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Post by Ghost on Jan 5, 2010 21:09:05 GMT -5
I know that I fudged history, geography, and general facts on this one...but I'm choosing the story over the accuracy. THE HOMES OF DONEGAL
The reddish gold of the setting sun sank below the horizon on the blue-green sea. Crashing surf boomed against the rocky beach at the foot of the cliffs, spraying salty seawater in all directions.
Far above the thunder of the waves, a man trudged along the cliffside path, his leather boots pounding rhythmically on the dirt. The dark green cloak draped around him flapped behind him in the brief gusts of wind, revealing a worn tunic and trousers, and no visible weaponry. His dirty blonde hair, released from its tie, blew about his face in the sea breeze.
In the distance in front of him, Keith could see buildings lit by fire and candlelight. They were buildings he would recognize anywhere: the town of Donegal. Behind them, Donegal Castle, seat of Lord Derry, loomed tall and dark.
As Keith approached the village, he could hear boisterous laughter and noise. That would be coming from the tavern, located in the middle of the town.
He lifted his hood and pulled the cloak tightly around him. He did not wish to be seen and dragged into the tavern before he had a chance to go to his house.
Keith crept through the village, thankful that no one was outside. He made his way farther from the cliff side, through the darkened streets, until he approached one of the last buildings in the village.
Light shone in the windows, and as he drew nearer, he could hear distinct voices. Keith inched to the open window and peeked inside. Everything was as he remembered it. The same worn table still sat in the middle of the room. The same weapons and tools still hung on the walls in one corner, where the door to the bedrooms lay wide open. The same chests still sat up against another wall. The same two chairs had been pushed away from the hearth to make room for the young woman who currently stood there, stirring something in the pot that hung in the fire. A blonde-haired boy of three or four years stood near her with a look of pleading on his face.
"But Mommy," the boy was saying, "Daddy always lets me."
The young woman laughed, and shook her head. Shannon's beauty still amazed Keith; her long, wavy, dark brown hair cascaded almost to her waist. She had pulled part of it out of her face today, leaving the rest to fall around her shoulders as it may.
Keith's heart nearly stopped when she bent over, causing her hair to slide over her shoulder and curtain her face. She looked at the young child in front of her with her piercingly dark eyes, and smiled.
"No, Patrick, I don't think Daddy would let you eat the pie before you eat the stew."
The little boy grinned, revealing angelic dimples.
"You look just like him, too," the young woman added. "Do you know what you and your sister can do for me?"
Young Patrick asked eagerly, "What?"
"You can stand by the door and see if Daddy comes home tonight."
"Will he, Mommy?"
"He will today, or tomorrow."
"Nicole, Daddy's coming home!" Patrick bellowed with all the power of his small lungs.
A dark-haired little girl of about two years came scampering into view. "Daddy's coming home?" she repeated.
Keith decided that this would be the perfect time to make his entrance. Striding to the slightly open door of his house, he threw it wide open.
"Daddy is home," he declared.
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Post by Ghost on May 19, 2010 14:58:03 GMT -5
Okay, I realize that it's been quite a while, but I HAVE been working (piecemeal) on this thing. haha
A small whirlwind came flying his way as the two children wrapped themselves around their father's legs, crying, "Daddy! Daddy!"
Keith grinned widely as he bent to disentangle his children so that he could hug them individually. "And how are my little ruffians? Have you been treating your mother well?"
Patrick nodded seriously. Nicole just wrapped herself around her father's arm tightly. He laughed and stood, placing Nicole on one hip and Patrick on the other. "Oof," he said. "You two are getting too big for this."
They giggled in response.
Keith looked toward the hearth, where Shannon had not moved since he had entered. The ladle she had been using had since clattered to the floor, but she didn't care. She had such a wide smile on her face that Keith was afraid she might break in half.
Gingerly, he set Patrick and Nicole down and said, "Go play for a minute while I talk to your mother."
Patrick nodded and, grabbing Nicole's hand, ran off into the next room.
"Shannon," Keith said, allowing his own grin to widen.
"Keith," she replied. They hesitated.
Then they both ran for each other at the same moment, colliding somewhere in the middle of the room, nearly crashing into the table and knocking over the benches with the ferocity of their embrace.
Keith squeezed his wife as tightly as he dared, feeling the thunder of her heart against his chest. He stroked her hair, and then slowly dug his fingers through her thick locks.
He felt a tug, and realized that she was doing the same thing to him. He gently pulled her head back from his shoulder to look into her dark eyes.
"I see you've been missing my hair."
Shannon stared back into his gray-green-blue eyes. "Maybe," she whispered, and smiled. "Or I could just have missed everything about you."
"Like my dimples?" he asked with a grin that displayed the objects in question.
Her fingers traced the dimple on one side of his mouth, ignoring the scratchy beginnings of the beard on his face. "Everything. From your greasy hair to your stinky toes."
"That's more like it," he murmured in her ear, and then kissed her on the lips.
After a few minutes, she broke him off by saying that their children needed to eat and go to bed. Reluctantly, Keith let go of his wife to remove his cloak and help her prepare the meal.
Supper that night was a rowdy one. Patrick and Nicole tried to tell their father everything that had happened in the month that he had been away, talking over each other in order to be heard. But they only succeeded it making a huge, unintelligible din that filled the house and likely the entire town of Donegal. Keith spent the entire meal trying to calm the children down, and periodically nudging his foot back and forth against Shannon's beneath the table. When the children were in bed tonight, he and his wife could have an actual conversation.
The children were given permission to leave the table, startling Keith out of his thoughts.
"Oh, Keith, I just remembered," Shannon said as she stood to clear the table. "Sir Devon sent word that you are to report to Lord Derry as soon as you return."
Sir Devon O'Boyle had been Lord Derry's protector until he came of age, and had since been his most trusted advisor.
"And by that you mean tonight, I suppose."
She nodded as she stacked bowls and plates into a pile. "And my father would also like to see you, when you have time."
Keith sighed, and slowly stood up. "I should go, then, if I want to be back before morning."
Shannon stopped in the doorway to turn back to him. "Oh, I think you do," she said, winking over the bowls she was about to clean.
Keith grinned to himself as he went to retrieve his cloak. He offered to help Shannon put the children in bed, but she refused.
"If you help me tonight, it will take twice as long as usual. And you really should go to the castle."
He nodded and headed for the door.
"Wait," Shannon said. She came close to him and said softly, "He won't send you on another errand like the last one, will he?"
Keith shrugged. "I don't know. I will be back soon."
He kissed his wife, and then left the warmth of his house and headed into the cool night outside.
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Post by Ghost on Jun 1, 2010 19:31:17 GMT -5
As he strode through the village and made his way to Donegal Castle, Keith found himself questioning his lord and his father-in-law. Why did they want to see him tonight? He had been gone for a full month! He wanted to play with his children, to spend time with his wife, to retake the role in his family that was left void whenever he went on Lord Derry's errands.
