Celtic Mist Ch. 01

There was only the ringing and rushing blood in his ears as Declan, panting, looked around and saw the screaming mouths of the spectators, saw the umpires' hands moving up and down as they counted.

Garrett moved not.

When Brodie flung his arms round him, and the Kilmaedan guardsmen erupted onto the platform, Declan knew the count was over. Brodie had tears in his eyes. Declan returned the embrace for but a moment before he was hoisted onto his comrades' shoulders. Over the ringing, he heard them chanting his name over and over as they pumped their fists in the air.

'Twas a panoply of boisterous motion and shimmering sound. Garrett was carried off the stage by four men. Down upon the ground next to the ring, the Duke and Mr. Bruckton were grinning as Lord R--- and Mr. Clayton approached them. Most of the spectators looked shocked, whilst others were pressing round the bettors to collect their winnings.

Mr. Clayton climbed into the ring to present Declan with a leather pouch filled with coins. Later he was astounded to discover the winning purse was 260 pounds --- he had never seen so much as one tenth the sum in his life!

"Aye," Brodie explained later. "'Tis the money staked by their lordships for the winner plus yer share of the ticket take."

The Kilmaedan convoy reassembled in high spirits. The Duke and Mr. Bruckton took the road north to Ramsfort Mansion --- with their guard escort and valets --- to partake of Lord R---'s hospitality, whilst the remaining company stopped in Gorey town where lodgings had been arranged at the White Stag Inn.

The triumphant parade into town was heralded by the jubilant beat of the drum and waving of the Kilmaedan flags. Declan, smeared and spattered with blood and not wishing to soil his uniform, was riding bare chested --- surrounded by his comrades' vigorous chorus of "SEE HERE THE CONQUERING HERO COMES! SOUND THE TRUMPETS! BEAT THE DRUMS!"

The revelry continued round a long table in the inn's cheery common room as they ate, quaffed, caroused, and recounted scenes from the fight --- illustrated by raucous enactments punctuated by chants of "Declan! Declan!" Their voices echoing oddly in his head, Declan attended their descriptions with dazed wonder. His own recollections of the fight were but a muddle of sensations.

At one point, Captain Blaylock strode through the room and stopped at their table --- prompting the party to fall silent and stand as best they could in their various states of inebriation. Declan, sober but battered, struggled to his feet.

"So, here's our young bruiser," Blaylock said, his blue eyes humorous.

Swaying next to Declan, Brodie proclaimed, "I knew he could do it, so I did. This laddie with his quick fist showed him right well!"

Declan winced as Brodie seized his left wrist and raised his hand into the air.

"Let's drink to that!" one of men called out.

Brodie lifted his mug and slurred, "Aye! Here's to Declan's quick fist!"

"Quick fist! Quick fist! Quick fist!" the men chanted, pounding their fists upon the table and rattling the plates and cutlery. They all drank.

"Drink up, me lad! Drink! Drink!"

Declan had never acquired a taste for spirits --- living on the streets he had rarely been able to spare coins for the libation...and even when he could, he had not. Having need of his wits to survive, he had avoided anything that might compromise his faculties. Notwithstanding, he now did not want to appear an innocent wee lad --- he picked up a mug and took a sloppy draught, his bruised lips feeling large and uncoordinated...the liquid stinging the split flesh.

The Captain looked him up and down with an expression of wry amusement. "Declan Quickfist," he said. "You're not in the ring anymore. Get yourself cleaned up and properly dressed. You're still representing his lordship...and there are gentlewomen here."

Declan looked down at his bare, bloody chest and arms. "Aye, sir."

As he turned to depart, Blaylock said, "Next time I'll know whom to lay my money on." He winked.

The men round the table groaned and laughed. 'Twas a moment before Declan took the meaning of the words, and another dumbfounded moment ere he realized that it was a jest...by then, the Captain was gone. Declan, embarrassed, glanced about at the other patrons and crossed his arms over his naked chest.

"Mr. Quickfist," a female voice said behind him. 'Twas one of the serving maids. "I'll show ye where ye can wash if ye like."

"Ta." After a brief, confused search in the disarray about their table, Declan found his bundle of clothes upon a nearby bench, then followed the maid out of the room.

