There were no further executions that morning. Just the three volleys of shots. ‘Just’ three? Gráinne chastised herself for downplaying it with that word. Three. Three of their brave leaders had been killed. She remembered how Plunkett had said he knew he’d signed his death warrant, by signing the Proclamation. She prayed to God it had not been him who’d been shot. What of Grace? How would she take it, losing her fiancé in such a brutal way? She shed silent tears for the loved ones of all those who’d been executed. And she prayed there would be no more.
The women were allowed out into the central hall of the prison later in the day, and given a mid-morning breakfast. Rumours abounded as to who had been shot. A prison guard, one who Gráinne thought had some sympathy with the rebels’ cause, confirmed one of them had been Pádraig Pearse. Gráinne nodded. If anyone was going to be executed it was always likely to be Pearse, who’d been the overall leader of the Rising, the one who’d read out the Proclamation and had been nominated president of the short-lived Republic.
The mood was subdued that day. There was no more talk of having played their part. Only fear, a deep fear, that there would be more executions.
The women were not allowed out into the prison yard for exercise. ‘It’s where they shot the men,’ Elizabeth O’Farrell said. ‘They won’t let us out to see the evidence.’
Just as well, Gráinne thought. She knew she would not have been able to bear seeing blood upon the ground, knowing whose it was.
The women were herded back into their cells without getting the chance to see anyone else. Gráinne’s thoughts ran wild all day, wondering how Emmett was faring and whether the Countess might also be shot, for she too had been one of the leaders.
They had settled down to sleep, the lights were out, and Gráinne was once more curled on her thin mattress on the floor by the wall of the cell. She was not asleep – after that first night when she’d slept off the exhaustion of the week, she’d found it difficult to relax enough for sleep to take over. She heard the turning of a key in the lock and sat up, staring at the door.
A warder stood there, silhouetted by the light shining behind him. ‘Any of you women know Grace Gifford?’ he asked.
Gráinne glanced around at the other women. Was this some sort of trick? Surely Grace could not be in the prison. She’d had nothing to do with the Rising beyond being engaged to one of its leaders. Of the women in her cell, she was probably the one who knew Grace best. Tentatively she raised a hand. ‘Yes, sir. I know Grace.’
He stared at her for a moment as if working out who she was, and then nodded. ‘Right, come with me. Just you.’
She scrambled to her feet, straightened her clothes that she’d been sleeping in, slipped her feet into her boots and followed the warden out. He locked the door behind her. ‘Sir, what is this about?’ It was, she thought, quite late at night. Maybe midnight, or thereabouts.
He didn’t answer, but led her through the prison to a wing she had not visited before. He opened a door and ushered her through. It was a chapel, and inside was a prison chaplain, another warden and Grace.
‘Gráinne! I didn’t know if you’d be in here. Are you all right?’ Grace rushed towards her and embraced her.
‘I am, I’m fine, but why are you here? Surely you were not arrested?’
‘No, not at all. But look …’ Grace pulled out a small box from her pocket, opened it, and showed Gráinne what was inside. It was a plain ring – a wedding ring. ‘They have given permission for Joseph and I to marry, here, tonight.’
‘Tonight!’
‘Yes. It must be tonight.’ There was an odd expression in her eyes, part excitement but also fear and a profound sadness. And all at once Gráinne understood the significance of what was happening.
‘Oh, Grace,’ she said, and hugged the other woman tightly. Grace was struggling to control her emotions. Her breaths were coming in short gasps and her body was tense as she fought against the tears that Gráinne knew must be so close to falling. Her own face was already damp.
‘I wanted someone I knew to be a witness to our marriage. They agreed to ask among the women prisoners. I am glad it is you. You were with Joseph for much of the week. How was he, when you saw him last?’
‘He was well, and uninjured, and proud of what he had done. So proud. You must cling on to that, Grace, whatever happens.’
‘I know. I know. But …’ The words did not need to be spoken.
A second woman was then brought in. It was Bridget Kelly, a member of the Cumann na mBan who Gráinne didn’t know well. She was housed in a different cell to Gráinne.
Bridget stepped forward and hugged Grace. In her face Gráinne could see the anguish that must surely be written across her own features. ‘Be strong, Grace,’ Bridget whispered. ‘Be strong for him.’
Grace nodded, and a moment later the chapel door reopened and Joseph Plunkett was led inside, his hands shackled together. As he saw Grace, he lifted his hands to the warden who’d escorted him, and the guard selected a key from the chain that hung from his pocket and unlocked his handcuffs.
Only then did he speak. ‘Grace, my love!’
Grace stepped forward and embraced Joseph, holding on to him as though she was drowning and he was her rescuer. They stood like that in silence for a minute, while Gráinne and Bridget moved to one side, and then the chaplain gave a discreet cough.
