The Apex, Autumn 1332

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Introduction

In the year 1332, while the famed Gaelic Nations are the disucssion of the continent, the truth paints a differing picture of what life is like under the Griffin to those who have little care of animal shapes, symbolism or strength. Ireland takes her hope in a strong regency abroad to benefit its posistion but still is a country divided with internal struggle among the clans and the want to oust the remaining English who hang on to the glory of bygone days with more power than any should be able to muster. After the fall of England and the absence of King Edward II from power, many from that country turned to flee to places of safety in the hopes of regrouping to recover the monarchy. The Lordships in Ireland took on their lost countrymen; of them they looked on at The Pale, a land and city assortment held with a firm hand. It is the true foothold the English purists have in the country where they aim to establish things anew.

Look then on Dublin who's name means 'Black Pool. In the county of the same name sits a city where the O'Cathasaigh's name is a synonym for scorn. For years the city was pimped for its defense, natural, and monetary resources by both the infamous English and the clan raiders after Paul I came to sit in at Dublin Castle. The title of Duke, was held by native Irish and Anglo-Irish members of the familyuntil he married the daughter of John of Lancaster and Aira of Dublin, named Evangeline. What tolerance for the mixed race union for those born on the land was erased when hell came to reign supreme. By now Paul I has held Dublin for nearly fourteen years. Self stylized as Paul I, his mental malady coupled with the reach of his hand made him a self proclaimed Irish King, even if his power had diminished to only the four faithful counties of Dublin: Dublin, Louth, Kildare, and Meath. The heart of all of it has been held together by thin strings,and started to throw off the yoke of opression. The Pale became an intricate message center that formed runs out across the entire country with the soul purpose of complete Irish freedom.

From County Antrim, Dunlace sits the prize of Ireland where the Govenor and his good family reside. He enjoys the patronage of many local clans, and the good fortune of a region that reflects the rule to which Ireland is now aligned, but many places of it look nothing like its fabled Scottish cousin, the city of Dublin but one of many places where struggle, intrigue, and eventual battle will come to roost. With the death of the storied Ulster Ceannfort some years before, he has done right by her in setting free a shackled country from bonds, but how deep do they go? What if some are the illusions of her countrymen? The aim of the Lord Govenor whom in Ireland is often called Ard Ri, High King, has his sights set on a complete eradication of English rule in The Pale. So then we come to the convergence of all roads to the point; the apex.


Map of Ireland 1450 - An Accurate Representation of the Story's Present Ireland

Warning: Strong Contents in Violence, Gore to occur

The scene looked like something from one of the legends the old crones told about crooked dealings with the old gods turned devil. Little children forced into good behavior, adults forced into piety would have fallen postrate on belly in prayer to God for the smallest commited fault if their eyes took in one moment of what was behind a half crooked stable door on Dublin castle grounds.

Blood rimmed the door's lip in confused, splotchy design of fingerprints: child, man, woman. Tiny angel's hands tried to reach out from within only to have been pulled backwards. A woman's hands after. The man was the only full dominante hand that wrapped around the door lip to imprint on the other side. His body had been the gatekeeper that neither child nor woman could pass. A hard wind pushed the doors in before invisible hands wretched the one of two barriers back for a view of the interior. Where was God, in this? Hardened knights, black mercinary, and witch might look at the scene. Each could lose the contents of their stomach, but it was a peasent from the thatches on the shore, come up to follow after some worry nagging at his brain who would be privy to the after-hours of a slaughter.

*

It was a cold, wet night. By the time he touched the road to Dublin it his clothes were a second, slick skin. He wrapped his arms around his body in a fetal attempt at warmth. The city torches hissed and sputtered from the constant water wash. Feeble light shone in futile waves through the pitch alleys he used to route himself, for time was short. The Duke was going to kill his son for his place in the Duchess' resistance, while the father was going to be lauded for betraying his flesh and blood. The boy was a man by standard; fourteen, old enough to seek his fortune to favor his own design. Gangly, they were tinder collectors. Scraps of stick, pieces of chyt from the ass end of creatures. Shifting in mud to turn message stone over was better than sullying his hands with refuse. The Duchess had instead splashed his hands with blood, English blood. Freedom was slow to move through through all of Ireland. Clans clammored in battle against one another, and the Lords of the old King who felt abandoned by him still had more power than the freemen. He couldn't lose his boy!

'His Grace told me he'd be givin' me payment n' m'son come uppance, mayhap, mayhap iffn I beg 'im fer mercy he won't touch me boy. Tis m'only son.." The walk had taken him hours to complete.

He came upon the castle but found that it was dark. It was only an outline against the blue-black sky; formidable towers reached out to an unwelcome point in the night. Dublin meant Black Pool. Tonight, it held so true to the words that the peasent thought he had fallen into the same as the meaning. A black pool where in nothing, and no one, came out. The night watch was diminished to a pair of necessary men who looked down at him, but made no move to stop him. Mute, too passive expressions coherced him through the open gate. The torches danced at half-finished sputters along the wall. Within the castle, pin pricks of light flasted in the windows as he noticed candles moving but the forms of their holders were too hard to notice. Had he come at a terrible time? What mercy could he plead for his son if the Duke had a matter of his own to contend with? The peasent was crestfallen. Turning his steps from the main door, he meandered the property until he came to the stable and carriage house. What if his friend who worked there could give his son a better posistion, teach him a feasible skill to make into a sentence of servitude? Wasn't any undue number of years as an indentured servant better than being dead? For him the solution was as if he heard the heavenly chorus in the middle of that cold, excructiating wind. Seraphim's tone was shorn out of his head, though, the closer he came to the stable.

He wondered what made the castle so hollow. The answer lay on the moonlit doors were blood greeted him instead of the stable hands. In fact, no one moved to ask him his business or guide him in, nor turn him away. Were it not for the desperation he felt in wanting to protect his son, he would have taken the sign for ill and turned around. Like a fool on an errand he walked up to the devil's omen. Through the crack he saw a small hand flayed out on the floor, spattered with trace evidence of what had marked the door. Little fingers were curled inward to be frozen in place, save for the ring and index fingers. The ring finger was oddly rigid, while the index was flattened to be a bit of bone pieces inside a flesh sack. In fact, the center of that hand was depressed, too!

"Oh God, the young master tha' be! Oh, young Master Paul...Christ."


His gaze followed to a fading light, a lantern, sputting from the crack in the glass. It was enough light, too much, to illustrate the rest of the young masters flayed body near the stall known to house the Duke's prized horse. The mount was long since gone, but his marks were left on the only generation born of the man's loins. Hoof imprints tore at the exposed belly. Open brass buttons on his tunic showed open skin with great chunks of meat pushed up through the incision. One arm was across his face, as if trying to shield himself, but it, along with the arm bones broken beyond all chance of repair had he lived, the right side of his face was unrecognizable. The skull was collapsed, the jaw bone, the bridge of the nose. Inside of the little hollow were muscle and veint structure dismantled as if the horse wished to see what made the boy function. Exposed white of the eye was shown in a perverse manner; no man should see God's creation torn apart that way. Half of the body was a pulp! Crunched wee legs, one foot barely able to hold enough form to keep a shoe any longer. Walking closer, the peasent gasped at the jutting femur of the right leg, the open ankle of the left.

He cried out, 'Murder, Murder! Murder's been done!" His poor, confused feet backed him against the inteiror of the bloody door enough to give what was left of it onto his skin. He screamed in irony enough to invoke the act again in progress. What made him go quiet was the body of the man who's mercy he wanted to beg suspended on his level.

Duke Paul O'Cathasaigh was held up against the stable wall by a pitchfork. The points had punctured his body hard, but the jagged marks struck his throat dry. They began lower in the belly, but moved up, up into the ribs. Open mouth sputtered no condeming words anymore! He watched the wind make it gap like a fish wanting water. The peasent cried, supersticion gripping the frame of mind. He would be cursed, for finding it! Would they think him the killer? His mind went adrift in the consequence of paying too intimate of attention, of being privy to still young death. He imagined the ghost of the young master crying until the sound was so real it filled his ears. As for his father? The man looked as if he had suffered, almost as much as the boy. The assault of excrement and urine stung his eyes, as it became evident by the soils the man had messed his breeches in the last, horrifying moments of his life.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Evangeline:Dublin was the center of culture, industry, and eduation in Ireland. Ptolemy was fabled to have written of it upon a chart, and it was the seat of Norman Kings. What would come of it now, in the year 1332? The tide of change found the 'black rents' paid to other clans to avoid the raids was trickling down to build instead some brilliance by the Black Pool. The Earls of Kildare found instead of being a sieve for coin to pass found he was able to pocket some of his incomebecause there was a stopper. It was named O'Cathsaigh, and the Duchess ceased the clan raiding with her equal portions of service to many clans with the promise of succor to none if Dublin was raped of what little treasure it had left. She was on the verge of a new decade's age, yet wore the face of a woman younger than she felt. She leaned into the imposing stone of the manor home on one end of Dublin while gazing at the castle on the other. Each was supposed to be home, but it was this manor commisioned under guise of 'husband's gift' that gave her respite from the hell of the castle across the city. In that castle's stables lay two bodies smelling of sweet, putrid stink. Blood went brown in the pools, tinging pieces of hay. One man was slumbed forward, suspended up by a pitchfork catching a razor edge piece of the moon. Puncture wounds spilled out every bit of vital fluid, his mouth had dried trails of the same. So ended Paul O'Casey. His heir and only son was unrecognizable, a trampled collection of mushed skin, broken bones. A depressed right side of face was unrecognizable from the cherub that was on the left. He died before his father had died. Now on the other side of Dublin with their blood washing out o fher gown from the rain, she lived. And had work to do (d)



Faolan: All through the night, a lone figure had galloped at a fever pitch through the darkness and rain on an urgent task. When at last he reached a top of a hill, he would reign to a bit. Giving his horse a few moments pause, as he looked out over the city of spires. There, in the distance, he could see the spires of Dublin Castle. As he watched, he could see the lights of the castle slowly being extinguished as servants made ready to turn in for the night. But as the rider sat there? He could not help but fell the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, as the night somehow seemed to take on unearthly feel. Did the sound of thunder above become the sound of angry gods passing judgement upon the souls of the damned? Did the horse flick its ears, as though to better catch the sound of sobbing goddess at some great tragedy that had just come to pass? But, above it all, it was something else that saw the rider hunker deeper into the weather-proofed embrace of his traveling cloak. Did a peal of lightening reveal a crouched figure of a washerwoman aside a stream, hands plunging a tunic deep into the cleansing waters? Even above the sound of thundering gods and weeping goddesses... it seemed as though the rider heard -- singing? "Hiyah!" He cried, sawing back on the reins of his mount. Then he thundered toward the gates of the city, eager to put such daydreams - if daydreams they were - behind him. Without a moments pause, he tore through the gates and rode on toward the castle. Would any of the servants or guards be about, or had they all retreated to their towers and fires to keep warm? When he'd gained the courtyard, the rider would dismount. Leading his horse into the darkened courtyard, he could not help but make an ancient sign of protecting. Did the smell of the rain hide from him the unmistakable scents of blood and violence? While his calls for scour when unanswered, he saw light -- in the barn? "Hullo!" He cheerily called, edging closer. Why did he put his hand to the pummel of his blade? "Hullo!" He edged the door opened -- and drew back. From his lips was a Gaelic prayer for strength, before he left his horse behind and crept in. Did he truly need to see if breath still came from these forms? There was a slow shake of his head, a shock look upon even upon his own face. But as he backed out, he heard a sound. A strangled cry. He spun about, seeing -- the peasant man. In an instant, Faolan was on the man. A gauntleted hand clapped over the peasant's mouth, a finger touching his lips for silence. Then, when the man was cowed, Faolon left. Slipping through the darkness back to his horse -- and heading across the city. He had to check. Behind him, he could hear the cries of murder being raised behind him. He had to reach the townhouse -- to see what had befallen the Lady O'Cathasaigh. (D)

