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Chapter 29 - Return of the Native
"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs andreturns home to find it." ~ George Moore
1484
Cork City
Relatively few of the palace staff remained from the days of Caolin - many of the old crew had gone during the Interegnum, and others had been replaced by the English speaking imports of Queen Elisabeth. Nevertheless there was one doddering old servant, nearly half deaf, more than half mad and who was still employed solely on the grounds that no one could recall his name and therefore write his dismissal papers. So he just went on and on, doing much the same things he had done for decades like mucking out the falcons and straightening the tapestries, jobs that absolutely had to be done because... well just because. Tradtion need answer no one.
At any rate this elderly man noticed a scrawny elderly half dead (everything was done by halves in Cork in this era due to finicial belt tightening) beggar type crawl his way into the Great Hall of Cork Castle. Upon delivering a kick to the ribcage that was the traditional Cork greeting of servants to beggars he was considerably suprised when the old man groaned and rolled over revealing none other than Prince Tadc O'Donnell, long lost Lord of Waterford, Dublin, etc.
Naturally this caused some excitement.
Above: Some excitement.
After a few days Tadc had regained sufficent power of speech and health to address the Council. Though 'only' 61 (he had been born in the third year of his lae uncles reign) he looked 80, his face weathered and wrinkled, hair iron grey and body somewhat frail, a condition his doctors put down to two possible causes, either: a) over a decade in a cold and dreary dungeon, locked far away from sunlight and the love of God; OR b) a decade of fantastic, um, bedsharing with a endlessly vigorous, gifted and beautiful younger woman several times a night for ten years.
Clearly, it was unanimously agreed, poor Tadc had suffered the former.
That said the tale he told was shocking enough:"The Queen of Connacht captured me towards the end of the war and... um I'm afraid I don't remember much after that," he said his face turning scarlett, "but evidently something must have happened since some time passed and suddenly she was telling everyone we were married and she was pregnant and sort of dropping this hints that the kid was mine. I'm pretty sure I was ensorcerolled by her during that time, since I'm pretty sure I would have remembered the thing you are supposed to do to get to that point... though come to think of it I did have a LOT of pretty terrific dreams that well... oh, nevermind that probably isn't that important. Anyway eventually someone left the door on my cell open and I made a break for it and ended up here." He smiled beautifically then looked at the assembled Queen, Prince Consort and nobles slightly puzzled before turning to Hugh McAuliffe, whom he had known back in the Caoimhe days and hissing under his breath: "Your Grace just how long have I been gone for anyway? I don't recognise half* these people! Where is my cousin? And my wife?" a worried look passed over his face. "Have I been gone for as much as a year?"
The Bishop of Cork put his hands to his face: "Oh Tadc, where to begin. Hang on, I'll get you a mirror. I'm afraid you are about to have a very nasty suprise indeed...
*********
In fact it wasn't too bad. Or at least not as bad as it could have been
Above: Rachael O'Donnell
Tadc had recovered suprisingly quickly from the shock of his long absence, largely thanks to the loving support of his faithful wife Rachael, who had never given up hope in the face of time, and indeed, reason. She had raised his 5 daughters for 12 years and they were shaping up to fine young women and great beauties - even if this meant that Tadc suddenly had a tribe of identical pre-teens on his hands. Something which he was enormously pleased to tell McAuliffe was a fine way to celebrate his retirement as he said to him in a friendly meeting at McAuliffes country estate a month later.
"Rachael even likes the gray hair. Apparently it makes me look distingushed." he said jovially.
"Tadc, my friend you look like a man who has spent half a century in a paticularly decrepit sewer; I like your lovely wife, even if she is heathen, but she's clearly blind as a mole with cataracts," was McAuliffes jovial reply as they sipped some of his excellent French wine.
"Hmmph. You can tell you were never married! Anyway the merchants guild of Waterford have offered me my old title back, but I'm too old for that sort of thing; handed it over to one of Eamonns Munster cousins, who survived the purge. Smart boyo, he'll go far. Actually I've been sending letters to my cousin. She and Eamonn are apparently pretty happy in Britanny, though she wants to come back at some point before she... well you know."
