Celtic Mist Ch. 02

"Hey there!" a man's voice called.

Declan's head snapped up. Striding towards them across the pasture was a man...a farmer by the look of him...with a dog trotting at his side. Shite! Too late to throw the coat over Aoife's nightgown. Edging in front of her, Declan gave the man a short wave. "Hullo, sir. Are we on your land? We're just passing through."

The farmer dispatched the dog towards the herd of sheep with a brisk "Come bye!" as he continued walking. "'Tis fine by me...but 'tis not me land as the landlord oft reminds me." He smiled wryly. "Where are ye from?" Tilting his head, he peered curiously round Declan at Aoife. "Good day to ye, lassie." He touched his hat.

"Down by Rathdrum," Declan replied, naming the first village he could recall to the south. He held the edges of his coat closed to conceal the weapons on his belt and took another sidestep in front of Aoife.

"Whither are ye bound?"

"Erm...Dublin...looking for work."

"Is that what the ladies are wearing in Dublin town, then?" He winked at Aoife.

Declan scrambled for a response, but the farmer had returned his attention to the sheep, signaling his dog with a rising whistle. He nodded at them as he turned away. "Well, you've a long walk ahead, so ye have --- a fair journey to ye's."

"Ta," Declan mumbled. He looked at Aoife; she met his gaze, but her expression was inscrutable.

With the resumption of their journey, he brooded over the encounter. What if Blaylock and the Crusaders chanced upon the farmer? Should he have tried to buy the man's silence? Such a ploy might have only offended him. Declan could only pray that their paths did not cross...or if they did, the guards would follow the false lead to Dublin.

After an hour or so of walking devoid of conversation, their course was interrupted by a stream that separated two fields, the banks overgrown with trees, shrubs, and flowers. The terrain had grown hillier, and the water flowed down amongst large stones, forming pools in the shaded terraces between. Declan crouched to refill the canteen, whilst Aoife leapt from stone to stone a little further downstream of him.

He sat on a stone, listening to the rush of the water, drinking from the canteen, and keeping a distrustful eye upon the willful maiden.

She stopped to kneel upon a flat, mossy stone projecting into the burbling stream, her figure graceful against the cloud of small pink flowers on the bank behind her. As yesterday, she bent to scoop water to drink, but continued the motion to wash her face and hands, scrubbing at the dried mud. 'Twas a grand idea, so it was --- Declan leant towards the water and did the same.

Soon Aoife adjusted her position to sit upon the stone, turning her back towards him. Under the cover of rinsing and refilling the canteen, Declan surreptitiously watched as she gathered the hem of her nightgown above her knees and dangled her legs into the water. She bent forward and washed the mud from her limbs, first one then the other. From his seated vantage point on a higher rock, Declan was able to catch glimpses of her slim white calves splashing in the water...and was overcome with the heretofore unknown longing to kiss her feet and suck the sparkling droplets from her delicate toes.

All at once, his heart thudded as an irrepressible vision possessed him --- Aoife standing naked upon the stone as the water tumbled about her. Standing naked, not in defiance, not forcibly...but of her own will...like a faery sprite in communion with the beauty of Nature. The image of her unclad charms had been forever imprinted in Declan's mind, and he could see her thus as if in full, detailed truth...her small, lithe body gloriously exposed...the dappled, water-reflected light spraying upon her ebullient curves...tickling the pink tips of her breasts and the wee red puff between her thighs. Her big blue eyes would lift to his...beckoning...

He swallowed and looked away as his cock strained in his breeches, then raised one knee to hide the blatant bulge of his stiffstander. Staring instead at the streaming water before him, he followed the progress of an iridescent black feather angling its way down between the rocks. In a few minutes he had regained mastery of his body. Getting to his feet, Declan cleared his throat. "We'd best be going, then."

As Aoife stood and climbed back upstream, he averted his gaze lest she see the desire in his eyes. They crossed the stream and resumed their journey.

They walked --- the throbbing lacerations on his back drawing Declan's thoughts inward from the comely lass beside him to his other cause for turmoil --- the subject that his mind had been numbly circling since the scene in Bruckton's chamber.

He had known himself only as a homeless orphan, who after years of hardship, had been smiled upon by Fate when he had been offered a position by Captain Blaylock and Mr. Bruckton. For two years he had inhabited his life as a guardsman and prizefighter with relative equanimity --- its trials essentially being of a physical rather than a metaphysical nature.

Then --- two nights ago --- Declan had experienced the terrible discovery of his past, and the agony to his soul was equal in measure to the agony Blaylock had inflicted upon his back with the whip.

What had happened to Ma? His mind revolted at the likely answer. But when they had finished with her, had they let her live? After witnessing Aoife's sister's fate, Declan despaired of the answer.

By God! So successfully had he suppressed the memory of that horrific night in his childhood that, not only had he failed to recognize the man who had murdered his family when he encountered him two years ago, but he had willingly become his lackey! Nay, not just willingly, but with enthusiasm. How he had admired Blaylock! How he had striven to please him! How he had aspired to follow in his image! Humiliated rage swelled in him.

