Celtic Mist Ch. 01

Another imprisoned beggar lad and himself were caught fighting over a ham hock. The warden decreed that the two prisoners would fight each other in a match, and the victor would be set free. Those with money even placed bets upon the outcome. So it was that, in the wet, grey prison yard, surrounded by the shouts of the guards and prisoners, Declan won his freedom with his fists.
He had been turned loose to find himself in an unfamiliar county, unhappily too late in the year for harvest season. Thus he now wandered into this new town, Kilmaedan, with a black eye and a growling stomach.

There was a market underway, and the pleasant town square with its cobblestones and trees was lively with activity. Families, couples, groups of lads and lasses, children, dogs --- all milled or scampered about as the vendors hawked their wares. Declan walked slowly past the colorful stalls and carts, inhaling the delicious aromas of the edible merchandise...cogitating upon possible tasks he might offer to perform in exchange for food, whilst intermittently being distracted by the glimpse of a pretty maiden.

Strolling in front of him was a pair of young men whose fine attire marked them as gentlemen. Declan had not given them any particular notice till he overheard one say to the other, "I daresay I've given it more than a fair hearing, but I can find no charm in country dining." He emphasized "dining" with an ironic tone. All at once he tossed to the ground a roasted turkey leg that he had been holding; they strolled on.
Declan dived forward and snatched up the leg --- 'twas nigh untouched!
He had but one bite of the warm, savory meat before he was tackled, and the leg was knocked from his fingers. He and his assailant rolled on the ground, wrestling each other and reaching for the prized leg. Declan's fingers had just grasped the bone when the other's fists thunked him on the back. Rage overtook him --- Declan twisted and pounded the other's shoulder with his fist. They scrambled to their feet, facing off with ragged breaths and venomous eyes. 'Twas a lad near his own age, somewhat larger than himself.

Launching himself at the lad, Declan landed a volley of punches, and took answering blows to his chest and jaw. Back and forth the punches flew. He was weak from hunger and sore from the fight in the prison yard the previous day, but righteous wrath transported him. Knocked to the ground, Declan lurched to his feet, purposefully leaving his hands down. As expected, it drew a swift punch, which he dodged.
His opponent being momentarily off balance from the momentum of his swing, Declan drove a fist into his unclenched gut. With a grunt, the young man's body hunched forward...and was met by Declan's fist thrusting up from below. It slammed him in the gob --- the crack of teeth and spray of blood making the gathered bystanders gasp --- the lad's head jerked back, and his body followed in an arc, landing flat upon his back several feet away. He lay motionless for a moment than groaned.

Breathing hard, Declan dropped his hands and looked up to mark the ring of observers --- the shocked women, the cheering lads --- then saw a mangy dog trotting away with the turkey leg in its mouth. Glumly he wiped his nose and mouth on his sleeve and turned away, the awestruck townspeople standing aside to let him pass.

He had reached the end of the row of stalls when he was brought up sharpish by a hand grasping his collar.
"Here lad, hold up now," a man's deep voice said.
Declan jerked forward, both by instinct and immediate distrust of the English accent, but was unable to free himself. He twisted to behold a broad uniformed chest --- and redoubled his struggles, trying to slip out of his coat.

"Steady now." The man tugged his collar. "Calm yourself. I am not the law. I witnessed the entire incident and know you're innocent."

Declan hesitated.

"Come with me. There's a gentleman yonder who wishes a word with you."

Declan eyed him.

"You may find the conversation to your benefit."

Declan allowed himself to be steered back across the square by the strong hand on his collar whilst he continued to suspiciously assess the stranger, who looked to be about thirty. He had never seen a man so tall before, nor of such a splendid fighting figure. Under a crisp, cocked black hat with a gold insignia on the brim, his black hair was tied smartly back in a queue. In seeming confirmation of the man's statement, Declan did not recognize the dark blue, brass-buttoned uniform as that of the Militia. Still contemplating a possible escape, Declan doubted that he --- even if not hungry and tired --- could best such a stalwart-looking man in a contest of arms.

