what are you doing here?

“So, did you ask for her help?” Ian quizzed Laurel, as he started on another helping.

She shook her head. The meat on her plate smelled too strong and gamy. She pushed it aside and reached for a roast duck.

“Why not?” he pressed her. “I thought you’d do it when you went off together. Slip it in with the girly talk.”

“She is
not
a girl,” Laurel said furiously. “And that kind of attitude could get us killed. Can’t you see how dangerous she is? All the nice stuff is just an act. She’s sizing us up. And believe me, Ian, if we don’t make the grade we are deader than this duck I’m eating.”

She tore into the wing and chewed in angry silence. But she was more annoyed at herself, for not tackling Grace. She didn’t want to admit that she had no idea how to handle the woman. She had never met anyone like her before. A diva with a murderous streak. As irrational as a storm at sea, the pirate queen was all charm and affection one minute; the next, likely to cut your throat.

Ian gobbled down a mushroom the size of a pancake, slathered with butter. As the juices dribbled over his chin, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“You’re disgusting,” she said.

“I’m not the one eating a dead animal,” he rejoined. “Anyway, look around you.”

Knives being the only cutlery, everyone in the hall was eating with their hands. Table manners were rough.

“We’re here to get Grace to join us,” he persisted. “Let’s do what we came to do.”

“We can’t rush things,” she argued. “This is too important. She’s our only hope of an ally. Call it women’s intuition or whatever, but I’m waiting for the right moment. We have to win her over. Impress her somehow.”

“Fine,” said Ian. “If that’s what you want.”

He drained his mug of ale and rose to his feet. With a dramatic sweep of his mantle, he raised his hand toward the high table and shouted at Grace.

“I’d like to sing a song for you, oh captain, my captain!”

Laurel nearly choked. Was he drunk? But it was too late to stop him. The pirate queen banged her metal cup on the table for silence in the hall. She appeared to smile at his request, but her eyes narrowed. The message was plain. If he made a fool of himself—and her—he would pay.

Laurel’s heart pounded. There was no chance of escape. All of Grace’s men were armed.

Ian’s voice rang out, deep and melodic.

Laurel’s first reaction was sheer relief. He could carry a tune. Then she realized several things in succession. He was singing a sea shanty, in the Irish language, and while she didn’t understand it the others did. What’s more, it had a chorus that everyone quickly picked up and sang with raucous glee. Finally and most amazingly, it was all about Grace. He couldn’t have done better.

Óró! sé do bheatha ’bhaile!
Óró! sé do bheatha ’bhaile!
Óró! sé do bheatha ’bhaile!
Tá Gránuaile ag teacht thar sáile.

As he finished to uproarious applause, Ian bowed to the sea queen.

Grace raised her cup to drink to his health. Her face glowed.

“Aren’t you full of surprises,” said Laurel, still clapping, as Ian sat down.

He grinned.

“It’s an old ballad. Someone will write it for her in about three hundred years, but I guess this means I sang it first!”

A servant came over to fill his cup. He chugged the drink down.

“I don’t mean the song,” she said. “You were great! I love your voice!”

His face flushed with pleasure and the sudden rush of whiskey. Mischief flashed in his eyes.

“You speak of love to me?”

Laurel went into a fluster and before she could recover, he caught hold of her for a kiss.

“Stop it! Not here!”

“Look around you,” he said again.

Sure enough, as the feast progressed and wine flowed like the river, there were many couples embracing each other, heedless of the company.

Laurel laughed and let him kiss her, then pushed him away.

“Wild Irishman,” she murmured.

When the banquet was over and everyone had eaten more than their fill, the night’s revels took a new turn. The food was cleared away, the tables moved, and in a short space of time the great hall was transformed into a mediaeval casino. Dice, knuckles, cards, hoops, cups, and board games started up on all sides. Men and women shouted their wagers, money was exchanged, scuffles broke out. The sounds of laughter and argument mingled with the jangle of coins. Vats of black beer were carried into the hall, along with countless jugs of whiskey and mead.

The pirate queen came over to Laurel and linked her arm for a stroll.

“I have many nicknames but
Gráinne na gCearrbhach
is the one I favor. Grace of the Gamblers.”

Despite the friendly tone, Laurel shuddered. She tried not to think of herself as a lamb being led to the slaughter.

They stopped near a group tossing hoops.

“Let us pit our skill against each other,” Grace suggested.

“Okay,” agreed Laurel, warily.

She had seen that look on Grace’s face before. During the battle at sea. Sword-eyes.

“What will you wager?” the pirate queen wondered.

She rattled the purse of coins that hung from her belt.

“I have nothing—” Laurel began.