Narration + Peasent: Dublin Castle was a dark wash of black bricks in a slick oil rain that night. Blood began to seep out of the stable where the bodies were housed but seemed to cease, as if taint could not soak into a ground that was riddled with it. Was the blood of the victim unworthy to be taken in to the earth? It could be said that no Irish soil wanted any piece of the man known as Paul O'Cathasaigh, Duke of Dublin. None of it fit him, just like his body did not fit them. Packed earth floor beyond the door was a fit of tossed hay, loss, and anguish. The Peasent had come to plead the life of his son be spared with the embarrasment of indentured servitude. Embarrasment? Word was empty-pale to the truth that of the six branches of O'Cathasaigh it was the most powerful that made others wish the man called Paul would fall upon his own sword, and his wife would either do justice to the lineage of mother-country or kill herself for the shame of what was forced between her thighs these years. Down her throat. Smeared across soul. The stain of the English immigrants in the Irish line suffocated near all the worth from the name. Would the nay-sayer now dance, at what was here? The peasent, a tinder collector, was soaked from head to foot. When the hand clamped over his mouth, the arm grabbed him he only cried soft, " Me lord yer mercy, yer mercy! Let me gae home, shan't tell a soul wot was scene, shan't breathe word nor think on it again...please mercy! Do nay kill me, do nay kill me wot like the Duke n' his heir! Only came to plead clemency fer me boy, me boy!" He spoke despite the stifled hand, pushed by the force of what was seen to make due if God should chose to strike him down for the attempt. Was that what had passed? Or was it the tread-on, put-upon Gods calling out for vengence against the beraggled house? The servants within had been told to gather what they could of one house hold to transfer it to another. In cover, in secret. Even now some moved away the lesser known routes to the estate house on the other side of the city, leaving the Lord behind them. Other servants now emerged with lifted lantern in a frantic but muted search for the Duchess. Why was not all alarmed raise, the entire city awake? Why were not all the guards alerted? The Irish were strange people. (d)


Faolan: As far as the Irish were concerned? There'd soon be a new grave for them to dance and spit upon, for Paul O'Cathasaigh had won no Irish hearts. Indeed, t'was his forcing many Irish families out of they city walls and beyond the River Liffey that had seen many young and stalwart men go on and first bolster the raiding parties of the O'Bryne and O'Toole clan.. and later the armies of the late Ceannfort Mairi ni Tuatha'an and the current Lord-Governor. They would, 'owever, agree that the death of poor, young Finnen t'was a tragedy of the blackest sort. Finnen had been known to many of the Irish, whom agreed that he'd been a good and kind child. T'was the young boy who would receive the genuine grieving from the Irish still in Dublin's walls. But as all this welled up in Dublin, t'would be events that might come to ahead without the Lady O'Cathasaigh. What would the Lady or her servants do, when there came a pounding at the doors to the Lady's manor house? "Lady O'Cathasaigh, I come bearin' a message for ye! Lady O'Cathasaigh, are ye there?" Faolan paused, glancing about. "I come on business from tha Lord-Governor!" (D)

Evangeline: In contrast to the empty castle, the manor was lit. How bizzare it must have seemed to see the torch lights on the open road leading up to the stone house. Civility structured the routine in a mockery of what lay behind, at the castle. Was the poor Peasent in company with the Knight? Did he have a choice? Tinder-collector sought to gather pieces to stoke up a light to drive away the cold horror heavy in his own chest, but there was still a job to do. Evangeline concured with no words to the man. Merely, the shared thought for endurance was an Irish hallmark. Mourning was high, yes, but they lived with the same fever they claimed anything with zeal. Women were shaking out the the dust from the tapesty and carpets by moon, by torch. It was as if the household were making ready to entertain, yet it was the middle of the night. Unless Faloan saw a household of ghosts, there was a malady that gripped O'Cathasaigh's household. The door was half opened to the portion of the 'Govenor's business'. "Whom shall I be sayin' calls fer the Lady? She keeps tae herself, in shock." Peat bogs. That was what the voice of the Steward reminded him of - it would be the muck in a peat bog that sucked a person down until their legs were in mud so thick, it could have been iron. "Tis been a long night fer the house...." Only the Head of the Household, his female counterpart, would urge the door open further, "Aye, n' m'lady won't nay be turnin' away the Govenor's words, nay matter wot has befallen, besides, Govenor ought tae know." At least, unlike the King of England, the Govenor was Irish. At least the man above him, a Scott. Take a blessed favor where you could in this race, take a mercy, take a blessing where it could help some but it mattered little at Dublin. The county, the city main, was riddled in a locked grid of violence. A man's freedom edict had shone some hope, but it was years agone now. The people still battled themselves, the English hanger-on, and Paul O'Cathasaigh. The only thing that helped them was the same they pitied, and wondered if suicide would be kinder to: Evangeline (d)

Faloan:Was it truly so bizarre, when it showed naught but the division of loyalty within the household. Those that had counted themselves loyal to Evangeline - and, perhaps, to Ireland - had gone with their mistress. While those that had loyalty to Paul O'Cathasaigh had been kept in the dark. Faolan was a bit on edge, even as the castle across the city found itself roused by violence and bloodshed. What would the remaining staff of the castle make of it, to find the young Finnen trampled and Paul skewered? Would they begin to suspect that the Lady O'Cathasaigh had a role in the affair -- or that she had been abducted by force? Once the door was opened wider, the tinder-collector found himself thrust into the house as Faolan followed behind, telling the Head of the Household to close the door behind him. To the tinder-collector, Faolan pointed toward a chair. The instruction was clear: go and sit down. The glare that followed added 'And be quiet.' Might one of the servants take pity on the tinder-collector "Ye shall tell the lady that Faolan O'Connor 'as come tae 'er, on behalf of the Governor... The Governor 'as sent me to check upon the Lady's welfare. It 'as been three weeks, tha Governor says, since 'e last received word from Dublin." There could be little doubt that the developments of the night would trouble the Governor himself. He would wonder if the three weeks of silence had been prologue to the events that had unfolded this night...and if there had been anything that he could have done to prevent it from happening. In some ways, that was why Faolan had been sent. The Lady O'Casey's homelife reminded Jack a bit too much of his own childhood. In thought, Faolan mumbled, "I reckon that I shall ride back to Dunluce this night... fer the Governor might 'ave words for the O'Bryiens and O'Tools...." (D)

Evanageline: "I could answer this for ye without the Lady being present, as I be sanctioned tae." The Steward was not too keen on allowing the Govenor's man infront of Evangeline. Why, then, was the Head of the Household of a mind to disagree? The pair were dead-locked in opinions on what form of governance was better, if any at all. Whom really held Ireland, her lands, her worth? What was freedom and who was the herald that brought it? Two sets of eyes transferred ceaseless questions in the quiet before leading Faolan through the home. Up the stairs the trio went, as if climbing to a fabled dark tower. Irish fae stories were fastened hard in the psyche of the child, permeating the adult life. Three weeks was a long time; for months it was the longest they had seen the Lady within the house, not venturing outside. Without her outside, making rounds, the channels would fall into collapse. Of course it was a few trusted servants who in faith took the same risk as she, if not greater. They had no noble blood to cushion the blow nor use to the Duke, even if caught. "Tha' be for the Lady to tell, and so it should be. Here, sir. The door here you may open." The Steward came up to knock upon the door, "A visitor, m'lady. Govenor's business."

"Have him enter, please." (d)

Faolan: What was it that caused the tower that caused many a story about fairies, ghost, and one-eyed dragons to come rushing to the forefront of Faolan's mind? Were it not for the manor house's age, the tower could well have witnessed the events of those stories. Then again, he'd only spared a moment's thought about that. What had intrigued Faolan the most, had been the way that the Steward and the Head of the Household never seemed to agree on quiet what would be the best course to pursue. This was something that he puzzled on, until at last he was before the door where the Lady sheltered. Once he was bidden to enter, he would take hold of the door and open it. Before going through, he would look at the Steward and the Head of the Household. "By any chance," he asked, "Are the both of you married?" And then he was across the threshold, closing the door behind him. After a few moments, he would step forward and to the Lady. "My name is Faolan O'Connor, m'lady, an' I have come at the behest of tha Governor ...." He hesitated. Wondering how to gently phrase task that the Governor had sent him on. He hesitated, "Tha Governor, m'lady, grew quiet concerned when Dublin fell silent for three weeks....The Governor has sent me, to see of your welfare...." (D)

Evanageline: The two servants decline to answer the statement the knight made. Instead they ushered him into the keeping of the Lady O'Cathasaigh. The room was a fine one made, but spartan. The furnishings were taken to be freed of dust, the rugs the same. What was left were necessary tapestry to abate the cold air whistling in through the stone, one mighty fire, and a few chairs for the sake of not standing amay. "The Honorable Govenor is wonderin' if his messangers be dead or nay, at least the one. Ye may be plain o' it sir. Use is use. He wonders if the Duke had not killed what remained of Dublin or crushed it under some iron hold." She tucked still wet strands of hair behind her ears. Was rain not enough, that they had to be finely washed too? It was excess. He could see against her left cheek the imprint of a hand, the fading bruises of attempted strangulation. When she walked, it was with a slight limp to her step as she crept fingers over the back of a chair, offering him one to take. (d)


Faolan: Aeolian took a few moments to look around, before at last offering a half-bow toward the Lady O'Cathasaigh and murmuring, "Thank you, m'lady." There was a moments pause, before sitting down. He noticed how she limped. There was a quiet blink, before he ask, "Do you need help, m'lady?" He took a few steps toward her, to see if she needed his help. Only once the issue had been resolved, would he sit down. His mother had taught him well. There were a few moments, when he wondered at her words and at last said, "It may be as you say, milady....but I am not privy to the Lord Governor's thoughts... I am only privy to what he tells and bids me say." (D)

Evangeline: "Thank ye for a hand." She was not too proud to accept the rarity of a lended grasp to move from one place to the next. Ever wary of a hand that would strike her, even those feigning assistance could turn without being stroked with gold first . How did she tell the difference between the false and the sincere? Evangeline gave a sigh of relief to be off of both sore limbs before looking up to the knight. "Well ye need somewot tae say, in either sense. Ye may tell him that on the morrow the payment of the black rent will still go on, and the clans of O'Toole n' O'Bryen will be comin to have a renegotiating of term to channel the 'black rent' toward a better use. Dublin's fortifications, her streets, her ailing houses. It will come with the pronoucement of my husband and son's death. Not even the O'Tooles are cold enough to squeeze coin from a house in mournin." Even she was tempted to scoff at that. Ha! She would be one of the many who would dance on Paul's grave while Finnen would be buried no where near him. In a show of defiance even in his death, she would deprive him of his son so that the boy would have true, lasting rest. In earnest she could care less if one of his wailing men took him off that stable wall and pitched him off a cliff. "Three weeks of silence has been because the Duke discovered wot was gaein' on about him, and it was too dangerous fer me tae gae beyond my home." Yet it would have been safer ,than being only limited to so many places in castle and courtyard to hide from Paul's mounting rage. (d)

