September 7, 1601
Greenwich Palace
Court of Queen Elizabeth
Lady Antónia was dressed in a most proper gown of emerald green, creamy lace at her cuffs and starched at her neck. Whalebone stays pinched her ribs. She’d not eaten since that morning and here it was now high noon. ’Twas hard to breathe and even harder to stand tall. She wasn’t used to wearing such formal clothing. Nay, indeed. She much preferred the loose pantaloons and doublet she wore aboard her ship. The ribbons and cap that kept her hair from her face instead of the tight knot and pins that held her fiery locks now.
If anyone had asked her the previous year when she’d be back in England, she’d not have guessed it would be this soon. Over a year had passed since she’d freed her men from certain death.
Greenwich Palace was unequivocally the most beautiful and ostentatious place she’d ever been. Her family’s castles in Ireland, where she sometimes graced them with her presence, were nothing compared to this. Terrifying towers truly. They were keeps, strongholds, meant for battle and to keep enemies from within. Greenwich looked as though it had been made for a sovereign’s comfort, for parties and plays.
Velvet draped every piece of furniture and even the walls. Gold rimmed every painting, mirror and candlestick. Where there was no gold, there was silver. As if the monarchs wished to impart a message to every bejeweled or bedraggled person to grace the halls that their wealth far outweighed any other. Richer than gods. No one in the place seemed concerned with anything other than pleasure.
Antónia scowled. ’Twas no wonder the English had not yet been able to beat back the Irish, her people. When they weren’t attempting to take over every corner of Christendom, they were dancing and playing boules in the courtyard, stroking their gold and silver.
As much as their opulence and frivolity disgusted her, Antónia had to maintain a pretense while here. Granuaille, her grandmother, had made it very clear what her purpose was in coming—to give the queen a birthday gift therefore ensuring that the English Queen believed their ties of friendship were still strong. Some years before, Granuaille had sought out Queen Elizabeth, and though their two countries were at war, they’d formed an alliance with each other. Elizabeth had even freed and pardoned Granuaille’s son, Antónia’s uncle, Tibbot, if Granuaille agreed to continue pirating the Spanish and not the English.
And now, Uncle Tibbot had just been named an viscount—while Antónia’s father had been secretly named by Tibbot as the rebel leader fighting against the English.
Antónia most certainly took after her grandmother in her intelligence, wit and ability to captain a ship, but she had her father’s dark temper. There was a reason he was called The Demon of Corraun. The English even called him Devil’s Hook. He was wild man and fierce in battle.
He didn’t scare Antónia one wit, though, even with the jagged scar on his face that made it look as though he had a permanent vicious smile.
“Lord Dalston,” called out Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s secretary, from the gallery leading from the Presence Chamber into the Queen’s privy chamber. The large wood-paneled door behind him remained closed to those waiting an audience.
Though he shared the same surname as the Secretary of State when Antónia’s grandmother had first journeyed to London in 1593, he was not the same man. A relation, perhaps. For it was William Cecil that Granuaille had dealings with.
Antónia cursed herself for not keeping up with the bloody English’s politics. She should know exactly who this man was.
She despised the English. They’d been tormenting her countrymen, her kin, for years, indeed, all of her own life.
At twenty-three summers this year, she’d seen much in the way of bloodshed from the English to her Irish countrymen.
She watched an older gentleman attempt to hurry toward Cecil, but his aged legs wouldn’t carry him as quickly as he must have wanted and he tripped several times. Only one of the nasty courtiers was kind enough to right him while the rest shied away as though aging were a disease.
Cecil greeted the man, calling him Baron Dalston. The aged courtier wore a dark gray cap with a feather in it, his clothes were rumpled. At least there was one more courtier in the crowd that seemed a little worse off than herself.
Antónia had to hide a smirk. She was probably wealthier than the lot of these puppets and none of them would ever know as her grandmother had begged the queen for money stating she was lacking, and the queen had agreed. If Her Haughty Majesty ever dared to visit Rockfleet Castle, and was allowed entrance into the treasury, she’d be blinded by the gold.
Behind Antónia was Sweeney, the only gallowglass guard she’d allowed off her ship. Any more and the English hypocrites would either shite their pants or think she was bringing a war to their queen. Antónia had grown up with the gallowglass warriors. Scotsmen bred with Norsemen. They were shunned by the Scots as half-breeds, but welcomed by Granuaille into her own personal army. The gallowglass men were well over six feet tall, nearing seven. Hugely muscular. There was wildness in their eyes and Antónia got a particular kick out of their permanent scowls.
While the English all crowded together, there was a notable space surrounding Antónia and Sweeney, as though the puffed up dunderheads thought they might catch something from the two them. Death perhaps?
