Celtic Mist Ch. 02

Declan lay on his belly upon his cot where Burrows and Fitzgibbons had heaved him, stripped to the waist. The chamber was dark and silent --- his roommate Branagan was still on guard duty. Was it only earlier this night that he had left this room, swelling with pride and eager anticipation at his promotion? It seemed but a fool's dream now.

Declan moved not. Intermittently, between shallow breaths, he felt blood sliding down his flanks from his lacerated back. Although he lay still, the wheels were turning in his mind.

After the scene in Bruckton's chamber, he had come to lying on the floor --- in the Captain's office, he had realized as he struggled to his feet on Blaylock's command. His hands were tied together behind him, and his head was throbbing from the Captain's blow. His weapons belt had been confiscated. Everything had come rushing back to him in that moment.

Lynch was there, his right eye red and swollen where Declan had punched him...Burrows and Fitzgibbons were returned from the cottage as well...and everyone was looking at him.

Declan had stared straight ahead as Captain Blaylock's voice hammered at him --- insubordination...defiance of orders...striking an officer. He had demanded an explanation for Declan's conduct.

A muscle twitched in Declan's cheek as he had met the Captain's grim blue gaze --- the pulse beat against the rope at his wrists. "I have none, sir," he had said.

He had remained silent as the rope was untied...silent as he removed his uniform coat and shirt as ordered. His wrists had been rebound in front of him. Then Burrows and Fitzgibbons had walked him to the wall, looped the tail of the rope through an iron ring high in the stone, and stretched his arms above his head.

He had vowed to himself to not cry out as he was flogged but knew not if he had made good on his vow, for after the first fifteen lashes, the raw agony blotted out awareness. Blaylock had not faltered, indeed the man's arm waxed stronger with each blow. When Declan's raised arms were finally released, he had collapsed to his knees, the blood running down his back and the spittle sliding from his sagging mouth. Burrows and Fitzgibbons had slung his arms over their shoulders and dragged his stumbling body to his room.

Declan lay with his face in the coarse wool blanket, and the unvoiced...recently unknown words now spilled forth in his mind:

His name was Declan Muldowney.

He remembered his birthday...aye...he was...nineteen years old.

His family was from Kilkenny town. His father was John Muldowney. His mother was Brigid Muldowney. His brother's name was Rory.

A lump rose in his throat...his hands squeezed the wood bed frame, then he smothered a groan at the pain provoked by the motion.

His name was Declan Muldowney...

.

He was nine years old. 'Twas after dinner and his family was in the parlour --- Ma and Da were sitting in their chairs flanking the fireplace, whilst he and his brother Rory, aged thirteen, were on the floor between them, Rory next to Da's feet, he next to Ma's. Rory was holding pieces of kindling wood in the fire, determining at what height above the flames the sticks ceased to catch fire. He, Declan, was whittling a block of basswood, endeavoring to fashion the form of the goddess Morrigan the Crow. Ma was reading aloud to them from Robinson Crusoe. Da had the orange cat Finn upon his lap and was cutting the pages of a newly printed book with a letter opener.

As he listened to the story, Declan intermittently looked up at his father. Da had seemed distracted and worried recently. His father owned the printing shop in Kilkenny, and printed the journal for the county, along with pamphlets and books. Over the past three weeks there had been multiple odd happenings: strange visitors to the shop...furtive conversations between his father and other men in the street and after mass...whispering between his parents.

Two days previously, when he and Rory had been working in the shop with Da and his assistants, the town magistrate had come in. Da had quickly ushered the man into the garden behind the house, out of their hearing. Through the window, Declan had witnessed an increasingly agitated exchange between the two men --- Da shaking his head repeatedly.

Later, he had asked his father what he and the magistrate were quarreling about. "The sheep husbandry pamphlet," Da had said. Declan remembered the pamphlet --- he had watched Da set the type for it three weeks ago: "Sheep Husbandry in the Age of Reason, by a Thinking Irishman." He recalled having been puzzled by the absence of an author's name.

"Why was he cross about the pamphlet? Was it not simply about sheep?" he had asked. Da had explained that the pamphlet was an "allegory," and was in truth speaking against English rule of Ireland...and that was making the Englishmen angry.

"But 'tis a matter for adults. Don't worry yourself over it," Da had said.

Declan guessed that Da was still troubled by it, for he was scarce looking at the book as he worked and was abstractedly stroking Finn's head.

When the knock at the front door came, they all started. 'Twas a late hour for callers. The maid Annie had already retired for the night. "Stay here," Da said as he rose and went to the hall, closing the door behind him. The three of them remained silent, listening intently. Declan heard Da's and another man's voices but could not make out the words. After several moments, the voices grew louder. "No, I shan't," his father said.

The hall door opened.

A dark-garbed stranger stood there, a young man --- Da tried to block his entry into the parlour. "Well, well...this must be your charming family," the man said, his voice deep, his accent English. He held his arm out. "After you, Mr. Muldowney."

