The Summer King

by O. R. Melling

  Ian looked startled, then groaned.

  “God, how did I miss it?”

  “What?” said Laurel. “What did we miss?”

  “Not we. Me. You couldn’t have known. You have no Irish. But I … Jesus, I’m as thick as two bricks!”

  She nearly lost her temper.

  “Tell me! What did you miss?”

  “Our skipper,” he swore. “That’s her name in English. Granuaile translates to Grace O’Malley.”

  Laurel frowned. “So it’s a coincidence, or she’s a descendant, but Gracie’s a real person, not a ghost. The man in the post office knows her. She ‘fishes for Ireland,’ whatever that means. And she’s very solid. Remember that handshake?”

  “Maybe she’s a reincarnation,” he suggested. “It’s too big a coincidence, the boat and her name.”

  “Laheen says she’s a spirit,” Laurel continued to argue. “How can she be both at the same time?”

  “We’re looking for a ghost and you want logic?”

  In the end they agreed there was only one way to know for sure: confront the skipper. They were no longer willing to wait for her return. Gracie or Granuaile, they were going after her.

  Their efforts to hire another boat soon proved futile. The summer season had all on the island employed. Just as Laurel was getting frantic, an old toothless fisherman took pity on them.

  “Ye can take your sweetheart out in my curach,” he told Ian, with a gummy grin. “Mind ye don’t upset her.”

  “The boat or my sweetheart?” said Ian, grinning back.

  The old man cackled. Laurel ignored them both.

  The old fisherman’s currach lay with several others upturned on the sand like great black beetles. The boat was made of wood covered with tarred canvas, ideal for inshore fishing as well as travel between the islands. The stern was square while the bow pointed upwards. It had no keel, and the narrow oars were fixed to the gunwales.

  Laurel stared dubiously at the antiquated craft. It was unlike any canoe or kayak she had ever handled. Ian drew her aside.

  “This feels right,” he said. “Currachs have been used for thousands of years. They belong here. Like Grace.”

  “You’d get in one of these?” she said, surprised.

  He shrugged. “I’m not thrilled about it, but do we have a choice?”

  That settled the matter. With the old man cackling and chortling behind them, they hoisted the boat over their shoulders and took it to the water. It was unexpectedly light, far more so than a canoe. But what made it easy to carry, made it hard to control. Once they pushed off, the currach rocked wildly, responding to the waves like a living thing. When they grasped the oars and started to row, they spun round in circles.

  Onshore, the fisherman continued to screech directions, between fits of coughing and laughing. When they finally gained control of the boat, he waved them off and they set out for Clew Bay. Their plan was simple. They would row in the direction they last saw The Lady of Doona.

  Ian grimaced as the waves rose higher and the cold spray splashed over the bow. They were moving at a terrific speed. The currach rode the rollers like a show horse taking its jumps. But where was Gracie? Had they any chance of finding her?

  The pier of Clare Island had fallen far behind when it happened. A fist of wind struck the boat and made it pitch like a rocking horse. Then they saw something moving toward them over the waves. It appeared to be a squall on the ocean. Before they could move, they were engulfed in fog.

  The mist was a thick milky gray. They could hardly see each other, let alone beyond the currach. The silence was ominous. There was only the slap of the water against the hull. They both stopped rowing. Laurel bit her lip. Though she didn’t say it out loud, she realized they had charged off recklessly. Without life jackets or provisions, they were in serious danger if they got lost at sea.

  Muffled sounds reached them. A ship’s bell clanging. The shouts of men.

  “Is it her?” whispered Laurel.

  “Let’s hope so,” muttered Ian.

  A huge dark shape suddenly emerged from the fog, as if bearing down on them. Now the haze dispersed as swiftly as it had come, and they saw the ship.

  Graceful in line, similar to a Spanish galleon but not as cumbersome, it rested on the waves with its sails furled.

  “I think …” Laurel began.

  She was stunned by the size of the vessel. Their own was like an eggshell beside it.