He moved stiffly as she led him down a hall past the kitchen, where she paused to fetch a candle. During the meal, through a haze of happiness he had taken note of this lass --- golden hair under a lace edged cap, a pert nose, and a coy smile as she nimbly dodged the overfriendly hands of Declan's comrades.

As they walked, Declan held the bundle of clothes before him to hide his bare chest, reproaching himself for having, in the elation of victory, acted the ass before this comely maid.

At the end of the hall, she opened the door of a dark room where she used the candle to light a lamp above a fireplace, revealing a small bathing chamber containing a copper tub, a half barrel, and a cupboard with pitchers and towels. A large kettle of water was on the hearth of the unlit fireplace. "Here ye be," she said. "This will sort ye. I can light the fire to warm some water."

Being used to cold water in the guards' quarters, he mumbled, "Nay, dinna trouble yourself."

She looked him over and shook her head, saying, "Och, the sight of ye!" then left Declan to himself.

Washing did sort him, although 'twas a lengthy endeavor --- undressing and lifting buckets of water with his sore, exhausted body. Standing in the half barrel and awkwardly rinsing off soap, he observed the red welts covering his torso from the waist up. Welts covered his jaw too, he saw as he inspected his face in a cracked looking glass above the mantel, his slow fingers with their abraded knuckles buttoning his uniform coat. His split lower lip had ceased bleeding but was puffy and distorted. His left eye from his brow to his cheek was dusky red and so formidably swollen that the lids were closed. The laceration in his brow was yet oozing blood.

Declan was pressing his handkerchief to the wound as he made his way back along the hall to the common room, contemplating the sudden attraction of collapsing onto the bed in his chamber upstairs, when the golden-haired maid appeared at the far end, holding an empty tray along her side. He dropped his hand and tugged his coat straight.

"Better?" she asked as he approached.

"Aye, thank ye, miss."

"Tessie," she said, smiling.

"Thank ye, Tessie."

"Why, you're still bleeding, so ye are."

He shrugged. "'Tis naught but a scratch."

"Come with me. I'll fix ye up." She took hold of his arm and steered him into the kitchen. In the steamy, savory smelling room, the cook and her assistant were busy at work, one stirring a pot on the stove and one cutting vegetables at a heavy oak table; they briefly marked Declan's presence as Tessie guided him to a corner partially separated from the rest of the kitchen by a tall wooden shelf laden with pots, pans, pottery bowls, and earthenware crocks. Here she pointed to a stepstool. "Sit ye down. I'll be back in a moment." She disappeared back into the hall.

Declan sat slumped, his weary arms resting upon his thighs --- the voices and clatter of the cooks at work were a fog in the background. In a moment, the maid returned carrying a small tin box, which she set upon the shelf next to them.

"Here, let me," she said, taking the handkerchief from him, and stepping to the hearth to dip it in a bucket of water.

Before he knew it, she was standing between his spraddled legs and removing his hat. She cleaned his brow with the wet cloth. His fatigue was at once replaced by a new, quite different alertness.

Sitting upon the stool, his face was level with her bosom, which, he could not help observing, was quite full and round under a dark blue dress with a white kerchief tucked into the top of the bodice. Her breasts were but a foot away! Even the pain of her ministrations no longer held his attention as he gazed at the ripe protrusion before him.

Soon remembering himself, he averted his eyes...only to take in the tempting sight of her slim waist, around which a white apron was tied. Her skirts were teasing the insides of his thighs. He felt dizzy as the blood rushed to the one part of his body that was unbruised...the bulge expanded in his breeches. Christ! Let her not glance down!

She was speaking to him. "I watched the fight, Mr. Quickfist."

"Declan," he croaked. "Me name's Declan." How pretty her pink lips were as she talked!

"How do ye do it, Declan? Does it not hurt something awful?" She put aside the bloody handkerchief.

He shrugged with an attempt at nonchalance. "I dinna ---" he was stopped in mid-sentence by her drawing her own kerchief from her bodice. "---feel it," he finished hoarsely. Above the edge of the dress, the top portion of her breasts and the shadowed valley between was now visible. As she dabbed his wound dry, the succulent, creamy flesh jiggled...he stared agog, his cock straining in its confines.

