Flight of the Earls Read Online Free Page A

she placed her hand around the cold iron handle of the smoke-stained oak door, opened it, and winced when the hinges let out a moan.
    Clare stepped into the coolness of the fog-enshrouded night and paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then she sank into the oak chair and experienced closeness to Maggie in some strange manner. Clare wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and absorbed the gentle chorus of the evening’s sounds.
    She had hoped the moon would provide enough light for her to read, but the murky clouds prevailed and the book lay unopened on her lap.
    Somewhere in the uneven chants of the night winds, she sought out a healing voice above the din of her life. Her imagination drifted to sweeter places and she fought back the weariness, grasping on to what remained of the day.
    Nevertheless, Clare faded as the aroma of death closed in around her.

Chapter 2
    The Roots of Change

    Clare woke with a startle.
    It frightened her to realize she was still outside and sitting in Maggie’s chair with the Bible in her lap. Clare always tried to be in bed before her father got home from the pub each night. He was a difficult drunk, and Clare found it prudent to be at least feigning sleep in her bed when he would stumble back.
    She stood and grabbed the book in one hand, the chair in the other. But before she turned, Clare glanced along the road leading away from home. Something was amiss.
    She strained her eyes and sought out moving shadows through the fog. Nothing. But her nerves were on edge.
    In a short moment, she discerned a figure approaching off in the distance, and even in the mist-obscured moonlight she could tell it was moving toward her at a hurried pace.
    Is it an animal?
    Instinct flooded and Clare scrambled to find a stick or a shovel, something she could use to fend off a predator. But then she could tell it was the shape of a person, and soon the pounding of feet could be heard. Clare’s heart pressed against her chest until she realized it was her father, Liam, and the tension released from her body as quickly as it had arrived.
    But why is he running?
    His breathless voice shouted, “Clare. Clare. Get the lantern.”
    The urgency in his words sprung her to action. She flung open the door loud enough to wake them all, but there wasn’t a stir in response. Clare tiptoed to the mantel and grabbed the oil lantern. She bent down, dipped a thin stick into the peat fire, lit the lantern’s wick, and the glass chamber filled with light.
    Clare hustled outside where she discovered her father crouched over, struggling to catch his wind. The lantern’s glow highlighted the weathered lines of his face.
    â€œBring that to the field.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Da?”
    She didn’t expect him to answer, and he didn’t. He skittered in bent fashion toward the potatoes they planted in spring. Clare hesitated, not knowing if she should step ahead to light his path or if she should just stay out of his way.
    When they arrived at the first row of planted roots, her da fell to his knees.
    â€œGive me light, girl. This is why you’re here.”
    Clare leaned down to hang the flickering lamp close to the ground before him. As she did, Clare could smell the foul odor of the night. She weighed her growing concern and curiosity against her wariness of her father’s mood and chose to remain silent.
    He dug trembling fingers into the cold, moist Irish soil of the farm where his family drew sustenance for generations. His hands emerged from the earth, and even with faint illumination it was clear to see the blackened root of a dying potato crop in his palms. Emptying the contents of his grasp slowly, Da’s shoulders slumped and his browned fingers retreated to his face.
    Clare could tell he was trying to hide his grief, and as her nose filled with the smell of rot, she listened helplessly to the dull sobbing of her proud father. Her life would never be the