But it was precisely Lord Derry who had made it possible for Keith and his young family to live in relative comfort—without the daily toil that marked the lives of the inhabitants of Donegal and villages like it throughout the country.
Keith ought to be grateful. He ought to be more willing to answer Lord Derry's call. He ought to execute his orders better than he probably did. And yet, whenever he was away, Keith could only think of his home and the people he had left behind, for however short a time he had to leave them.
He sighed and pulled his hood over his head. He didn't really need his cloak, but he wore it nevertheless. Just in case he was detained until the coldest part of the night, and had to walk the streets in the biting chill that swept through the nights of Donegal.
Keith drew further out of the town and into the silent dark between Donegal and its castle. As he climbed the steadily sloping hill on which the castle stood, he smiled to himself. It was as though the distance between Donegal Castle and the town itself had been intentionally spaced exactly this far apart. Keith could feel the mood, the atmosphere, shift from the hard-earned rest and boisterousness of the town to the pensive quiet of the castle.
Donegal Castle had no drawbridge, for it had no moat. It perched at the top of a fairly steep hill, protected by the jagged cliffs at its back. But Keith could not remember a time when the castle had needed the defense. The young Lord Derry had never fought anyone in his short tenure, and neither had his father before him. Keith doubted that the Englishmen who worked in Ireland to keep the Irish lords pacified would ever make it this far across the island. This was Donegal. It was practically the end of the world.
Keith stopped outside the portcullis of the castle, hearing movement in the guard towers on the wall. The vague profile of a single patrolman flitted in and out of the shadows along the battlements around the castle walls. Aside from that, the castle was well-lit, but silent—so different from the dirty, dark, noisy nighttime habits of Donegal's villagers.
"Who goes there?" one of the guards called down from the guardhouse. The torchlight that spilled from the towers could not reveal the identity of the hooded man just outside the gates.
"I am Keith Harkin of Donegal, messenger and deliveryman to Lord Derry. I come at the bidding of my lord!"
A bustle of motion, and then the creaking sound of the portcullis being raised in increments. Keith smirked. The familiar salutation never outlived its usefulness.
The gate rose to just above Keith's head. Impatient as he was, he did not wait for the guards to raise it completely, but instead ducked and passed under the black spikes into the castle courtyard. One of the guards came tramping down the stone steps from his post and stopped in front of Keith.
"Lord Derry's been waitin' on ye," the man said. "Follow me."
He turned and led the messenger through the shadowy courtyard into the keep. As Keith followed through the thick wooden doors into the main hall, he pushed the hood off his head. The guard was big and burly, exactly the type of man Sir Devon O'Boyle would have chosen to protect the castle—and Lord Derry—from nonexistent threats. If anyone firmly believed that Donegal and the rest of County Derry would one day be under attack, it was Sir Devon.
The guard led Keith out of the great hall and into a dark, damp corridor. There he stopped abruptly and turned back to his follower. He pointed to the end of the hallway, saying, "That there's the stairs. Lord Derry is in his rooms. You know where they are?"
Keith nodded. Although he normally spoke only with Sir Devon, he was familiar with the layout of the castle.
The guard nodded once, curtly, and then disappeared back the way they had come.
Keith shrugged and continued through the dimness into the stairwell. Odd, that the guard had not led him directly to the door.
After climbing one flight of the steps, Keith exited the stairwell into a dimly lit corridor and stopped almost immediately, at the first door on his right. He lifted his hand to knock loudly, but before he could, the door opened and a dark-headed man slipped out.
He was considerably shorter than Keith, and he carried a lute in one hand as he flexed his fingers on the other. "Never played so long in my...Keith! You've returned!"
Keith smiled. "Hello, Neil."
"It is good to see you again, my friend. How was the journey?"
Keith glanced at the half-closed door behind the lute-player before answering, "As it always is. A journey."
"Nothing unusual, then?"
The blonde man shook his head. "Nothing that would interest you, at any rate." Neil smiled, and Keith wondered how he managed to grow his beard only on one part of his chin quite so…neatly.
"I ought to go inside," Keith said. "I was sent for by Lord Derry."
"I see," Neil answered. "You want to get in there and get out so you can get back to your wife." His eyes twinkled.
The blonde man could not resist a responding smirk. "You know me too well, my friend."
The lute-player shrugged and smiled again. "I ought to get home myself. I will see you in the tavern sometime, then?"
Keith nodded, and briefly put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It is truly good to see you, Neil. I will not forget our days as minstrel players."
"Nor will I."
Neil moved out of Keith's way, and giving him a final wave, vanished down the corridor.
As if he had been waiting for that precise moment, a voice from inside Lord Derry's rooms called, "Enter, Keith Harkin."
Keith pushed the door open and slipped into the antechamber of Lord Derry's suite, stopping just inside. He found himself looking directly at the Sir Devon O'Boyle, who stood by the dark window behind the desk that Keith faced. His features seemed darker than normal.
Sitting across from the desk was another man, a raven-haired noble at least a decade older than Lord Derry. Even in the dancing firelight, Keith could see that the new man's eyes were as blue as the young lord's own.
At the desk, his youthful features furrowed in deep concentration, sat Damian McGinty, Lord of Derry.
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Post by Ghost on Jun 11, 2010 12:03:42 GMT -5
"Keith," Lord Derry said. His face brightened. "It is good to see you."
"You look well, my lord," the messenger replied with a bow. He was unused to such direct dealings with his lord. Especially in such rooms as these, which were far more cramped than one would expect of the lord of an Irish county.
Lord Derry had insisted on living in Donegal Castle instead of a luxurious manor house elsewhere in the county, and so Sir Devon had done his best to convert the lord's rooms into something comparable to those of a manor. Lord Derry did not particularly care either way about his rooms, so long as he could live in Donegal Castle, where he was most comfortable.
"It is good to see that you have returned healthy from your journey," Sir Devon said.
Why was it that Keith could never grow accustomed to the knight's way of talking? His speech reflected his appearance: dark, smooth…powerful.
Keith inclined his head, a show of respect to his direct superior. "The road to Sligo was not as difficult a as it could have been, sir."
"Your wages." Sir Devon slipped a hand into his dark tunic and pulled out a plump pouch. He tossed the bag lightly toward Lord Derry's desk, and it landed with a resounding thump on the wood, followed by the chink of coins as they bounced against each other.
"Thank you, sir," the messenger said. He moved to take the pouch, silently hoping that wages were the only reason he had been called to the castle tonight.
"Ryan," Lord Derry said to the blue-eyed man sitting opposite him, "Keith is my most trusted messenger."
"Errand runner, more like, by the looks of him." The man's voice came with quiet assurance, his accent not as thick as that of the other occupants of the room.
Lord Derry lifted an eyebrow, but otherwise ignored the comment. Instead he addressed Keith. "This is Ryan Kelly. He is the lord of Tyrone."
