“That’s Grace’s name there. Grany Ni Maille.” He pointed to the area of Clare Island and all the surrounding lands. “Her name’s there twice to show the expanse of her territory.”
He took a step back and focused on the entirety of the map. His eyes jumped to mine.
“This could be the original map Queen Elizabeth created for Grace—proving the land to be O’Malley territory—taking away the rulership of Sir Bingham from the clan lands. And sea.”
He stepped back again and looked at me with wide eyes. “Do you know what this could mean?”
I shook my head at him.
“This could be the proof needed to stop the land disputes and return the area to the O’Malleys for good.”
“Wait. What do you mean, return it?” My eyebrows scrunched tight.
“Like Padraic said in Warde’s, the O’Malleys had scattered. Their land in dispute. Ancient Brehon Law placed land ownership in other hands, but only for a finite amount of time, until the O’Malleys could prove it to be rightfully theirs.” His words flew fast.
“Land ownership in other hands? Whose?” My hands ran through my hair as I pictured Grace’s despair from my past visions.
Despair for losing her true love to the brutal slaying by her enemy, the MacMahons, but it was also despair for losing the Gaelic Ireland she fought so hard to keep. And it was her land and the sea that was lost.
“Rival clans. I can’t be sure.” He peeled at the corner of the map to reveal the page beneath it. At first they appeared stuck together, but with gentle motion, they separated. “But the clock is ticking. Without proof, the temporary land ownership becomes permanent after several generations.”
The parchment beneath the map was a different quality and material, more fabric-like. The rough edges framed written words that were stained with brown blotchy spots, worn from time. Fancy ink scrawl covered the entire document and was sealed at the bottom with an oval crown in the center.
My eyes jumped to the top where the largest writing decorated the beginning of the document. In large, decorative letters, it read, “Elizabeth.” The bottom part of the z carried on and underlined the name, curling back and over two or three more times decorating the underside of the signature.
My hand flew to my mouth to cover my gasp.
“Holy shit.” Paul stepped back and looked at me, as if trying to unsee what he had already seen.
I moved closer for a better look.
“Just don’t touch it. The oils from your fingers will–”
“I won’t.” My hand went up to stop him.
The fancy black ink writing filled the page and was nearly impossible to read. I skipped cryptic words and landed on “Queen of England”, then “by royal creed” and “in god and on my life.”
The swirling letters and dark black blotches pulled my eyes all over the page, searching for something of meaning. As I became familiar with the script, I recognized more words. “Ni Maille” revealed itself in the writing and the word “deed,” over and over again. “Grany Ni Maille” again.
I turned to Paul.
“What is this?”
He moved closer to the ancient document. He put his loupe to his eye for magnification and went closer in.
“It appears to be….” His voice trailed off as he inspected it more closely. “Christ!”
He stepped back and ran his hands through his hair.
“It’s a deed. From Queen Elizabeth the First. Granting territory to the ownership of Grace O’Malley.”
His hands trembled as he took his phone from one corner and took pictures of the two pages from all directions. He carefully rolled them back in the shape they beckoned to return to and slid them inside the metal tube.
He moved his gloved finger over the Celtic designs that ran around the top and bottom circumference of the vessel. The greenish hue of the intricate artwork brought it to life in his hands as he inspected the tarnished carvings. More raised markings covered the body of the container with intricate knotwork that went on without beginning or end.
“Maeve.” His blank stare seemed lost. “I’m not sure what to do.” His eyebrows edged upward in the middle.
“Can we just do nothing right now? Just for now. I need to figure this out more before it gets into the wrong hands,” I begged.
I bit the nails of my right hand, all four fingers at once.
I wasn’t ready to let this go yet. It held too much for me and my family. This could be everything I was searching for.
I just had no idea what to do with it.
“I don’t know.” He looked back at the tube. “It feels like we’re doing something wrong. Like it’s illegal.”
“Just for now. Not long. Please.”
I reached for the T-shirt I’d used to wrap the tube and began securing it within. I pushed it into my backpack and snapped it shut.
“This is just the beginning. The start of everything coming together.” I reached for his phone. “Let me see the pictures of the map.”
Paul found the best one and zoomed in on the area of Clare Island.
“Can we make that bigger? Let’s get it onto your computer screen.” My impatience made me bounce in my shoes.
This map was incredible. It held ancient secrets and medieval ideas of the land and territories.
Priceless.
Once the map was on his screen, we zoomed in on the details that were faded to the naked eye but easier to see on zoom.
A smudged skull-like symbol sat at the coast of Clare Island, as if looking back toward Rockfleet Castle on the mainland.
Another unusual symbol was farther south toward Galway in the mountainous region of Connemara. I’d been to that area with Rory, climbing the hills of the Twelve Bens, with no idea in the world that the area might have had any significance to Grace O’Malley.
“What is this place?” I pointed to the symbol by the Twelve Bens.
“It must be Ballynahinch Castle. There’s nothin’ else along that river in the area.” He tapped his finger on the screen, right on the location. “The two places must have a connection of some kind.”