Antónia bit her lip to keep from laughing.
She’d insisted Sweeney leave his double-headed axe on the ship, though he did not remove his six-foot long claymore attached to his back, which had been prompted an immediate request for removal upon their arrival. Lucky for the liveried men who’d asked it, Sweeney had obeyed her nod to part with the weapon, instead of lopping off their heads with one swing. And her, well, she had a dagger up both sleeves. The liveried ninnies had been staring too hard at Sweeney, afraid he’d bash their heads in, to even bother checking her for a weapon.
Imbeciles.
Another half-hour passed, with her feeling fainter by the minute and not yet called to the back, but many others—who had come into the presence after her—were summoned, piquing her irritation.
“I am going to speak with the footman,” she muttered to Sweeney.
Sweeney grunted. “I wouldna, my lady.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You’d only bash him on the head and slam down the door.”
He shrugged. “Aye.”
“Hmm.” Antónia eyed the door, considering that very suggestion. Oh, but she would love to see the look on these idiots’ faces as her gallowglass warrior shredded the pretty wood.
Sweeney nudged her elbow. “I will if ye like.”
Antónia laughed softly. “I would like that very much, but I will not require it.” Flapping open her fan, she held her head high as she glided over the floor, the crowd parting easily when they took one look at the warrior behind her.
The footmen standing guard of the gallery widened their eyes at her approach. They subtly shook their heads, warning her with their eyes to stay back, but she ignored them completely.
“I have waited quite some time to speak with Her Majesty. I require you to announce me. Now.”
One of their mouths dropped open, the other cleared his throat. “My lady, if you would wait, you will be called when requested.”
“Now would be good,” Antónia said with a sweet smile, though her eyes held no room for argument. “I do not think you understand, sir, but I have come on behalf of my grandmother, Lady Grace O’Malley, I believe she is well known to court.”
The footman whose mouth had popped open before swayed on his feet, while the one she’d been conversing with swallowed hard. She had to keep herself from glancing down to see if they’d wet themselves yet.
The only footman able to form words stared up at Sweeney behind her. “I shall return in a moment.” Keeping his eyes on her guard, he reached behind him and opened the door, fairly falling through in his hurry.
Antónia let out an annoyed sigh and glanced back at Sweeney. Though his scowl was fierce, his eyes danced with humor.
The footman left on his own looked ready to bolt, or faint. Antónia offered him a pleasant smile, but the way he peeled back his lips from his teeth looked more like a man ready to piss himself than a return of civilities. Well, she was used to that. Most of the men she met looked at her that way. Of course, most of the time she had the blade of her cutlass at their throat, or the barrel of her blunderbuss pointed at their heart, or simply Sweeney glowering promises of death behind her. No matter, she wasn’t brandishing any weapons at the moment. Must have been something in the air around her.
Or the fact that her grandmother was the Irish pirate queen.
Or Sweeney. One never knew.
A moment later, the gallery door opened once more and the footman was ushering her in. Though his face turned an ugly shade of purple when he did so, he held his hand up at Sweeney’s follow.
“Nay, there. You must remain behind.”
Sweeney bared his teeth, prepared to, no doubt, tell the slight guard what he’d like to do with him and as entertaining as that would be, Antónia had to stop him.
“’Tis fine, Sweeney. I shall return in a moment. The gift please.” She held out her hand and Sweeney reached into his sporran, pulling out the small velvet pouch.
Antónia clutched it and motioned for the footman to show her the way.
He led her through the gallery where a few courtiers stood, whispering in corners, their eyes shifting over her, some with curiosity, others with animosity. Oh, how she would have liked to storm these halls with her crew. The lot of these English would writhe with fear. The aging baron was still there, too, looking ready to lay down on the ground in his exhaustion, as he conversed with another courtier.
The footman opened another door, leading into the throne room. More opulence. More glitter and a fluff.
“The Lady Antónia Burke, on behalf of Lady Grace O’Malley,” he announced.
The room, and gallery behind her, fell silent.
Antónia stood tall and sailed inside the room, gliding over the floor much like her ship glided over water. Her eyes locked on Queen Elizabeth, who sat in a cushioned throne chair, her face painted thick with white. Bright red hair, much the same color as her own, was curled and set just so on top of her head.
Her gown was finer than anything Antónia had ever seen. Velvet, crusted in shining jewels and lace. Every finger held a large stone. Her dark eyes were weary as they studied Antónia and she beckoned her forward with one gnarled finger.
“Come here, child. You’ve grown much these last eight years.”
“Your Majesty.” Antónia bent at her knees, deftly perfecting the curtsey she’d been practicing behind the locked door of her chamber aboard the ship.