The three of them rose to their feet as Da backed slowly into the room. His mother pulled Declan by his arm behind her. He peered round her, watching as the stranger followed Da in --- two other men entering behind him. Declan gulped...his father was a tall man, but these strangers were even taller...three stalwart men who seemed to fill the small parlour. They were all similarly dressed in black garments with their hats low over their brows.

"I repeat," the leader said, "We are in need of the author's name."

"No."

"I strongly urge you to reconsider."

"No. I stand by a man's right to protest injustice." The words were brave, but Declan was frightened by the never-before seen expression of fear upon his father's face.

The man stepped closer to the three of them by the fireplace. "Perhaps your family can tell me, eh?" Ma, Rory, and he shrank back.

"Let them be, sir," Da quickly said. "They are innocent of the matter."

"Indeed? I'll wager that this fine lad is your apprentice and knows about the pamphlet." The man's fearsome gaze fixed upon Rory.

"I beg you ---" his father began. The man seized Rory by the chin and spun him back against his chest. His other hand held a dagger to Rory's neck.

"John!" Ma cried. Declan clutched her arm in fright. Rory was trembling, his eyes welling with tears above the large hand over his mouth.

"The name, sir." The man stared at Da.

"Oh, tell him! Tell him!" Ma begged.

His father swallowed. In a faltering voice he spoke. "J-J-James Patrick Mulkey."

With a brief motion of his chin, the man indicated the writing desk in the corner. "Write it."

Hastily his father crossed to the desk and complied. "And his address," the man added. In a moment, Da returned bearing a piece of paper and presented it in his shaking hand to the man. The leader looked at it, then nodded over his shoulder to one of his comrades. The second man took the paper.

"Excellent," the man with the dagger pronounced, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. His hand whipped aside --- a line of blood spurted from Rory's throat and he crumpled to the floor.

Ma screamed...Da with a hoarse cry lunged at the man, his hands outstretched. With scarce a lifting of his hand, the man impaled Da's charging chest with the bloody blade.

Ma was on the floor wailing and pressing her skirts to Rory's neck when Da collapsed next to them. "Da!!" Declan cried and fell to his side. Sobbing, he pressed his hand to his father's chest, endeavoring to keep the blood inside his body. Through his tears he saw his father's face grow whiter and whiter. "Da!!!"

In the background he heard the strident command, "Seize her!" then Ma's shrieks.

His father's hand weakly grasped at Declan's knee. "M-my boy...." His voice was barely audible.

"NOOO!! NOOO!!!" Ma's screams rose.

Declan saw the tears shimmering in his father's eyes. "B-Brigid..." Then he moved no more.

Declan raised his streaming eyes and saw the men in the adjoining dining room. Two of them were holding Ma down on her back upon the dining room table. There was a tumult of cries, kicking legs, and jumbled skirts, then the men grabbed her legs and forced them wide apart. The leader sheathed his knife on his belt and removed his coat, tossing it over a chair. Declan stared in horror as the man stepped between Ma's legs, unbuttoning his breeches.

Without thinking Declan leapt to his feet and ran towards him.

"Yo! Watch out! The lad!" one of the men shouted.

The man turned. Declan launched at him, arms violently flailing, but was stopped short by a powerful hand grasping his hair. In that instant Declan realized that he still was holding the whittling knife, and he slashed desperately at the man, connecting with flesh.

With a snarl the man flung him to the floor, where the knife bounced from his hand. "Grab him!" the man barked.

"RUN!!" Ma shrieked. "RUN!!!"

Declan ran.

He scrambled to his feet and ran into the hall --- heavy footsteps close behind him. Past the stairs, through the door at the end into the dark printing shop. He knew his way: he rolled under the big table directly in front of him, emerged on the other side, dodged round the printing press, then reached the garden door on the far side. He had to unlatch it, but he still had the advantage of the intruder, who was stumbling and crashing into objects in the darkness behind him.

Out into the garden he ran. 'Twas a moonless night, and in the dim starlight, fear and familiarity carried him --- sprinting down the paths and leaping through flower beds in the long, narrow garden behind the house. Over his panting breath, he heard the man's footsteps behind him...his pursuer had reached the garden too!

In the darkness Declan saw the rapidly approaching tall stone wall at the end of the garden. Careening through the rose bushes in the last bed, he jumped to grasp the lowest branch of the oak tree next to the wall...the tree Rory and he used regularly to scale the ten-foot-high wall. By memory he climbed the series of limbs, tearing his clothes and scraping his flesh in his panic. Scooting across a branch over the top of the wall, he swung to the underside and dropped onto the ground below, landing on his hands and knees.

As the curses and sounds of shaking tree branches rose on the other side of the wall, Declan struggled to his feet and ran across the dark field, tripping over stones, veering round the pale mounds of ruminating sheep --- eliciting a trail of bleating in his wake.

He raced for the stile in the stone wall on the side of the field some fifty yards distant. Over his own gasping breaths and pounding heartbeat, he could not tell where the man was. He threw himself to the ground upon reaching the stile and pried at the flat stone in the soil at its base, breaking fingernails but succeeding in tilting it up high enough so that he could slide into the narrow hole under it. The stone thunked back down above his head.