  Some of the crew leaned over the sides to peer down at them. There wasn’t a friendly face to be seen. Rough and weathered, each man seemed to be missing some part of his body, an eye, an ear, a hand, or an arm. Several wore eye patches. These were no ordinary sailors or fishermen. There was no question about it: they were pirates.

  A rope ladder came flying through the air and landed in the currach with a thump. Laurel and Ian were already scrambling upward before the threats began. What else could they do? When they reached the top, they were hauled onboard.

  The crew were a dirty and disheveled lot, long-haired and unshaven, in baggy trousers with leather vests. Most were barefoot. But it wasn’t at the men that Laurel stared, but the one woman in their midst. Though she wore leggings and boots, with a saffron-colored shirt, she was as wild-looking as the rest, perhaps even wilder. Her features were hard, her eyes piercing. A large knife was tucked into her belt. Yet despite her appearance, she was recognizable. She had the same brown curls framing her face, the same high coloring from wind and sun. She was the image of Gracie, the skipper of The Lady of Doona.

  Yet she stared at them as if they were strangers.

  At a slight nod of her head, one of the men grabbed Ian and put a dagger to his throat.

  “An Sasanaigh sibh?” she demanded.

  “Ní hea,” he answered, with a strangled noise.

  “Leave him alone!” Laurel cried.

  A grimy hand was clapped over her mouth.

  “We are not English,” Ian repeated for Laurel’s sake, then explained hurriedly to the captain, who could be no other than Grace O’Malley. “We are not your enemy. This girl can’t speak Irish. She comes from a land in the west. On the far side of the ocean.”

  “I’ve heard of the new world across our sea,” the pirate queen said, nodding curtly. A greedy look crossed her face. She shouted to her men. “More countries, more trade, more ships to plunder!”

  They responded with a raucous cheer. There were at least a hundred aboard, all sworn to serve her with their lives. Most came from the two clans the O’Malley’s ruled. Grace would go down in history for having said, Go mbhfearr léi lán loinge de Chloinn Conroi agus de Chloinn Mic an Allaidh ná lán loinge d’ór. “I would rather have a shipful of Conroys and McAnallys, than a shipful of gold.”

  The dagger was lowered from Ian’s throat and the hand from Laurel’s mouth, but they weren’t safe yet.

  The pirate queen strode toward Laurel and tugged at her jeans.

  “What are you doing here? The sea is no place for a girl.”

  Laurel returned her stare. She knew a test when she faced one. She kept her voice firm.

  “You didn’t listen when they said that to you. Why should I?”

  A heavy silence fell, as everyone waited for the captain’s reaction. Grace’s eyebrow arched. Then she slapped Laurel’s face with the back of her hand.

  Ian let out a yell, but was seized before he could move.

  Laurel staggered back, her cheek smarting. Recovering quickly, she glared at the sea queen.

  “Ní cladhaire í,” said Grace, with approval. “No milksop.”

  They locked eyes. Laurel did her best, but there was no contest. Grace’s gaze was overpowering. In that stare was the formidable will that made her chief and pirate in a savage time. Laurel looked away.

  The sea queen grunted her triumph.

  “Tell me why you are here,” she commanded.

  The warning in her tone was unmistakable. She wanted the truth, and would know if she got it.
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  “We came to find you,” Laurel answered simply.

  Grace nodded.

  “Fair enough. And now that you have, you will rue it.”

  She signaled to her men.

  “Throw them in the hold. If no one offers a ransom, you can string them up for entertainment.”

  Laurel and Ian were about to protest, when a cry erupted from the lookout above. An enemy ship was sighted.

  “My glass!” roared Grace.

  A young boy raced to bring her the telescope. Peering through it, she chuckled loudly.

  “One of Her Majesty’s finest. Broad and fat like a goose ready to be plucked. Lost, I’ll warrant, took a wrong turn on his way out of Galway. Doesn’t know port from starboard, English git.”

  Her men laughed. But Grace frowned suddenly and raised the glass again. Women’s intuition. She shouted to the lookout.

  “Further south! T’wards Inishturk! What do you see?”

  When the answer came back that a flock of gulls circled the island, she swore blue murder.