Declan sensed Aoife looking sideways at him and realized his hand was repeatedly clenching the butt of the pistol. Dropping his arm to his side, he breathed deeply.

Blaylock had not recognized him either. Why should he? It had been eight years at that point. Why would he have connected this ragged young man with the wee lad who had slashed his arm...who had escaped his rampage on the Kilkenny printer's family?

But 'twas all too clear now that Blaylock had recognized an opportunity in him that day two years ago when they had met again. Looking back now, Declan remembered how the witnessing of him trouncing a lad in a dispute over a turkey leg at the Kilmaedan market had prompted them to offer him a position. Had Blaylock and Bruckton schemed from that moment to make him their fighting cock? Had they lured him in with the guardsman position --- with all its fine wages, bed, and board?

Oh, they had lined their pockets well from betting on his matches, so they had --- whilst he was pummeled in the ring!

Was Brodie in on it? That thought momentarily curtailed the whirlwind of bitter emotions. Nay, it could not be so. His dear friend and mentor? Declan did not want to believe it so. He had never seen Brodie even so much as speak to the bettors round the ring. Could not all of Brodie's actions be accounted for by his love of the sport? By his father-like regard for him?

In the tempering of his reflection, Declan could not deny that he had relished being a prizefighter, and not merely on account of the adulation, the prize money, and the attention from the lasses. In truth, he loved the fighting. Every punch he landed gave him gratification and release...offering a sweet succor to his then unknown pain. Had every opponent been Blaylock to his hidden mind?

A further unsettling thought came to him. Why had Blaylock selected him to be a Crusader? Now knowing the nature of the Crusaders and at least some part of their duties, Declan was perturbed to suppose that Blaylock had seen something aptly villainous in him to merit the promotion...something Declan had not even recognized in himself. Could it be so...could he himself be as fundamentally depraved as Blaylock? Nay...God grant that Blaylock had been mistaken in his character!

Thinking back, Declan wondered if the purpose of the Crusaders' mission the other night had even been as stated. After what did betide, he suspected that Blaylock had misled him regarding the charge against the family of sedition --- for the purpose of securing or testing his loyal participation.

'Twas evident now that Blaylock and Bruckton were profiting by the procurement of young lasses for the Duke's bed. Had the objective of the excursion all along been the seizing of Aoife...and incidentally indulging Blaylock's bloodthirsty pleasures?

Ten years ago, in whose employ had Blaylock been when he attacked Declan's family? Not the Duke of Kilmaedan Castle, to be sure, for that had taken place in Kilkenny town in a different county. Had Blaylock's commission simply been to obtain the name of the author of the sheep husbandry pamphlet...or had it extended to slaying the printer and his family? Or had that been Blaylock's improvisation?

Thus, Declan's thoughts churned as they slogged through another field. By and by, they crested a hill and beheld a village in the valley below them, some two miles hence. Grateful for the distraction from his disquiet, Declan stopped and turned to Aoife. "Shall we venture into town and find some food?"

She shrugged.

"We canna go much longer without, and I've nothing else in my bag." He accepted her repeated shrug as acquiescence and began leading them towards the village. Soon he spoke again. "'Tis important that we not draw attention, lest the guards from the castle come this far and question people." Glancing at her, he continued. "Erm...I think the sight of you in your nightgown will attract notice, so it will. Will ye not wear me great coat over it?"

She shot him a vexed look. After a few more paces, she shrugged and said, "Fine."

He halted, extracted the coat from the knapsack, and handed it to her. The garment was enormous on her: the hem came down to the ground and the sleeves overhung her fingers. She rolled up the sleeves two folds. Declan nodded --- 'twas far better than the alternative for it completely covered the muddied, torn gown. "Wait," he said as she turned. "You've still got a spot of mud on your forehead."

"Where?" Her fingers reached up.

"On the right...higher...further back...will ye let me?

Aoife lowered her hand and rolled her eyes impatiently. He was about to wet his finger with spittle, but thought the better of it, and instead employed a little water from the canteen for the purpose. As he gently rubbed at the spot of dirt with his fingertips, he regarded her, striving to keep his expression no more than solicitous. Her hair was untidy from the recent ordeal, with haphazard red wisps and tendrils about her face and neck, and her loose braids hanging down her back atop the coat.

Of a sudden, her lashes flicked, and she was looking up at him. Their eyes remained fixed upon each other's as Declan awkwardly wiped away the last traces of mud from her hairline. Again, he was bewitched by the strange, pale aqua color of her irises, which to his puzzlement were at this moment devoid of vitriol. Indeed, he could make no sense of her expression at all.

"Well," she said, "Are you finished?"

He cleared his throat and lowered his hand. "Aye, there ye be."

Abruptly she turned away and resumed walking.

