The Summer King (19 page)

“I believe in you,” he said, as he began to fade.

And even as Laurel surfaced from the depths of sleep, his last words were dispelled like foam on the waves.

“I have always believed in humans.”

aurel woke to a bright morning. A cool sea breeze blew through the window. The faint trails of a lovely dream drifted through her mind. Then it struck her.
Two more days to Midsummer’s Eve.
She jumped out of bed. She had things to do.

As she pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt, she shivered from the chill in the room. Did the stove go out again? She could never live in Ireland. Automatic central heating was what you needed if you lived by the ocean! She was about to reach for one of Honor’s sweaters when she changed her mind. Instead she put on the one Ian bought her. The deep blue showed off her blond hair and the tan she had got on the mountain. As she brushed out her hair in front of the mirror, she wished she had some mascara and eye shadow, but she was happy with how she looked.

As usual, Ian was up before her. He noted the sweater with an admiring glance but didn’t comment. He was looking well himself. The white shirt he wore with his jeans accented the dark hair and the newly bronzed skin. He was whistling to himself as he served up their breakfast—grilled tomatoes on toast with mushrooms on the side, juice from squeezed oranges, and freshly brewed coffee. He had been shopping again.

“I could get used to this,” she said, sitting down to eat. “The early bird does all the work.”

“That’s about right.” He grinned good-naturedly. “I’ve been doing a bit of research into your sea queen.” He passed her the guidebook with several chapters earmarked. “I knew who she was the minute you mentioned her. She’s famous in Ireland, especially in these parts. You’ll see her name around the place on shops, hotels, ads, and things. Granuaile. A pirate queen of the sixteenth century.”

“A woman pirate! For real? Fantastic!”

She flipped through the pages, hoping to find a picture, but no luck. As she perused the book, Ian filled her in on what he knew.

Granuaile was a daughter of the Chief of the O’Malley Clan whose territory covered most of the western seaboard, including Achill and the islands of Clew Bay. “A most feminine sea captain,” she commanded a fleet of galleys and a force of fighting men. Her stronghold was Clare Island from which she monitored the sea. Merchant ships were piloted or pirated, whichever proved most lucrative. She married twice and had four children, the last born aboard ship when she was forty-five.

The dauntless Granuaile ruled as queen in fair Mayo.

Her most hated enemy was the English governor, Sir Richard Bingham, who called her “nurse of all the rebellions in the province for forty years.” She suffered imprisonments in Limerick and Dublin, but ransomed her way out. When she was captured again, during a rebellion in Connaught, only a last-minute reprieve saved her from the gallows.

The last records of the sea queen showed she commanded galleys into her seventies, a pirate till the day she died. She had been born and raised in an Ireland that was free and Gaelic, but lived to see the defeat of her people and the beginning of the long conquest by England.

“Laheen says her spirit is still around,” Laurel said. “So I guess we’re ghost-hunting.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she shook her head. She had come a long way from someone who believed in nothing. First fairies and now ghosts!

Ian didn’t bat an eyelid.

“The best place to start would be Clare Island,” he suggested. “It’s the one you can see beyond the Cliffs of Minaun. Her castle is still standing.”

They needed a boat to get there. The old man in the post office was very helpful.

“Sure, Gracie will take ye over. She’s moored at the pier in Kildavnet. She won’t charge ye an arm and a leg, as she crosses twice a day herself. A great sea woman, has caught many a specimen. She fishes for Ireland, ye know, in the angling competitions.”

Back at the cottage, there was a tense moment when Ian wheeled out his motorcycle and handed Laurel the helmet.

“We can pick up a spare in Achill Sound. We’ll go there first, then down to Kildavnet.”

“I thought we’d take the car,” she said, stalling.

He was already seated. His look was impatient.

“We took the old crock yesterday,” he said shortly. Then his lip curled. “If you don’t want to hold onto me, just grip the bloody saddle.”

Annoyed that he had guessed the reason for her reluctance, she pulled the helmet over her head. Climbing up behind him, she put her arms around his waist and pressed against his back.

“Right, let’s go,” he said, mollified.

It didn’t take long to reach Achill Sound where they bought another helmet. When Laurel removed Ian’s to give it back to him, she was flushed and exhilarated. They had sped down the narrow roads that spidered across the island’s vast blanket bogs. He drove at death-defying speeds, leaning into curves till they were almost flat on the road. She couldn’t wait to go again.

Before she got back on the bike, she glanced at the Irish writing scrolled on the tank.

Póg mo thóin.

“What does it mean?” she asked him.

“You don’t want to know,” he said, and laughed.

Kildavnet was a small village at the southeastern tip of Achill. It overlooked the narrow sea channel known as the Sound. The high stone pier was strewn with nets, lobster pots, creels, and other fishing paraphernalia. Only one vessel was tied up alongside.

The Lady of Doona
was a thirty-foot inshore fishing boat, fueled by diesel. The wooden hull was painted dark-green with an occasional white stripe curved like a wave. A small cabin with windows sheltered the helm where the skipper stood to steer the boat. Lifebuoys hung on either side of the wheelhouse, and an inflatable raft was stowed on the roof. Astern of the cabin, a wide flat locker covered most of the deck. The lid was open to air its contents—fishing gear and bait, oilskins, wet-weather clothing, and orange life jackets. Benches for passengers lined the sides.

Basking on a deck chair was the boat’s captain, with a copy of
The Irish Skipper
over her face. A corner of the newspaper lifted as they approached, but she didn’t bother to move. A cursory glance swept over them.