Faolan: There was a nod of his head, as he heard her words. The Governor would only have cause to regret the past more, it seemed. In truth, there was nothing that the Governor could have done to prevent the tragedy. Being a good soul, however, did not mean that he would wish otherwise. Then he said, quietly, "You have my sympathy, milady, over what 'as unfolded ......" there would be no need to check. It would be sincere regret that Faolan gavae her. He took breath, before quietly asking, "Do you mind, milady, to commit to paper what ye wish me to take back?" Being a poor boy, the mastery of letters had escaped Faolan. And he wanted to be certain to take back all of the revelant news. (D)

Evangeline: Would it be the length of his own past or those who lived on the little island that caused so much joy and so much trouble? She adjusted herself so as not to iratate the tender flesh inside of the left hip, favoring more the right. The move was so delicate; one signature move so erect back and legs crossed at the ankles were had, merely which hip made the motion more dominant as she sat up straight in the end. "Thank you," though she would accept it only for one, not the other. "I can have it written down, sealed so it is an official testament." One that would be bereft of a secret unless the Govenor sought to ask after Paul himself, or Faolan had ideas to the contrary. "Ye may past the night, the weather is tae harsh to travel by, n' Dublin is dark tonight." How true that was. (d)

Faolan:How true indeed. There was a nod of his head, "I appreciate yer hospitality, milady, an' shall glady take ye up on yer offer." He would rise, after being given his leave. "I shall put m'self at yer service, milady, if ye 'ave need of me." He would give her the name of his mother's tavern, which was the surest way to get in touch with him. (D)

Evangeline:"I shall have need o' tha' service perhaps, Sir Faolan. Faolan O'Connor, if memory serves. Ye know the O'Connor be but one of the few who do nay rise up from where they sit to give trouble unto Dublin. Much appreciated." Not that such an alliance would spurn a great turn of tide from lesser members, but it was still good knowledge all the same. She rose as well, bidding the door be open once more with a clap of hand. "The steward will show ye to your quarters for the evenin'. Should ye have further need but ask and the household shall be at yer service." What a strange interlude, a matter of business done with a room lent out for shelter against the rain while across the city where they ought to have been, murder's remnants were only now being dealt with. A loyal courier had stayed, waiting for the moment to fetch up the tatters of Paul the II, known as 'Finnen'. Of the other? Devil be care of it, for he had none. When Faolan had left, the Steward said little to him as they went to the room, "Have you what you require?" The Lady called for ink, pen, paper, wax, and seal so that she might write the account that would be suitable. In truth, she would write two. One to molify the obvious, the second, should time ever come to come calling on charges of murder. Testament could be had that the woman was bruised beyond one man's bid for survivial. No, it had been hers. Years for survival. (d)

*

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Reason

Evangeline: In a land where the difference between poverty and wealth was what the outside could produce for show, the heritage of Paul II was displayed from the government's own contributed purse. His mother's was not lacking, either. Between the two a masoleum to house his remains behind the manor that had been their respite from the wrath of the father that killed him. Could it be that simple? No, nothing ever was. Morning for Paul I was short, brief, and practical. He was lowered into the ground, the remnants blessed by the priest with lack-luster energies to fufil his station. No one came but a few paid mourners for show as to have the other clans leave them be. Why, the very day of the funeral all black rents were called off among the locals, but distance travelers were still a worry. As for Paul II, little Finnen? Only the staff were present, the priest feeling weight now as innocence was put away too soon. Now, a month later, with book of secrets in arm the mother scribbled at the feet of her son, communicating stories in the silence (d)

Faolan: What secrets did the White Rose of Dublin commit to her pages in her book? Were they secrets that a lady might commit to her diary, or would she find herself still trying to carry out the task of ferrying notes of great importance from end of the country to another? As she scribbled away at the feet of her son, would she hear the quiet tread of another through the garden path? Faolan had come a'calling, as he often had in the days and weeks that had followed the tragedy of Finnen's passing. Quietly, Faolan would quietly reach out to touch the monument that marked Finnen's site of eternal rest. There was a quiet Gaelic prayer, before he sat beside Evageline. There was a soft smile, as he tried to peak at what she wrote. Then he murmured, "Evageline......ye need take time fer yerself. Ireland shall nae tumble down inta dust without ya...." There was a not of quiet concern in his voice. Faolan had been one of the few outsiders that had attended the funeral of Finnen. Had any noticed that he had quietly held Evageline's hand throughout there ceremony? Did any truly know the feelings that each had for another? (D)

Evangeline: Evangeline recognized friendly hands, but ones that felt anything other than numb or the sting of impact were alien. Grief builds odd walls. None was for Paul the I, for his death meant her liberation. For weeks, she looked in the mirror to never see another bruise come after the last he'd offended her skin with had vanished. When it rained outside as it was want to do in Ireland, the Duchess of Dublin would stand out in it with none to care if the rain made cold impressions of rivers on skin, in clothes. She moved with a purpose her own to decide - but since Fennen's burial said nothing of the boy child who's resting place she sat at. "Ireland will gae on without me, will gae on with me, sae me writing shall make nay a difference outright taeday. Nay until tis delivered." (d) '

Faolan:There was truth to her words, that Faolan could not argue against that. There was a quiet sigh, as he simply sat with her. Enjoying the quiet of the time, sitting with her. What would she do, when she saw a hand reach over to gently cover the pages of her writings? It was there, just long enough to ensure that she would stop scribbling. That she might, hope against hope, look up at him. Faolan sighed quietly, "Evageline...I....." He hesitated, before at alst admiting, "I worry o'er ye. I knae now how ye fare...." Quietly, he would take his hand off the page. Instead, he would slide his arm around her waist. Gently guiding her toward him. (D)

Evangeline: There was no sense in arguing with the truth if that was what it was. It wasn't ugly or pretty, hopeful or helpful at present. Like the constant bid of rain or the green on the hills, it merely was. The pen of the White Rose moved until Faolan put his hand on it, making a large dot in the pages center. Blood spreading out on a stable floor - wait - but the ink was blue-black as the mourning clothes she sat in whilst against the boy's resting place. During the day all sorts of shades and colors galavanted brazen in Dublin Square, but here? Faloan drew a curious entity to his arm. A friend in the best of times, the question of what was lingered. "Ye needn't be worried, Sir. I live, ye live, Dublin hasn't burned down n' the black rent nay paid leaves us more the richer tae dae somethin' about other things." Not a mention, not a whit to the word of the boy. It was her heartache and her oddity. Smiling at him she rose, feeling strange to be held in his arms in the presence of the dead. Fennen hadn't even seen anything but his father striking his mother (d)

Faolan: A mix of expressions touched lightly upon his features, as he glanced down quietly. Had he offended her? But when he looked up toward her quietly, it was with a smile upon his features. Quietly, he rose. What would she do, when he reached out with his hand? It was a gentle touch. One that had only begun to hint at what could be.... It had started long ago, hadn't it? They were just now, in this time of tragedy, taking their care to try and work out how best to tend to what was blooming. "Have you eaten anything today?" She was prone to forgetting... had she always been? He would walk with her toward the house. (D)

Evangeline: "Nay, Ah haven't." The fact made her head swirl between the letters on the page as if swimming in an ink sea, but it was easily ignored. Beyond Dublin, the paths of a messenger were hard to tread. There was little to do with station or comfort when you curled against a cold moor. What was the allure? She turned her face from him but accepted his hand all the same. It was a strange friendship that grief stunted from blooming - or was it more than grief? It had been nothing short of a miracle that found the woman almost steadfast out of sheer defiance to the Duke. Cuckold husband in the end had the advantage of 'tsk tsk' for his poor, pretty bride. She was only his whore, while mistresses of the old King and even lesser Irish of scruple he kept at his leisure. Why then could she not take one comfort? "A mid day meal should be ready soon. Paul likes..." She froze, catching herself in reference to Finnen, "Ne'er ye mind. A meal will abate the headspells. Tis hard to write in English when ye letters all look the same." (d)

Faolan:And yet, was she always curled up alone on that night? She had not been the only traveler along those roads. He was quietly, simply holding her hand quietly. Gently moving his thumb in a small circle around on the back of her hand.. He was quiet, as she talked. He had been interested in knowning what she was to say. A sadness breifly touched his eyes as she spoke of Finnen. He chuckled, saying, "Tis hard to write in English at all....." He was quiet. As they moved toward the house, he said, "Will ye nae take e'en a short time away from yer task?" He glanced at her quietly, "I dae think ye have needs of time fer yerself.... we could gae outta tha Inn...." (D)

Evangeline: "I'm not fit fer the Inn nor for your good mothers company, Sir." The formality in her tone softened on the latter edge as it subsided into the realization of her weariness. Not just of toil, of strife, but of soul. Her soul was tired of enduring,.tired of making it just the proverbial one more day! Ashamed of the mind before the matter she released his hand as they went inside of the manor house. Often had Faolan come to offer his condolensce in silent sentinal. Or he may speak, when she did not. Oft talk had little to do with graves or remberance, but she remembered him. Black bread could be conjured in any Irish kitchen, a thick stew. A repetitve fair, but at least it wasn't made of seaweed (d)

Faolan: There was a soft smile, a light chuckle, "M'mum t'would big ta differ, Evageline....." He had gently been using her first name. While it was terribly improper, she had made no complaint about it. Faolan, however, did have to suffer the glares of Steward (and occasionally, the Head of the Household). As it was, he said gently, "It t'was m'mum's idea fer ye ta come...." He smiled quietly, "She wants ta see ya....." (D)

Evangeline: "Yer mum is a wise woman but today her difference begged is nay one taken..Faolan." She teased him back, making humor out of black things. Aye, they glared at him with no restraint for wondering what his inentions were. Was not a mourning woman an easy target? Had not such a thing happened where Good Christians no matter their lot ought never do it? She sighed as they came into the house, cutting them both a little bread for it was easier to eat if she weren't being stared at to do it (d)

Faolan:"T'will dae ye good," he said. He would sit with her at the table, giving his thanks to one of the servants. The would break black bread and hearty stew together, chasing away the headspells. There was a furtive glance about the kitchen, before he turned back toward her. When they were left alone -or something near it - Faolan would tease, "Ye know my mum 'as better food than this." There was a chringe, as if expecting a cuff from the Head of the Household. Would it be delivered? If the gods were kind, t'would be a light one. After a few a moments, he would say, "Ye need tae take time from her self-assigned task, Evalegine....." There was a firmness to his voice that had not been there before. "Ye shall dae nae one any good, iffen ye use yerself up now runnin' messages 'ither and yon." (D)

