Elizabeth I (30 page)

“She is waiting in the guard room.”

“She?”

“The pirate. That pirate woman, the mother of all rebellions in Ireland.”

“Grace O'Malley?” We had exchanged letters; she had appealed to me on behalf of her son, being held prisoner by my governor of Connaught, in Ireland. I had sent her a list of eighteen questions to be answered before I proceeded, and had not received them. If her answers had sounded right, I stood more than ready to help her. She had won me over by her first letter, in which she had asked me “to grant unto your said subject under your most gracious hand of signet, free liberty during her life to invade with sword and fire all your highness enemies, wheresoever they are or shall be, without any interruption of any person or persons whatsoever.” I could certainly use her, and from what I knew, what she promised, she delivered. She sailed in her own ships, took musket and sword against her enemies—even, at one point, the Turks!

“Yes. She is anchored in the Thames at the palace landing steps. 'Tis said she is as fine a sailor as Drake himself.”

That, of course, was impossible. She had not sailed around the world, fighting her way around the very tip of South America, finding a new passage through to the Pacific. Still, one could still be a superlative sailor without such heroics.

“I shall receive her with the rest of the court present.” Whoever was here this afternoon could be present. “In the presence chamber.”

Helena hurried away, and I stood pondering the Irish woman's real purpose in coming. She had provided me with an unexpected birthday commemoration, ensuring that this one would stand out in my memory.

I waited upon my throne in the presence chamber, its long wall of windows ensuring that I would be able to see Grace O'Malley very well. The hastily assembled courtiers lined both sides like choristers in choir stalls, everyone bursting with curiosity to behold this famous woman. And what did I expect? Someone with tangled hair, wearing a wolf skin? Or in pirate garb, men's breeches and high boots?

“Gráinne Ní Mháille!” the usher announced. “Grace O'Malley.” The doors swung open to reveal a tall red-haired woman dressed in a fine gown. Two of my guards flanked her, and then the captain ordered a ceremonial search of her person. She held out her arms to make it easy for them. One of them cried out, “A dagger!” and snatched it from its sheath. The other guards drew their swords, holding her at blade point.

“You come into my presence with a dagger?” Surely she did not mean to attack me before all these witnesses. She stared back at me and did not reply. Then I realized she did not speak English, of course. I tried French and got an equally blank stare. Then Welsh, hoping I had found someone to speak it with. Nothing.

“Is there anyone here who speaks Irish?” I asked. “What about you, Francis?”

Bacon seemed to know everything, so perhaps he knew that language. He attempted to speak to her in a halting sentence or two. Then she spoke. Her voice was low and strong.

“Your Highness, she speaks Latin,” said Bacon, relieved. “She asks if you do.”

“Of course I do!” And had just spent the afternoon thinking in Latin. How fortuitous. “Francis, can you translate for the court?”

He nodded.

“Why, Mistress O'Malley, have you concealed a dagger on your person?” I asked.

“It was not concealed, Your Majesty. It was quite openly worn. I wear it for my own protection. There are many who would kill me.”

“In Ireland, perhaps, but not here.” I had heard of the attempts to kill her, but everyone in Ireland constantly attempted to kill his enemies. Grace had outsmarted and outfought all her would-be assassins.

She smiled at me, a dazzling smile, one that revealed a full set of teeth. “Here, there, everywhere.”

I nodded. “You may approach the throne.”

She walked toward me, but when she came to the spot where she should have bowed, she kept walking. The guards took her forearms and stopped her.

“You have forgotten the necessary submission,” they reminded her.

“I have not forgotten,” she said. “But I do not submit myself to you as Queen of Ireland, for I do not recognize you as such. I have submitted to your overlordship only as Queen of England.”

“Then bow to the Queen of England as a guest, not a subject.” God's wounds, but she was trying my patience!

She did so, and now was standing within ten feet of me.

“You may speak your piece,” I said.

“With Your Gracious Highness's permission,” she said, “I will tell it all.” She laid out her case swiftly, with none of the storytelling the Irish were famous for. Perhaps she knew the stark facts would speak louder than any dressing upon them. She was twice married and twice widowed. Her first husband had been killed in battle. By him she had two sons; by the second, one son. Sir Richard Bingham, my governor of her region of Connaught, had killed one of her sons, Owen, and taken the other prisoner, where he was holding her half-brother as well. The third son he had tricked into declaring loyalty to him.

“He holds them against all law,” she said. “He refuses to release them. He is a cruel and barbaric liar and torturer. Before he stole them, he stole my livestock and property.”

“And you, mistress, have always followed the law?” I laughed. She followed no law but her own, and practiced bold piracy wherever she could. She had led many rebellions against the English before finally submitting, and I knew her submission was conditional.

“Except when others did not. I have found that when dealing with a law-breaker, keeping the law myself puts me at a disadvantage in responding.”

Her Latin was impressive. She reeled off those sentences, with their changes in tense and object, as easily as singing a ditty.

“And I understand that you responded rather vigorously.”

She threw back her head and laughed loudly. “I harried his ships, used mine to ferry troops against him, and raided his seaport towns. He could not seize my ships, and they were as good as horses to me.”

Perhaps she
was
another Drake, using her ships like an army.

“I would not want you for an enemy,” I said.

“Nor would I!” she agreed. Then the smile faded. “Your Majesty, make that blackguard set my family free. Order him! He will have to obey you, even if he mocks God!”

“You should have waited for me to summon you,” I said, “rather than thrusting yourself upon me like this.”