"Yes. I want her back too, but it's not possible now. Give it 10 years."
The two sat thoughtfully for a few minutes sipping their wine and thinking before Tadc spoke again.
"Oh I forgot to mention it, but congratulations on getting Cashel."
"Oh it's nothing." waved away the former Bishop of Cork modestly. But in fact it wasn't nothing; McAuliffe had just become Archbishop of Cashel, the most senior Churchman in the country at the staggeringly young age of 48. It was an amazing achievement.
The two were just getting up from their comfortable porch to leave when a breathless messanger arrived:
"Your Grace, your Grace, Queen Elisabeth is dead. And Prince Duarte!"
Hands shaking, face drawn McAuliffe seized the message from the frazzled messanger and scanned it, before angrily tossing it aside and turning to the shaken Tadc.
"Poisoned apparently. They were found in their bed, must have died painlessly in their sleep. They caught the one who did it. Some mad old codger, been there for years. He admitted to working for your tormentor: Queen Niamh of Connacht."
Tadc gazed into the other mans livid, pale face and felt as if the wind was knocked out of him. He stubbled as he sat down, memories of the woman who had broken him flooding back. He wept; wept for his cousin who had lost her throne to treachery, for his country under envious glance of the witch queen of the north, for the daughters whose childhood had been stolen from him. He wept for himself.
McAuliffe was shouting now, roaring in a voice that near shook the walls and speared the Heavens and sent the guards coming amazed and terrified of what had fallen their Archbishop.
"How dare she! How dare she send her spies and knifemen into the heart of my kingdom! How dare she! To murder that poor lovely lass who was never a threat to her! Well two can play that dirty game, your majesty and I may be a man of God, but even He won't save you now! So let me shout it clear"
"WHO," roared the Archbishop, "SHALL RID ME OF THIS TURBULENT QUEEN?"
To be continued...
It's good to be back. Hope I still have readers left!
o
Do chuid
"A man travels the world over in search of what he needs andreturns home to find it." ~ George Moore
1484
Cork City
Relatively few of the palace staff remained from the days of Caolin - many of the old crew had gone during the Interegnum, and others had been replaced by the English speaking imports of Queen Elisabeth. Nevertheless there was one doddering old servant, nearly half deaf, more than half mad and who was still employed solely on the grounds that no one could recall his name and therefore write his dismissal papers. So he just went on and on, doing much the same things he had done for decades like mucking out the falcons and straightening the tapestries, jobs that absolutely had to be done because... well just because. Tradtion need answer no one.
At any rate this elderly man noticed a scrawny elderly half dead (everything was done by halves in Cork in this era due to finicial belt tightening) beggar type crawl his way into the Great Hall of Cork Castle. Upon delivering a kick to the ribcage that was the traditional Cork greeting of servants to beggars he was considerably suprised when the old man groaned and rolled over revealing none other than Prince Tadc O'Donnell, long lost Lord of Waterford, Dublin, etc.
Naturally this caused some excitement.
Above: Some excitement.
After a few days Tadc had regained sufficent power of speech and health to address the Council. Though 'only' 61 (he had been born in the third year of his lae uncles reign) he looked 80, his face weathered and wrinkled, hair iron grey and body somewhat frail, a condition his doctors put down to two possible causes, either: a) over a decade in a cold and dreary dungeon, locked far away from sunlight and the love of God; OR b) a decade of fantastic, um, bedsharing with a endlessly vigorous, gifted and beautiful younger woman several times a night for ten years.
Clearly, it was unanimously agreed, poor Tadc had suffered the former.