Evangeline: "Nay better than sittin in me own kitchen." she replied. The break bread and stew did the business of steadying the body but it was hardly the stick-to-ribs fair that his mother would give without thinking of taking her coin. It had been years since the likes of food had such a flare until the days she spent at that one little coastal in made her senses scream out for being so ignored. What did they do now, rebell? Nobility was bad enough at staunch representations, but Irish nobility? A wealth of stubborn smiled at Faolan while the Household Head took a swipe at his arm. But as with all things, the servants would leave for this was not a table where she was to be waited on. Firm voice replaced the humor which brought the true Head of the Household, the Lady O'Cathasaigh, to say, "Well thank ye fer yer thought but unless ye are m'seventh day lord n' master, the matter is decided. Sae, since ye are nay the Christ nor m'husband we have little tae gae on about. The messages give somethin tae barter with n' some clout, unless ye are aware tha' the Dublin O'Cathasaigh lot hardly speak tae one another since the plague called Paul? Tha' wont beh changin just because we can dance on his grave, nay, have tae bind us all up taegether some how afore the O'Bryne's think Dublin beh fer sale." (d)

Faolan: "Yer a prideful woman, actin' as though tha weight o' tha world rest upon yer shoulders....." He canted his head, "Shall I be tellin' tha Lord-Governor tha' he need nae worry sae o'er the lands, fer the Dublin O'Cathasaigh 'as all in hand? I shall be sure an' tell him." There was a shake of his head, "Ye are nae the only messenger tha' serve the Lord-Governor.... tha true lord o' Ireland.... Why ye think yerself sae is beyond me. The O'Bryne's answer ta the Lord-Governor an' nay anyother." It was the truth, although more to do with the Lord-Governor's army and allies in County Antrim (specially, the O'Niell and ni Tuatha'an clans). "Tis beyond me ta know why ye seek ta work yer fingers ta the bone sae now.....I dae wonder....May'ap ye purposely be tryin' ta catch a chill fer an early grave?" (D)

Evangeline: "Aren't ye a keen thin', all talk o' pride as if ye know one thing from another. Well Sir Faolan ye might want tae open yer keen wee eye tae the fact nay a great many messenger will brave Dublin will they? Oh! Wot mean ye Evangline? The Lord-Govenor just 'as sae many young, stout 'earted men burstin at the trews n' tartan to come a'jiggin' into the Black Pool! Well, fer as grand a man as the Lord-Govenor is this be nay the County Antrim, n' it's a real hotbed of tom foolery n' murder. He does wot he can Ah wager but ye know the O'Cathsaigh sat here afore him n' they'll be here after him six septs sprea dn' all sae wot know I?(d)


Faolan: "Tha Dublin O'Cathasaighs, may'ap," Faelon shot back, "But shall nae be ye!" There was a snort, " 'ave ye e'en availd yerself tae a lookin'glass? I shall wager tha' e'en yer shall nae recongize tha woman in the mirror! 'Ave ye been sae been near tha brush o' death, tha' ye canne help but ignore tha' feelin' of it on yerself? Ye've dark circles under yer eyes, fer cryin' out loud. An' ye are as thin as fence post....." (D)

[n]Evangeline[/b]: Evangeline shot over the table between them so fast he would not have had time to react. One quick hand went across one end of his face, and then the other, for good measure! Her body pulled back to come around, "Well, m'lord high n' mighty ye may recount m'features n' form with scorn but allow me tae say tha' when County Antrim makes its free self down these roads tae Dublin n' yer Govenor spends a little less time in Turas Lan with the oh sae enlightened Scotts, n' ye pull yer alleged golden head out o' yer arse maybe ye'll see Dublin fer wot it is! Half rich, half shyte. The shyte is beginnin tae outweigh the rich part, but fergive me fer nay look as if Ah should be as pretty as a bloom! Family's as devided as a rake n' only talks o'er black rent, now sayin things because Paul is dead but wot ye wager they say aside who will take the seat now, as if nay one else is there? Who, Faolan O'Connor, WHO. Mfooker o' a husband is dead n there is nay peace in tha' because the only thing he e'er made worth keepin DIED ON THE SAME NIGHT. Sae if Dublin keeps me busy enough tae nay remember a rather twisted envenin ye self righteous son' o' a bytch." Well damn. Miss Evangeline turned on her heel then as if to leave the kitchen! (d)

Faolan: To his credit, Faolan did try and reach when he saw her coming. At most, he had time to widen his eyes and press his hands on to the table. Then he felt the stinging of her slaps, each in quick sucession of the other. Was the marks of her hands that made his cheeks glow, or the slow-burn of anger? He said nothing, as she stood above him and tried lording over him like he was Brigid come again. What reaction would she have, when he near jumped to his feet? When she made to leave, he caught her arm. Spun her about to face him. "Dae fergive mer nae seein' tha' ye are tha Glorious Martyr tha' 'as been sent tae liberate Dublin all by yer lonesome! 'Ave ya found tha' ye can dae it all wit'out tha 'elp o' we lowly mortals?" There was a snort. "What state dae ye think ye shall leave Dublin, Evalegine, iffen ye gae saw quick ta the grave? Ye shall live it a pile o' shyte, fer ye only care 'bout what *ye* can dae ta better it! Well, miss 'igh an' mighty, what shall we poor mortals dae when ye die? We'll nae 'ave yer guidin' light ta follow o'er us!" The grabbing of her arm had been the only physical contact they'd had. Even in his anger, Faolan would not subject her to anything more. He was not Paul the First. "Ye are sae full o' yerself tha' ye canne be bother when someone tells ye tha' ye are workin' yerself ta death an' lookit!" (D)

Evangeline: Evangeline moved with an instinct that belied a woman who had no more intention of laying down a willing Irish-Catholic fable that was beaten on, belittled, and berated. Her eyes had the polish of a predator's eyes, a wolf wanting to rip out Faolan's throat with all of her teeth latched on the jugular. When he took her arm, a bit of old fear crawled in her veins like arsenic. Instead of going to paralysis, she shruggled as he spoke to her! "Let me gae, let me gae O'Connor! Damn it! Damn it let me gae yegreat beast!" His words were winter ice shards shredding at the meager shelter that held all the warmth inside. Tears polished up her eyes as her voice all but snarled at him, gnashed! "High and mighty! Oh well then, where were ye when Paul was beatin the shyte out o' me at fifteen, or when he threw me intae the bed behind a closed curtain tae f--k me afore the bishop, his men, laughing? And when durin' the raid talks, they want tae rape ye but aye yer a man, aren't ye? All c--ck out n' about and thick 'eaded? Ah can nay see when someone tells me well ye tell me why Ah should pay tha' much attention. Dublin's Martyr. HA. They be afraid o' me, there's nay martydom in tha'!" She shruggled until she ended up against the kitchen wall, her other hand beating against his shoulder, his chest. "High n' mighty can keep me alive but ye dun see finnen here dae ye.. Martyer. HA! Survival, Survival! Tha's all it is, n' if there is a love o' the patriotic n' the country tis there, oh aye tis there, but when yer clansmen n' kith shyte on yer head it rather becomes a little pale sae fergive me the lack of light tae shine about as though ah be God's chosen. Nay, others had the idea..Ah just got up tae dae the job! Better an Eire free n' a Govenor tha' frees n' a Scot tha' gives it money n' one chance....one CHANCE tae be rid of it all Ah'd deliver a hundred messages a day! Aye, pride. Survival n' pride n' dun ye be tellin me ah dun deserve a little o' it after bein' RAPED and degraded fer years, n' losin' m'son." She finally tore her hand from his, breathing as if she were going to shed him to pieces, as if some part of her couldn't tell the difference. What would he do to quell it? (d)

Evangeline: What all did the Steward and the Head of the Household make of what went out in the kitchen? Did one move to try and to open the door, only to be bared by the other? "Is tha' it?" He growled back, "Ye seek someone ta blame an' decide tae lay it all at m'feet?" Her arm was again taken. The hand, this time, was scratched her she had gone after with claws in an effort to free her arm from him. If she tried again to claw her way free, she'd find her other hand grasped! He yanked her hands above her head virutres -- ne'er realizin' tha' ye squander yer survival in how ye treat yerself! What good be all yer works, iffen ye will nae eat nor sleep? Tae we shall ye become, ta be feared! All ye shall be daein' is ensurin' the all ye 'ave strived fer tumbles down, fer the Lady of Dublin t'was tae prideful ta 'ear a friends words! An' tha' be what I am! I am nae some enemy come ta ye -- but a friend!" (D)

Evangeline: "I'm nay blamin ye fer shyte but tellin ye as it be, O'Connor! LET ME THE HELL GAE!" The Steward was ready by now to pull Faolan away from Eva, but it was for once the Household Head who did nothing to save the woman from the necessary evil of facing herself. At least then the man would have some use to linger about the premesis. As was common of so many things the doors were shut to ensure that none could witness a scene unfolding where a woman kicked, struggled for her own preservation. Or was it he was pulling out the blasphemous in order to find the woman inside of it? She began to cry, sobbing even as she shook her head. Wailing like the washerwoman at the ford she bared her nails but was unable to take him. Shruggled but could not get him off. "WHAT RIGHT HAVE I!" She wailed, kicking at him now, "Wot right have I tae gae on when fer all of it, all of it the one thing tha' e'er meant anythin tae me is dead, and now m'sae called friend is holdin me down like a whore!?" Paul must have had a time subduing her in the earlier years, only finding her patient to be his dog when the boy's life meant more than her own vanity. "Let me gae Faolan, ye make yer fookin' point, let me the fook gae.." She wailed.."Dun make me hate you..don't sae help me Christ n' Joseph I will..." But it was half hearted, weary. "Pleadin'...fer half a year..with m'kindred tae take up arms against Paul n' when they dae the bastard's pin tae a wall n' m'son is dead.....dead. Ye have nay children..dae ye know wot it is like.." "she winced, the wound he dealt her, the last knife, still healing. (d)

Faloan:She would sense it, when Faolan realized his point had been made. His grip on her wrist would loosen, he would relax. What would she do, when Faolan would turn about so that it was his back to the wall? He turned her hands loose... instead, putting his arm around her once again. Gently would use his other hand to guide her chin upward, so that he could look into her eyes. Softly, he murmured, "Gods above.... I cannae think of a worse fate than' 'avin' ye 'ate me....." He closed his eyes quietly, before opening them. "I cannae think o' anythin' worse...." What would she do, as he kept eye contact with her? Gently, he would lean down to touch his lips against her own. Was it anything she had felt before? There was no will to impose or dominace to show. T'was far to gentle for that. Was it love? He swallowed, doing what he could to hold himself together. It had been unnerving to hear her beg for him to let her go. "I dae nae know what tis like to a loose a child," he said, "I dun expect tha' shall be somethin' I experince any time soon.... But what good tis it fer ye ta work on an' on, ta be all but dead ta the world? Tis harsh ta gae on.... there nae be a soul who does nae know that...." Morgan, for one. Jack for another. "But ye must.... tha' ye can clearly means tha' tha Gods 'ave somethin' instore fer ye....." (D)

Evangeline: Just when she began to shake without want nor control of it, he relased her. The grip slackened, allowing the absence of his force to feel the riot under her skin that contained her own. Now it was she before him, able to bid for her freedom. Paul had never given her the chance to evade him, only the pleasure of listening to her pleas fall silent into a sad sort of acceptance as he asserted his will upon her as a seventh day lord and master. Was Eve's sin so dire it called for woman to be forced towards heaven with her hair pulled back, her face scorned? Just as her face scrunched up in confusion between what was now against what was passed, he kissed her. It had been too long; over ten months since the last time he braved the venture to show what little of the affection she'd known. Brow weighed down hard on the eyes until they sealed closed. Whimpering, it felt as if an anvil was on her heart, "What can be in store for meh tha' could nay have had Finnen? Ah ne'er asked fer anythin. I'm a terrible mother fer nay e'en wantin' him when he was in meh, nor nor lovin him the first weeks o' his life..but...I learned tae, n' he was all of me. What plan is sae great tha' after forcin a child upon us any God or Gods would take tha' away.." Instead of wrenchin herself away? She let herself go into his arms.. "Dun do tha' to me again..Faolan, dun make me remember tha'..dun make me see it tha' way. I'm sorra. I'm sorra I can nay be anythin else..I'm just..I'm sorra." (d)



