They’re starvin’, like you are, and I doubt they’d put up much of a fight.
So let us welcome them, as our brothers.” There were great moans and cries of disagreement, but I pressed on. “I will speak with the captain who, I promise you, will be most grateful for our mercy, and I will see what he
trades
for that mercy. There will be guns, no doubt, which are in short supply with us, you know. There may be gold, which the captain might be persuaded to release to his new Connaught allies. But I have no wish for a massacre on this beach.”
I looked round at the faces of my people, and my words echoed in my ears. All of a sudden I could hear myself begging for the trust of my first crew, the one Gilleduff O’Flaherty had gifted me with. How the times had changed, but I felt now, as I’d felt then, a strange certainty of action.
Leading men was my fate, and leading men
well
my desire. I’m sure you know what I mean.
In the end we let them land peacefully. Much to my surprise and delight, the ship was the
San Martin
and its captain the High Admiral of the Armada itself, the Duke of Medina-Sidonia. Grateful could not begin to describe his mien. The poor man had suffered terribly from the first moment of his appointment by Philip, a commission he ’d begged, on grounds of incompetence, not to receive. But the King of Spain had been adamant, forced the position upon him, and then turned a deaf ear to all the duke ’s pleadings against Philip’s clearly doomed invasion plans.
“Voyage of the damned,” the duke had called the fleet’s trip round Scotland after their defeat in the English Channel. They’d been battered the whole way, and the men’s morale, already shattered by their defeat, died altogether when the food ran out and disease took hold. Indeed, they’d watched with helpless horror as their sister ships were dashed on foreign shores, their brothers hacked savagely to pieces by English troops and Irish villagers alike. Rockfleet’s kind welcome had been the first and only blessing in their long, monstrous journey.
We struck a deal, the Duke of Medina-Sidonia and I. We would get guns and money. The bulk of his crew, with no food for their long voyage to Spain, stayed behind to fight the English at our side. He and a skeleton crew I piloted safely out of Irish waters.
Rockfleet opened its arms to those once proud soldiers, now reduced to skin and bones and scurvy. Soon they were guests no more, but part of village life, training with the local rebels, makin’ eyes at the local girls, and learnin’ a few words of Irish. All in all, Rockfleet thanked me for the deal I’d struck with the Duke of Medina-Sidonia.
But that was not the case with Richard Bingham.
A right Fury, he was. ’Twas not just our harboring the Spanish that maddened him, though that in itself was sufficient treason. But the Burkes, led by myself and Tibbot, had turned the Connaught chiefs—
once subdued by the English—back to the Irish cause. Bingham’d made a mistake in murdering Murrough ne Doe ’s son—his hostage—for when Murrough came to our aid, he came with revenge on his mind, and all the O’Flaherty clans at his side. All, that is, but my O’Flaherty
son
Murrough.
The O’Flahertys rose in rebellion against the Crown, and they did it with a fierceness that swelled my heart with pride. The many great chieftains were as old as myself, at sixty, so my boy Tibbot, just past twenty, was new blood, and was looked to as the great hope of Connaught. Our two fleets together as one, we ’d ferried thousands of Ineen Dubh’s Gallowglass to our shores. And every day a new battle was won. One by one towns and villages were retaken by the people who rightly owned them.
But that was not the worst of it for Bingham. Prick that he was, he ’d made more enemies than the Irish. Aye, your own Lord Deputy Perrot hated the man, suspected his misconduct and schemed to bring him down. Imagine our delight to learn Bingham had been put on trial in Dublin for his brutal deeds in Connaught! Forbidden, he was, to take the field against us.
We rejoiced in several ways. First with our own “Book of Complaints” against Bingham. Tibbot and I, using the English language, compiled the book, charging him with injustices in his rule of the province.
There were more examples of murder, cruelty, repression, and extortion than I wish to remember. ’Twas a fine document though, and the council in Dublin, and Lord Deputy Perrot himself, read it with great interest.
While Bingham was thus engaged, and the Burkes enjoyed a great swelling of power, we elected a new Burkes’ MacWilliam a man they called—“the Blind Abbot.” Of course we knew the English would object, for they believed the title dead and buried. Tibbot and I therefore sailed off to Scotland for reinforcements, with hopes that the tide had finally turned in our favor.
How wrong we were.