In utter blackness Declan sank to the cold ground inside the priest's hole, hugging his knees to his chest and trying to smother the sounds of his breaths. Please God please God please...he chanted to himself. The smell of damp earth enveloped his shaking body as images flashed in his head --- Rory's huge frozen eyes above the erupting gash in his neck, Da's hot blood bubbling over his fingers, Ma's legs forced open by the two men...

...and the slashes from Declan's whittling knife upon the leader's forearm in the shape of a crooked cross --- a throbbing crimson cross.

When he came to, he knew not where he was. His hands touched cool earth and stone forming a narrow space round him. Declan, he said to himself. His name was Declan. He was cold and hungry. Above his head he perceived an oh so faint line of light, and he climbed towards it, pushing up a heavy flat stone to haul himself out of a hole in the ground. He was in a field with grazing sheep --- his hands were sticky with blood, and the air was acrid with the smell of smoke.

Turning towards the rising sun, he wrapped his arms round his shivering body and began walking.

.

Declan's flayed back spasmed as he pushed himself up from his mattress. He opened the locker at the foot of his cot and began pulling out its contents. Possessed by a newly resolved purpose, he worked efficiently, ignoring the pain. From the bottom of the box, he retrieved the battered hide knapsack that had served him well during his wandering years and packed it with his few belongings that were useful or saleable: clothes, pocket watch, razor, honing stone, canteen, tinderbox, and a handful of coins.

'Twas a meager collection --- he was departing Kilmaedan Castle with scarce more than he had arrived with two years ago, Declan thought wryly.

His uniform coat and shirt were on the bed where they had been tossed by Burrows and Fitzgibbons. He removed his breeches and added them to complete the uniform. Then he donned his own clothes, wincing as he eased the shirt across his raw flesh.

As he turned to leave, a glint of silver in the locker's upper tray caught his eye --- 'twas the medal he had been awarded for his service to the Duke. He smiled grimly and chucked it into the chamber pot.

Silently Declan made his way through the dark passageway in the guards' quarters, past the snores of the off-duty guards, holding the knapsack before him, delaying slinging it over his wounded back. In the common room, he paused to grab the end of a loaf of bread that had been left upon the table and stuffed it in his bag.

To the armory he continued. The door creaked as he pushed it open --- he held his breath --- all fell silent again. He dared not light a candle but accustomed his eyes to the dim moonlight from the windows. Fortunately, he knew where to find what he was after, having spent many hours in here working with Brodie. From the racks against the wall, he took a flintlock pistol, a dagger, and a leather weapons belt. Cartridges he found in a cupboard.

Declan abhorred taking anything that was not his --- both on principle and not wanting to offer any additional provocation to Blaylock for pursuing him --- but now that his eyes were opened, he was not embarking on this desperate mission unarmed.

Rope coils he found hanging upon hooks on the wall. He swiftly flaked one out upon the floor, his back burning as his shirt pulled free from the open wounds. One rope would not be long enough. He recoiled it, tying knots every yard or so, then repeated with a second coil. For the last item, he had to venture deeper into the chamber where the old implements of battle were stored. There, among shields and jousting lances he found it: a rusty grappling hook.

Thus geared, Declan slipped outside into the deserted courtyard, and immediately veered into the shadows behind the guards' quarters. He followed the battlements towards the castle, staying close to the massive stone wall, out of the sightlines of the guards on patrol sixty feet above. Pausing at the base of the stairs against the wall, Declan gazed up at the castle looming darkly above, even higher than the battlements. The moon was lower now and eerily illuminated the westerly faces of the square towers at the four corners.

Aoife O'Farrell was imprisoned somewhere in the keep, and Declan guessed it to be in the northeast corner tower. During his two years at Kilmaedan Castle, there had been, to his knowledge, three incidents in which intruders upon the grounds had been held prisoner --- and 'twas in the northeast tower that they had been held. To be sure, the old keep and the adjoining new castle were enormous --- she could be confined anywhere. But he swore that he would test his theory and endeavor to do right by the lass.

Looking up at the shuttered window of the northeast tower, he saw nary a hint of light.

He crept partway up the stairs to the battlement and listened for the sound of the sentry's footsteps above as he tied the rope to the grappling hook. Guards were stationed every few hundred feet on top of the wall, round the entire circumference. He himself had many nights patrolled this stretch where the castle was built into the battlement, pacing up and down the elevated stone walkway.

The battlement ended at the side of the castle and took up again on the opposite side, but the walkway continued through the castle itself as an enclosed passageway that the guards had dubbed "the tunnel" --- entered through an archway at each end. The interior wall of the tunnel was the castle itself whilst the exterior wall had a row of vertical slits for shooting arrows. Beyond the castle, the battlement angled to the west, cutting off the view back through the tunnel.

Given the truncated sightline, Declan estimated that he had five to ten safe minutes between the guard's rounds at this stretch of wall --- depending upon how fast the man walked. He had to trust that distance and darkness would hide his actions from the guards further along the wall.