To Declan's mounting confusion, they halted at the edge of the square alongside a large, gleaming black coach complete with a gilded coat of arms upon the door and four matched white horses. A coachman and footmen waited fore and aft, one holding the reins of a grey stallion.
In the open window, a sky-blue coat sleeve with an enormous, silver embroidered cuff emerged from the shadowed interior as the man waiting inside leant forward. Then his face appeared. He rested his arm upon the edge of the window frame and gave Declan a slow perusal up and down.
Declan stared back. Under the man's powdered wig was a broad, ruddy face whose squarish jowls and faintly creased eye corners placed him at around forty years of age. In stark contrast to the white wig, his black eyebrows looked like bushy inverted vees. His hand upon the window frame was nearly level with Declan's face...the nails were well groomed, and on his thick forefinger was a gold ring. It was set with a weighty red gem whose facets caught and sprayed the sunlight.

The man's brown eyes were looking directly at him. Declan blinked away the spell of the sparkling stone when he heard the man speak.
"What is your name, lad?" Another English accent, this with a smoother tone.

When he did not reply immediately, the uniformed man's hand on his collar prodded him.
"Declan," he mumbled.

The hand prodded him again. "'Declan, sir'," the uniformed man corrected.

"Declan, sir," Declan repeated sullenly.

"Declan who? What is your family name?" the man in the coach asked.

He shrugged.

"Where is your family? Have you none?"

"No...sir." He leaned imperceptibly forward and felt his collar still imprisoned.

"Are you a Catholic?"
Declan shrugged again.

"Protestant?"

Again, he lifted his shoulders.

The two men exchanged looks. "Well, 'tis a novel answer, by God."

The uniformed man said, "If it is no matter to him, then 'tis no matter to us."

Both were regarding him closely. At his sides, Declan's fingers closed and opened round the ends of his ragged coat sleeves.

The red stone flashed again as the man tapped his fingers on the window frame. "How old are you?" he asked.

Declan pondered the question for a moment, then shrugged once again.
"Quite the chatterbox, this one."

The uniformed man chuckled in response. "A man after my own heart." He released his hold on the collar, and Declan felt the strong hands squeezing his shoulders and upper arms from behind, as if assessing him. Then he lifted Declan's left arm and examined his fist.
From the corner of his eye, Declan saw him nod at the man in the coach. They seemed to be agreement upon some matter, for after nodding in reply, the wigged man readdressed him. "Declan, how would you like the opportunity for regular employment? Bed and board included."

Declan's attention immediately perked. He looked from one man to the other. "What doing?"

"Let us say that your duties would be commensurate with your natural proclivities." They were both grinning now.
He comprehended not what they were on about and wondered if they were merely sporting with him. The two pairs of humorous eyes looked down at him. Feeling no restraint on his collar, he started to turn away...only to be brought up short by the hand returning to his shoulder.
"Hold up, lad. 'Tis an earnest offer. I believe you would make a fine guardsman for the Duke of P---," the uniformed man stated.

Declan looked at his lean, clean-shaven face, then at the wigged man. Guardsman...he knew not what answer to make...beset as he was with conflicting emotions. The red stone of the ring winked at him.
The uniformed man interrupted the lengthy silence by striding over to the grey stallion and taking the reins from the footman. "Think on it a while, Declan." Grasping the saddle horn, he swung astride. "Do you know where the castle is?"

Declan nodded. He had seen the grey, square-towered mass on a hillside some two miles distant as he had walked into town.
"When you arrive at your answer, come there. Tell them Captain Blaylock sent for you."

Declan stepped back as the man steered the horse between him and the coach and signaled the coachman, who with a crack of his whip set the horses in motion. The wigged man disappeared behind the closing window. Declan watched the lavish conveyance leave the square, attended by the rhythmic clopping of hooves on cobblestones and townspeople moving aside to make way.