That said the tale he told was shocking enough:"The Queen of Connacht captured me towards the end of the war and... um I'm afraid I don't remember much after that," he said his face turning scarlett, "but evidently something must have happened since some time passed and suddenly she was telling everyone we were married and she was pregnant and sort of dropping this hints that the kid was mine. I'm pretty sure I was ensorcerolled by her during that time, since I'm pretty sure I would have remembered the thing you are supposed to do to get to that point... though come to think of it I did have a LOT of pretty terrific dreams that well... oh, nevermind that probably isn't that important. Anyway eventually someone left the door on my cell open and I made a break for it and ended up here." He smiled beautifically then looked at the assembled Queen, Prince Consort and nobles slightly puzzled before turning to Hugh McAuliffe, whom he had known back in the Caoimhe days and hissing under his breath: "Your Grace just how long have I been gone for anyway? I don't recognise half* these people! Where is my cousin? And my wife?" a worried look passed over his face. "Have I been gone for as much as a year?"
The Bishop of Cork put his hands to his face: "Oh Tadc, where to begin. Hang on, I'll get you a mirror. I'm afraid you are about to have a very nasty suprise indeed...
*********
In fact it wasn't too bad. Or at least not as bad as it could have been
Above: Rachael O'Donnell
Tadc had recovered suprisingly quickly from the shock of his long absence, largely thanks to the loving support of his faithful wife Rachael, who had never given up hope in the face of time, and indeed, reason. She had raised his 5 daughters for 12 years and they were shaping up to fine young women and great beauties - even if this meant that Tadc suddenly had a tribe of identical pre-teens on his hands. Something which he was enormously pleased to tell McAuliffe was a fine way to celebrate his retirement as he said to him in a friendly meeting at McAuliffes country estate a month later.
"Rachael even likes the gray hair. Apparently it makes me look distingushed." he said jovially.
"Tadc, my friend you look like a man who has spent half a century in a paticularly decrepit sewer; I like your lovely wife, even if she is heathen, but she's clearly blind as a mole with cataracts," was McAuliffes jovial reply as they sipped some of his excellent French wine.
"Hmmph. You can tell you were never married! Anyway the merchants guild of Waterford have offered me my old title back, but I'm too old for that sort of thing; handed it over to one of Eamonns Munster cousins, who survived the purge. Smart boyo, he'll go far. Actually I've been sending letters to my cousin. She and Eamonn are apparently pretty happy in Britanny, though she wants to come back at some point before she... well you know."
"Yes. I want her back too, but it's not possible now. Give it 10 years."
The two sat thoughtfully for a few minutes sipping their wine and thinking before Tadc spoke again.
"Oh I forgot to mention it, but congratulations on getting Cashel."
"Oh it's nothing." waved away the former Bishop of Cork modestly. But in fact it wasn't nothing; McAuliffe had just become Archbishop of Cashel, the most senior Churchman in the country at the staggeringly young age of 48. It was an amazing achievement.
The two were just getting up from their comfortable porch to leave when a breathless messanger arrived:
"Your Grace, your Grace, Queen Elisabeth is dead. And Prince Duarte!"
Hands shaking, face drawn McAuliffe seized the message from the frazzled messanger and scanned it, before angrily tossing it aside and turning to the shaken Tadc.
"Poisoned apparently. They were found in their bed, must have died painlessly in their sleep. They caught the one who did it. Some mad old codger, been there for years. He admitted to working for your tormentor: Queen Niamh of Connacht."
Tadc gazed into the other mans livid, pale face and felt as if the wind was knocked out of him. He stubbled as he sat down, memories of the woman who had broken him flooding back. He wept; wept for his cousin who had lost her throne to treachery, for his country under envious glance of the witch queen of the north, for the daughters whose childhood had been stolen from him. He wept for himself.
McAuliffe was shouting now, roaring in a voice that near shook the walls and speared the Heavens and sent the guards coming amazed and terrified of what had fallen their Archbishop.
"How dare she! How dare she send her spies and knifemen into the heart of my kingdom! How dare she! To murder that poor lovely lass who was never a threat to her! Well two can play that dirty game, your majesty and I may be a man of God, but even He won't save you now! So let me shout it clear"
"WHO," roared the Archbishop, "SHALL RID ME OF THIS TURBULENT QUEEN?"