Keith blinked. So this soft-spoken man was the lord of the neighboring county, to whose seat in the Moy he had carried many a message. But Keith had never before seen Lord Tyrone face to face, and was unsure what to think of him.
Why had Lord Derry bothered to tell Keith who the other man was? Keith was no better than a servant—an important servant, but a servant nonetheless. And why had Lord Derry said that Keith was his most trusted servant? Surely that was untrue, and unnecessary.
Lord Derry continued, "You returned from your last task today, did you not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Then you are unaware of recent castle affairs."
"What affairs, my lord?"
Lord Derry sat back in his chair. "Tell me what you know of the English."
The English? Keith looked at the other men in the room. Sir Devon stared at him with the cold, hard look that had come to characterize the knight. Lord Tyrone seemed an odd mixture of relaxation and anxiety, leaning back in his seat but wearing an intent look on his face.
"I do not know much, my lord," Keith finally said. "I know that the English sent men to Ireland many years ago in order to…control us, I suppose. But they did not succeed."
Lord Derry nodded. "Good. That is more than most of the common people would know."
"You might as well tell him the rest, Damian," Lord Tyrone said. "He ought to know what is going on, now that you've given him a bit of the information."
Lord Derry nodded again, rubbed his forehead, and sat up straighter in his chair. "The English lords have long wished to claim Ireland for their own. Longer than I—or you—have been alive."
Keith was five or six years older than his lord—not a significant age gap in a timeline such as the one the young lord described.
"Likely since before I was born, as well," Lord Tyrone added with a smile.
"Yes. Quite. At any rate, the English clearly have been unable so far to take full control of Ireland. But recently, word has spread that the English lords, and their cause, have gained the ear of the king."
Keith frowned, unsure of the reasons why Lord Derry was telling him this.
The young lord ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. "I hold nothing against the English, but I do wish they would leave us alone."
"I agree," Lord Tyrone said. "Paul Byrom has sent word from Dublin. English envoys arrived in his territory and informed him that their king is well aware of our ability—or inability—to withstand an English assault. They proceeded to give him detailed information about many of the Irish lords and their counties. Including Derry."
Sir Devon spoke. "This confirms my suspicions. There are English spies among us, my lord. I am certain of it."
"Yes, but who could possibly have given the English any information without our noticing it? The majority of my people are illiterate—save those children who attend the schools I opened less than a year ago. You cannot accuse children of treachery, Devon."
The dark knight shrugged. "My men are seeking out the spy, and they will surely find him. He cannot hide any longer."
Lord Derry held up a hand. "Enough. Keith, you will be given a letter, and you must take it to County Dublin. You will go to Dublin—the city—and put the message in the hands of none other than Paul Byrom. He is the lord of that county. Is that clear?"
Keith nodded. "Yes, my lord."
"Good. Be aware that this letter contains—" Lord Derry hesitated. "You must understand that this is quite possibly the most important message you have ever had to deliver, and will ever deliver. Lord Dublin is a close ally to myself and to Lord Tyrone. You, Keith Harkin, will bear Lord Dublin a letter that ensures him the assistance of Derry and Tyrone against the English. If this comes to a conflict of any kind, we will fight on the Irish side."
Keith bowed, acutely aware of the weight of Lord Derry's words and the role he himself would play. "I understand the task, my lord. When must I leave?"
"As soon as possible," Lord Derry answered. "As soon as you are rested enough."
Sir Devon spoke again, his voice low and strong. "You must be ready to depart at dawn."
Keith closed his eyes, struggling to suppress an exhausted sigh. He would have no time to spend with his family.
Lord Derry caught the motion. He leaned back in his seat as he said, "Keith. You have a family, do you not?"
The messenger stared into the younger man's eyes, surprised and yet not surprised by the intensity found there.
Keith nodded. "I have a wife and two children, my lord."
"I see." The young lord's blue gaze pierced into the messenger. "You know, I think that this task could survive a single day's delay. Wouldn't you agree, Ryan?"
Lord Tyrone smirked. "Aye."
Lord Derry nodded. He did not ask the opinion of Sir Devon, but Keith could see that the knight was not pleased by this change in plans. His dark-eyed glare was colder than usual.
"Return to the castle at dawn on the day after tomorrow. You will be given the letter, and a horse. Make haste on your journey."
Keith recognized the signal to depart, and bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord."
He turned to open the door and exit.
"And Keith."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Do not breathe a word of this to anyone."
"Of course not, my lord." Keith bowed once more and slipped out of the room into the quiet corridor.
He trudged out of the keep and through the courtyard, going back to his home. One day. He would have one day to make up for a month's absence, and then he must be off again. On a far more dangerous journey, if a swifter one. He would not have to remain in Dublin for a time, as he had done in Sligo—but if this spy knew of Keith's task and the contents of the letter he would deliver…
He would not think of that. He must focus on making the most of his single day back in Donegal.
Keith had fallen so deeply into his thoughts that he had reached his home before he remembered that he was supposed to meet with his father-in-law. There was no point in it now; the noisy tavern had been winding down when he passed it on his way home, and Shannon's father was not the type of man to stay up past a reasonable hour. They would see each other tomorrow. Keith was sure of that.
He slipped into his quiet house, doing his best to maintain silence. He took off his cloak, tossed it where his adjusting eyes saw the table, and removed his boots. Removing his outer clothes, Keith moved into his bedroom.
Shannon was asleep in the pool of moonlight on their bed, in a position that implied she had attempted to wait for him but had not succeeded. The soft breathing of the children floated in from the other bedroom.
Keith sighed. He had missed so many things that he never thought he would. And now he only had one day. One day before he set off an a mission that would force him to miss even more of his family life.
Leaving his outer clothes on the chair in one corner of the room, Keith tried to climb into the bed without disturbing his wife.
"You're back," she mumbled as she made room for him. So she had only been half-asleep, then. "What happened?"
Keith pulled the blanket over them as he kissed her cheek. "I'll tell you in the morning."
"Mmmkay." Shannon nestled against him, pulled his arm around her, and promptly fell completely asleep.
Keith pushed away images of a fatherless family and a war-torn country. Drinking in the scent of Shannon's hair, he drifted slowly into sleep.
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Post by Ghost on Jun 22, 2010 15:44:36 GMT -5
Keith rose well after dawn, finding himself in the single streak of sunlight that shone through the window. He sat up in his bed, running a hand through his fair hair. It was good to sleep in his own bed again—even if it was for one night.
And with that thought, a rush of memories came from last night’s conference at Donegal Castle.
Before he could go further in his thoughts, a chorus of giggles erupted from the corner of the room. Keith noticed his children for the first time; they had been standing in the doorway to the bedroom for who knew how long, presumably watching him sleep.
"Good morning, Daddy!" they cried. They rushed to him, hugged him (or what they could reach of him), and then spun around and left the room in a flurry of childish energy.
"Good morning!" Keith called after them with a laugh. He reached for the clothes he had discarded on the chair.
