Pirate Queen (5 page)

When Granuaile was a child, Clare Island was her summer home. In her memories of that distant, happy time, the sun shone every day. She was never hungry or thirsty or frightened. Each day was an adventure.

In the summer her family went booleying, taking their cattle to the upland pastures to graze. They made huts of wattle and thatch that only lasted for the season. Mostly they lived under the open sky. Granuaile loved the sky at night above Clare Island. Lying on her back in the fragrant grass, she would listen as Dubhdara taught her the names of the stars.

Cattle were important, providing leather, meat, milk and butter, but the sea was their main source of income. The O’Malley fleet travelled great distances, trading salted and pickled fish, surplus hides and tallow, for casks of wine and ingots of copper. Through the vast network of sea trade they also obtained figs and pomegranates and silk, cumin and cinnamon and saffron. Clew Bay was the home port for these enterprises.

Granuaile had made her first voyage from the dock below the tower house on Clare Island. ‘Stay away from the shore, the sea is not safe for children,’ Margaret, her mother, had often said. But Granuaile was enchanted by the shining, leaping waves, with their crests of white foam. One day she persuaded Dubhdara to take her as far as Achill Island in his boat. The sea was rough but the little girl was not seasick. Her father was very proud. When they returned home, he laughed at his wife’s fears. ‘My daughter is an O’Malley,’ he said. ‘She’s a born
seahorse
!’

As a reward, Dubhdara gave Granuaile a coracle of her own – a small, round boat made of hide stretched over a wooden frame. She could paddle herself around in the shallows, and for a time she was satisfied. But not for long. The open sea beckoned to her, a great blue kingdom stretching from sunrise to sunset!

Granuaile’s next boat was a currach – a long, narrow fishing boat, sealed with pitch to keep the water out. Her father’s sailors did the rowing while she rode in the prow, gliding back and forth among the islands that dotted the bay. She liked to pretend that she was a white seahorse. Or a ship’s captain, like her father. Giving orders. Going to exotic places.

Dubhdara captained the O’Malley fleet on long
trading
voyages. Some leaders are cruel to their men, but Granuaile’s father always believed that praise wins more than punishment. The men and young lads who sailed with him adored him. When they came home they told
wonderful stories of their adventures in faraway lands.

Granuaile listened eagerly to their tales. ‘Having to stay home with the women is worse than being in a prison,’ she complained.

‘But you are a woman, or soon will be,’ insisted her mother. She dressed Granuaile’s hair in curls and plaits and made her wear petticoats that were always getting in the way. Margaret did everything she could to keep her daughter from going out in a boat. ‘I am always afraid something will happen,’ she said.

‘Nothing is happening!’ Granuaile would argue. ‘Nothing! I am getting older and older and everything around me is staying just the same.’

One fine spring morning in her eleventh year, the girl cut off her long hair and disguised herself as a boy. She sneaked on board her father’s largest trading galley and hid in the cargo hold. She would never forget the way cold water sloshed around her ankles, or the ancient smell of fish that clung to the timbers. Listening to the hiss of water beneath the vessel, she waited for the hours to pass. At last she fell asleep. She woke up chilled and stiff, but at sea. At sea!

When she was sure they had travelled too far to turn back, she went up on deck.

At first Dubhdara was angry, or pretended to be. He started to scold her, then began to laugh instead. His laughter was a great, happy roar, like a huge wave
breaking
. Granuaile rode on the crest of that wave, knowing that everything would be all right. The Black Oak could
never remain angry with his daughter for very long. She was too much like him.

After that she went on every voyage and learned to handle every type of ship. ‘If God does not give me a
suitable
son, at least he has given me Granuaile,’ Dubhdara is given to say. ‘There is no sailor her equal on Clew Bay.’

With a heavy heart, Granuaile sends her two-year-old son to live with Edmund MacTibbott at Castleaffey, south of Burrishoole. She vows to visit him whenever time allows, but the fleet has first claim on her. The bay is teeming with herring, and the O’Malleys are fishermen.

There are larger fish out in the ocean – fish with no fins or gills, yet they are valuable prey. Granuaile conceals her swiftest galleys among the many islands in Clew Bay. When foreign cargo ships sail past the mouth of the bay, they dart out and attack. Granuaile demands that
merchants
pay licences for using her waters. If they refuse, she seizes their goods.

For this the English accuse her of piracy. The
accusation
makes her laugh. ‘Elizabeth Tudor’s seamen are all pirates,’ Granuaile points out to Richard Bourke. ‘That is how the English she-king increases her wealth. The one called Walter Raleigh is the most famous pirate of them all, and a great favourite of hers, I understand. I suppose she is fond of him in the same way that I am fond of the
brave men who follow me.’ She cannot resist boasting, ‘My men know I care about them, that is why they will never desert me.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ Richard responds glumly. ‘One cannot be certain of anything in this world. I thought my wife would be loyal to me, yet you give your loyalty to the O’Malleys.’