When she’d first met the queen, her grandmother had refused to curtsey, claiming she did not recognize her as her monarch, but Granuaille had been adamant that Antónia bow before the sovereign now, else all Uncle Tibbot’s careful plans be laid afoul.
Queen Elizabeth held out her hand, expecting Antónia to kiss her ring. That was a matter entirely different than bowing, for she, also, did not recognize the queen. In fact, just this month, there had been a massive battle waged between the English and Irish, and her father could have been killed.
She must have deliberated too long because those in the room began to grumble. Queen Elizabeth, however, laughed.
“You are much like Grace O’Malley, child.”
Antónia bristled. She wasn’t a child. She was a captain of a very profitable pirate ship. An unmarried spinster if she were to be at this court. Though she was no maid.
“I…” Antónia took a deep breath. “Your Majesty, I have brought you a gift from my grandmother and from my uncle, Lord Tibbot Mayo, and their well wishes for your birthday.”
“Let us see what you have brought.” The queen held out her hand.
Antónia made a move to place the velvet pouch in her palm, but Cecil intervened, plucking it from her palm and handing it to the queen himself.
It was on the tip of Antónia’s tongue to ask if he was going to examine the contents, but she kept her words to herself, not wanting to be thrown out of the privy chamber to the great disappointment of her grandmother.
The queen opened the pouch and let out a laugh that startled the room. In her palm was the tiny golden ship pin, its sails made of emeralds, its masts of rubies and sapphires along the bottom in the shape of waves.
“Beautiful,” she said.
Antónia nodded. “My grandmother will be pleased you like her gift, Majesty. She had it made especially for you.”
“We but wonder how a poor and wretched woman could have afforded it.”
Antónia had also been practicing her reply to this question, for she knew it would be coming. “She scrimped and saved for many years, Majesty. But she also found a few Spanish coins parted from their owner.”
Her words were meant to be a coded message, for the Spaniards that had docked at Kinsale had arrived to help the Irish fight the English. To have them part with coin showed that her uncle, the viscount, was on the English’s side.
A joke, if Antónia had ever heard one, for he’d personally appointed her father to fight the bastards. Oh, politics. Give her the sea!
“Her gift and your uncle’s loyalty are well received.” The queen locked her eyes on Antónia, studying her from head to toe, perhaps wondering if Antónia followed in Granuaille’s footsteps.
Antónia bowed low again, but as she did so, her eyes caught on another gift set on a table beside the queen. There were many things there; baubles, plate and fabrics, but this one in particular caught her fancy.
“That ring,” Antónia said. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Have you?” The queen raised a brow, no doubt wondering if it had been on a pirating expedition she’d spied it.
“Aye.” Well, not truly. She’d seen a painting of it. “The Lucius Ring.”
There was much lore surrounding the ancient Roman ring, rumored to have a ruby the size of a quail’s egg. Well, it was not quite so big as that, she could see. But it was beautiful. The ring was supposed to bring good luck to anyone upon the sea. But she’d also heard the lore. The ring could tell if you held love in your heart, or a profound ache. She wanted it. Antónia needed it. For every lover she’d taken had left her heartbroken and she could no longer put her heart on the line. She needed luck. She needed the ring to tell her when she’d found the one true love to sail the seas with.
“So you’ve heard of it. ’Tis cursed.” The queen frowned. “Given to us by one of our barons just now, though he swears not to know the history behind it. Do you?”
Antónia kept her face neutral and shook her head. “Nay, Your Majesty, I do not.” Lying to the queen was a lot easier than lying to her grandmother. Though pirates, submerged in a world of falsehoods and games, often could tell a lie from someone’s lips quicker than anyone else.
“Pity,” Queen Elizabeth said and then waved Antónia from the room, perhaps afraid she was going to steal away the precious relic.
Antónia bowed once more, though this time she did not go all the way to the floor. Upon rising, she backed up three steps then whirled on her heel, happy to leave this room on one hand and irritated on the other. How was she going to get a hold of that ring?
“Lord Graves,” the queen called behind her. “I want you to deliver this wretched thing to the French. Place it in the hand of the Medici Queen. Let the curse be upon their house. ’Tis loathsome enough.”
Antónia spied the queen plucking up the ring and handing it a tall courtier, his back to her. She still recognized the line of his stance and was surprised she’d not seen him in the room. He must have hidden in the shadows.
Lord Graves was the captain who’d arrested her men.
Alas, before she could see his face, Antónia was through the doors, fairly pushed by the footmen who could not wait for her and her gallowglass warrior to depart court, London and England altogether.
Well, these English sots might want her to leave now, but she’d not be too far… Antónia had a new adventure—a ring to steal—and an English ship to cut off on its way to France.
Lord Graves, I will see you to your grave, indeed.