He leaned in and studied it.
“Okay. Well, if legends are true and Grace’s final resting place is somewhere on Clare Island, we need to go there. I mean, skull and crossbones on the map… that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Paul’s lips pursed together. “Unfortunately, for five hundred years, no one has been able to prove where her actual burial site is.”
I pointed to the spot where his fingerprint lingered.
“That’s why we start here. At Ballynahinch. There must be something there, a clue or a connection. And that will direct us to the right place on Clare Island. It’s a lead anyway. A good one, too.” My eyes sparkled. “Okay?”
“Okay.” His steady tone resonated confidence. “I’m back in. Let’s do this.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed it, like sealing a deal, though worry lingered at a shallow depth behind his eyes.
***
The horizon filled with peak after peak of the mountain chain known as the Twelve Bens. I gazed out my window at the magnificent view and searched each hill for the one Rory and I climbed last fall.
He had kissed me for the first time on our decent from one of the summits. The thrill of it was etched in my memory, but I also recalled how it awoke the sleeping burn on my chest.
I glanced at Paul to be sure he couldn’t read my thoughts, and then went back to Rory.
Soon after, Rory became chieftain of the MacMahon Clan, the ones responsible for the brutal murder of Hugh DeLacy, Grace’s love. I rubbed my chest, thinking of how close I got to a clan enemy without realizing it.
Rory and I were connected by a tribal feud that spanned centuries and somehow we landed in each other’s arms. I shook my head to clear the thoughts of his lush lashes, flirtatious teasing, and decadent brogue. His allure was surely an evil tactic for gaining leverage in the fight.
M
y fingers ran through my hair. One mountain blurred into the next, along with my memories of Rory, as Paul and I flew down the narrow pass toward Ballynahinch Castle.
“I’m not too sure about Grace’s connection to Ballynahinch, but I think she spent some time there, on retreats maybe.” Paul’s voice broke through the reels of my secret replay of my time with Rory, and I blinked them away.
I watched Paul’s profile as he navigated the narrowing road. Trees and shrubs encroached right out to the street’s edge, giving it the feel of a tunnel-like passage. His jaw was tense with focus, almost as tight as his knuckles around the steering wheel.
Unable to stop the persistent reels, I thought of the time he and Rory met at my blue door for the first time. I was certain they would burst into a fist fight. The tension between them was brittle—ready to shatter at any moment.
It all became clear later when Paul revealed his ancestry to Hugh DeLacy, Grace’s murdered lover. Murdered by the MacMahon Clan. It made Rory and Paul undeniable enemies of the ages, right on the spot, MacMahon vs DeLacy.
At the next bend, surrounded by mature landscaping, a regal ivory-colored sign with golden Gaelic letters read Ballynahinch Castle, and Paul turned onto the long, meandering drive leading up to the grounds.
We swerved and rounded tight bends as anticipation grew to see the estate open up in front of us.
A shiver ran through me as we approached the unknown and I squeezed my backpack with my knees.
“Do you think it’s dangerous that I have these documents? What if someone knew or found out?”
I pulled my pack off the floor, closer to my chest. It held so much—the tube with the scrolls and the tomb key. I wished I could handcuff it to myself.
“Well, right now, it’s safe. No one knows about any of it, right?” He turned to me for a sure response.
I nodded my head, hoping that was true.
My eyes fell to my lap and I swallowed. Sickness brewed in my stomach from my nerves. I looked at my pack as if seeing through it with X-ray vision, straight into the contents. The weight of the small items was heavier than anything I’d ever known.
We reached a clearing and the view expanded before us like a wide-screen opening scene of an epic movie.
“There it is,” Paul said as he slowed the car.
My eyes lifted to the bright light of the open landscape, leaving the long stretch of dark narrow driveway of overhanging trees behind us.
My hands gripped the sides of my seat like clamps as I braced for impact. I was slammed back in my seat by the view of the landscape.
Topiaries. Sculpted trees on the lawn. Many in the shape of four-sided pyramids, leading up to a stately manor.
“What the hell!” I screamed and hid my face in my hands. “Oh my god.” I mumbled into my palms.
Tears of panic filled my eyes and spilled. I peeked out through my splayed fingers and saw the familiar lawn ornaments and the path that led to the terrace and enormous front doors. My fingers tightened to block the image, willing it away.
The car stopped short, jolting me in my seat.
“You know this place?” Paul’s voice held a heavy tone of ominous premonition.
“Mmhmm.” My breathing tightened to short, rapid puffs. “I had a vision of this place. Right after our trip to Rockfleet, when we heard the voices. It’s exactly the same. This….” My hand gestured out across the view.
Paul’s eyebrows shot up as his muscles tensed.
“What happened in the vision?”
I pictured the brown-cloaked figure who chased me. And then the portrait inside. The one that looked exactly like me.
Chills ran through my body straight to my toes and finger tips. I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering how much to tell Paul. In the past, I’d just gushed everything, but now, I had to be more guarded. In case he’d shut down again. I exhaled in resignation to the new complicated layers.