To be continued...
It's good to be back. Hope I still have readers left!
o Do chuid
Yup - well, I'm here for one, and very glad that the story of Munster is continuing! But that witch-queen has to go. Perhaps Tadc will remember some crucial inside information that will enable her downfall...
Make that three. I like this new friendship and alliance between McAuliffe and Tadc. If they can't solve the Niamh problem, then no one can -- which very well may be the case. :wacko: But good luck anyway.
I like this new friendship and alliance between McAuliffe and Tadc. If they can't solve the Niamh problem, then no one can -- which very well may be the case. :wacko: But good luck anyway.
Add another to make four, RossN! Glad to have the history of Munster (not that one, the other one! ) back!
I'm thinking the our cold hearted beauty of the north just went an thoroughly pissed off the wrong person, eh? Hopefully McAuliffe will be able to bring down not only the witch of the north but also restore Munster's rightful monarch to the throne. To that effect, I offer a toast of newly opened Bushmills! (shh, don't tell the boss or I'll have to share half the bottle with him, and will he's a likeable sort, you just don't share fine Irish whiskey with anyone, eh? )
) back!I'm thinking the our cold hearted beauty of the north just went an thoroughly pissed off the wrong person, eh? Hopefully McAuliffe will be able to bring down not only the witch of the north but also restore Munster's rightful monarch to the throne. To that effect, I offer a toast of newly opened Bushmills! (shh, don't tell the boss or I'll have to share half the bottle with him, and will he's a likeable sort, you just don't share fine Irish whiskey with anyone, eh?
)
Glad you guys (at least I assume you are guys, though I'd certainly prefer co-ed readers) like it - though I'm afraid I can't divulge plot secrets just yet.
I'm thinking of starting a second AAR soon. I'll have a lot more time with the Christmas hollidays. Any suggestions?
Oh and glad you like the chicks Rythin. :rofl: The one problem is the lack of famous, sexy Irish women which I'm trying to keep largely too. Heck I only 'cast' Rachael Leigh Cook because I'm a huge fan and find her just too sexy to leave out, and with those chocolate brown eyes and dark hair could be Andrea's daughter.
It's a problem. The only ones left really are Grainne Seoige (Irish news presenter), Samantha Mumba and *shudder* Sinead O'Connor...
Do chuid
I'm thinking of starting a second AAR soon. I'll have a lot more time with the Christmas hollidays. Any suggestions?
Oh and glad you like the chicks Rythin. :rofl: The one problem is the lack of famous, sexy Irish women which I'm trying to keep largely too. Heck I only 'cast' Rachael Leigh Cook because I'm a huge fan and find her just too sexy to leave out, and with those chocolate brown eyes and dark hair could be Andrea's daughter.
It's a problem. The only ones left really are Grainne Seoige (Irish news presenter), Samantha Mumba and *shudder* Sinead O'Connor...
Do chuid
Please not Sinead O'Connor! That is unless she's "cast" as some anti-everything fringe artistic-type person... oh wait, that's to close to reality, isn't it?
Chapter 30 - The Man in the Castle on the Hill
Wet Evening in April
The birds sang in the wet trees
And I listened to them it was a hundred years from now
And I was dead and someone else was listening to them.
But I was glad I had recorded for him
The melancholy.
~Patrick Kavanagh
Somewhere, someplace.
Slowly I came too as someone forced a draught of water down my lips. I must have been dying of thirst, since my throat near squeezed shut and I felt like there was a desert in my gullet. I coughed most of it up and sat up too suddenly - the morning light near knocking me right back down again. And I saw my surroundings.
I was on a beach, some desolate shore hurled up by the sea. Friendly rough faces - peasant fishermen - surrounded me. The oldest, a grizzled old man who looked like he was hewn from Skellig Michael spoke.