Voices came from the main room of the house. Adult voices—Shannon’s laugh, and the lower rumble of a man.
A man? Shouldn’t all the men of Donegal have left hours ago in order to work the fields and the sea?
Nicole came flying back into the room as Keith pulled on his outer tunic.
"Grandpa Georgie is leaving!" she declared, and disappeared again.
Keith grinned. She was exactly as he imagined Shannon to have been as a young child. Smoothing his hair with one hand, Keith entered the main room of his house.
Shannon stood, laughing, by the open front door. Her bald father stood just outside the house, smiling at his daughter. They both looked over as Keith followed the children into the main room of the house.
"It's good to see that you've gotten up early today, lad."
Keith stopped by Shannon, sliding his arm around her waist. "It's good to see you too, George."
His father-in-law insisted on being called by his first name. Keith attributed it to a Scottish tradition that had never really died when George came to Ireland.
"Well," the Scot said. His accent had refused to diminish over the years he had lived here. "I'd best be off to the fields—can't go about shirking my duties. Next time I come to see you, lad, you'd best be awake."
"Sorry. I was held at the castle until late last night."
"He's not being serious, Keith," Shannon said. The hint of a Scottish accent that laced her speech came stronger now, as it always did when she spent time with her father.
"What? Of course I'm serious! The man avoided his own father-in-law!" George's words were strong, but his eyes glinted with mischief.
"Father!"
Keith laughed. "You'd better get to the fields, George. We don't need anyone to come down on your head for getting there late."
"Don't worry, lad. I can tell when I'm no longer wanted."
The younger man grinned but did not argue.
"I'll see you later, children," George said—as much to his daughter and her husband as to Patrick and Nicole.
With a brief wave, George left Keith and his family in their home, heading out to work the fields, a popular drinking song on his lips.
"Good morning," Shannon said. She kissed Keith, and then closed the door. "Why did Lord Derry summon you last night? Or did you only speak to Sir Devon?"
Keith shrugged. "I'll tell you later."
"Keith…"
"I don't want to worry you."
Shannon sighed. "Very well. And I have something of my own to tell you."
"What is it?"
She smirked. "I'll tell you later."
Keith spent the day attempting to catch up on everything he had missed, and attempting to accommodate for all the things he would miss. Patrick and Nicole desired to do nothing except play with their father, and he was all too happy to oblige them. Shannon pretended to be occupied with household tasks, but Keith could sense that she watched him as closely as he watched her.
Night came, and after supper, Keith put the children to bed. It took him twice as long as it would have taken Shannon; she stood in the doorway, watching their antics and chuckling at her husband, the entire time. The children were to blame as much as Keith himself, for none of the three wanted to say goodnight. There was always one more thing to tell them about Sligo, or one more story about Donegal, that someone wanted to share.
When Keith finally left the two children in bed, Shannon had already gone back to the main room, and now sat mending something by the shifting light of the fire.
"I need to talk to you," Keith said. He had already told Patrick and Nicole that he would have to leave again; they had barely registered the words.
Shannon smiled at him. "I wasn't exactly going to sleep just yet."
He sat in the chair opposite her. "I need to speak to you about Lord Derry. But what did you want to tell me?"
Her smile widened as she put her mending down. "Keith, I think…I mean, I am fairly certain…that there is another child on the way."
A grin immediately broke out across his face. "Are you sure?"
"I'm not absolutely certain yet, but the timing of…of things…is right. And I have begun to feel as I did during the earlier part of the times I carried Patrick and Nicole."
"Shannon," Keith said. He leaned forward in his seat to kiss her.
He could not find the right words; the excitement of the prospect of another child was tainted by the knowledge that he would surely not be here when Shannon knew for certain. And also, that he would likely not be here for the majority of the time she bore the child.
She knew him too well, read the confliction in his eyes easily and heaved a sigh. "You are leaving again, aren't you?"
Keith nodded, finding himself unable to form words.
"When?"
"Dawn."
"Keith! Why didn't you tell me immediately? I could have given you better food, let you rest longer, given you more time to—"
"Hush," he interrupted. "I didn't want this day to be any different that it would have been otherwise."
"Tomorrow," Shannon said. "Why so soon? You've only just returned."
Keith opened his mouth, but stopped short of telling her everything that he wanted to. What could he say without breaking his promise to Lord Derry? Without betraying the truth, and setting her to constant worry about him? Could he say that he would be the carrier of one of the most important messages in the history of County Derry? Of Ireland itself?
Of course not.
"It will take you away for months, won't it?"
"I don't know."
"Doesn't Lord Derry have other messengers who could deliver his letters?"
Keith leaned forward in his seat again, taking Shannon's in his own. "I swore not to tell anyone what exactly I am entrusted to do, but know this. It is the most important task I have ever been given, and I am honored to have been chosen to do it."
"Even though it drags you away from us."
He smiled a little. "I hate that the life I chose keeps me so constantly away from you and the children, Shannon. But you know that I would not enjoy a life of daily toil in the fields."
She did not reply.
"Even life as a fisherman would not satisfy me. And I could not go back to being a minstrel player—if I did, I would rarely see you at all."
Again, Shannon said nothing. She stared silently into the flames of the fire.
"What's the matter, Shannon? What did I do?"
She finally shook her head. "It's just that…maybe it wasn't the best decision to get married so young. I was only eighteen, and you a year older."
"It has been four years since then."
"Yes, and things only seem to have gotten more complicated. You have been gone so much recently, and—"
"I will do my best to change that, I promise you."
"Yes, but even if this is your last errand… Keith, if I am with child… I cannot do this on my own, if something happens…"
"Shannon," Keith said softly. He took her face in his hands. "Shannon. I promise you that nothing will happen to me. And should anything befall me, you know that your father will always be there. And Lord Derry—"
She pulled out of his grasp and looked away. "Lord Derry is the man who keeps you away from me with all these foolish tasks."
"I swear to you that they are not foolish, Shannon. I would not do them if they were."
He had upset her—this entire conversation had made her fiery temper shorter than it usually was. She turned a dark-eyed glare on him.
"You would not constantly be away if it were foolish to do so? Keith, it is utter folly to be so long separated from your life. Or are we your life no longer? Fealty to your lord has clouded your sense of duty to your own family."
The stress she placed on the last word fell hard on Keith's ears.
"Shannon, I—"
"Don't." She shoved his outstretched hands away from her, and stormed into their bedroom.
Neither slept well that night. Keith lay restless in bed, with Shannon's back intentionally facing him and their argument still fresh in his mind. He could hear her trying in vain to mask the sounds of her tears, but he could do nothing to comfort her. He was the cause of her anger and frustration, and the thought sent a stab of pain flooding through him.
What was he doing to his family?
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jun 22, 2010 18:13:37 GMT -5
Nooo! Oh, poor Keith! Please, I long to know what happens next!