  “One or more ships in the lee of the harbor. The gulls wait to feed. It’s a trap. FULL ABOUT!”

  The crew sprang to action as she roared a quick succession of orders. Over the rigging they scrambled, like agile cats. Sails were unfurled. The great sheets billowed. Cannon were loaded. Weapons distributed. Up the main mast ran the flag of the O’Malley’s—stallion, helmet, wild boar, three bows affixed with arrows; and at the bottom, the true sign of their strength, a single galley to represent a fleet. Terra Marique Potens. Powerful on land and sea.

  The minute Grace’s ship turned about, the vessel acting as bait knew the game was up. A shot was fired to signal the others. The second and third ships hove into view.

  Granuaile let out a great laugh. The lust for battle glittered in her eyes.

  “We’ll outrun the laggards and take the bait.”

  The sea chase commenced. The ships that had hidden in ambush were caravels, lighter and faster than the lumbering merchantman in the lead. The latter had a high forecastle and double-tiered deck. But though it was slower, it was better armed and closer. More likely to do damage.

  “We haven’t a hope if they catch us,” Ian whispered to Laurel.

  The two had been pushed aside when the alarm went up. Scrambling for cover, they found a hiding place behind the wine kegs lashed to the deck. From there they had a good view. Laurel shivered with excitement as well as fear. It was like an old swashbuckling movie! She kept her eye on Grace, who strode the deck, shouting, commanding, encouraging, laughing. Like everyone else onboard, she took courage from the captain’s confidence.

  The galley flew over the waves, sails soaring on the wind like wings. The wooden rigging screeched with the strain. The bow rose up in a burst of spray. She was light as a skiff, a proud fast queen.

  Taking the helm herself, Grace steered the ship into the maze of islands, reefs, and narrow channels of Clew Bay. This was her domain. Born and bred on these waters which charts had yet to map, she could navigate blind. The threat of running aground forced the pursuing caravels to slow down. But though the others fell behind, the lead ship closed in and fired a broadside at Grace’s hull.

  A cannonball crashed through the deck. Wood splintered. Men roared. Now the O’Malley ship returned fire. A volley struck the enemy’s mast. The vessels almost collided. As grappling hooks swung through the air, the English clambered onboard. All over the ship, the two crews clashed in hand-to-hand combat.

  Crouched in the shadows, watching with a mix of fascination and horror, Laurel wondered how anyone knew friend from foe. Except when they cursed in their separate languages, the men were alike—hairy, burly, unkempt and unwashed. After observing them a while, however, she grew aware of the differences. The Irish had shaggy moustaches, and their long hair fell over their faces. The English favored beards and shorter hair. Where the Irish wore trousers and jerkins, the English were dressed in breeches and doublets. At the same time, all of them obviously lived in their clothes, universally tattered and matted with dirt. Swords and daggers were the main weapons used, though some of the English had firearms as well.

  As the fighting raged back and forth over the two ships and even up into the rigging, it was impossible to tell who was winning the battle.

  “What will we do if the Irish lose?” Laurel hissed to Ian.

  “Speak English.”

  “We need their help. We should join them.”

  “Are you out of your mind? We don’t—”

  Before he could finish, Laurel had run from their hiding place and grabbed a fallen sword.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Taking sides!” she called back.

  Fired with adrenaline, she ran to join a band of Grace’s men where they battled in the stern. She had taken a class in fencing once, but this was nothing like it. There was no room for stance or footwork, no chance to thrust and parry. This was a terrifying scrap involving sharp blades. Slashing wildly with her sword, she yelled, ducked, and even kicked. The absurdity of the situation fueled her courage, as did the sense of unreality. With a little skill and a lot of blind luck, she managed to hold her own for a time.

  Then Laurel found herself pressed into a corner beside the anchor winch. She had no room to maneuver, no way of escaping. A heavier sword beat down on hers and knocked it out of her hand. She cried out with alarm, backing up against the bulwark. Now she looked for the first time into the face of her enemy, and nearly fainted. The rage of battle had obliterated all signs of humanity. The contorted features were a livid red. As he lunged toward her, a last thought fled through her mind. Not here, not now.