Faolan:Faolan would say nothing of her status as a mother or what plans could be made or broken by the gods. He would murmur, quietly, "Tha' ye loved the boy as a mother should, shows well an' true tha' ye are one o' the greatest o' mothers...." He would wrap his arms around her, holding her close. He murmured, "Ye 'ave done nothin' ta ask fergiveness o'er.... I 'ave. I 'ave this night fergot all tha' me mother taught me....I should be the one ta ask ye fergiveness..... An' I dae. Will ye fergive me what I done this night? I only wish ye ta take care o' yerself...." (D)


Evangeline:Evangeline was swept up in the strangness of the moment; wincing in a pain that couldn't have a name other than anguish, Faolan would be the only solace, wouldn't he? Steadfast servants were still of yet not steadfast friends, but time would find who could be friend. Who could take on the churning sea to conquer it, to make landfall? "I fergive ye..I know. I know wot ye meant by it, only way tae reach me aye? God, this is all sae wrong.." To be shaken awake after years of being shaken to unconsciousness She muttered into her friend and sometime lover's embrace. "Let's gae, Faolan. Let's gae tae the inn, n' yer mother?" Suddenly she wanted very much to be free of the falsehood and to laugh, as only the O'Connors seemed to do. O'Cathasaigh's were incapable of it, in Dublin, unless it was over gallows humor. (d)

*

Reason: Consequence

Faolan:Faolan couldn't help but smile quietly, wondering what his Mum had thought at seeing him return home -- accompanied by the Lady O'Catasaigh. There was little doubt, however, that Eva was certainly getting all of the things she had so badly neglected after Finnen's death. She found herself laughing with the O'Connors, enjoying good rib-sticking food, and a good nights rest (sometimes cuddled into Faolan's side!). As it was, Faolan was climbing toward the top of the Inne's titular lighthouse. As he came within sight of her, he smiled, "I thought ye might be up 'ere, Evaligne... Gives ya a good view o' the surroundin' country." (D)

Evangeline: Her soul succumbed to the want of good folk to chase the darkness away, and so it was that Evangeline laughed thirty days after the world had ceased to spin. In the few days with them she ate enoug hfor it to change her figure to harken to what may have made Faolan pay her attention. Still, the young woman had things to reckon with. The Lighthouse was closest to God as one could come without scaling the Babel Tower he'd destroyed when men came to close. "Aye, ye can see all o' Eire from here it seems n' God is all the closer." (d)

Faolan: At the first, he couldn't help but smile. He thought that was the first time she had ever called Ireland by the old name. The second, however, gave him pause. While Morgan had raised him as good Christian (with stronger undertones of the old faith), Faolan himself was lapsed. He would go to stand beside her at the railing, looking out over all of Ireland. "I though' tha' ye might be up 'ere ... ta be alone..." He murmured. After a few moments, he gave an answer for why he had come. Quietly, he would slide his hand over. To take her hand into his own. He offered it a light squeeze. His other arm he slid around her waist, to hold her close. (D)

Evangeline: "Suppose one be alone when all they 'ave is the ocean, God, n' a lighthouse." One arm slid out to claim a bit of form that was of a woman who was his best friend, his supposed lover. One knight of Ireland and one Anglo-Irish noble from The Pale. Two people on the edge of the country that seemed at times as if it would fall off into the very ocean that beat against the rocks. She listened to it; Morgan O'Connor said that oft if ears were keen the wale of old souls came off the sea because the open stone holes gave them a throat. The pounding on the shore gave them a heart again. She let the wind toss about everything on her from the homespun wool dress to the golden threads of her hair. "M'mind can nay stop spinnin. There is somewot in me..hurtin, for fear o' how it will marr you. Ye know Finnen loved the shore. Could hardly pull 'im from it most days.." (d)

Faolan: There was a smile, as he nodded. "Ye 'ave said tha' often....I dun think tis possible ta be born near the shore an' nae love it...." He loved the sea as much as any, and the Lord-Governor was said to actually have salt water flowing through his veins. "I imagine tha' tis sae fer all children ta.... ta come out ta a place where ye can see naught but where land an' sky become one, an' all is possible?" His mother had often told him that. Did both of them listen to the old souls given new throats? Whose voice did Morgan and Faolan listen to? There was, however, little doubt that both Eva and Faolan could hear anew sound. The sound of what sounded like a young boy's laughter mixed in with the sound of the surf. "Wha' tis it tha' ye think can marr me?" (D)

Evangeline:The souls in the surf were the mixtures of ancient relatives and the too-soon dead. Too young counted high as she considered Finnen. His name was Finnen O'Cathasaigh and the anglicanized Paul was so blasphemous that it read Finnen where his body lay never to move again. Tide twisted tendrils of green-gray against the rocks of the light house. Evangeline sighed as heavy as the wind in the mouth of the caves where Morgan said that the saints lay down to cry. Morgan O'Connor was infinite in her wisdom, hands scarred, broken by a trade she loved enough to devote herself to it as much as she did to her son. As much as the Lord-Govenor had to the sea. Was this the reason why devotion required a ceasing point before one reached a place where it was too late to return? Neither Aira O'Cathsaigh could return of voice, now a convent mute, nor John of Lancaster seek any comfort from the prison he was fabled to have died in, for Evangeline didn't know. Nor could any that tripped into the cracks seek relief. This was why now she confessed a fear, or perhaps a thought. "Faolan, I ne'er told you something about Finnen, I ne'er thought it was true, until tha' night...when Paul killed 'em. He raped me, tha' was how I thought tae beget Finnen. Why I was sae angry at havin' had him when for years me only vengence was tae give the man nay offspring But..nay long afore that..I..I was with you." (d)

Faolan:T'was that the reason Faolan could hear Finnen's laughter, when the surf came to dance around the rocks at the light house's base? After should be able to hear the laughter of a son, even if it t'was a son hardly known. But even then, there had been signs of what could have been. Like his mother, Finnen had counted Faolan -- a secret messenger that called to Dublic Custle and the manor house -- a close friend. Had Finnen ever thought it odd, when Faolan would stay the night? Or had he simply be o'er joyed to have his friend close? At her words, she would see that Faolan's face would pale a bit. As he took in the news. His eyes widened a touch. Was there thought behind his eyes? Perhaps, a confirmed suspicion.... He leaned against the railing of the Lighthouse's platform, as though for support. But still he would her hand, offering it a squeeze. "...Are ye sayin', tha' Finnen t'was m'boy?" It was almost likely. Evagline had missed her womanly time closer to having been with Faolan, then after she had been raped by Paul. There was a soft, sad smile upon his features, "I 'ad a son...." He looked up at her, a quizzical expression upon his features, "Did I always treat 'im 'as one?" (D)

Evangeline: Laughter was everywhere in the minds of those that missed the boy. Finnen had his face! She saw it now, the way his hair hit the sun or how his soft features would have turned into those of Faolan as he aged. She realized her own inability to deduce her body or to love the boy early enough to make sense of his creation cost him his life. Putting a hand to her mouth as the tears welled in her eyes she nodded at a furious pace, "Aye, aye ye did. More than Paul e'er did! Oh I'm sae stupid." Her back went against the light house, perhaps pulling him with her if he still held on. The world again was suddenly too bright! "Paul killed 'em because he knew. He knew about the messages n' he learned 'bout us. I ne'er told him, nor did Finnen e'er really know...oh God." Thirty days of supression cried out for release as her voice became hollow. "Ye loved him Faolan..better than I did. I killed 'em, I killed m'boy fer Dublin." The Pale's liberation wouldn't give her back Finnen, but it would be finished now. She had strung herself out postrate across Ireland too far to come back now ,with Faolan doing the same. (d)

Faolan: Faolan would go with her, one arm stretching out to brace himself against the Lighthouse. Once more, it seemed, Eva was with her back to the wall and only Faolan before her. Still, though, their hands were intertwined. Much like their fates, so it would seem. As she told all, as her voice seemed to go come from a hollow soul, what would happen when she saw Faolan riase a hand? It was not to strike her, but to wipe away her tears. "Ssssh, sssh, Eva..... Ssssh." There were tears in his own eyes. His own shock was coming to the fore, over having lost a son that he had never known as truly as he wished. "Ye did nae kill our boy...." There was a bit of stress on 'our'. "Ye did nae kill Finnen. I knae ye, Eva, I knae ye true. Ye did what ye could ta save Finnen. I knae tha' wit' all me heart.... An' that shows ye well an' truly loved 'im. Ta be given yer 'urts. It shows ye loved Finnen with all yer bein'." He kissed her softly, on the cheek. To kiss away her tears. Then he kissed her lips. He took a deep, shuddering, breath before he murmured, "I love ye, Eva. I always shall.... I think I always 'ave. Ne'er could I wait ta get ta see ye at Dublin Caslte ...er yer manner house... er ta ride wit' ye upon the roads..... E'ery chance I got, I got ta be wit' ye. An' Finnen...." (D)

Evangeline: "But it wasn't enough fer he's dead n' we need tae gae on livin' without him! I can't....can't...pretend tha' it will endure anymore when it won't. It will nay. I want our boy! I want 'im in me arms Faolan! His breath on m'breasts n' his hair in m'hands...n' hands burn n' m'arms are hea...heavy." She turned her eyes over to face him but this time he didn't restrain her in anger. They were now shared partners in a mutual grief. "He loved ye..he did.Anythin, anythin' just tae 'ear his voice one more time. I couldn't stop him!" She nearly wanted to plead his forgiveness for her ignorance, and her inability to spare the innocence. " I couldn't...I..I came tae n' ...he." Her lips were quiet on his for a moment, and what restraint was excersised was released. Why bother with it? What was to be hidden now? All they had was this - pretense purchased early graves. "Ye love me?" She whispered, kissing him again, bittersweet the joy in that. "Ye love me.." Her hands held both sides of his face before coming to rest on his shoulders. "I love ye, too." They were only one reflection of gray tinged sorrow on The Pale coast. (d)

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

The Call


Lady Evangeline O'Cathsaigh

The Pale was out beyond anything consisting of the Lighthouse. One plain name was enough to denote it from all other lights along the coast; the family who kept it was enough to denote it from all other inns. If she closed her eyes she could hear sea sirens lulling sailors to die but it was the O'Connor light that saved them. What of O'Casey? What did it have left? The Lighthouse seemed to stand a part from the Pale but the Pale was the land in which they were all vested. Ireland was a thing that pretended to be civil when it was really unkept, wild. (d)

Sir Faolan O'Connor

Couldn't an observer from the mainland say that same for many of the countries in the Celtic Nations? In Ireland and Scotland, it was true that cattle raiding and blood feuding was the way of the land -- yet, were not the Scots and the Irish keeping to their old ways? If ever the cattle raids or the blood feuds seemed to threaten the survival of peace, the monarchs of Skye and the Lord-Governor of Ireland was sure to march with the one thing the Celtic people respected: a larger army. But was that not what gave the Celtic Nations .... Celtic and beloved? As it was, she had only the Lighthouse and Fao and his mother to worry over now. Once more, they had escaped to the sanctuary that they offered. Fao would appear beside her, "Eva? Eva.... are ya awright?" (D)