“I had answered all the questions you put to me,” she replied. “I had waited and waited for your response. While I waited, my son was suffering. You were a quick sail away. I had to come.”

I was about to tell her I had never received her letter, but before I could reply, she suddenly shook with a violent sneeze, followed by another. It happens often here in Greenwich; they say the nearby fields make people cough. Marjorie Norris stepped forward and handed her a lace-edged handkerchief. She blew her nose in it loudly, then, turning on her heel, walked to the fireplace and threw it in.

“Madam!” Marjorie cried. “That was an expensive handkerchief, of French linen and lace!”

“But it has been soiled,” said Grace, puzzled. “In Ireland we do not keep dirty clothes on our persons.”

“Are you saying that you Irish are cleaner than we English?” I asked.

“In the matter of handkerchiefs, evidently,” she replied.

The entire audience laughed.

“It is time that we continue this discussion in private,” I said. “Come with me into the privy chamber.”

Once inside, I offered her a seat, as well as some ale.

“The audience continues, but now we may sit,” I said, taking a chair across from her. Several of my ladies would be present, but I thought the exchange would go better without the male Privy Councillors.

She remained sitting erect, and I realized that that was her natural posture. She was a handsome woman; now that I was closer, I could see that she was older than she looked from a distance. Perhaps it was her bearing and energy that belied her years.

“Tell me your story,” I said. “From the beginning. I am told it is colorful. As colorful as those plaids you Irish wear.”

“All Irish lives are colorful,” she said. “And if they are not, we make them so in our minds. But mine truly was. My father was Owen ‘Black Oak' O'Malley, chieftain of the barony of Murrisk. Unusual for the Irish, we were always a seafaring family, and my father's ships sailed as far as Scotland, Portugal, and Spain. It was I who inherited the chieftain's vision of being able to look out to sea and know the coming weather, for all that my father took my brother out and hoped he had it.”

Yes, I knew that feeling well. A father who wanted his son to carry certain traits, but found them in his daughter instead.

“Your father took you out to sea?” I could not help questioning.

“Aye, with a bit of persuading. You see, my mother did not think it seemly, not womanly, and said my hair would tangle in the rigging. So I cut it off!” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “And will again, if necessary.” She looked at me and all but winked. “There are always wigs.”

“Indeed there are.” She did not need one, evidently. Her hair was still thick and mainly red, although silver was running through it, like threads on a fine fabric.

“Backing up a bit, when were you born?”

“I am not sure of the year, but your father was on the throne, and I remember when you were born. My father talked about it, about the king's fine daughter with the red hair, and said, ‘See, my bonny one, all the daughters worth having have red hair.' ”

She was older than I, then. To remain so vital and strong, the pirate's life was the secret. There were those who called me a pirate, but I could only finance and commission them, not sail myself. I was thus only a pirate once removed.

“I believe that is so. Your father was a wise man.” Someone had once tried to assassinate me, barring my way in the palace garden and pointing a pistol straight at my bosom, but in the end he had wavered and dropped it. Later he told the guards he could not do it, as I looked the very image of the late king with his red hair. My red hair had saved me.

“I was married at sixteen to Donal ‘Of the Battles' O'Flaherty. His name was fiercer than the man. It was not long before I was managing his fleet. His fleet of ... um ... merchant ships.”

Pirate ships, she meant. But I just nodded.

“He was killed in battle. Next I married his nephew, Richard ‘In Irons' Burke. He earned that name by always wearing his chain mail. Even when eating supper.” She smiled indulgently. “We had one son, Tibbot, Tibbot ‘Of the Ships,' called that because he was born on board ship.” She sighed and leaned back at last, taking a long sip of her ale. “You may have heard the story. You most likely think it a tale. It is true.”

“I am not sure what you mean,” I said.

“The one about the Turks and me.”

“I know you fought them on and off, fending off their pirate ships with your own.”

“Very true. I had given birth to Tibbot the day before and was recovering in the cabin when the ship was attacked by Turkish pirates. I could hear shouts and clatter on the deck overhead, and then the captain appeared in the doorway saying things were going very badly for us. Was I to get no rest? I jumped up, swore at the inept captain, grabbed my musket, and rushed up on deck. The first man I encountered was a Turk, and I fired on him, felling him. Our ship rallied, and we captured the enemy, killed its crew, and added it to our fleet.” She crossed her arms in satisfaction.

“Now about this time, I was coming to the attention of the English. You were increasing your control of western Ireland, and it was inevitable that we would clash. You were changing the ancient laws of our people, the way we inherited land, and we fought back. You can understand that, can you not?”

“I can respect it even though I must oppose it.”

“Yes, I can see your need for the laws, but why did you have to forbid us our poetic bards, outlaw our long hair, our traditional mantles?”

Before I could answer, she went on.

“Nonetheless, I saw the futility of resistance and submitted to you in 1577—sixteen years ago. That was the time Sir Henry Sidney was lord deputy of Ireland, and I got to know his son, Philip. A sensitive boy. He was quite taken with my story, but then a poet would be. If you want to know more about me, read his letters. He recounts many incidents.”

I had, in fact, read them. “The one that sticks in my mind is the one where you received ill at the hands of Lord Howth of Dublin, being denied hospitality at his castle because he was busy eating and did not wish to be disturbed. You had your revenge, kidnapping his son, and then you made him swear that he would never again turn away anyone asking for shelter, and that he would keep an extra place always set at his table for unexpected guests. I am told that he does.”