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VolleyErica3
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Music = my life *points* the green guys name is Fredward ^_^
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Post by VolleyErica3 on Jun 22, 2010 19:29:53 GMT -5
*has gasped so much she thinks she has swallowed a fly or 2* WELL THEN that was intense!!! more more more more more more!!!! ... please?
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Post by CelticLass91 on Jun 24, 2010 19:05:38 GMT -5
Oh I hope she isn't mad at him in the morning! Great story!! UPDATE SOON!
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Post by Ghost on Jun 27, 2010 13:50:42 GMT -5
He woke with a jolt, unaware how long he had been asleep. Shannon's side of the bed was empty, but warm enough to signal that she had only recently left his side.
Through the window, the sky was a deep blue tinted with the first pale beams of sunshine.
Dawn.
He rolled out of bed and left the room. His wife was nowhere to be found, but the front door had been left slightly ajar.
He heaved a sigh and dragged himself to the chest against one of the walls. As he knelt and opened the chest, searching for his special traveling gear, Keith found himself looking back at his relationship with Shannon. He had first met her because he was in pursuit of her golden-haired sister. But Kelly was one of the most sought-after young women in Donegal, and so Keith became the latest in a long line of hopeful men.
He had come to the Donaldsons' home to see Kelly one evening. Even now, he could still remember his surprise when a tallish, dark-featured girl let him in. He had known that George Donaldson's younger daughter had beauty of her own, but Keith had never seen her close enough to appreciate it.
Shannon had informed him that Kelly was out with their mother, and that the two women should return at any time. So Keith had stayed with George and his younger daughter until Kelly and her mother returned.
Several months passed in this manner; whenever Keith came to call on Kelly, or tried to see her after church, she was occupied by one admirer or another. His friendship with Shannon deepened as his romantic interest in her sister went unreturned.
It had taken him months to realize that his feelings for Kelly had long since dwindled into nothing, and that he had fallen madly in love with her sister.
Keith closed the chest, laid his things on top of it, and then put them on one at a time. It figured that a man who had always preferred light-haired women would marry the darkest-haired girl he knew…
Maybe Shannon was right. Maybe they should have waited to be wed, instead of marrying less than a year after he had begun to court her. Maybe they should have waited until they were older.
But there was no going back now. They had two children—and possibly another on the way. They had made a life for themselves. He would do anything for her and the children. Couldn't Shannon see that?
Keith tightened the belt on which he had hung his best (and only) sword, as well as a small pouch of money.
He crept back into the bedrooms, passing through his into the children's. He kissed each of their foreheads, whispering that he loved them and to take care of their mother. Patrick and Nicole mumbled barely conscious goodbyes.
Keith went back into the main room of the house, finding his cloak and throwing it on, and fiddled with the adjustments. He didn't want to leave like this, with an argument hanging between him and his wife. Without really saying goodbye.
He couldn't leave like this. What if the journey killed him?
He forced that thought away, and slipped out of the house.
Shannon stood in the center of the dirt road that passed in front of their house. She faced the west, an early morning sea breeze drifting inland and blowing gently against her.
West. Toward the cliffs, and the sea that she knew Keith had always loved.
"Shannon."
She turned at the sound of his voice, and he saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks. Her eyes fell on the sword at his side, at the bulging pouch full of coins. She said nothing, instead running to him and embracing him. Keith stroked her hair as her head rested on his chest.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," she whispered.
"I am doing this for you, and for the children. You know that, don't you?"
"Of course I know that… Oh Keith, be careful." She squeezed him tighter.
Keith pulled his head back enough to look into Shannon's face. His wife's dark eyes held a host of colliding emotions. Fear and worry. Love.
She understood that this errand was different from all the others before it, just as he did. But how could he soothe her?
He kissed her softly and said, "I love you, Shannon. I will be home as soon as I possibly can. Will you be all right?"
She nodded. "It's not as though this is the first time you'll be away."
"Are you sure?"
Shannon attempted to blink away the tears that filled her eyes. "I'll be fine. I'm just… I'm so scared, Keith. More scared than I've ever been. And I don't know why."
A single tear slid down her cheek. Keith pulled her into his arms again, saying nothing, trying to fill her with whatever strength he had.
Neither moved for long moment.
Keith finally said, "I need to go."
"I love you."
He kissed her. "I know. Don't forget me."
Shannon smiled slightly, her eyes clearer now, as she stepped backward. "That would be impossible. Be safe, Keith."
"I will."
As he walked away, Keith thought he heard Shannon add, "I don't know how I can live without you."
Keith trudged to Donegal Castle, trying in vain not to think about the last words his wife had said. Did she know that he could not imagine life without her? True, he found Lord Derry to be a noble young man—properly worthy of any upright man's utmost loyalty and obedience. But Keith loved his family more than his lord, and the times he was apart from his family pained him far more than the times he was not serving Lord Derry.
Maybe he had lost sight of that recently, had allowed himself to be swept up in the grandeur of traveling the countryside as Lord Derry's best messenger. But the almost physical pain he felt flooding through him now, at this most recent separation from his wife and children, was worse—far worse—that anything he had ever felt before.
Keith reached the castle swiftly, grateful for the distraction it provided from his thoughts.
Sir Devon O'Boyle stood like a dark shadow just outside the raised portcullis, reins to a black horse in one hand and a slim parchment in the other.
"Exactly on time," the knight said. "Or rather, a little later than I expected, but at exactly the time Lord Derry said you would come."
"He knows his people well, sir," Keith replied as he bowed his head.
"You must make haste. I would have had you on the road yesterday."
"I know that, sir. But I thank you for having granted me an extra day."
"It is Lord Derry you have to thank, not me. Here is the message. Guard it with your life."
Keith took the folded, sealed letter and slipped it into the inside of his tunic, where Shannon had sewn him a concealed pocket precisely for messages. "Do you think my life will be in danger?"
Sir Devon's dark eyes glinted. "Let us hope you are swift enough that it will not come to that. Here is the horse you will ride on your task. I would have preferred a lighter-colored one, but Lord Derry said that this horse is your favorite."
Keith smiled and took the black horse's reins from Sir Devon. The horse was called Storm, for its power and strength were like a whirlwind of energy. But that was not the only reason Keith preferred this horse above all others, when his errands called for him to ride. From the moment he had first ridden Storm, the horse had reminded Keith of his family. Dark, wild mane like Shannon's hair. Uncontrollable vivacity like his children. And a fiery obedience that reminded Keith of his own struggle to balance duty to family and duty to lord.
"Do you know how to reach Dublin?" Sir Devon asked.
Keith mounted the horse in a single, fluid motion. "Of course I do, sir. How could I be Lord Derry's highest messenger if I didn't know my way around Ireland?"
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Post by Deleted on Jun 27, 2010 15:42:48 GMT -5
I really, truly love this story! That was so sweet with Shannon, and the comments about Storm? You make me sniffly Ghost, you really do.