Lady Evanageline O'Cathasaigh



"Aye, but Eire is nay. Ye know I used tae dream, n' still do tha' the sirens call a man tae die but the O'Connor light keeps it at bay. With sae little ye keep a world at bay, n' make a world. With sae much the O'Cathsaigh have, the world crumbes n' a stronghold for Eire with it. The more we stay here the longer it gaes. I'm gaein tae make a message...fer the govenor, nay..delier it m'self but send it through the channels. Loyal, they be. O' wot is known." She looked at him in no more than O'Connor plaid dress with dark brown plaid covering her shoulders (sorry got distracted) "I want nothin' more than tae stay here, n' it even makes me wish tae change m'name." Half smile showed the pleasant thought of relinquishing all that was complicated or tattered, but there was still a pride in what was the root of it. Strong. Unable to back down. She was as proud of her maiden and married name as Faolan was of his. O'Cathasaigh meant something. Ireland? Well it meant even more. (d)


Sir Faolan O'Connor

There was a soft smile, has he listened to those words. "Tha' could be said tha' tis tha purpose o' the Lighthouse....." He murmured, "It daes so for tha sailors at sea....an' those lose upon land....an' fer ye? It keeps tha world at bay....." There was a soft smile. "I dae nae think tha' Eire crumbles, as ye think..... tis it not more peaceful than tha'? If anythin' else, I would think o' the seasons as they change.... From winter ta spring. What the Lord-Governor does now, tis just the beginnings." There was a quiet nod of his head, "Tis much to dae, aye...but with loyal an' true retainers -- such as ya, such as ma'self...it can be done. An' it shall be done. Ye need only be willin' ta dae it. Just know....soon Eire may require more o' ye then the sendin' of messages." (D)


Lady Evangeline O'Cathasaigh:

"Tha' be preachin tae the choir, O'Connor. It is said we are the land n' the land is us. If tha' is sae Ah be the faithful counties n' beyond wot we lost tae the raids. I am Dublin n' she is me. " A woman once spoke the same, and now she lay beneath the ocean floor. Mairi was driven, and while Eva was not a woman for whom sword ever called the ambition was the same. "Should it please his Govonorship I'd like tae keep Dublin, n' rule it with his grace, n' restore m'lands back, n' bring the O'Cathsaigh tae decency once more. Tha' the O'Connors whom deserve it should be lauded, n' tha' everythin, the foolish raids can be turn toward the raidin' English. We have things, with us, tha' he doesn't know yet." That was truth she uttered. He did not yet know all of the names, though many were given. Nor all of the clans whom also paid the English to do their work. There was so much brewing that one could not look at the top of the pot for seeing only the froth." By the time the Govenor returns, he may lose more than the Pale if he does nay hurry. Ye know they are comin tae wage a war. They are already out there..somewhere, near the ocean. One o' the messangers crossed yon the o'er day, near dead from wounds." (d)


Sir Faolan O'Connor

There was a soft smile, as he said, "I would nae worry over much of the Pale or those tha' flee ta it .... fer the Lord-Governor shall be makin' steps ta keep them bottled there." There was a pause, where he bit his lip. Then he said, "...Tha Lord-Governor left Skye two days ago -- 'e is head to make his Court in Dunluce." That was true enough -- and like a surprise. The Lord-Governor's movements had been well secret. More owning to the safety of his family, than to the safety of himself. "As fer yer lands -- I cannae think of any reason tha' he shall deny tha' ta ye." Especially since Eva paid the Lord-Governor her loyalty and it had cots her much -- although one suspected if she knew that her responsibilities would soon stretch beyond to Dunluce and to all of the county? There was a smile, as he reached out to twine his fingers with her own. "Dae ye know tha' it means more than tha world itself, ta hear ya say tha' yer willin' to change yer name an' tha' ye wish the O'Connors to 'ave Dublin?" He leaned down, softly, to kiss her lips. It was a soft, gentle thing. "Ye cannae know 'ow that warms m'heart." (D)


Lady Evangeline O'Cathasaigh

She kissed him, feeling a sense of redemption in his presence. Wasn't that what this was? A broken promise that would have marred her marriage but saved an immortal soul. She didn't try to fathom God's nature of sin or how he could forgive one thing or allow another. It wasn't worth it thinking as a celestial being. "I want the O'Connor tae come, n' fer the O'Cathasaigh tha' can manage it tae come forward, fer a family tae be levied of them. Ye n' I are a given. Ye n' I..are forever. Ye have me." The brown wool gave up one of her hands to touch his face. "I want yer faith in things. Yet e'en with the Govenor comin' tae Dunlace, we need tae gae back, we need tae gather our allies..n' companions." (d)

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

The Call II

Sir Faolan O'Connor


For all of the Lighthouse's ability to keep the world at bay, it seemed as though the world was intent to have some say on those that sheltered within. It would be near supper time, a few days later, that this point was driven home. It had been when a group of clan chieftains - both those of considerable standing and lesser - had arrived at the light. While Morgan was more than capable of handling herself, it would Fao would rose -- and then went to see what the matter was. (D)


Clan Chieftains


"God keep ye Morgan, O'Connor."
"Thank ye, but right now ye be keepin the lot o' m'home n' inne tae loud now. Eat yer sup, worry o'er the world later fer now it worries nay o'er ye"

"Tha's just it!" The man slammed his shut fist down on the table. It made his drink leap into the air, and like small liquid dancers, droplets lept out of the mug and onto the table. Soon, one more thunderous smack of whole hand sent all the drink out, causing the bar wench to sigh. She went over to the table with her smiling signs for pardon, blotting at it with her paron while Morgan glared at the Chieftain. His name was O'Reily, which would bode nothing well for anyone with the name O'Casey. "Things gaein quiet, a bevy of things and now the wells tha' were ample are dryin' up. Whilst we are supposed tae make merry with the Griffin at our head things are still tae shyte since Ulster was reclaimed. Wot o' the rest of the damned Isle, eh? Still 'ave Ainglish loyalists makin' trouble, joinin enemy clans fer raids, plottin' the larger overthrow. Powerful families o' half English bastards tyin our nooses at the gallows, Morgan!" (d)


Sir Faolan O'Connor

What would the reaction be, as Faolan entered the scene? He was quiet for a time. Letting his presence - the son of Morgan O'Connor, after all, was a strapping knight - speak for a while. "G'eve, m'lords..." He waited for their response. "I am nae the Lord-Govenor as ye can see....but dae know tha' I shall try an' answer fer 'im as best I can. I can speak only ta what I shall dae m'self, but I feel as though tha' Lord-Govenor an' I are of a similar mind." He was quiet for a long while, before saying."As any can be sayin' plain, we Irish are an unrly lot -- sae why does it surprise ye tha' the Lord-Govenor allows ye free 'ead ta dae what ye wish? He 'as made Ulster tha' example fer all others ta follow." (D)


Clan Chieftains

"Aye n' while he sits gettin' fat on Scottish money n' we are supposed tae believe the Scotts let us be free n' Equal, the England they have claimed tae subdue still is a sharp enough pain in m'backside tae stab me true in the back, boy. Lord Govenor's Ulster is without the Govenor! N' wot say ye tae this?" He sat back as he looked out at the O'Bryan whom cleaned the nails of his fingers with the tip of his dagger, "I say the Pale is Pale indeed, with tae many damn English Lilies. Four faithful counties a faithful tae wot might I ask. Replaced one king fer another with a woman tae o'ersee the lot is like askin a woman tae dae anythin but wot she is good fer?" Morgan asked, "N' wot be we good for O'Bryan? Ye seem tae dae more than eat m'food n' drink, once ye took a woman's blade." The company said 'aye' knowing that at one time it was O'Connor steel they sought, and often from the woman who know let them sup in her livlihood. "Some women are able tae handle a gift, others are nay. Where be the messanger folk, afraid tae come out. Where be the one wot stirred them?" This roused them up all the more as talk turned to Dublin.


Morgan O'Connor, Inn and Lighthouse Keeper

Morgan left the table as she passed by her son, "Tell Eva tae stay upstairs. Feels a fued brewin."


Clan Chieftains

But as it was, Evangeline was already downstairs, far back of the commons where the table of men couldn't see her but she could hear them. Oh, how she heard them. She listened to the indignant tone taken at O'Cathasaigh sin, of women baring Anglo children and their English husbands being allowed to rape the women, now no better than whores in their matches. They spoke of how black rent Dublin paid only turned a clan to raid anther anyhow, or to double the efforts upon the faithful four counties out of spite. They spoke of Paul's tyranny alive after his death, of forces that they fought each day on their lands. Some succeeded, others were hanging by a thread, and how the Govenor seemed to do little of this. They spoke of the O'Connors, as if they O'Connor lessers weren't there, of how good families were forced to fraternize with the bad ones, and that the inne trafficked the wrong sort. There was talk too of the messangers being dying or dead, of Evangeline having fled to Turas Lan or worse yet, London! (d)


Sir Faolan O'Connor

Faolan would wait, letting the men have their say. After a few moments, he would say, "Tis a sad thing tha' I see before me......." There was a cant of his head, "Did nae the lot of ye so readily back the Ceannfort when she twice made her attempts to liberate nae only Ulster -- but all o' Eire? Through it all, the Lord-Governor t'was by 'er side. An' ne'er once 'as he flagged in his efforts ta be seein' Eire..." He was quiet. Then he said, somberly, "E'en when the Ceannfort 'erself was cut down by the Anglish." He watched them all. "Tha Lord Governor 'as ne'er once bowed down ta tha Scottish Mo'r Triath er Mo'r Oukselo -- an' ne'er will he. He is tha' Lord-Governor o' Ireland -- rightful claimant ta all tha' the Ceannfort laid -- an' shall be as such. What palns 'e 'as are beyond your keen....." What would the gathered clan cheiftans have made of it, to learn that soon the armys of the Lord-Governor would rise and march -- not simply to battle the English, but also claim the fabled Hill of Kings. Jack Flynn would go from simply being the Lord-Governor, to Ard Ri. The High King of all Eire. (D)


Clan Chieftains

"The U'Neill were Ulster n' Ulster was them, now they be a shadow in the light o' someone named Flynn." It was a cold reply to the history in Faolan's words, a history that liberated them from untold years of opression from an English hand, long before the Mo'r Triath's historic taking of England, long before he laid waste to York. Long before London bowed to the Griffin standard Ireland was coming under the Ceannfort and her consort, The sea-worthy Flynn. Ireland was Ireland long before the Mo'r Triath and Mo'r Oukselo escaped from a failing kingdom, only to learn of their own inheritance. Mairi knew what was hers, and Jack knew where he was from. What now that the Ceannfort was a memory sung of, toasted to, a ballad? What now that the call to freedom had come down to a faint echo some years later and they struggled with the last of a people that couldn't let go? How the English 'fought' to hold on to the storied past was still enough to weaken the native born.