Looking back, I see how foolish it was. To think the Crown would find in favor of Ireland over Richard Bingham, one of its own. That was dreaming. Bingham was acquitted by the court in Dublin and sent out with new determination and a large army to quell the “Great Connaught Uprising.” And Grace O’Malley, whom he named “the Nurse of all Rebellions in Ireland,” was his prime target.
We returned from Scotland heading first for Burrishoole, for Tibbot to see his family. But as we approached from the north, I could see from the deck of the
Dorcas
smoke rising from the place where the village stood. We were filled with dread as we sailed our combined fleet into Burrishoole Harbor, an unnatural silence and the smell of burning wood and flesh churning our stomachs.
The place was burnt to the ground. Men, women, children, even animals had been slaughtered, every one. Tibbot was running through the charred rubble to the keep, dead men hanging from the battlements, though the castle was strangely intact amidst the destruction. He pounded frantically on the heavy door, callin’ for his wife. He cried and pounded till his voice was hoarse and his fists were bloody, but to no avail. Finally he fell to the ground with his back against the door and wept like a child. Then, all of a sudden, like a miracle, the door creaked open and there stood Maeve, with little Miles on her hip. When he saw his father in such a condition, the child began to scream bloody murder, but the family was reunited with great joy and relief.
That night Maeve, roses gone from her lovely face, told us of the massacre. They’d come in force, with a purpose. Bingham himself had led the attack. Tibbot’s loyal men—those who hadn’t charged out amongst the ravening English soldiers—had manned the battlements of the keep.
One by one the men were shot and killed till finally the last man, horribly wounded, had come to Maeve with the dreadful news. The town was afire and all were dead. But he would protect Tibbot Burke ’s wife and son with his last breath. Then he ’d fallen dead at her feet. By now the keep was filling with black smoke, and Maeve could not think whether she more feared the two of them chokin’ to death, or being hacked to pieces by Bingham’s soldiers. She hid herself and little Miles in a Spanish cargo chest, knowing it was a poor protection, and waited for the end to come.
She thought she was dreaming when she heard Tibbot crying from afar. It took her a wee while to unbend from the confines of the chest, and to wake little Miles, who’d fallen asleep in his mother’s arms.
Outraged as we were at the loss of Burrishoole, there was more bad news that night. A rebel courier seeking reinforcements from the village arrived to find it destroyed. He brought with him grim tidings. The Blind Abbot, engaged in battle with Richard Bingham, had been gravely injured, his foot cut off entirely. All who heard the news moaned aloud, for the man around whom the great Burkes’ Rebellion had rallied was now—with his foot gone—reckoned as good as a dead man.
That was it. Richard Bingham’s head was mine. I would kill him or I would die trying.
I learned from the courier the last known position of Bingham and his troops. They were camped in a glen, but half a night’s march from Burrishoole. There was no time to lose.
Our Scotsmen were fresh for battle and felt my fervor, makin’ it their own. We covered the distance in record time, and before dawn we lay in wait outside the English camp. There were some tents in the camp, but very few. Most soldiers slept on the hard ground, round smoldering fires.
Centered in the camp was one large tent, no doubt their Captain Bingham’s, he sleepin’ in comfort on his cot. I hoped he was sleeping soundly, for a shock in that state makes the heart pound hard and painful in nameless fear. And I wanted the bastard to know as much fear before death as humanly possible.
The signal was given and with banshee cries we fell, in our numbers, on the English. Fighting was hard and men were dyin’ all round as I strode through the camp, sword drawn and quivering in my hand.
A fierce battle was being fought round Bingham’s tent and inside as well, I knew, from the shouts and grunts and sounds of clashing metal coming from within it. I pulled back the door flap to see Bingham reloading his pistol, with two of his soldiers flanking him—their backs to me—
fighting two of my Gallowglass Scots. Bingham looked up and saw me.
Then, with a wee smile, he pointed his gun not at me, but at the Scotsman to his left. He blew the man’s head clean off his neck, and the fountain of gore drenched the soldier the Scotsman had been fighting. That man turned now. Turned, and I saw his bloodstained face.
’Twas my son Murrough.
He was fightin’ at Bingham’s side!
I felt the earth move under me and I lost my breath. The strength went out of my hand and the sword in it fell to the ground. I don’t remember what happened then. . . .
When I came to my senses, Bingham was gone, and Murrough too. A hole, through which they’d escaped, had been cut in the tent. Outside, Tibbot had led his men to a great victory, with every Englishman slain and few Scotsmen worse for the wear.