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Post by Ghost on Jul 3, 2010 16:25:46 GMT -5
Keith rode hard—as hard as Storm let himself be pushed without reaching the breaking point. The journey to Dublin would not be over-long, but the good weather would not likely last. Rain would surely come soon, and rain meant that the roads would turn muddy. Muddy roads meant delays. And delays were the one thing that Keith could not afford.
He knew that he only had sufficient provisions to last a few days, and that afterward, he would have stop in the villages he passed through in order to buy more food. That, in itself, would be a delay.
But this worrying was useless. How many errands had he run for Lord Derry in the past? Countless. Why should this errand be any different from those previous ones? Indeed, the gravity of this current task was far greater than the others. But he could not afford to let his nerves get the better of him. He needed a clear head—clear of pointless musings and distracting thoughts.
What he needed to do was stop thinking about these things so much, and let his natural instinct and gained skill guide him. Over-thinking would ruin things.
Keith turned his thoughts in another direction. Who besides Lord Derry could know so much about the county—its strengths, its weaknesses? Someone who was close to him?
Surely the spy could not dwell in Donegal. Keith knew most of the village's inhabitants, some better than others of course, but none of them seemed capable of such coldhearted treachery. To betray not only one's country, but one's own lord as well!
Most of the men in Donegal were bound to the land, and therefore bound to County Derry and its lord. Others, such as Sir Devon and Keith himself, had sworn an unbreakable oath of fealty to Lord Derry. The spy could not be any of those who had sworn direct fealty to the young lord; to do such a thing was an inconceivable, abhorrent crime.
No. The spy must be... Must be what? Must be able to freely travel the country. Must be able to inconspicuously gain information. Who could possibly have such abilities?
Keith's mind could not answer the question for a long moment. But then the answer came to him, so obvious that he nearly hit himself for his stupidity.
The nobility. The spy must be a member of the nobility. They could travel throughout Ireland without raising a single eyebrow, even leave the country without causing too much stir. And they could easily gather information about the other counties by disguising their motives as friendly inquiries.
Whoever this spy was, it must have taken him a long while to compile information about the lords and their counties. Unless he only researched Derry, and other nobles-turned-spies gathered information on the other powerful counties in Ireland.
Were there multiple spies throughout the country? Lord Derry and Lord Tyrone had said as much the other night, hadn't they? How could they know whom to trust?
These musings accompanied Keith on his journey to Dublin, which proved swifter than he had planned. The good weather held (or at least, the bad weather threatened but did not break). He knew, almost by instinct, when to ride Storm and when to walk beside him. He made infrequent stops in villages along the road, and only stopped when it was unavoidable.
As with many of his tasks for Lord Derry, Keith struggled to keep track of time. That is, the days blended together, and he had to rely on the villagers with whom he spoke (on those occasions he did stop in a town) in order to discern how many days he had been traveling.
Keith reached Dublin as quickly as he had hoped that he would. He was used to the bustle of larger towns and cities than his native Donegal, but he was not prepared for the sprawling, noisy commotion of Dublin.
The (arguably) most important city in Ireland was much larger than Keith had expected. He slowed Storm to a walk and proceeded through the city, trying to gauge its mid-afternoon atmosphere from several different angles. At first, there was what seemed to be a sprawling version of Donegal; farmland followed by a spray of houses that resembled the northwestern Irish village in the size of the buildings as well as the vivacity of the people who lived there.
But as Keith and the horse moved passed the town, it resembled Donegal less and less. Beyond the initial town, or rather surrounded by it, lay a walled city—Dublin proper, Keith assumed. He could see the upper reaches of a castle within the city's walls. That would be Lord Dublin's stronghold.
Keith pressed Storm on through the streets, approaching the walls of Dublin. They passed numerous people. Occupied with their tasks—household tasks, and the buying and selling of goods—none of the Dubliners gave the cloaked rider and his black horse a second glance.
He reached the walled city, and found the gates open but guarded on either side. These two men took notice of the appearances of both Keith and Storm as the messenger pulled the horse to a halt.
One of the guards came forward and took hold of Storm's reins as he asked, "Who seeks entry into Dublin?" His accent was softer, lighter than a Northern Irishman's.
"I bear a message for Paul Byrom, Lord of Dublin, from Damian McGinty, Lord of Derry."
"Let me see it."
Keith straightened in the saddle, careful not to let the men see the bulge in his tunic where he had put the letter. "I was given orders not to hand it to anyone except Lord Dublin himself. Sir."
The guard sniffed. "I will take you to the castle, and Lord Dublin's guards there will decide what to do with you."
He turned around and, taking Storm's reins in a firmer grip, the guard led Keith through the gates into Dublin. The city was busy, noisy, and cramped. Several streets smelled of fish—Keith knew that a river ran by Dublin, but he did not think the smell would penetrate and hold so strongly. Even Donegal, with its few fishermen, rarely smelled of anything from the ocean but the salty sea-spray.
The people of Dublin were strange, too. There was a strong sense of violent defense here, from the armored guards at the gate to the thinly-concealed weaponry worn by many civilians. The clothing these people wore, while it matched those of other Irish in style and cut, was made of richer colors and materials. Keith caught a few glimpses of food as they passed through the streets, and there was more of it that he was accustomed to see. The Dubliners themselves were, in general, physically heavier than any other people Keith had ever encountered.
And suddenly, Keith understood why Dublin would be the first city attacked if the English launched an assault on Ireland. Not only was the city separated from England only by water—it was also the one of (if not the) most prosperous cities in the country. A strategy that seized Dublin first would bode ill for the rest of Ireland.
The guard stopped abruptly in front of another gate, this one shut. "Wait here."
He left Keith and Storm and slipped through the gate into the courtyard of Dublin Castle. Keith now saw the guards moving in and out of the guardhouse by the gate. Had they opened the gate at the sight of the man who had led him and Storm here, or was the gate always unlocked but closed?
Dubliners had odd habits, that was certain.
Keith leaned forward, patting Storm on his muscular neck. "We're in over our heads this time, my friend."
The horse shook his wild black mane and blew air out of his nose.
"It's not my fault that Lord Derry chose us for this errand. But I will get us back to Donegal as soon as possible."
A few moments later, their guard reappeared, accompanied by a taller and stronger man. Keith recognized the coat-of-arms on the newcomer's tunic as that of Lord Dublin. Wordlessly, the new man pushed open the gate and beckoned Keith through it. The original guard closed the gate behind Keith and his horse, and then vanished into the thin crowds that moved outside the castle.
"Dismount," the castle guard said.
Keith reluctantly slid off of Storm's back, his shoes thudding flat on the ground beneath him. He had lost any advantage of height now; Lord Dublin's castle guard was a good several inches taller than Keith, and Keith was not a short man.
"Come with me."
The guard led Keith up to the castle's keep, where a stable hand stood waiting. Storm was given to the stable hand without slowing the guard's pace at all, and a few minutes later they were standing outside the closed doors of Dublin Castle's main hall.