Lady Evangeline O'Cathasaigh

Sucking in a great lot of air, Evangeline came out of the safety of seclusion. "There's nay sesnse in speakin' tae them o' such things, Sir O'Connor. Wot they care on be how long, how fast, how often, how bloody, n' how much money. They envy the wealth tha' the others are havin under the Mo'r Triath's reign n' wish they had larger estate or more horse. Could care a wit less about the land they be on or who runs them in the end." (d)


Clan Chieftains

That would be the ultimate test of the chieftains' character, when the fabled Messenger would make her own presence felt. Despite what they might feel toward the woman, they had all be raised to show proper respect. Some were, no doubt, quicker to stand in her presence than others...whether this was due to lax manners or a calculated slight was another matter. Eventually, all of the chieftains had risen. They would murmur amongst themselves over the history that Faolan had reminded them of and the words that Eva had told them. Was there even a bit of a debate between them? Eventually, one said, "Who are ye to speak so ta us? Tis ye who pays tha black rent ta the raiders of the 'ill country -- a tax tha' we cannae afford!" As though the whole of Irleand paid the tax. Instead of just those of the four counties loyal to the Pale. (D)


Lady Evangeline O'Cathasaigh

"Paid tae cease the raidin in the four counties sae tha' we might be free for the o'er things, such as courtin' the fancy o' yerself? If ye can nay afford it, dun nay pay it, och wait now.." She lifted a finger as she walked about the company of risen men. "Ye needn't pay the tax O'Farrell fer the O'Casey paid double yer portion n' ye are beyond the pale, holdin yer own lands n' why is tha' now? Because ye frittered ye money away 'pon foolish things tae impress yer betters? Quite a show ye put on fer the Earl o' all Kildare in hopes o' a match tae cut a portion o' tha' wonderful Anglo-Irish stay o' wealth? Given the Earl o' Kildare was one step away from joinin against us, ye swayed him back with yer purse strings. Thank ye. Still have enough thae hang him, n' ye are a close second O'Farrell, wot iffn we do nay know wot would 'ave been done if he could nay have been courted tae right, at least in sae much as ye see, such as nay takin O'Farrell lands fer himself, must be in the right. Or ye O'Reilly, yer family members joinin in the raidin with O'Ryan. God save yer lily backside, driven as snow?" A fair amount of snarling and snipping ensued, feral animals being taunted by fair, fresh meat. Held back by the bids of propriety. "Yet who was it O'Reily tha' sent what O'Cathasaigh would gae tae defend ye when Paul sent his loyal brewd tae take all ye would possess? M'services nay good enough for ye now, nor the messages taken?"


A Chieftain


Another spoke up, "O'Connor, ye'd let her speak about sae? Dishonorin the name...wot about the O'Connor that showed contempts fer the U'Neill?"


Lady Evangeline O'Cathasaigh

"Wot 'bout them, we all dislike one another when another puts on airs, we all beh guilty, sae long as ye stand pon the right side have all opinion ye please as long as ye see the worth. Lord-Govenor courts powerful ally tha' lets ye keep yer land free tae piss n' squabble on though ne'er once have ye sent a single hand back tae free the Pale from wot grips it n' I've passed on yer messages throw m'ways fer years longer than there were others tae dae it. Nay once have I seen yer standard raised outside o' Dublin. Nor outside o' Desmond. Half o' those in Desmond have gone the wrong way, unless ye wouldst bow tae an English wench n/ her Spanish king." (d)


Sir Faolan O'Connor

"Dae nae look ta me fer aid against 'er," Faolan said. There was a smirk, "She tis an O'Casethigh ....nae an O'Casey. Ye'll dae well ta mark the difference." Fao watched as she pointed out each man's fault before himself and his peers. There was a cant of his head, as he listened to what was going on. Eventually, there was a pause. What he did next, would most certainly find itself in the Governor's ears. "But we shall all be agreed in one thin'. We cannae stand by, while all o' Eire teeters 'pon the edge o' an English blade while tha Lord-Governor courts support fer us." He took a breath, before saying, "Ye men shall ready yer armies an' put furth deeds ta back up yer talk of a free Eire." And he would outline a rather hastily plan of attack. It would be small in comparison to what would come later -- but there was no mistaking that it was a grand thing. He was beginning outling a spear thrust into County Meath. (D)


The Chieftains, Lady Evangeline O'Cathasaigh

"N' how dae ye suppose we draw upon our army? Wot o' the families would come intae county Meath, English or nay, there be enough o' the anglo created half bastards whom favor the Ainglish way..." Evangeline made a correction with a clearing of her throat, "there be a sayin, sirs, often those tha' emigrate tae a land become more native than the natives. M'father was a man from Lancaster whom by his death held little trace o' his accent, I was born in Eire, n' Eire is m'home. It is nay the those o' a dual birthin tha' is yer worry, merely which side they sit upon is." There were plenty whom had her origins, one English parent, one Irish, but they were Irish because they were born on Irish soil. "The O'Reily will come...aye, the others.." The O'Reilly chieftain was not convinced on the whole of Eva's origins not beign the source of their woe, but he was convinced enough to agree it wasn't a point of contention at the moment. Others were discussion how the dire straights meant to turn inward to their own homes first, why could not Meath take up for Meath? "If ye will nay assemble yer own men, allow the messangers but tae send forth a date n' time, iffn ye will nay dae it as tae incriminate yerselves. Standin' is important, n' if yer people grow displeased they shan't move, yet let the pleased ones dae sae in order tae change their minds." It was a dangerous bid, one that could set fire to the network's bridges to burn them. Opinions might overshadow duty as to whom should move, and when, but it was quicker than waiting for this lighthouse gathered congress. Morgan leaned into the window for a time, watching. She wondered if Faolan could move the congenial yet stubborn in his ways Chieftain of Clan O'Connor. "Such a message might e'en be sent untae Turas Lan tae draw the Govenor home. Tis nay as if he beh as far as Egypt, gentlemen." "N' could ye dae such things?" "They say I know enough n' move enough tae hang half of Kildare, all of Ormond, n' twenty men in' e'ery county n' homestead..surely I might try. If ye will contract the services of m'self and Sir O'Connor. If not feel free tae sit n' sup n' wake up tae shyte in the mornin." They gasped, did she swear? (d)

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Late Autumn, to the Winter 1332, in Two Movements

I

She held the curvature of the stone responsible for calling out to bravado in the land of Dempsey. There was nothing else to hold to, or nothing else she cared to reach for. The absence of nothing was a falacy. The hill was full of monolithic importance still calling for respect under a cover of white snow that choked the grass, made slick the stone. Numb fingers coaxed warmth by seeking shelter in a too-thin sleeve. Wool was pulled around her, but it did little good. The fog was so thick that the low cloud could be parted with a knife, only the blade would freeze in the process. Yestereve's snow was today's obstacle, but it hardly mattered.

"Where's the chyt,' said one Dempsey to another, stamping foot on crushed earth, "Tis freezin, n' I want for m'hearth." For the sake of hi smaster only, he exhited patience. By now him, his fellow, and the Dublin wench watched one another unknown across the fog bank that seperated them. He could cross it himself. He could look for her, and be done of his task. He might even cut a share of profit with his partner who replied to him through chattering teeth striking, "She best be 'ere, or Dempsey will withdraw from this foolishness. Trustin a Pale lass. Tis like trustin' the devil tae bring ye Luke, Paul, or Peter. Ye'd only get their corpse." The banter didn't travel far. Across the fog, the woman of the Pale had long since been delivered from the innocence in being a lass. Much like the stone she touched, her body was laid out on a bed that much felt as one. Fourteen years agone since the last time she knew what innocence was. Not even her son, she thought in morbid humor, could be considered innocent at birth. Original sin tainted any chance of him for even if children know no wrong, the violence of Adam lived too much in Paul I.

Fat gray clouds competed for recognition against the back of a neighboring hill. It was only the threat of being caught in ice rain that pushed her forward, because the thought of them left to wait on a 'fine lady' cut to ribbons by the rocks on the moor amused her to no end. Finally, the hand relinquished the rock and the other arm moved forward. As it took hold of an invisible rope, she pulled. The swing of arm with full stride gait could have been mistaken for the ease of a woman in Spring. Herein lay the comedy of the tense moments of waiting. Anxiety was replaced with a maddening want to laugh. Why, her face even broke out in a smile as she came on the men of Dempsey, backs turned, thinking to seek her out on the sliver of main road that curved out of the hood*

"Nay comin' from tha' way. Pride of the land ye be, Chieftain must sleep vera well knownin ye know which way things come from." She mocked them, and for it was pushed at the shoulder when the lesser man turned around. He had to compensate for a great many things: God gave him no height and his middle was too stout to make him an Adonis. Brown hair thinned in ample quanity to make his hairline retreat back to the crown of his head. The hand he offended the messanger with was scared, mal-aligned in the bones, and forever red.


" 'Eh, tis Dempsey land, n' yer only o' use sae long. Prove wot ye got woman!" Beady eyes narrowed at her while the fair formed blue gaze of his better featured companion was patient in study. He caught his man's too late to do any good but soon enough to feign silent apology. He, too, wanted to slap the woman. No real woman would be on a moor selling secrets as a whore sells herself, nor should they court her service. Golden haired jezebel pulled out from the wool shelter around her body sealed parchment in a leather tube. Her silence astounded him. No more plithy words? Her gaze disturbed him. There was a maudlin quality to the unexpected mirth in her eyes as if she would take joy in laying him out for review here and now." Is this wot the Chieftain asked for," bass boom cascaded down the air like skipped sotnes on a pond. He accepted the tubing, looking inside. The seal wasn't his to break, for the lady always sealed for the chieftains, or so lore told them. The messanger crossed her arms about her body, "He won't be pleased iffn it be..."

"It is e'erythin he asked for, n' more. M'work is thorough, now, m'pay." She reached out her hand, knowing they could swipe at it. Still, she stood with no less than a measure of expectation and even arrogance. The contents of the tube was valuable to Dempsey if he sought to show the Chieftain of O'Farrell alliance was valuable with proof of which in his clan stood on Dempsey land even now, plotting against him. It was so valuable that not only did life hinge on the seal, but recent wealth gained from abroad. No one would do business with a weak man, especially their closest, richest neighbors. "We will pay ye half until tis proven.."

"Full. Double,e'en, unless ye wish me tae find ye n' the fat one worthy o' the noose. Ye court a Burke when O'Brien is needed fer yer master, n' the fat one likes intoxicants from the holy land sae much he uses his masters own money fer opiate, n' claims twas taken by a stable boy, who tae this day is still in the stocks?" The fog was full of unusual sights. Both men saw gallows waiting for their dead remains to feed crows. Evangeline saw them moved aside so she could continue on her way, down the road instead of to the side of it. She saw the inn that would be waiting, the hot bath to take away the miles of mud. They saw Death and she saw a difference in life.

On the moor the two men scrambled. The good looking one reached to his belt, loosing the money bag to toss at her feet. "How shall we pay double, we've nothin else but." Brown bag clinked a soft landing at her feet. She pulled it up, looking inside to thumb over the standard fee. "Yer cloak pins, yer belt buckle. A fine prize fer yer service nay doubt. Worth a bit o' penny eh? The other 'as the same n' a good chain."

[Rhiannon MacBride]

"Tea, miss?"

At the question a head the color of flames currently dancing in hearth lifted and eyes the color of the sky overhead locked on the young serving lass. "Whiskey, please."