"We found your boat washed up here friend," he pointed down at the small salt stained wooden thing upended on the sands, "Near death, must have drifted for days." His voice grew sombre. "Ye were put out to sea weren't you - we found no oar, sail or food. Your a murderer ain't ye?."
I must have been musn't I... only murders are put to sea. Yet I had no recall beyond this beach, just black night before this dawn.
"Who are you and where are ye from?"
"I can't remember I rasped." Then the effort and the dawn did knock me back and I knew no more for some time.
********
A great castle on a rocky outcrop, looking across a green and verdant land. I knew Cashel of old: I had been here before, though I couldn't remember how or when, perhaps it was in the echo of a dream.
I saw no one but servants for days after I awoke here. Tight lipped and hard faced they delivered bread and stew and stout, fresh clothes and water to drink and bather in. I felt my strength come back slowly. After a while I felt I was almost back to my old strength, whatever that was. The servants told me nothing – though they asked many questions I couldn’t answer. My only company was the view from my window and the distant rumble of thunder. It looked to be a wet day.
On the third or fourth day I was heralded into the presence of the master of the castle: very tall, and broad with a short beard and moustache, in his 40’s – though he seemed curiously aged, as if he had been through too much recently. He wore the robes of an Archbishop.
“My child,” he spoke in a harsh cold voice, “you have sinned terribly. Only murders are punished as you have been punished. I’m told you have no memory of your crimes?”
I nodded. What else could I do? It was true.
The Archbishop turned from me and seem to be studying a painting – some old, red haired king or something, though he had a look about him. With his back turned he spoke, more tenderly now, the father confessor: “You know the Lord Our God shall judge you? It is to Him to decide what to do you with you. The Church can but intercede… for a price. A price I have a very strong feeling you are more than capable of paying”
I felt my lips tremble, a vision of hellfire consuming with such vividness I choked on my answer. “What price?”
He looked me straight in the eye, and there was a glint there, of madness or clarity, and calmly stated a simple sentence:
“Bring me the head of Queen Niamh of Connacht.”
To be continued…
Apologies for the delay. Trying something here... hope you like it.
Do chuid
Wet Evening in April
The birds sang in the wet trees
And I listened to them it was a hundred years from now
And I was dead and someone else was listening to them.
But I was glad I had recorded for him
The melancholy.
~Patrick Kavanagh
Somewhere, someplace.
Slowly I came too as someone forced a draught of water down my lips. I must have been dying of thirst, since my throat near squeezed shut and I felt like there was a desert in my gullet. I coughed most of it up and sat up too suddenly - the morning light near knocking me right back down again. And I saw my surroundings.
I was on a beach, some desolate shore hurled up by the sea. Friendly rough faces - peasant fishermen - surrounded me. The oldest, a grizzled old man who looked like he was hewn from Skellig Michael spoke.
"We found your boat washed up here friend," he pointed down at the small salt stained wooden thing upended on the sands, "Near death, must have drifted for days." His voice grew sombre. "Ye were put out to sea weren't you - we found no oar, sail or food. Your a murderer ain't ye?."
I must have been musn't I... only murders are put to sea. Yet I had no recall beyond this beach, just black night before this dawn.
"Who are you and where are ye from?"
"I can't remember I rasped." Then the effort and the dawn did knock me back and I knew no more for some time.
********
A great castle on a rocky outcrop, looking across a green and verdant land. I knew Cashel of old: I had been here before, though I couldn't remember how or when, perhaps it was in the echo of a dream.
I saw no one but servants for days after I awoke here. Tight lipped and hard faced they delivered bread and stew and stout, fresh clothes and water to drink and bather in. I felt my strength come back slowly. After a while I felt I was almost back to my old strength, whatever that was. The servants told me nothing – though they asked many questions I couldn’t answer. My only company was the view from my window and the distant rumble of thunder. It looked to be a wet day.
On the third or fourth day I was heralded into the presence of the master of the castle: very tall, and broad with a short beard and moustache, in his 40’s – though he seemed curiously aged, as if he had been through too much recently. He wore the robes of an Archbishop.