Keith looked at the sword that sat on the hip of the castle guard. Standing upright, it would probably be taller than some men. If Lord Dublin had sought to intimidate every visitor to the city, he had certainly succeeded.
"Wait here," Lord Dublin's guard said. He opened the door a fraction and slipped inside the room.
The door was still slightly ajar, and Keith could see a little into the main hall. Patches of light partially illuminated the room, where there was some kind of line of people. Whether they were commoners or nobles, Keith could not be sure. A finely dressed man sat at the far end of the hall, but the line of people blocked all except the man's head and shoulders.
From this distance, Keith could only see that the man had short, brown hair and a solemn expression on his face. He leaned toward one side of his seat. The tall guard had gone straight to the seated man and bent over him, speaking in hushed tones. The brown-haired, finely dressed man nodded once, twice, and then suddenly smiled and stood up.
He must have said something, for immediately the line of people broke up and began to disperse through a set of doors that Keith could not see. Meanwhile, the nobleman swept back his ornamented cape and swept out of Keith's vision.
The tall castle guard reappeared in the hallway next to Keith, having come around from a different door.
"This way."
Keith followed him up a flight of stairs and down another hallway before they stopped.
"Knock before you enter," the guard said. Without another word, he left in the direction he had come.
"Dubliners," Keith muttered. He rapped on the door.
"Come in."
Keith walked inside the room and closed the door behind him. He found himself standing in the grand outer room of a lord's suite unlike any other he had ever seen. A thick rug covered the expanse of the stone room. Heavily detailed tapestries hung from the walls. The furniture matched the trappings: intricately carved chairs, a plush sofa, and an elaborately decorated desk depicting the four seasons.
He could not take in any more of the room, for the man seated on the sofa commanded all attention. Keith stepped forward and bowed, quickly taking in the nobleman's appearance. He was, unsurprisingly, none other than the same nobleman from the main hall. Up close now, Keith saw the richness of Lord Dublin's raiment. The deep blue cape—held by a gold chain—draped from his shoulders, the cloth a shiny material that Keith had never before seen. Lord Dublin's brown hair was styled oddly, short and somehow spiked. Everything about him, from his laughing face to his smooth black boots, was in proper order.
This man, who understood the importance of one's appearance, began to speak. "I am Paul Byrom, Lord of Dublin. Speak, messenger, and tell me your name."
"I am Keith Harkin, messenger to Damian McGinty, Lord of Derry…sir."
"Of course," the lord replied. His blue eyes—not quite the color of the sky—seemed to laugh at Keith. "Come, what news have you from County Derry? Does Damian still reside in Donegal?"
"He does, sir."
"Fascinating. I would have thought he moved his seat elsewhere in the county, after he grew accustomed to being its lord. But come. Damian will have sent you with a message. Let's have it."
Keith reached into his tunic, extracting the letter entrusted to him. Only now, as it passed from his hands into the lord's, did Keith notice the seal on the parchment. He frowned. It was not the seal of Lord Derry—a simple, bold "DM" with an arrow through the initials—but the picture of some sort of plant.
Lord Dublin noticed the difference as well. He broke the seal, the smile on his face barely lingering, and immediately began to read the letter.
He had most expressive eyebrows; Keith needed no words from the lord to know what dark musings were running through his mind.
Finally, Lord Dublin finished reading. He looked up from the letter, his merry face now grave. "This is not Lord Derry's handwriting."
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Post by Deleted on Jul 3, 2010 18:56:50 GMT -5
Eeeek! Whatever does this mean! And so the plot thickens! Hurry! I must know what becomes of the story!
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VolleyErica3
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Cabin Lass
Music = my life *points* the green guys name is Fredward ^_^
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Post by VolleyErica3 on Jul 6, 2010 17:37:49 GMT -5
*gasp* WHAT HAPPENED?!
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Post by Ghost on Jul 7, 2010 21:17:38 GMT -5
*** Sir Devon O'Boyle had ridden ahead of his best men on the road to Dublin. They had left Donegal two days after the messenger Keith Harkin, when O'Boyle told Lord Derry that he had reason to believe the spy was elsewhere in the county. The young lord had, of course, given his knight permission to investigate for as long as he deemed necessary.
They had taken the fastest route from Donegal to the larger city, but their destination was not Dublin. O'Boyle halted the small company at Kells, at town he deemed the proper distance between Donegal and Dublin for his plan. Once in Kells, the knight situated his men throughout the town, making their temporary headquarters in the Red Dragon inn.
Now all that remained was to wait. If O'Boyle had judged the times and distances correctly, he would not have to wait long—a few days at most.
Sitting alone in the empty tavern of the Red Dragon as evening fell, Sir Devon O'Boyle smiled to himself. Keith Harkin, through his steady rise to becoming Damian's top messenger, had unknowingly made himself the perfect victim as well. He could read and write, and do both well—a fact that he had kept hidden, and which had taken O'Boyle months to discover. His wife, that dark-haired beauty of a peasant woman, could read a little herself—Harkin had probably been teaching her.
He was a literate, high-level servant. That alone put him in a position that would serve O'Boyle's interests. And he had a family—a family that even Damian knew the man would do anything to protect and keep in comfort. And, perhaps best of all, Harkin was required to constantly travel throughout Ireland.
O'Boyle smirked. Keith Harkin was the perfect target. *** Keith suppressed a strong urge to snatch the letter out of Lord Dublin's hands and read it for himself. He maintained a level tone as he said, "Perhaps Lord Derry used a scribe."
"But this is not his seal. Do you know the contents of this letter?"
"Lord Derry told me essentially what he would write. Sir."
Lord Dublin quirked an eyebrow. His blue eyes looked slightly purple. "And do you think Lord Derry is so foolish as to dictate a letter of such magnitude?"
Keith felt heat rush to his face. "Of course not."
The lord leaned back in his seat, placing the open letter on the sofa beside him. "What did he say he would write?"
"That he and Lord Tyrone will fight beside you against England if it becomes necessary."
Lord Dublin knit his eyebrows together. "Damian trusts you. That much is clear. Tell me, messenger, can you read?"
Keith swallowed. Lord Derry believed in giving an education to anyone who desired it. But did the other noblemen and leaders of Ireland agree with him, or did they believe that an education was meant only for the upper class?
"Speak, man. We don't have all the time in the world."
"Yes. I can read."
"Here," Lord Dublin said. "Tell me what is written."
Keith took the outstretched letter and began to read it. The hand was thick and bold—unlike Lord Derry's thin, hasty scrawl. The letter was fairly long, again uncharacteristic of the young lord. Keith reached the signature: the words "Ireland's Bane" had been written in a strong, bold flourish.
Keith looked up from the parchment in his hands. "He calls himself the English contact for Counties Derry and Tyrone, and that we are helpless to stop what he has helped set in motion. Why? Why does he tell us that he knows everything about us?"