‘I give my loyalty to all who depend upon me,’ she replies. ‘It is not my fault there are so many of them.’

Even though Toby is now being fostered, he still depends on her. She can feel him as if they are attached by an invisible silver cord. ‘Oh, my little son,’ she cries out to him silently, in the dark of the night. She likes to
imagine
that her call spans the miles. She sends him little gifts from her voyages, and loving letters.

The stronghold of Castleaffey houses the large family of Edmund MacTibbott, who is fostering several children in addition to his own. A foster parent must provide at least as well for his fosterlings as he does for children of his own blood. As they grow, the boys will learn the skills of
javelin
, sword, dagger and dart, as well as horse riding and the use of firearms. Granuaile has begun importing matchlock guns and wheel-lock pistols into Mayo.

Because the Anglo-Normans, like the Irish, are
Catholic
, a monk from Burrishoole Abbey gives the children religious instruction. He also carries letters to Tibbott from his mother. Granuaile has asked that the letters be read
aloud to her son. The child listens with wide eyes. Even though he does not yet understand all the words, he knows they come to him warm with his mother’s breath.

There are ever more English vessels in the waters off Connacht. Granuaile imagines that she can feel
Elizabeth’s
breath on the back of her neck. The English she-king resents every bit of cargo, every gold coin that is seized around Clew Bay. Elizabeth plans to convict Granuaile of piracy and put her in prison. No one has actually said this yet, but Granuaile knows. She knows it as she knows when rain is coming.

In February 1570, she has Tibbott transferred to another foster parent, Myles MacEvilly of Kinturk Castle. Kinturk is a sturdy castle, farther inland. Safer. There
Tibbott
learns to read. Granuaile’s letters are sealed with red wax bearing the imprint of three seahorses. The boy’s first attempts at writing are his replies. His mother saves them in a small silver casket which she always keeps with her, even when she is at sea. Sometimes when Granuaile is alone, she takes out the letters and reads them one by one, smiling at the childish scrawl. When she smiles her stern face softens and there is a warm light in her dark eyes.

Her fears for the future are not without reason.

Elizabeth’s officials undertake a survey of the entire province of Connacht and divided it into ‘baronies’. They
list the clans and chieftains of every barony, including Mayo. This is done to help them set up an English
government
in the territory. The Bourkes of Carra, Richard’s family, resent this imposed foreign authority as much as the native Irish do.

When they learn that some of the O’Flaherty clan are rebelling in Iar Connacht, Richard wants to go south and join them. He persuades Granuaile to give him enough gold to finance an assault on an English garrison beyond Galway. ‘Be loyal to me for once!’ he argues. She can hardly refuse. With a fresh supply of weaponry, Richard and his men march off to war.

Unfortunately they find themselves on the other side of the battle from the old MacWilliam, chief of the entire Bourke clan in Mayo. Because of his submission to the Crown, The MacWilliam stands with Elizabeth’s supporters.

At Rockfleet, Granuaile waits tensely to hear the
outcome
. In her mind she is already framing a letter to Toby, telling him of victory over the foreigners.

On land messages are shouted from hilltop to hilltop, from man to man, in the old Gaelic way. In one day news of a battle can travel halfway across Ireland. But the news, when it comes, is not good.

The battle in which Richard took part has settled nothing. As often happens, both sides claim victory. He returns to Rockfleet to lick his wounds. ‘You have wasted arms and men and what do you have to show for it?’ Granuaile demands to know. But she gives him a hot meal
and hospitality. Any defiance of the English pleases her.

Unfortunately, the battle has left the large Bourke tribe badly split, between support for, and opposition to, the English Crown. When the old MacWilliam dies shortly afterward, Richard expects to become the new chieftain. ‘I proved myself by being willing to fight the English,’ he reminds his kinsmen.

The Bourkes elect a man called Shane MacOliverus instead. He has a reputation for being lavish with his
hospitality
, even more lavish than he can afford. He also is a man who will do almost anything for a quiet life.

Although Shane MacOliverus names Richard as his
tanaiste
, his chosen successor, that is small comfort. Richard is furious. In his own mind, he had already become The MacWilliam. Once more he stalks through Rockfleet,
muttering
and slamming his fist against the furniture.

Granuaile observes, ‘I think the Bourkes are frightened of Elizabeth, Richard. So they have elected a chieftain with a peaceful nature, one who has not made English enemies.’

‘It is no comfort to think of my kinsmen as cowards,’ Richard growls.

‘Be patient. Shane MacOliverus will not live forever. Power shifts and shifts again. Sometimes it seems like one great game, like the chess I used to play with my father in the hall at Belclare. Men move here and there, words are spoken, threats are made. Strategy is everything. Listen to the advice I give you and bide your time.’