“My child,” he spoke in a harsh cold voice, “you have sinned terribly. Only murders are punished as you have been punished. I’m told you have no memory of your crimes?”
I nodded. What else could I do? It was true.
The Archbishop turned from me and seem to be studying a painting – some old, red haired king or something, though he had a look about him. With his back turned he spoke, more tenderly now, the father confessor: “You know the Lord Our God shall judge you? It is to Him to decide what to do you with you. The Church can but intercede… for a price. A price I have a very strong feeling you are more than capable of paying”
I felt my lips tremble, a vision of hellfire consuming with such vividness I choked on my answer. “What price?”
He looked me straight in the eye, and there was a glint there, of madness or clarity, and calmly stated a simple sentence:
“Bring me the head of Queen Niamh of Connacht.”
To be continued…
Apologies for the delay. Trying something here... hope you like it.
Do chuid
Ooooh, this is an interesting turn of events. I'm likin' it! Pray tell, please continue with utmost haste!
I'm likin' it! Pray tell, please continue with utmost haste!
Oh, well, Merry Christmas to you and yours and a Happy New Years as well!
And to you as well, Ross and the rest of my fellow AARreaders!
And to you as well, Ross and the rest of my fellow AARreaders!
Go raibh maith agat Rythin("Thank you").
And Merry Christmas to you to Draco, and my other readers!
Next update on St. Stephens Day probably. Hope people can stand the wait.o
Sláinte!
And Merry Christmas to you to Draco, and my other readers!
Next update on St. Stephens Day probably. Hope people can stand the wait.
o Sláinte!
Chapter 31
“When I landed in Ireland that morning, I was happy for the first time in over a year. Although I knew that this fate awaited me, I was, for one brief spell, happy and smiling once more.
I cannot tell you how I felt. The sand hills were full of Skylarks rising in the dawn—the first I had heard in years. This was the first sound I heard as I waded through the breakers, and they were rising all the time to the old rath at Currahane---- and all around where primroses and wild violets and the singing of Skylarks in the air, and I was back in Ireland again.”
- Roger Casement
Galway
Queen Niamh I, Queen of Ireland, Queen of Connacth, Leinster and the Islands lived in supine splendour in a large palace that dominated the countryside.
It had not existed 10 years ago, at least according to the travellers I broke bread with inside her borders. Niamh had built it to celebrate her gaining the throne of Ireland (the old castle in Galway city was now administered by a Tainiste these days). Security was heavy.
I was disguised as a Dubliner, a place I had never been too (that I remembered), but with whic I was able to use the accent after only a few minutes study. Dublin was of course in English hands and neutral-friendly to Niamh so I could get where I was going without arising suspicion. On the way out I had seen the Archbishop staring out at me from his high window, and throughout that first day as I walked along the trails I could feel those eyes blazing at my back, though turning I was ever alone.
Presently I entered Connacht.
I spent the night at a tavern in the town of Gort in South Galway. I noticed a garish painting over one wall: A hagish witch was lying dead on a rock, her side pierced by a beautiful young maiden wearing armour, Joan of Arc reborn. I asked about.
"That's her Majesty," beamed the bartender, "defeating the terrible Witchqueen of the South. They say she saved us you know? From the foul magicks of MUnster..."
I passed on and made no comment.
Eventually I reached my destenation. As I had been forewarned, I waited in the trees until midnight, then went to the small side gate, which I had been told would be unlocked (by whom I had no idea and McAuliffe had refused to tell me). It was.
I was in.
It was very late and there were few people about, except servants, who mistook me for one of their own as I ascended to the Queens chambers. Softly opening the door I slipped into the darkened room. Niamh was sleeping.
I crept across the room, knife in hand. A simple cut should do it, across the throat, just a few more steps.
A candle flickered, iluminating a slender white arm and pretty blonde face. Queen Niamh. I saw my self reflected in those green eyes.