Think on it Declan did. He pondered the offer as he explored Kilmaedan town the remainder of the day. He managed to earn a few pence carrying whiskey barrels into a tavern and was able to buy a bowl of stew. Thus fortified, he thought on it more --- sitting atop the stone wall of the churchyard, from whence he could meditate upon the purplish bulk of the castle in the setting sun.
His misgivings were essentially born of the uniform and the English accents. Even growing up on the streets absorbed in self-preservation, he felt some fundamental loyalties. Could a decent Irish lad work for the English oppressors? And, whether Irish or English, uniforms had ever represented the enemy. Perhaps, as the man claimed, being a guardsman was not the same as the law...but how could he become one of them --- a figure of authority?

Yet, Declan reminded himself, in all the years with his various employments, he had never previously interrogated the politics of his employers. Contemplating his recent imprisonment, and assuredly facing the prospect of another freezing winter in his current mode of life, would it not be foolish to dismiss a good position? Bed and board, they had said. 'Twould be cutting off his nose to spite his face.

A motion caught his attention --- a large black crow glided over the churchyard. Declan's troubled eyes followed it as it circled then alit upon a carved stone cross marking a grave. Tilting its head to and fro, the bird's shiny black eyes seemed to be studying him. He returned the gaze, wondering if the bird had some wisdom to impart regarding his dilemma.

Was it trying to warn him? Could the offer be a trick? But to what end? If they wished to collar him, why lure him to the castle? Witnessing the brawl, they certainly had had sufficient grounds upon which to arrest him there and then for vagrancy and disorderly conduct. Or, perhaps there was no guardsman position...perhaps they meant to conscript him into the army...

He knew not the answers to his questions. By and by, with a rustle of feathers and a mournful caw, the crow took to flight, heading in the direction of the castle.
Curling up on the ground with the stone wall at his back, Declan gazed out over the valley at the starry sky --- still thinking on the exchange with the two men as he grew sleepy. Blaylock, Blaylock, he repeated to himself lest he forget it. Was the wigged man the Duke?

The next morning, as he walked down the main street once more looking for an opportunity to barter for vittles, Declan's thoughts returned to the offer. He pictured the Captain, striding across the square in his crisp uniform --- tall and confident, his sword swinging at his side. A sensation of wistful admiration crept over Declan. What would it be like to be a man of dignity, commanding respect...if he could be such a man, he would commit his strength to glorious undertakings...a present-day knight, as it were. Instead, he was a dirty urchin ignored or shooed away by all and sundry.
The discovery of this hitherto unknown aspiration produced in Declan a sudden decisiveness. After all, he hadn't succeeded in keeping himself alive by shrinking from risks. He turned and headed out of town.

Kilmaedan Castle proved to be even larger than it had appeared from town. As he drew near on the road, the massive battlements loomed above him, some sixty feet tall and stretching several hundred feet in length. Square towers punctuated the corners and the gatehouse of the enclosure. Above the top of the wall were visible the towers of a taller structure inside.
He crossed a drawbridge over what appeared to have once been a moat, but now was boggy ground. Two sentries --- stalwart-looking young men dressed in the same uniform as the Captain --- stood one on each side of the arched entry. They regarded him dubiously as he approached.

"Halt!" one ordered. "What is your business?"

"Declan's me name. Captain Blaylock sent for me."

This appeared to signify something to them. One stepped nearer. "Raise your arms." With an expression of distaste, the guard searched Declan's ragged, soiled garments. "Unarmed. Follow me."
Declan was led into the passageway through the wall, under the iron spikes of the raised portcullis. Inside the walls he discovered a remarkable sight.

The battlements, he now appreciated, delineated a hexagon, encompassing within their boundaries the keep or castle proper wherein the Duke must live, multiple smaller stone buildings, gardens, and a wide, grassy bailey the size of a large field. He looked about in wonder as they crossed the open ground. The keep had two different sections: an older portion built against the far battlement, four stories tall with even taller towers --- and a three-story wing of more recent appearing construction, connected to the south side of the older structure. Decorative gardens flanked this newer wing. As they passed, Declan observed a pair of gardeners at work in the flower beds.