From that day forward, Tibbot was seen as high commander of the Burkes’ Rebellion, he as famous in Connaught as Red Hugh O’Donnell in Ulster was.
But I was destroyed.
How, I asked myself, could a son so betray his mother? Bingham had murdered Murrough’s own brother, kidnapped my youngest child, massacred the poor people of Burrishoole, hanged the great chieftains of Connaught, threatened to hang me, and relieved me of my cattle! What was Murrough thinking? How had he grown to hate me so?
For a time I went mad, some days with grieving, some with anger. On a day of anger I sailed into Murrough’s lands and plundered his herd and castle. He was absent at the time and I was later glad of it, for those men who resisted we killed, and furious as I was, I could never take the life of my own child.
I had held the years at bay for so long, feeling a young, strong woman despite my aging shell, but now I grew old with sadness. My bones began to ache and my once beloved keeps felt cold with their drafts and seeping fog.
And Richard Bingham was not done with me yet. I began to believe I’d been spared for an evil purpose the year the English shipping descended on Clew Bay. The purpose, slow torture of a notorious rebel and pirate, one who was to the Englishman a mockery of womanhood.
All that was left to me was my fleet. ’Twas my wealth and my freedom and the only maintenance left to me.
The invasion was peaceful enough, I suppose—forty ships, some for fishing, some for trade, some for patrolling the waters. There were troop ships as well, and these quietly harried my own, from without and within. Aye, Bingham even ordered my ships boarded by his men who kept us from all “illegal” activity. Soon we ’d lost the right of way in our own waters. The English ships refused to pay tolls foreign ships had paid the O’Malleys and O’Flahertys for hundreds of years. At their will, their ships barred mine from sailin’ out to the fishing grounds, and plundered the grounds themselves. My trading vessels bound for Spain and Portugal were boarded at every turn, searched and denied exit from Clew Bay on the grounds that we carried spies, or supplies for Philip’s Second Armada. Even foreign vessels that had once relied upon my services piloting them through the treacherous Irish waters now braved the open sea rather than risk trouble with the English.
My people looked to me for help, but I was helpless, and for the first time poor. That was when I wrote to you, Bess. Told you of my plight and asked for your help. Return my livelihood, I said. Not only for me but for my people, who were starving and wretched. You wrote back with your eighteen questions. I answered those questions and I waited for some reply. I was still waiting when the final blow fell.
In Ulster, Red Hugh O’Donnell—himself escaped from Dublin prison—had been restored to leadership and was moving from strength to strength. Tibbot knew the boy would be callin’ upon himself for support, as the two families had helped one another for so many years. Then my son took it upon himself to write a letter. ’Twas a daft thing to do, proposing that Tibbot and Devil’s Hook and some Scots should join Red Hugh and O’Neill and raise a new rebellion in Connaught. Wouldn’t you know Bingham intercepted the letter and arrested Tibbot on charges of treason.
SO THAT’S HOW the boy’s come to be in your English prison,” said Grace to the queen. “They’re torturing him, threatening him with hanging, for Jesus’ sake! And the western waters are swarming so thick with Bingham’s ships I had to sneak away and be ferried out, a passenger on somebody else ’s boat.” Grace sat forward in her chair. “Your Majesty, you’ve heard my story. Perhaps you’ve heard more than you bargained for. But now you know what a low prick Richard Bingham is.
And you know that Tibbot is the only son I have left. So I’m beggin’ you, Bess, give me back Tibbot. Remove Bingham from Ireland, and return me the freedom of my ships. I’d get on my knees, but I fear I’d not get up again, and wouldn’t that be a sight?”
Elizabeth leaned forward and gazed at Grace ’s careworn face. “I’m Queen of England, and yet . . . I can see you do not envy me.”
“How could I?” said Grace. “I’ve traveled the world and I’ve known the love of a father, a good man, and several children. Men cleave to me as loyally as they do to you, but not out of fear, and not for my favors. I do wish for your wealth, I’ll admit that. But it hasn’t brought you what you truly wished for above all else. And for that I pity you. People get their heads whacked off for sayin’ such things, but I’m a gambling woman, and I’ll wager that mine is safe enough on my neck.” Elizabeth smiled indulgently. She spoke slowly, twisting the heavy gold Ring of State that she wore on her first finger. “I’ll admit I’m well disposed to your several requests, and yet . . . you have proven your inconstancy many times over.”