  When the plank crashed down on her assailant’s head, it was almost comical. His mouth opened wide and his eyes bulged before he crumpled to the ground. Behind him stood Ian, looking pleased with himself.

  “My hero,” gasped Laurel.

  “Your shite in knighting armor,” he said, with a mock bow.

  Laurel retrieved her sword. Her hands were shaking, like the rest of her body.

  The fighting had moved further up ship, and they were alone. Together they disarmed her attacker who was still unconscious.

  “He’s very scruffy,” she said, trying to calm down. “I thought the English would be in uniforms. And tidier or something.”

  Ian tested the weight of the man’s sword.

  “The British navy came later. At this time they were much the same as the Irish, raiding Spanish and Portuguese ships. Sir Francis Drake was a pirate, remember.”

  “It slipped my mind,” she said dryly. “How do you know these things?”

  “Books. You should try reading sometime. You might learn something.”

  “Like fencing?”

  “Touché.”

  When they returned to the fray, they were happy to find the battle over. With no reinforcements, the English had decided to retreat. The Irish let them go, cutting the lines that held the vessels together. There was no time for plunder. The other ships might arrive at any moment. Wisdom was the better part of valor. Grace ordered her men home.

  As they got underway, the crew tended to their wounded and threw the enemy dead into the sea. When Laurel’s attacker staggered up from where he lay, he was taken prisoner.

  “Throw him overboard with the rest,” Grace ordered.

  Laurel objected, horrified.

  “You can’t do that! He’s hurt! And the other ship’s too far away. He’ll drown!”

  The pirate queen laughed and so did her men, but the Englishman pleaded.

  “My family have money! They will ransom me!”

  “Well, that’s a different kettle of fish,” Grace remarked. “Take him below. And see to his wounds. There’s no payment for a corpse.”

  The captain regarded Laurel coolly.

  “You fought with us. Foolhardy, but brave. I welcome you. For now. But make no mistake, my foreign girleen, you are my guest and my prisoner.”

  Laurel bo
wed her head. She understood. She had yet to earn Granuaile’s trust, but she had done enough. For now.

  s Grace’s galley sailed for Clare Island, it was joined by the rest of her fleet. Together the ships flew over the waves, bows rising, wood creaking, sails filling with wind. Laurel was thrilled with the speed and beauty of the vessels. So different from the noise and smell of oil and engine! They didn’t slow till they approached the island, where they anchored in its natural harbor. Small boats were lowered to take the crews ashore.

  The O’Malley fortress stood strong in its heyday. The tower shone iron-gray in the sunlight. The window slits were like narrowed eyes. Flags battered the air above the parapets. Armed guards kept watch along the battlements. A stream of people poured through the front gates; hunters and fishermen with the day’s catch, traders hawking their wares, women carrying firewood. In the shade of the walls were stone cabins thatched with mud and hay. Beyond the settlement, the beach was striped with black currachs upturned on the sand. Nets lay drying in the sun. The clan lived as much from fishing, hunting, and husbandry as it did from plunder.

  Inside the castle, Grace’s wealth was evident. Rich fabrics and fittings told of her trade with the capitals of Europe, while the abundance of gold spoke of her spoils. The main hall was furnished with polished oak, tables draped with damask, magnificent rugs, and tall candelabra. Tapestries warmed the stone walls alongside racks of antlers, war trophies, weapons, and mediaeval maps and charts. A cavernous hearth burned whole logs.

  Grace brought Laurel to her own bower to change into fresh clothing. Each donned a floor-length gown of white linen, with long narrow sleeves. Over this was worn an apron-like smock of heavier material. Laurel chose a red brocade with a bodice of pearls; Grace, a dark-yellow wool trimmed with fur. The sea queen clipped a jeweled dagger onto her belt. Around her shoulders hung the chieftain’s brat, the broad green mantle that marked her status.

  As Laurel pinned up her hair with a golden comb, she kept an eye on Grace in the mirror. It was nerve-wracking to be alone with her.