Flight of the Earls (2 page)

Clare appeared as if she was going to joust for a moment but then submitted to his temper. “I'll be right back with it.” She scurried outside the house for a few moments and then returned with one of the table chairs cradled under her arm.

“What was it doing out there?”

“I was writing in my journal out back. I'm sorry, I forgot—”

Liam stood, placed his palms on the table, and jutted his jaw. “For the last time, and this goes for all of you, Margaret's chair is not to be moved. Have you any memory left of her?”

Clare's eyes glazed and she looked down. “More than you know.”

He panned the forlorn faces, and regret came over Liam as once again he earned their disdain.

“All right.” His countenance softened as did the tone of his voice. “I'll give you what you want. I will do you all a great favor.”

Liam grabbed his jacket, put on his hat, opened the door, and escaped into the darkness.

Once outside, as was his nightly habit, Liam began the two-mile journey to O'Shannon's Public House, down the remote country road, walking over the faded footprints of many generations. Above, a nearly full moon glimmered, its brilliance restrained by a chilling mist.

Liam paused for a moment and took in the odd whispers of this uneasy evening. Then he lumbered forward, striving with each step to chase away his anxieties. Like a child's tattered doll, he cradled his evening forays as his most-dear possession.

After some time, the lights of approaching buildings rewarded his tired legs. Closing in on O'Shannon's, he yearned to hear the muted sounds of alcohol-induced joy, spontaneous song, and lively argument.

But tonight, the reverberations escaping the pores of the tavern were subdued, confirming the fears he fought to deny. His pulse began to beat its somber drum.

Liam entered through the creaking door, and the dimly lantern-lit establishment shared little of its usual liveliness. He slipped in unnoticed, save for a quick nod or two from those he joined at the bar, each perched like magpies on a dead tree branch.

He waved an arm at Casey O'Shannon behind the counter, who responded with an unimpressed roll of hairy-browed eyes and an unhurried approach.

Liam allowed the anticipation of drink to begin to replenish his spirits. “I'll have me mine.”

The hulking proprietor shot a towel over his shoulder with an air befitting the second most important man behind Father Quinn Connor in this region. As he bent in, Liam could smell distilled grains on the barman's breath.

“Yours is yours, Liam Hanley, when your tab is current.”

Liam heard this too often to be discouraged or even insulted. Besides, everyone knew Casey wouldn't have a coin to his name if not for his wife's side of the family.

“Mr. O'Shannon. Is this any way to treat one of your finest patrons? I'll remember you well enough when you come to me parched, begging for a wee sip.”

Casey shook his head and turned. He returned shortly with a previously poured mug of stout, which had been sitting for many minutes to allow the head to settle. In Branlow, as in all of the Emerald Isle, no one paid for a glass of foam.

The brown liquid opiate, warm, frothy, rich to taste and bitter all of the way down, melted some of the pain of Liam's life. It helped feed the fragile illusion that in this humble sanctuary, he was among friends.

Liam took his wool cap off and laid it on the bar. Brushing his earth-brown hair back with his hand, his fingers felt the dampness of the foggy night. He looked over to old Lucas Furley to his right, who was wringing his hands nervously around an empty glass.

Liam liked Lucas because he was a man Liam could pity above himself, which gave him some comfort. The old man was late to marry and drew more than a few raised eyebrows years back when he took the hand of a teenage lass as his bride. Less than a year later, he lost both his young wife and the baby at birth, and now spent most of his time drinking sadness from a glass.

A glance around the room revealed many of the local farming congregation engaged in hushed conversations, their wearied faces a tapestry of frustration and concern.

Only Niall Tavers seemed untouched by the melancholy. He was slumped over in his chair, as he was every evening at O'Shannon's following a few pours. There was some debate as to how he had lasted seventy years in his condition, and wagers were placed almost daily on whether or not during the course of a particular evening, he would slump over for good.

With not many alternatives for conversation, Liam turned to Lucas. “It appears somebody dragged the clouds in here. 'Tis a sour mood, don't you think?”

Lucas seemed reluctant to take his eyes off the bottom of his glass. “We could benefit from the cheer of your Tomas on a day like this, I suppose.”

The words pained Liam. It had been four years since his younger brother left Branlow, and still Tomas's charm overshadowed Liam. Since he was a wee lad, and despite a lifetime of effort, Liam's light always shone dimmer.

He took another slow draw of his stout and wiped the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. He tapped his fingers on the countertop, which drew Casey's glance from the other end of the bar. Liam waved him off with his hand.

He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a shilling, and placed it on the bar, spinning it several times with his thumb and forefinger. The sight of money drew his thoughts away from the characters in the bar to the dim reality of his own life. He stared at the silver coin, running his thumb over Queen Victoria's embossed profile. The shiny metal contrasted with his fingers, stained and cracked by the fields.

What does the queen know about an honest day's labor?

Suddenly, the door of the tavern rattled open, attracting the attention of most of the patrons. A few welcomes and waves came out as the broad-shouldered Riley Flanagan entered, but he just grunted past them and placed his belly against the dark, polished countertop of the bar.