"At last you're back cousin. Took you're time getting here, but it's good to see you, and hear about your job. Well? Speak?"
And I knew who I was, my memory flooding backin. I was Conall O'Rourke, assassain and lover to Queen Niamh.
The man who killed the King and Queen of Munster.
Above: Conall O'Rourke, 1458-
To be continued...
Well this is I guess, the last update of the new year.
I hope people are enjoying the story and I hope to have more free time available in January to carry on ahead.
Planned for 2005
Above: Potential 2005 character?
Well not much left to say, but Happy New Year readers!
Do chuid
“When I landed in Ireland that morning, I was happy for the first time in over a year. Although I knew that this fate awaited me, I was, for one brief spell, happy and smiling once more.
I cannot tell you how I felt. The sand hills were full of Skylarks rising in the dawn—the first I had heard in years. This was the first sound I heard as I waded through the breakers, and they were rising all the time to the old rath at Currahane---- and all around where primroses and wild violets and the singing of Skylarks in the air, and I was back in Ireland again.”
- Roger Casement
Galway
Queen Niamh I, Queen of Ireland, Queen of Connacth, Leinster and the Islands lived in supine splendour in a large palace that dominated the countryside.
It had not existed 10 years ago, at least according to the travellers I broke bread with inside her borders. Niamh had built it to celebrate her gaining the throne of Ireland (the old castle in Galway city was now administered by a Tainiste these days). Security was heavy.
I was disguised as a Dubliner, a place I had never been too (that I remembered), but with whic I was able to use the accent after only a few minutes study. Dublin was of course in English hands and neutral-friendly to Niamh so I could get where I was going without arising suspicion. On the way out I had seen the Archbishop staring out at me from his high window, and throughout that first day as I walked along the trails I could feel those eyes blazing at my back, though turning I was ever alone.
Presently I entered Connacht.
I spent the night at a tavern in the town of Gort in South Galway. I noticed a garish painting over one wall: A hagish witch was lying dead on a rock, her side pierced by a beautiful young maiden wearing armour, Joan of Arc reborn. I asked about.
"That's her Majesty," beamed the bartender, "defeating the terrible Witchqueen of the South. They say she saved us you know? From the foul magicks of MUnster..."
I passed on and made no comment.
Eventually I reached my destenation. As I had been forewarned, I waited in the trees until midnight, then went to the small side gate, which I had been told would be unlocked (by whom I had no idea and McAuliffe had refused to tell me). It was.
I was in.
It was very late and there were few people about, except servants, who mistook me for one of their own as I ascended to the Queens chambers. Softly opening the door I slipped into the darkened room. Niamh was sleeping.
I crept across the room, knife in hand. A simple cut should do it, across the throat, just a few more steps.
A candle flickered, iluminating a slender white arm and pretty blonde face. Queen Niamh. I saw my self reflected in those green eyes.
"At last you're back cousin. Took you're time getting here, but it's good to see you, and hear about your job. Well? Speak?"
And I knew who I was, my memory flooding backin. I was Conall O'Rourke, assassain and lover to Queen Niamh.
The man who killed the King and Queen of Munster.
Above: Conall O'Rourke, 1458-
To be continued...
Well this is I guess, the last update of the new year.
I hope people are enjoying the story and I hope to have more free time available in January to carry on ahead.
Planned for 2005
- The conclusion of Three Crowns!
- An AAR dealing with's Hearts of Iron, going heavy on the character
- A second EU II country, involving an as yet undecided country.
- A timetravel plot involving one (or more) of the above.
- Supergirl (well, if I can think of a way to fit her in ):
Above: Potential 2005 character?
Well not much left to say, but Happy New Year readers!
Do chuid
Oh my - how the memory plays tricks, eh? Which way will our hero/villain go? Can't wait to find out. It's 2005 now - how about another update!
Not one, not two, but lots of updates. New year had just began!
Hope you'll find time to do it.
Hope you'll find time to do it.