Queen versus Queen

Excerpt from the diary of Cordelia Brussels, lady-in-waiting to HRH Elizabeth I

Greenwich Palace, 1593

Dear Diary,

The court was a-flutter with rumor of her majesty’s visitor today. I saw it in the heightened shine of their finery, the extra alertness in their eyes. Even my dear mousy friend Agatha wore a pretty shade of brown.

The naval commander told me last week the visitor scheduled was “a pirate” who controls most of the western coast. “Surely you jest, Admiral,” said I.

The fanfare played and she was announced: Grace O’Malley of Ireland. And there she stood, a woman, about her majesty’s age. Her robes were surprisingly fine, although her bodice was clearly twice as wide as Her Royal Highness’s. Her face, however, was blazing brown, a peasant’s face, not near so beauteous as the pallid shade of Elizabeth Regina.

She stood for the longest moment while everyone in court held his breath. The bookies had been giving odds all morning on how low this visitor would bow—from the waist? Or dipping to the knees? Or a nose-to-the-floor bow?

The sergeant-at-arms stamped his mace twice, meaning something was not right. Sir Percival appeared from the shadows (rather like those pests that appear in the pantry) and said, “Prithee, Grace O’Malley, thou must bow to the queen Elizabeth Regina.” The translator repeated this in the Irish tongue.

Grace O’Malley declared, “Non faciam, quia non es regina Hibernie.”

We were astounded to discover she speaks Latin. She had said, “I do not do this, because you are not the queen of Ireland.” The sergeant-at-arms moved forward, ready to toss Grace O’Malley out on charges of insubordination but Elizabeth Regina was clearly intrigued. “Let her be,” she commanded him.

We of the court were relieved to discover that Grace O’Malley was well-educated and civilized, but also disappointed because no-one will win his bet.

At that moment dear misguided Agatha tittered in my ear, “What on earth are they going to talk about? How can the conversation proceed when their interests are so very far apart? Imagine this, two middle-aged women, one a pirate, the other a queen! Hee-hee-hee.”

“Shh! Shut thou thy piehole,” I said as I tried to listen in on their discussion that proceeded in Latin. They began an amusing game of one-upmanship, each with a lengthy recital of the deeds of her father. Of Henry Tudor, King of England, I need say nothing. Grace O’Malley’s father was Chief of the Clan O’Malley and a renowned sea trader.

“God put me on earth to rule England,” Elizabeth Regina said.

“God put me on the sea to protect Ireland,” said Grace O’Malley.

Even in comparing ages, each woman tried to outdo the other. Elizabeth was younger, therefore prettier, but Grace O’Malley claimed to be three years the wiser.

From the sidelines, Agatha simpered, “Give up already, Grace O’Malley!” thereby hoping to cheer on our queen. Several courtiers turned and said, “Shush!”

The queens stared intently at each other; they became oblivious to the court.

With bravado, Grace O’Malley made her petition: “I am here because your man Bingham has captured my menfolk.”

“Oh! You know men…,” said Elizabeth Regina dismissively. “How they always get in trouble…” I could see her faint smile of amusement reflected by sycophants around the room.

“These men are vital to me,” said Grace O’Malley. “Two are sons—flesh of my flesh—and the other is my half-brother.”

Elizabeth Regina’s look shot daggers. Her majesty feels keenly her insufficiency in producing a male heir, someone to carry on the Tudor dynasty. She turned away, pulled her ermine robe around her, and rubbed her favorite sapphire ring with her index finger. (I have observed this time and again and believe this is how she consoles herself.)

“Your Royal Highness, thou art a woman of mercy,” O’Malley said gently. “I hereby petition you to release them from Bingham’s prison.”

“Oh? And why should I?” Elizabeth sniffed.

“In return, this is what I offer: a united stand against the Spanish Armada. They are creeping northward in their unholy expansionist aims.”

“But your boats are not so big and fine as the English navy’s.”

“Ah, but our Irish ships are fast, intrepid. Best of all, they know the shores, the hidden reefs, all manner of dangerous obstacles that might cause an invader’s ship to run aground.”

Elizabeth Regina pursed her mouth, deliberating the offer.

Grace O’Malley waited, her uncanny green eyes taking in the whole of the court as if assessing a battlefield.

*       *       *

Refreshments were served: ale with marzipan fruits, jelly, and spiced fruit cake.

Her Royal Highness calmed in spirit after a while and entered a pleasant conversational mode. “Tell me,” said she, “is it true that as a girl you cut your tresses to join your father’s crew on a ship?”

“Aye. I also donned the trousers.”

Elizabeth Regina’s eyebrows climbed a notch. “Trousers!” she said. “Prithee tell me, how did those feel?”

Grace O’Malley took a deep breath. “Like freedom itself.” She lifted her heavy brocade skirt an inch. “How else was I to climb the rigging? How else was I to outrun the lecherous hands of the first mate?”

“Prithee, didst thou say, ‘out-run the lechers’? That’s not good.”

“Aye yes, but that’s the truth of it. A woman is well-advised to forge an alliance with every good man on board,” Grace O’Malley said, “platonic, of course,” and Elizabeth Regina nodded because she, too, is renowned for her political cunning.

Grace O’Malley continued, “And when all else fails, I have ‘my little helper.’” She slowly withdrew a small object from her bodice.

Sir Percival came rushing forward. “Guards! This insolent visitor has a dagger, and she is talking to the queen!” His face was so red I thought he might have an apoplectic fit.

“Relax,” Elizabeth Regina said, switching to English for the benefit of the guards. “What you see is simply what is known as a ‘lady’s trusted companion’.”

“This is a breach of security!”

“Percival, sit thee down. I know whereof she speaks. How do you think I have ruled lo these 35 years as ‘the virgin queen’ with none to assail my honor?” Elizabeth Regina patted the right-hand side of her abundant skirts.

It was then that I saw the pocket she had strapped to her person. It dawned on me that she and Grace O’Malley shared another bond.

Elizabeth Regina turned back to her visitor. “Thank you, Grace O’Malley. You have been most generous with your time and forthcoming in your answers. I shall order Bingham to release your menfolk. You, Grace O’Malley, are free to go.”

The End

HISTORICAL NOTE

This is a fictionalized account of a real-life meeting between Grace O’Malley, the Irish “queen of the pirates” and the English queen, Elizabeth I. According to English records at the time, when three of her menfolk (two sons and a half-brother) were taken captive by the English governor of Connacht, Grace O’Malley sailed to England to petition for their release. She formally presented her request in 1593 to Queen Elizabeth I at her court in Greenwich Palace.