With a noise of disdain, Grace took a handful of coins and flung them on the ground.

“I give you a loan.”

Laurel’s face reddened. She didn’t move. And nor would she. The tension was mounting when Ian arrived. He had a drink in his hand and was looking merry. Immediately grasping the situation, he stooped to pick up the money.

“Women,” he muttered.

Laurel was furious with Grace and determined to beat her. She studied the game. The hoops were tossed onto hooks on the wall, positioned high overhead. When she played center on her basketball team, she rarely missed a shot. She grimaced to herself. This was more than sport.

“I’ll bet all of it,” she said, indicating the coins in Ian’s hand. “If I lose I’ll be doubly in your debt and take the consequences. If I win, it’s mine.”

The sea queen was delighted. She shouted for drink. A tray arrived with tall silver cups brimming with liquor. Handing one each to Laurel and Ian, she clashed her goblet against theirs.

“Uisce beatha!”
she shouted, and quaffed it down in one swallow.

Laurel peered at the golden liquid.

“Mead?” she asked Ian.

“The water of life,” he translated, before swigging his draught. “Pure whiskey.”

“Firewater,” she choked, when she took a sip.

She put the cup down.

“You won’t drink?” Grace demanded.

“I like to keep a cool head when competing,” she countered.

The pirate queen considered this remark.

“A cool head,” she echoed.

Then she flung her own cup across the room with such force that several people ducked before it clanged against the wall.

Laurel’s eyes widened but she didn’t react. Grace was even more fearsome at home than at sea. Restless and irritable like a wild thing caged, she kept tugging at her female attire. The characteristics that made her a leader among men and a queen of pirates made her almost unbearable at close quarters. One of her enemies would say of her, “No warlike chief or Viking has a bolder heart than she.” Knowing some of her history, Laurel could reflect on the hardships she suffered; a murdered lover and a murdered son, long spells in prison, a close shave at the gallows. Yet, despite a lifetime of rebellion and piracy, she would live to old age still in command of her fleet. An amazing woman.

“Let the challenger begin,” Grace declared.

Laurel was thinking fast, her survival instincts alert.

“I’d rather you went first,” she said, adding quickly before Grace could erupt, “I’d like to see how it’s done and I bet you’re the best player here?”

Her hunch was right. Flattery was good. Grace nodded, pleased, and took her position to throw.

As each hoop went sailing through the air to land on its hook, the spectators cheered. Twelve throws made a game. The pirate queen tossed with a steady hand and stunning accuracy. Laurel and Ian exchanged uneasy glances. Then a ring fell short of its mark. Grace cursed vociferously. And moments later, another one. But the rest reached their target till her turn was done.

Laurel stepped up to the line. She tried to relax and calm her breathing, while young boys clambered up the walls to retrieve the hoops. Her stomach was in a knot, her palms sweaty. When she was handed the rings, she tested their weight. They were light, and jangled like bracelets.

A crowd had gathered to watch, placing bets among themselves.

Laurel threw the first ring.

It curved a high arc in the air.

Then went wide of its mark, hit the wall, and ricocheted over her head.

A titter of laughter rose up. Laurel bit her lip. Her hands were shaking.

Before she could toss the second ring, Ian came up behind her. Slipping his arm around her waist, he drew her to him. His lips caressed her ear.

“Breathe,” he said softly, his own breath warm on her neck. “This is not about you. It’s for Honor.”

She steadied immediately. He was right. This was not a contest of egos between Grace and her. This was Laurel alone, pitted against the odds, against death itself, for her sister’s sake. She imagined Honor in the crowd giving her the thumbs up, the way her twin used to do when she attended Laurel’s events. The memory brought with it a steely confidence.

The next ring landed on its hook.

And the next.

And the next.

As each hoop sailed into place, the spectators grew quieter. Coins were already changing hands, though surreptitiously as no one wanted to be seen betting against the chief. The tension in the hall was growing. People slipped away, back to their own amusements, unwilling to be witnesses to the sea queen’s defeat.

Grace was thin-lipped with rage. She was not a good loser. As the twelfth hoop landed on its hook, she roared for more drink.

“You have won the loan,” she spat.

Laurel kept her features blank, not daring to look victorious. Ian gave her a furtive wink. They wouldn’t celebrate … yet.

“We play cards!” Grace cried.

They took seats at the end of the high table, just the three of them. Grace used her personal cards. The backs were illustrated with the O’Malley coat of arms. Though larger than a modern deck and artfully hand-painted, they had the same suits of hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs.

“They were made in France,” she said airily, as she shuffled with the mastery of a professional. “Cards are war in the disguise of a game, is that not so?”