Rhiannon knew the ladylike response would have been acceptance. Yet hot tea wasn't going to warm the body as effectively as the whiskey. It was a little early in the day, but with the only other effective thing that warmed her body far away- in Skye- well it was the only option. Thought of that particular man brought a brighter smile to curve lips. Watching as the young lass headed off to fetch the wanted drink, Rhiannon's blue eyes moved in the direction of the door.

Just what was taking Evangeline so long? One hand idly tapped the table where a packet lay hidden wrapped inside a folded cloak that masqueraded as a present. Really the only gift was the documents inside it. Having been hired on to make two copies of documents for a transaction that was going down was a boon. She'd done work for the O'Cathasaigh woman before, but that was when both were at a point in their life where men seemed to have some control. In Rhiannon's case it'd been her "owner" and in Evangeline's case her husband.

As a woman who was training to be a Physician still, though was done much of her training now, it pained Rhiannon to know what things had been occurring in Eire. The death of Evangeline's son- a death that even had she been present for nothing could have saved the poor lad- and the maladies that swept through common families within the land. It was tragic to say the least. In all her childhood years she'd not imagined ever caring for this land yet now did- to some degree.

Her Mother had been from this place, loved it more than anything in the world, and been stolen from its beauty by a pirate- Rhiannon's own Father- to be doomed to a life in Skye. Though, supposedly, she'd loved that pirate- her "husband"- even more than this land. A lie, most likely, as Rhiannon had heard the bitter alcohol driven rantings throughout most of her childhood. "What love will drive us to do..." Emotions made one a fool at times.

Finally a glass was placed down in front of Rhiannon and she leaned back to take a drink of it happily. Hopefully Evangeline would show up soon. They had much to discuss, and the woman was taking her sweet time. Or had something befallen her...Rhiannon hoped that wasn't the case. Much of Eire's future depended upon Evangeline O'Cathasaigh.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Finally a glass was placed down in front of Rhiannon and she leaned back to take a drink of it happily. Hopefully Evangeline would show up soon. They had much to discuss, and the woman was taking her sweet time. Or had something befallen her...Rhiannon hoped that wasn't the case. Much of Eire's future depended upon Evangeline O'Cathasaigh.

II.

All Evangeline wanted now was to be rid of the wool wrap because it did little good against the sudden rain. Was rain in Ireland ever really sudden, as much as expected? Cold, fog invited equally cold, capricious downpour as she left the two men standing aghast, waiting for either wagon or the return of horses to bare them hence to Dempsey stronghold. Ever a practical woman, the Lady relied upon her own feet in the absence of content of carriage or luxury of burden-beast. Mud sucked the soles of her shoes in deep. Still, she managed to smile. Belt buckle heavy in pouch with ornate cloak pin, it was with another swollen pouch of coins. Somehow, the rain seemed that less cold. She was warmed by purpose. Her smile became as capricious as the drops of water making pattern dance on the occasional strand of exposed hair.

At the curve of the road, in a patch of thicket, Faolan was no doubt waiting with expectant manner for her arrival. What did he think of the rain, and what would he think of the payment garnered? More money to fuel their path across the countryside, more money to send home in preperation for more outings? Not far from the thicket, the inn lay in wait..

And Rhiannon

[Faolan O'Connor]

Did the rains in Ireland ever truly come by surprise? For those that were world-wise, the gray lines of clouds along the horizon and the faint rumbling of their approach had been enough warning. Faolan O'Connor turned his gaze skyward, studying the approaching storm. There was a sigh, before he shifted and again pulled tighter about him his leather forester's cloak. While he was not as skilled in the arts of forestry and tracking as the wolf's head the troubadours were going on about, he was still a good shot with the bow and was capable of tracking game.

There was a frown, as he caught sight of the Dempsey men get ready to go on a tear. He slowly rose from where he'd been hiding, notching an arrow against his short bow's string. Quietly, he began pulling the bow string back. Was it Faolan's mind alone that produced the feeling of his own body trembling under the tension of having his bow drawn back, as though they were one?

As he held his the bowstring back, he felt it. The first splash of the coming rain splattered against his cloak. Then another. And another. The wild, wind driven rain was upon them all then. And it would be then, that he saw the Dempsey men take their leave. He breathed a quiet sigh, waiting for Eva to draw nearer to him. He would step out from his thicket, walking beside her.

After a few moments, he sigh. "Tha' seemed bloody close.... dae ye 'ave ta egg 'em on sae? One o' days, ye may provoke 'em ta violence....."

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

After a few moments, he sigh. "Tha' seemed bloody close.... dae ye 'ave ta egg 'em on sae? One o' days, ye may provoke 'em ta violence....."


She lifted up the bag of doubled goods to dangle before the man who served as a guard, a friend, a companion in suffering. He might have even been more but it wasn't up for discussion on the moor at the time. Careening in to the thicket for a moment with her victory lot, she swayed her hips from side to side. The lazy rhythm was better suited toward a dairy maid than an Lady of the Pale. The lazy rhythm was the product of combined admiration for their efforts, for self elation. "Tae violence n' more a reason tae speak their names in circles for coin, more a reason tae let 'em hang from the giblet, as the Govenor once said. Ah'm a little hardened tae man's violence. Tis their way. Ah've just learned tae duck, n' how tae find better judgement pronounced than ye can from a reeve. Besides, wot would they dae, tha' the valiant O'Connor sword could nay set tae right, eh?" She pulled open the bag offered up like a carrot before a horse,pulling out the belt buckle to drop in his hand.

Despite the rain, she could have all but skipped down the road that very evening through the land of Dempsey. She skipped while the men who made their way back home in disgrace pondered how she uncovered their deepest sin. Had she watched them, had she sat to dinner with Dempsey? Was she in their bed on a night when the drink flowed so well they couldn't recall the color of a finger tip let alone the sheen a'bouncing off the gold of her hair? "All tha' be shall be tae commend this writ fer multiple. Ah, yes Faolan, tis time fer ye tae meet a long time companion. The better thing now is tha' ye needn't meet her under such dire circumstance. Wot else day ye think we should gae about, Faolan. The men o' Demsey, the O'Farrell maybe? Who gives yer mother the most trouble?" For the first time in many moons, the dark aspects of life were something to laugh at. A knight, the Lady of Dublin, and a scrivner were soon going to sit down at the inn.

There it was, too. Just around the corner and down yonder bend. A beacon in the rain...

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Secrets


She commended to writ the secrets of men from the depths of their thought to proof of action laid out in word. She commended to writ the secrets of men's burdens, men's visions spun in dastardly fashion for everyone wanted something to cleave to. A part of the Duchess couldn't blame them the act of self preservation as a name would live on after the body to which it was attached expired. To some extent the thought often of 'What will they think of me' crossed the mind as often as a tittle was made on the
parchment infront of her. No splotches of ink made error in the transfer of gold-paid knowledge to the page. Silver-paid translations already stacked up in the page, and for the advent of even coppers whisper she, the muse would, in the ear.

The sticky, sweet scent of wet grass pushed on the shutter of the room. 'Let me in, let me in' , soft the voice on the moors ' to stir the work across four winds. I work faster than you, farther, let me in.' It was the ghost of her ambitions given as hollow a body as the feeling of happiness in her life. All was tadamount to being hollow. She, too, was so by half in the very least. 'Let me take it from you, lady. Let me take all your grief, all your sorrow, and all memory from you. Be clean..I can do it.' The candle danced sporadic waltzes in wind kissed rounds. For a moment, she pondered answering the voice aloud yet didn't give it the pleasure of her company.

The Scrivner-Physic Rhiannon would be waiting to codify these secrets official in writ as if from magistrates in the counties of origin. How would Dempsey feel, to know his noose was being woven? The wind should busy itself with pestering the washer woman to keep her kenning a little louder, a little more shrill, for the soon to be deceased. Not all of Dempsey, no, but the ones with an axe to grind against the will of a man who would be the Ard Ri, if he could but find enough belief left on the god-forsaken rock in the sea to do so. She dangled the image of the Griffin sign before her eyes, the Ard-Ri subscribed to another of the same. A High King with a Highest King. Well, one day, she thought to self-conversation instead of the wind, I will meet ye Griffin n' tell ye tha' ye set us free only in part. I will tell ye the truth n' in doing sae surrender everythin'. How will you see me? Irish born? An English lairdess in the Pale feignin' worry yet reaping benefit? See me only as the first, good sir. Dublin will see ye as far better and Dublin see a better day when I am through.'

So much hanging on one little charm! How funny that a man or woman should vest so much stock in the meaning of an image, like how she to this day saw what the O'Cathasaigh could be if she pulled the mud away from the coat of arms. Dublin's worth would be for all these new realms to know. The Kings would find it pleasing, and she? She would have the world made right again in her image. An idol of some, a damned thing of others. In any case she would be a god-head to make things new so that on the day men knelt before the Ard Ri, they would turn to the Griffin to kneel while saying, Now, sir, we are free.


For Rhiannon she had stolen no less than five seals. How had she faired? One was far longer engaged in these acts than the other, yet each had enough in fair heads to play a fair game. Faolan took his well deserved rest in a room shared between them. At times, in moments of solitude, Evangeline thought that she might wake from a dream to find herself one step from death under Paul's hand. Or, that she was already dead, and heaven was a recreation of life's deep seated desires. She was assured of life because of the pain pressing along the insides of her thighs to the seat of a womb aching with the time of woman set on it. She felt the stab wound to the left of it, the reason enough to know she lived. He may have marked her body but it would be the Knight who marked the rest of her mind, God willing, enough to make nearly fifteen years seem of little matter.

For Rhiannon, she had stolen five seals. For Evangeline, Rhiannon would be the finest channel by being the living road her secrets went towards, handed to each whom they affected, purchased or unwanted yet no threat ever hollowin them. Some would be exposed, others taken to the edge. Whatever it would mean, in no less than a pair of days the executioner would make for himself a tidy sum. The more necks that snap the better aligned for loyalty the Lord Govenor, or the Ard Ri, would have among the clans. These letters would be sealed in wax with the seals of chieftains and tanists when the Scrivner was done, while the Scrivner herself would have Evangeline's copies to always reference, to always remember that trust was a fragile thing. Never easy to string along, like human life.

There would be some however, that were only to be delivered. Her hand would be the author. The seal? An unusual thick piece of white wax with a rose emblem pressed in to the circle. No name, no title. No indication of house. If the recievers in Dunlace paid attention, the source would be clear enough.

*

The candle was too low for use, so the flame was used to light her way back to the bedside of Faolan. At one time the man was all the kindness paid her. At another, he was sin-ridden joy, and now he was a friend well loved that denial of affection would be the true sin. Part of her never forgave herself the induglence of his touch when her body was owned by Paul of Lancaster, yet at the same time there was enough inside of her for Faolan to take. While he was asleep, she brushed a finger across his face. O'Connor. His name was a joy, freeing. Would she wear it, if given a chance? Ever-burdened and ever-bruised, O'Cathasaigh was still worthy. It was something to steal back from the annuals of time.

She knew that in the autumn, there were places in Ireland where men still fought large battles over petty things. The blood would run thicker when the warm season returned, but for now it was still warm enough for them to make trouble. She knew that here the country was not swayed by conflicted only in so long as tongues were held. It would not be forever, they would be the cause, but the light at the end of the conflict would be far better than any lamp shone down on the countryside now.

"I love ye."

So the lady said goodnight.
To the ghost in the wind, the thoughts in her head, her lover's image, and to war. At least for the night as she lay besided him.

{{End Thread}}