Then she reached for the tin box, leaning towards him: her breasts were pressed directly into his face...his mouth opened against her flesh, and he groaned into the warm, sweet-smelling softness...she straightened.

Declan swallowed hard and watched helplessly as she stepped away to wet a lump of alum.

"'Twill burn a wee bit," she said, coming close again between his legs.

He did not even mark the sting of her cauterizing his wound, for his attention had now been captured by her thigh which was pressed against his stiffstander through their clothes. 'Twas but an accident, he told himself. Yet, even as she set aside the alum, her thigh not only remained in contact with his cock, but now rubbed back and forth upon it! Oh God! She knew!

His heart pounded and his face flushed. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she gazed down at him, cool fingertips brushing against his throbbing swollen eyelid. With his good eye he gave her an imploring look. Leaning towards her, he raised his hands from his thighs and reached for her hips.

Tessie's eyes darted over his shoulder at the cooks, then she twirled away before he could grab her. "There ye be," she said brightly. "That should stop the bleeding." She held out his hat to him.

Rising to his feet unsteadily, he took the hat and held it in front of his groin as she led him back to the hall.

"Thank ye," he said.

She leaned near and whispered, "Meet me in the stable."

Declan stood open-mouthed as she returned to the kitchen, wherein he heard her announce that she was going to fetch more water, then heard a door slam. In an instant he came to his senses and, caring not a whit for his sore body, hastened down the hall, through the common room --- blind to the curious looks from his comrades --- and out the front door of the inn. In the dim glow of the lanterns in the lane and cobblestoned courtyard, he found his way round back to the inn's stable. His heart was racing --- Oh pray let it happen! Confirming himself alone in the courtyard, he opened the stable door and stepped in.

'Twas quiet inside with the meager light coming through the windows revealing a row of stalls. A horse nickered softly as he closed the door behind him.

"Tessie?" he said in a low voice.

"Up here," came a soft reply.

Declan then spotted the ladder and made a swift ascent to the hay loft with his cock rising in concert. In the beam of moonlight coming through the small window he saw Tessie's curved silhouette standing among the piles of hay. In a moment he was before her, taking her into his arms and kissing her...eager and clumsy with his swollen lips. She returned his kisses, her arms thrown round his neck. They tumbled down into the hay.

His frantic hands found her breasts...through her dress he squeezed and cupped the plump mounds, struggling with her bodice and managing to slide one hand inside to clasp her naked flesh and feel the nubbin of her nipple. At the same time, she was tugging open the buttons on his breeches' flap. When she reached into his drawers and grabbed his cock, he gasped and hastened to follow her lead.

His hands fumbled amongst the layers of her dress and petticoats, tugging them up...in the darkness he felt the smooth skin of her thighs, then her round, wriggling arse...then his fingers were on the prize! He was touching her cunny! Soft hair...warm flesh...and a moist crevice! In that heavenly spot was the hole where the cock went...where his cock would be going, God willing, if he didn't spend in her hand first!

She had freed his organ completely from his garments and had wrapped her hand round him, rubbing him up and down. "Oh, what a nice one!" she breathed.

Declan moaned as he continued to greedily feel the wondrous article between her legs...the article for which he had been longing since he was a wee lad. Curse the darkness, he could not lay his eyes upon it! Seized by an overwhelming letch to kiss the dear thing, he began to slide lower to put his mouth upon it, but she stopped him, pulling him back up by his collar. "Nay, just do it proper...make haste!" she whispered.

She pulled his shirt up and drew him close with her arms, and Declan realized 'twas truly going to happen --- he was atop her, between her widespread legs, and their bare organs were pressed together! With the blood throbbing in his chest and belly and his breathing hoarse, he butted ineptly in the slippery groove for the opening he knew must be there.

He was already dangerously on the brink as Tessie reached down and took hold of his shaft, guiding him to the proper place. When he felt himself at the point of give, he shoved in excitement. "Unnnhhhh!" she grunted as he precipitously buried himself inside her. Oh sweet heaven! He groaned...hot, wet flesh surrounding him! Feeling his sperm rising, he instinctively began to thrust.

"Don't...spend in me," she panted.