"To prove our inability to surmount him and the men for whom he works."
"But this Ireland's Bane cannot be Lord Derry. He has only just become a lord; he is too young to have been planted here or to have made any strong connections outside of Ireland."
Lord Dublin leaned forward on the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. "And yet it would seem that your master is a spy for England."
"He cannot be."
"No?" the lord said. He rested his chin on his closed hands. "And why not?"
"This is not his hand."
"Perhaps he disguised it."
"This is not his seal."
"He could have another signet ring."
"And," Keith clutched at one final reason, "he did not hand me the letter. Could his real message have been replaced before it was given to me?"
Lord Dublin's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Damian did not hand you the letter himself?"
Keith shook his head. "I received it from Sir Devon O'Boyle. It was not out of the ordinary; I usually receive my orders from him."
The lord's eyes fell to the rug at his feet. He muttered, mostly to himself, "Of course. It all makes sense now. Damian's loyalty is not overdone in any way. But Sir Devon... Of course. I should have known—Ryan should have known. A youth such as Damian—"
He cut himself off, looking abruptly up at the blonde messenger who stood silent and confused before him.
"Lord Dublin?"
"How loyal are you to Sir Devon O'Boyle, Keith?"
Keith opened his mouth, shut it, and then said, "As loyal as any man, I suppose. But Sir Devon is not my lord. Damian McGinty is."
Lord Dublin nodded, as though this answer was sufficient for him. "Good. You will not like what I am about to tell you, but you must understand the gravity of the situation at hand."
Keith nodded once.
The lord gestured at the message in Keith's hand. "This letter has placed us a step closer to finding the identity of at least one of the English spies. Whether that man is Sir Devon—I do not know. But he has had a hand in it. That is sure."
Keith's heart pounded in his chest. "Sir Devon? How can you be certain?"
"Couldn't he? Assuming that your lord handed the intended letter directly to Sir Devon, who else could have switched the lord's message with the spy's?"
"But he swore fealty to Lord Derry. He would not betray his lord. He could not."
A shadow crossed Lord Dublin's face. "You are a commoner. You are unfamiliar with the allure of position and wealth."
"Do you mean that Sir Devon has been an English infiltrator in Derry for years because of power? But he is not a lord—merely a knight."
"Merely a knight?" Lord Dublin quirked an eyebrow and adjusted his position among the cushions. "Come, come, messenger. You are literate. Do not pretend to be a dullard because you are a peasant."
Keith fidgeted, bit his bottom lip, released it. "Not merely a knight, then. He has power, and he seeks more. And the English have promised to give it to him if he cooperates with them."
Lord Dublin's blue eyes flashed light purple again as his face relaxed into a (what Keith deemed customary) wide grin. "Now you're getting it. Continue."
"So then, Sir Devon values power and riches above loyalty to his country? To his own lord?"
"Even the strongest of men can be bribed." Lord Dublin stood and began to pace around the room. "I had always suspected that, if there were a spy in Derry or Tyrone, he would reside near Damian. A young lord just come of age, a close group of men serving as his council until he takes full responsibility for his county, a remote area of Ireland...the situation easily lends itself to the interests of the English."
For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was that of Lord Dublin's pacing, and the soft swoosh of his cape as it moved behind him.
Keith stared at the letter in his hand. Sir Devon O'Boyle, Lord Derry's most faithful retainer, an agent working for the English? Impossible. And yet the handwriting on the parchment mirrored Sir Devon's personality—no. A certain way of shaping one's letters did not make one a spy. Perhaps someone had switched the letters, and Sir Devon had not even noticed. Perhaps someone else had given him the message, not Lord Derry. Perhaps…
Lord Dublin stopped pacing. "What are you thinking, messenger?"
"I do not understand why the spy—whoever he is—would risk discovery as easily as this, after years of remaining hidden."
Lord Dublin began to pace again. "Either he does not think it will give him away, or it no longer matters that he remain inconspicuous. Neither scenario is an attractive one."
Keith opened his mouth, but the lord continued rambling until his thoughts found order.
"No, no. We must take action, and swiftly. I cannot entrust a letter to your keeping; it might fall into the wrong hands. You must go back to Donegal immediately, and you must tell Damian—Lord Derry—you must tell him that he and Lord Tyrone are in great danger—especially Lord Derry. He will hardly believe you if you tell him outright that Sir Devon could be a contact for the English. Give him…Give him this."
Lord Dublin pulled a ring off of the middle finger of his right hand and held it out to Keith. It bore a blue stone surrounded by an elaborate PB.
"He will know you speak the truth when you give him that."
Keith took a breath before he said, "Are you certain that Lord Derry will not think we are the treacherous ones?"
Lord Dublin stopped his pacing to look the messenger in the eye. "You are quite smart. You don't by any chance have noble blood, do you?"
Keith shook his head.
"What am I saying?" the lord muttered as he resumed his strides about the room. "Noble blood does not make you a genius, nor does common blood make you a simpleton. What was I going to say? Oh yes. Damian."
Lord Dublin stopped again. "I suppose it will come down to Lord Derry. He will have to decide in whom his trust is better placed: you and I, or Sir Devon."
Keith slipped the ring into his concealed pocket and glanced once more at the letter in his other hand. "Won't his choice be obvious?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Don't you think him far more likely to choose his closest retainer than a distant lord and a peasant?"
Something flashed across Lord Dublin's eyes. "When put that way, the choice naturally seems obvious. But I know your lord. I knew his father. We are more than fellow lords united against England. We are as close to being friends as is possible across lengthy distances."
"My word is still that of a peasant. A servant."
"But an honest, reliable one. I know what is at risk here, and it is more than just an argument between lords and their vassals. I can think of no other way to inform your lord of the danger to his person, to his people, and to his country. But tell me, messenger, you are intelligent. What would you have me do?"
Keith did not reply.
"Speak your mind."
Who was this man, who spoke to a commoner as though they stood on equal footing? He laughed at the very system that had made him ruler over the wealthiest city in Ireland. Did he not care for his position?
"I do not know what else can be done, Lord Dublin. You can't leave your city at a time like this."
Lord Dublin nodded and returned to his seat. "Take the letter from Ireland's Bane with you, as evidence. And now you had better be off, Keith Harkin."
Keith bowed as he placed the spy's message with Lord Dublin's ring. "Will you require an answer, my lord?"
"Word of the situation will likely reach me before a letter from Damian does. And I think your services would be better used in County Derry than all over the Irish countryside."
Keith bowed again. "Thank you, my lord. Good luck against the English."
A hint of a smile played at the corners of Lord Dublin's lips. "Godspeed, messenger."
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Post by Deleted on Jul 7, 2010 22:10:13 GMT -5
Wh-w-wh-WHAT?!?! Keith? Victim?! No! Bad O'Boyle! I never trusted him! I must no what happens! I'm completely addicted to this story! As much as I am Celtic Thunder itself!
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