The court messenger arrived in the early hours of the afternoon, sat astride a great and powerful white steed with mudded legs and accompanied by a weary stable-hand, riding an equally-weary nag. 

When he had been charged with his solemn delivery, the messenger - a rotund, boastful, magisterial man - had descended upon the royal stables and demanded nothing less than their finest animal. Their finest animal was at war, attending the needs of their finest soldier, but what remained was a kingly and unruly stallion who held too much pride to respect the men that attempted to sit upon his back; yet he had been somehow goaded into allowing the pompous courier to ride him, plied and soothed with vegetables and sugar-cubes by the stable-hand. Still, the horse tossed his head and huffed as the pair cantered toward their destination, disgruntled and patience wearing thin.

Donahue watched their approach from where he toiled in the field, resting against his rake. He had spent the morning tilling his soil, preparing for a fresh crop to be planted. Winter was some months away still, but he still felt the first bites of cold in the air, and the food stores in their current state did not compensate for the lack of coin with which he would otherwise feed himself.