‘Ahem. We should begin. There is not much time, as I understand it.’
The bride and groom separated, but remained holding hands, as the chaplain spoke the familiar words of a marriage ceremony. Gráinne stood alongside Bridget, listening carefully, feeling honoured and humbled to be a witness at this extraordinary wedding. By rights, Grace should have been wearing a white dress with flowers in her hair, they should be marrying in a church, there should be scores of guests and it should be the most joyous occasion, the start of many years of happiness for them, together. Yet here they were at midnight in this dark, austere prison chapel that was lit only by candles as the gas supply had failed, with only herself, Bridget and a warden to witness the wedding. Even so, it was what they both wanted. Joseph was keeping his promise to Grace that he would marry her, and Grace would become Mrs Plunkett, even if it was only for a short period. No, Gráinne told herself, do not dwell on how long this union might last. Think only of this moment.
‘Do you, Joseph Mary Plunkett, take Grace Gifford as your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?’ the chaplain was saying.
‘I do,’ Joseph said, and his voice was strong and firm, his eyes fixed on Grace as though he was trying to lend her strength by the force of his words.
‘And do you, Grace Gifford, take Joseph Mary Plunkett as your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?’ Grace nodded and squeaked out a reply, then repeated it with a stronger voice. ‘I do. Yes, I do.’
Those words – until death do you part – were spoken at every wedding but this time, death for one of them was but hours away. Gráinne stifled a sob and Bridget caught hold of her hand as Grace passed Joseph the ring, and he gently pushed it onto Grace’s finger. The chaplain pronounced them man and wife, then stood back to give them a little space.
Grace’s knees seemed to buckle, and Joseph had to catch her to stop her falling. There was a stool in the chapel, and the warden moved it closer to the couple.
‘Sit down, Grace my darling,’ Joseph said, and she did. He dropped to the floor on his knees, by her feet, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She placed her hands upon his head, stroking his hair.
‘We’ve done it, we are married,’ she whispered.
‘Yes. I wish, I wish so much that we could linger in this moment for all time, my darling. I just want to hold you for ever.’
Gráinne glanced at the warden, wondering whether he would allow the couple a few moments alone, but he was making no sign of leaving the chapel. He too, she could see, was choked with emotion. Tears were streaming down Bridget’s face as she held tight to Gráinne’s hand. The chaplain too was dabbing at his eyes. Grace and Joseph were fully focused on each other. Gráinne realised it would make no difference to them whether they were alone in the chapel or not – for them the chapel, the prison, the events of the week had all melted away and there were only the two of them and their everlasting love in the whole universe.
She wished too that they could linger here in this moment, but it was not to be. After too short a time, minutes only, the warden looked at his watch and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Plunkett, come with me. It is time to return to your cell.’
Joseph rose, and leaned over Grace for a last time, a last kiss, while the warden looked away. Grace had given in to her tears now, Gráinne saw, and Joseph reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Dry your eyes, my love. I did what I did for Ireland. I go proudly to my death. Goodbye, my love.’
Grace’s response was the quietest whisper, ‘Goodbye. I will always love you.’
He turned and nodded to the warden, who fastened the handcuffs around his wrists and led him out of the chapel. Grace stayed on her stool, staring after him, twisting the ring around her finger, allowing her tears to fall freely now. The handkerchief Joseph had given her dropped unnoticed to the floor.
Two other wardens entered – the one who’d brought Gráinne and then Bridget to the chapel and another, presumably to escort Grace out. One beckoned to Bridget who kissed Grace’s cheek before following the warden out. She was too choked by emotion to be able to say anything more.
Gráinne stepped forward, hoping that, somehow, she could offer some crumb of comfort, though what comfort could there possibly be for a woman who’d just married her love, and who knew he was to be shot in a matter of hours? What comfort could there ever be? Even so, she stood beside her friend and put a hand on her shoulder to show she was there.
‘Thank you for being here,’ Grace said, reaching up to take Gráinne’s hand. ‘I am glad we have done this, though I wish – of course I wish! – that things could have been different.’ She took in a deep breath and stood, thanked the chaplain, and left the chapel.
Alone for a moment until the warden returned for her, Gráinne bent and picked up the handkerchief. Maybe there would be a chance to return it to Grace at some point. She tucked it into her pocket and waited for the warden to take her back to her cell.
There was no sleep for her that night, as the events of the evening played out in her mind, over and over, and her thoughts stayed with Grace. Gráinne held the handkerchief tightly. It had initials embroidered in a corner – JP and GG, intertwined. Grace must have embroidered it for Joseph and given it as a gift. When she got out of the prison, Gráinne promised herself she’d return it. It would mean something to Grace.
The women were woken at dawn, once more, by the sound of the firing squad. The volleys of shots rang out four times that morning. One volley was for Joseph Plunkett.