They headed towards the north side of the keep, to an area which clearly was reserved for utilitarian purposes, one side occupied by a long, stone, two-storied wing extending from the north face of the castle. Next to it was the stable and several other low buildings whose purpose Declan could not identify, together demarcating a shared cobblestone courtyard.
All about them was activity: a lad grooming a horse in front of the stable, a man working on the axle of a carriage, another man hoisting a bucket from a well at one end of the courtyard, maids hanging out linens to dry, two children playing with a dog. 'Twas an entire village inside the walls, but devoid of beggars and the stench of excrement. Everyone was clad in tidy garments and looked well fed.

As Declan and the sentry entered the busy courtyard, Captain Blaylock emerged from the stable door, ducking slightly to clear the frame. Resplendent in his uniform as yesterday, he strode across the courtyard towards them. The sentry stood to attention and saluted. "The lad Declan, sir."
Blaylock had already noted him and nodded. "Return to your post. You, come with me."
Declan hastened to follow in the brisk footsteps of the Captain.

"So, you've decided to give the offer further consideration," Blaylock stated. They entered the two-storied wing and turned right into a dim, stone-walled corridor. "The duties are as follows: providing security for the castle, maintaining order upon the estate, and protecting the Duke and his family when they travel."
They were passing a series of identical small chambers, each with two tidy cots visible through the open doors. "As you may need to confront evildoers, the job is not without hazard. You will thus be trained in the use of all weapons."
Now they were crossing a large room with a long wooden table and a wide fireplace. Blaylock led him down another corridor arising from the far end of the room. "In recompense you will be paid one pound per week. You will receive bed and board besides. You will be granted one day of leave every fortnight."

At the end of the hall, they entered a spacious room whose walls were covered with racks laden with every manner of weapon: pikes, lances, swords, knives, muskets, pistols, and many more implements of battle that Declan did not recognize. In the center of the room, a man stood at a stout workbench strewn with tools, lead balls, and scraps of wood, metal, and paper. He was turning the crank on a vise but stopped to salute the Captain.
The man reached for a pistol lying upon the table and presented it butt first to Blaylock. "I adjusted the frizzen, sir. 'Tis firing proper now."

"Thank you." Blaylock examined the firing mechanism, then slipped the flintlock into a holster on his belt. "Brodie, this is Declan...our new recruit, or so I hope. Declan this is Brodie, our master of arms."

Brodie, a sturdy man in his mid-thirties, had reddish-blond hair and a freckled face with prominent scars on his chin, nose, and brows. He regarded Declan with interest, then grinned. "Welcome, laddie."

Declan scarce had time to reply before the Captain turned on his heel. "This way," he commanded.
Declan followed his broad back along the corridor from whence they had come. Blaylock halted in the room with the long table. "Come here." He showed Declan a paper sign nailed to a board on the wall at the head of the table. "Can you read?"

"A piece...sir."

"Then you must have had some schooling at one point in your life, eh?"

Declan wondered why he himself had never arrived at this logical deduction. He looked at the paper, reading the first few lines:

.

Insubordination or defiance of orders.............Fifteen lashes

Tardiness for watch or drill...................Forfeiture of one week's wages

Truancy from watch or drill.............Ten lashes

Slovenly appearance or quarters........Forfeiture of one week's wages

Drunkeness on duty................ Forfeiture of one week's wages and loss of leave day

.

"'Tis a list of infractions and the corresponding punishments. Mark them well. In this company all rules and expectations are plainly stated."

Declan nodded.

They returned to the courtyard, where two uniformed men waited on horseback. A stable boy was holding the reins of the grey stallion. The Captain took the reins and turned to Declan. "What say you, Declan? Do you want the position?"
Declan straightened. "Aye."

"Aye, sir," Blaylock corrected, the corners of his dark blue eyes crinkling as he smiled. He mounted the horse.

"Aye, sir."

"Excellent. Report to Brodie." He reined the stallion round, and the three mounted men headed for the gatehouse.

*****

Brodie's first order of business was escorting Declan through a stout oak door at the end of the corridor; on the other side was a landing of a stone stair. Directly across was a much finer door. "This way," Brodie said, pointing down the stairs. "Dinna go through that door --- it goes into the castle proper."