“Come on.” I hopped out, surveying my surroundings. “What is this place?” My voice trailed after me.
“It’s a hotel of sorts now and a restaurant at the back, I think,” Paul said as he checked out the signs for parking at the far side. “Slow down now. Tell me about the vision, Maeve. I need to know what we might be heading into.”
I surveyed him through half-open eyes, choosing which filters to put in place. He was right, though. He needed to know.
“I was chased and stuff, just like at the cemetery. The brown cloak. You know.” I hesitated, watching his response.
His lips pressed into a white line.
“Brown cloak?” He perused the landscape with a suspicious eye.
“Yeah. In the vision, it was Fergal.” I lowered my eyes and looked down at my nails. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, Maeve. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” He reached for my hand and took it in his. “Come on.”
His intimate touch shot tingles and warmth through me. I held his hand and for a moment, felt like everything was going to be okay.
We left the car and walked along a manicured garden path of white stones through the topiary gardens.
I focused on a direct line of vision toward the huge double doors—my destination.
“I need to see inside. Do you think it’s open to visitors?” I held my gaze on the doors.
“Not sure.” Paul’s voice trailed into the landscape as his heightened attention scanned the perimeter.
We followed the stone gravel path through the topiary garden along the front of the estate. The setting was peaceful and less intimidating in bright daylight, with rays of sunshine breaking through the gray skies. Though I kept my wits about me, looking around every bush and statue for any possible danger.
My pack hung loosely from one shoulder, so I swung the other shoulder strap onto my free arm and pulled the adjustment cords, securing it tightly to my back.
I climbed the granite steps of the terrace and approached the enormous double doors. One side was permanently bolted shut, but the other pulled open with relative ease for such immense size and weight.
We entered the grand space and sailed back in time in the blink of an eye—swept away by faded antique tapestries, heirloom portraits, and fragile ceramics. Fine dark oak woodwork and brass fixtures decorated the museum quality estate, accentuating its time travel quality. The classic musty smell of aged furniture and fabrics wafted through my senses, carrying me deeper into the past.
Clanging dishes and quiet conversation drifted from the back rooms, reminding us of other guests and fine dining.
“May I help you?” The cordial, gracious voice of an older woman came out of nowhere and made my heart leap out of my chest and into my mouth.
I spun around, wide-eyed, as my muscles tensed around my bones. I hadn’t expected contact with anyone so soon and startled from the unnatural velvet sound of her voice.
Her formal black dress was buttoned to the top with a regal white lace collar, and her polished black single-strap shoes set a tone of high class and fine dining.
I adjusted my jacket, stood up straight, and ran my fingers through my hair to settle it down.
“We were hoping to have a look around, if that’s okay,” Paul asked, adding his swoon-worthy smile.
“Ah, sure. Feel free to have a look-see. These rooms and the grounds are open to visitors.” She motioned to the space we were in as well as the adjoining room.
With minimal movement, she turned and walked back toward the sound of the other guests.
She slowed and turned her shoulders to me, then added, “Stop over for a cup of tea and scones, if you like. We’d love to have you.”
Her head tipped as she held my gaze. She hesitated, as if studying me. And then she left us.
My eyes followed her as she moved out of sight and my muscles relaxed once she was gone. I took Paul’s arm and pulled myself close to him.
“That’s the room with the family portraits, I think.” I pointed to the adjoining space.
; We moved in silence toward the archway that framed the entrance to the great room. The glow of the coal fire drew us farther in.
With light steps, I crept to the center of the space for a full view of the surrounding walls. My eyes darted around the room, fearing what I might see, but refusing to miss any of it.
As my eyes met hers, I snapped my gaze away in terror and turned into Paul’s body. He held my shoulders and then pushed me back enough to look into my face.
“What is it?” He glanced around the room.
Then his grip on my shoulders fell. He dropped his hold of me and moved to the far wall. I kept my eyes on the ground.
“What the hell?” His voice trailed off into the years.
I lifted my gaze to find him, afraid of what his face might reveal.
He stood in front of her portrait, hands by his sides, without a single flinch. He just stared at it.
The trembling in my body made it difficult to move. I closed my eyes and breathed, then took one step, and another, over to Paul.
“Jesus, Maeve.” He glanced at me in disbelief.
He looked at me and then back to the portrait and back to me again. His wide eyes exposed his shock and confirmed my deepest fear.
“She’s the spittin’ image of ya.” He shook his head to clear it. “Even that freckle on your cheek.”
The plaque beneath the painting revealed what I already knew to be true.
Maeve Grace O’Malley
“The Lost Daughter”
1555 —
I slapped my hand over my mouth and stepped backward for the door—space, open air, anything but that room. As I pulled the door open, I turned back for Paul but he was motionless, staring at the portrait, as if he were in a trance.
I left him there and threw my body down the terrace stairs and onto the green lawn. Hands on my knees, I breathed through the dizzying overload.
My head shook back and forth in denial the more I thought about it.
The lost daughter? What was this all about?
Inish Clare Page 10