“Tourists? Want a free shot of the local color? Work away. She’s a pretty thing, and I mean the boat, not her skipper.”

“Are you Gracie?” Laurel asked.

“Any chance of a lift to Clare Island?” Ian added.

She sat up immediately. In her mid-thirties, she was a stocky woman with curly brown hair and a ruddy complexion from working outdoors. Her strong features had a no-nonsense look and the eyes were sharp, but she had plenty of laugh lines as well.

“‘Yes’ to the first question and ‘maybe’ to the second,” she said. “It’s fresh today.”

“You mean the air?” asked Laurel, puzzled.

“I mean the sea,” said Gracie, with a snort. She rolled her newspaper into a tube and fired it with stunning accuracy onto a ledge inside the wheelhouse. “It’s fine in the harbor, but once we’re out in the open …” She shrugged.

Ian looked uneasy, but Laurel persisted.

“Are you saying it’s not safe?”

“I wouldn’t go out if it weren’t. I’m not into drowning foreigners, or putting the fear of God into them.”

“We’re not afraid,” Laurel said quickly, though Ian didn’t agree.

Gracie got out of her deck chair, folded it up, and flung it into the locker. Slamming the lid shut, she waved them aboard. As they introduced themselves, she crushed their fingers in an iron handshake. Laurel managed to keep from wincing and watched with amusement as Ian did the same. When the skipper turned away, they both made faces and wrung out their hands.

The smell of fish and diesel oiled the air. The boat was small and needed a coat of paint, but everything was neat and tidy. Gracie got them underway with the speed of an old salt.

“I hate going on the water,” Ian hissed to Laurel. “I can’t swim.”

“Now you tell me! I promise to save you if the boat goes down.”

“My hero,” he muttered.

He went straight to the locker to get a life jacket.

“Use the wet gear as well,” Gracie advised from the wheelhouse.

“It’s so warm!” Laurel protested.

Leaning over the side, she dabbled her hand in the cold water. Above, the sky shone a hot blue.

“Suit yourself,” the skipper shrugged. “But it’s bound to get rough.”

Ian didn’t look happy at this remark and pulled on the yellow oilskins. Over these went the orange life jacket. Laurel tried not to laugh as he settled on the bench close to a life buoy. Here was someone who drove his motorcycle at breakneck speeds!

The Lady of Doona
had just left the pier when Laurel signaled to Ian and pointed toward the village. Several black birds circled the air, as if searching for something. The two of them hunched down.

Gracie had also spotted the birds. She called out to her passengers.

To see one raven is ill luck, ’tis true
But it’s certain misfortune to set eyes upon two
And meeting with more—that’s a terror!

“What?” said Laurel, recognizing the words.

“Just an old saying,” Gracie said, with a shrug. But she didn’t look happy. “Sailors are superstitious, you know.”

As they sailed south through the Sound, Laurel and Ian kept an eye on the birds, but none appeared to follow. The channel was sheltered by hills on both sides, but once they left the snug embrace of the Sound, they were flung out into the choppy waters of Clew Bay.

The winds blew in from the Atlantic with an icy bite. The waves slapped noisily against the hull. Farther out again, the swell began to heave. The boat seemed tiny on the great rolling sea, a walnut shell bobbing. At times the waves seemed to tower over them, threatening to comb and swamp the boat. Down they would go, into deep troughs without a breath of wind, then up again on top of the rollers.

Ian looked green.

Laurel found her sea legs and stood at the front of the boat, like a surfer enjoying the thrill. When a cascade of water struck the bow, she was soaked.

Ian made no attempt to hide his delight.

“Serves you right for showing off!”

“I warned you!” Gracie called from the wheelhouse.

“It’s fantastic!” Laurel shouted back.

At last they spotted the cliffs of Clare Island. The waters grew calm again as the boat sailed into a broad harbor with a high-walled pier. To their right was a halfmoon of beach bordered with sand dunes. Beyond it was a scattering of houses and a small hotel. To their left, not far from the pier, was the reason they had come.

Granuaile’s castle. Standing sentinel on a rocky cliff, it was a square block tower with slits for windows. From its position it had a full view of the mainland and the entrance to Clew Bay. But even from the boat, they could see it was empty, a broken tooth of stone.

Gracie left them at the pier.

“I’ve to go back for a party of Germans. I’m takin’ them round the bay for ‘beeg feesh.’ I’ll pick you up around one or two, can’t say exactly, but if you feel peckish, there’s the Granuaile Hotel beyond the dunes. Good food and the drink’s not too pricey.”

As she stepped back behind the helm, she gave them a wink.

“Hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.”

Laurel was glad of the warm winds that bathed the island; her clothes were almost dry by the time they reached the castle.

The tower was broad and solid, with turreted chambers projecting from the walls. A crenellated parapet lined the roof. The inside was less impressive. Only a hollow ruin was left of the original three stories, and the ground floor was tamped earth. Tufts of grass sprouted from cracks in the stone walls. They could see the remains of a passageway and a few shattered steps that once spiraled upward. A square of blue sky had replaced the roof. Black birds scuttled noisily in the corners.

Laurel looked at the birds anxiously, but Ian shook his head.

“Rooks, not ravens.”

They stood at the heart of the broken fortress. The air was dank with the smell of stone and earth. There was no sense of a presence. No trails of the past. No hint of a ghost.