In a moment, Casey arrived with a tall shot of Irish rye for his newly arrived guest. He eyeballed the man while he wiped the counter. “What troubles you, Riley? Did the old lady cast you out again?”

The unshaven Riley drew the whiskey to his lips and snapped his head back. He mumbled something.

“What's that you say?” Casey leaned in.

There was an uneasy pause and then Riley slammed the glass on the bar, which brought a lull across the entire room. In a loud and deliberate voice he said, “The roots gone bad.”

Lucas stood up from his seat. “What's the man saying?”

Riley pressed himself away from the bar counter, his ruddy complexion growing even redder. A few more patrons sauntered over to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Why are you looking at me like fools? You know what the smell means. It's the rot.”

The gathering crowd began to murmur, and soon most in the room were around Riley and nudging closer.

Casey pressed him. “Are you sure? Are you certain the roots are bad?”

“What? None of you looked for yourself?” Riley's gaze darted around seeking an answer. “I wouldn't have thought the whole room of you for cowards.”

Lucas pushed through the gathering crowd and poked his finger in Riley's chest. “Liar. That's what you are. You're too full of the drink to know your toes from your ears.”

The room silenced as Riley responded with a raised fist, but then his demeanor dissipated into something more akin to pity. “All of it.” He buttoned up his wool jacket. “Black. Black. Every last tater in me field. The ground is nothing but a grave of corpses.”

Riley's eyes moistened. He spoke in a defeated tone. “It's the death fog. The death fog brought it in. The full harvest will be ruined. It will be the ruin of us all, I'm afraid.”

He pulled a coin out of his coat pocket and placed it on the counter with a snap. “Night lads. God be with you. May God be with you all.” Then he hunched out the door.

Riley's dreary words draped the room and only a few cursory comments were exchanged. He had merely put a voice to the dread in their hearts.

Some put on their coats, hats, and scarves and sifted out of the pub. Others dwelled, choosing to mend sorrow with drink.

But the stout in Liam's mug was no longer sufficient to quell the writhing in his stomach. His plight would be worse than most as he had risked his entire crop on the potato this season, a decision he had thought would at last reap a season of prosperity.

All that remained was the faltering hope that the contagion had not spread to his fields. The death in the air could be from farms downwind.

Riley must be wrong.

He picked up his shilling from the counter and unfurled from the stool, his mind in a blur.

Liam drifted out of O'Shannon's and down the road. Gradually, he shifted into a limping gait, that of a broken mare, sometimes tripping over rocks and divots in the low light. When he did, he would curse, lift himself up, and move up the stream of adversity, as he always did.

Liam struggled to console himself with the belief his life was too full of misfortune for God to strike him yet another blow.

So he ran.

Chapter 1

The Hovel

“He's gone. I can't see him anymore.” The boy flashed an expression of glee.

Clare thrust her arms on her waist. “Davin Hanley. Shut that door before your ma takes ill, and I've told you about disrespecting your father as such. For all he does for you? You must be ashamed.”

Davin scowled. “I'm just happy for Da, that's all. Now we won't be such a bother.”

“We're not a bother.” Caitlin gathered the bowls and spoons from the table.

“Cait's right,” Clare said. “There's much on his mind, what with raising the likes of us in these troubling days.”

Ronan waddled to the doorway and put his arm around his younger brother. “Come. There's a cow that's been missing ya.”

“That's it, off you go to milk her, boys.” Clare put her hand on Cait's shoulder. “And you tend the chickens. Not too much as the feed is low. While you're at it, make sure those ladies know they're behind on the rent.”

Caitlin giggled. “Their eggs?”

“Tell them I'm serious.” Clare wagged her finger.

“That I will.”

Clare waved at them with the backs of her hands. “Why are you all tarrying? Hup, hup. Much to do still.”

When the three of them emptied out of the door, Clare sighed. “Much to do still.” She actually embraced complete exhaustion. Throughout the difficulties of her labors, she anticipated it as the treasured visit by her evening angel. It meant the family would soon be asleep and she could finally pass her heavy torch to the maker of dreams.

Although one more day of her fading youth would escape her, those she loved would be safe. At least until the morning sun delivered new burdens.

She hurried to clean the dishes. It wouldn't take the boys long to milk the heifer, empty the tin pail into a jar, and lower it by twine to the bottom of the cool waters of the well to keep it fresh until morning. Caitlin returned eggless and helped her older sister finish the cleaning just as Ronan and Davin returned from their chores.

Clare provided evening lessons in reading and arithmetic, made certain they bathed well with careful inspections, and now it was time for her to lead evening prayers.

“All right now. Let's offer our thanks to the Lord.”

“Thank Him for what?”

Clare glared at Davin, but before she could respond, Ronan rapped him on the side of his head.

“Why did you do that?” Davin rubbed the feral brown tufts of his hair.

Clare was disappointed to see the task of brushing his hair was yet undone.

Ronan pointed up above and glared at Davin. “Don't be making the Almighty angry when you're standing next to me.”

The seriousness in his command made Clare smile. But how much longer would Ronan get to rule over his brother? With his lame leg, it was just a matter of time before Davin would be strong enough to assert himself.