No sooner had she spoken, and had he completed just his second thrust, than the tide of pleasure rushed forth. "Oh God!!" he gasped. "Oh no!" she cried as his cock spasmed, discharging its load of hot spunk up her cunny.

Declan breathed heavily as his body relaxed in the bliss of release.

Tessie's arms were loosely clasped over his back. "You're a wicked lad, ye are," she said with a rueful laugh. After another moment she wiggled under him. "Let me up, do."

He groaned as he withdrew and rolled off her. In the shadowy dark, he watched her briskly shake her skirts down.

"I must wash and get back afore they miss me," she stated and climbed down the ladder.

Declan sat for a moment, puzzled by her abrupt departure, then got to his feet and headed down the ladder after her, holding his breeches up with one hand. Had he not done it "proper"? Reaching the stone floor, he saw the stable door swinging shut behind her. Through it he heard her muted "Good evening."

Quickly he tried to fasten his garments, fumbling with the buttons. A moment later, the door creaked as it opened again --- Declan looked up to behold Captain Blaylock. In panic, Declan stood to attention and saluted --- hay in his hair, and his breeches and drawers sagging to his thighs. "Sir!"

Blaylock gave him a knowing grin. "As you were, Quickfist."

Declan grabbed his falling clothes and rushed out as the Captain headed down the row of stalls.

He lay abed in the inn that night as Brodie snored softly in the other cot. The events of the day filled his mind --- the most glorious day of his life to date. His victory in the ring...his victory in the hay loft. Alas, he had not been able to talk to Tessie again, for she had been rushing about bearing heavily laden trays to and from the kitchen. But naught could temper what had been the moment of utmost jubilation for him: his initiation --- at last --- into the most pleasurable sport on earth.

And, nay, 'twas not boxing!

*****

So it was that Declan commenced his career as the Duke of P---'s champion. Over the next year and a half, he fought in eight more matches arranged by the Duke and Mr. Bruckton, and from all emerged bloody and battered...but victorious. For most of the fights they travelled to other towns, similar to the match in Gorey. Others were held in a field outside of Kilmaedan town. One time they even took the boat across the Irish Sea for Declan to take on the champion of Wales.

His continued training with Brodie increased his strength, stamina, and skill, and each victory enhanced his confidence. Yet, when he was embroiled face to face with pounding heart and throbbing fists in the violent exchange of blows, Declan could not comport himself with professional detachment --- he was ever possessed by the same unsated fury that had propelled him through street brawls as a young lad.

Brodie, recognizing the advantage of this savage quirk in Declan's otherwise tractable nature, did not attempt to correct it, even when Declan deviated from the battle strategy upon which they had agreed. By and by Brodie even began to speculate that Declan might become Ireland's next champion.

At the conclusion of each fight, panting and surrounded by the screaming, jumping crowd, Declan experienced a sensation of peace and --- as he looked up at the pleased countenances of Brodie, the Captain, Mr. Bruckton, and the Duke --- a sensation of pride.

With every successive match, the proportion of the spectators cheering "Quickfist! Quickfist!" increased. His fourth match was held in Kilmaedan town. After that, when he walked down the streets of the town on his days of liberty, the young lads were wont to follow him chanting "Quickfist, Quickfist!" --- and begging to see his fists. Grinning, he would squat down and clench his hands as they put their small fists alongside his and examined in fascination the callouses and scabbed lacerations upon his knuckles.

With his increasing notoriety, Declan noted too how the house staff at the castle and the townspeople treated him a newfound respect, greeting him cordially. He especially took note of the winks and smiles with which the lasses now favored him.

The prize money was a conundrum for him. He tried to share it with Brodie, but the man shook his head. "Nay, laddie. 'Tis yers, won fair and square. I've had mine. If ye want me advice, put it by against hard times."

Even flush with his success, Declan remembered too well his previous life, and saw the wisdom of Brodie's words. The lion's share of the money he entrusted to Captain Blaylock for safekeeping, as Declan had no place to secure it in his own room. He did spend a small portion of his winnings --- standing his fellow guardsman rounds of ale at the taverns in town, buying himself a few items of clothing to replace the now too-small garments he wore when not in uniform, buying himself his own shaving kit, and distributing coins among the street urchins. On an unexpected whim, he even purchased a few books for himself at a little shop after his match in Dublin.