When they arrived in the village, the great coat was successful in giving her an unremarkable appearance --- at least with respect to her clothing. Declan did jealously notice several lads and men glancing at Aoife, their attention clearly drawn by her comeliness, rather than by something amiss with her attire. Declan wished the coat had a hood to shield her beauty, which in of itself was striking enough to be remarked upon. Reports of such a red-haired lass might suffice to confirm to the Crusaders that they had picked up their trail.

They found a meal at a public house called McGurkin's --- sitting in a dark corner to eat colcannon, pickled herring, bread, and tea. Declan pondered their journey as he ate, wondering where he could escort the lass to safety. He recalled Mr. Bruckton stating that she had recently taken up residence with her sister's family and wondered from whither she had come. Few words had been exchanged between them, yet he detected an unfamiliar inflection in her speech. Was she from Ulster?

Presently he spoke up. "Where are you from, Aoife? Have you...erm...other family somewhere?"

She set down her teacup and gave him a bitter smile. "Why do you ask? Are ye bent on murdering the entire O'Farrell clan?"

His eyes shifted from her stare, and he returned his attention to his food. The remainder of the meal passed in silence. At one point, Aoife politely asked the serving maid if there was somewhere where she might wash, to which the woman responded, "Aye, come with me, I'll show ye."

Declan was about to insist on accompanying her, then refrained, not wanting to cause a scene. Aoife followed the woman, disappearing past the corner of the bar. Twice already she had tried to run from him...what if there was another door to the street?

In agitation Declan waited, his eyes darting between the bar and the window. A few minutes later, to his relief, she and the woman reappeared --- Aoife smiling at something the woman was saying. He stood as she returned to her seat, where she gave him a questioning look.

After eating, they walked through the village and discovered 'twas market day in the square before the church. Thinking ahead, Declan purchased bread, cheese, and a bottle of cider from the various vendors and packed them in the knapsack. He considered his remaining coins, contemplating how many days of sustenance they would secure. Bitterly he thought on his winnings from the boxing matches...over a thousand pounds he had entrusted to Blaylock --- now forfeit. What he could have done with that money now! Passage for Aoife to America or any safe place most assuredly would have been possible.

At the edge of the square, they happened upon a peddler selling old clothes from the back of a cart. Declan halted and scanned the items...ah ha! Shoes! One pair of tanned hide brogues looked to be close to Aoife's size. He examined them more closely: the leather was very worn, and the thongs to tie them were broken, but the soles were sound. Aoife demurred, but the peddler quickly produced a low stool. "Aye, go on and try them, love. Dinna be bruising yer pretty feet."

After a moment's hesitation, the lass sat and allowed the man to press the shoes into her hands. Finding the shoes fit, Declan paid for them, then knelt to knot the broken thongs for her.

They headed out of the village. "Thank you," she murmured without looking at him.

He glanced at her, surprised to be so addressed. "Aye, you're welcome."

But a half hour past the village, Aoife doffed the coat and handed it back to him. Declan sighed to himself. Aye, the lass still did not like him...whilst he, to his disquiet, feared he was becoming enamored with her. Never had he met a lass so courageous...so clever...and, aye, so lovely. Was it possible to fall in love with someone who wanted nothing to do with you? Who scarce conversed with you?

Most lamentably, he could not condemn her hatred of him. An outrage had been committed against her family and herself, and in her eyes, he was one of the perpetrators. He wanted to explain to her his role in that night's events...to account for himself. Several times whilst they walked, he was on the verge of opening his mouth to attempt to exonerate himself, but he could not find words equal to the purpose. What could he say that might temper her censure of his character? I did not know what the mission was. I was simply following orders. Blaylock murdered my family too.

How feeble all such protestations seemed! He could not imagine such excuses stirring her forgiveness...for the simple reason that he could not forgive himself, neither for having been Blaylock's lackey these two years past, nor for his actions the night he met Aoife. He had restrained her when she tried to aid her family...he had helped hold her down on the table whilst Bruckton inspected her privates.

And although he tried to quell his self-reproach by contrasting his behavior to the crude lechery of the other men, Declan could not deny that he had violated her with his eyes. True he made no obscene remarks or gestures, but inwardly he had taken lustful pleasure in the sight of her nakedness and had imagined bedding her.

Moreover, as the night's events had unfolded, although he had rebelled in his mind against the crimes he was witnessing...he had done nothing to stop them. He had continued to follow orders even though he knew them to be unconscionable...at least...till the moment he had beheld Blaylock's cross-shaped scar.

The Black Priest! By God!

The sound of barking jolted Declan from his thoughts. They were in a pasture with grazing sheep, and a dog was running towards them. Aoife and he stopped as the dog neared --- the barking more friendly than menacing. The lass put her hand out and said something beckoning in Irish, and the dog approached her, its tail wagging. The wagging grew more vigorous as she petted and scratched its head, and when she crouched, the animal eagerly licked her face.

Declan watched Aoife's pretty face --- now lit by her smiling and giggling --- and wistfully savored the glimpse of the maiden she was prior to tragedy...the maiden underlying the unwilling companion of a man she despised.

What would he not give to have met Aoife under ordinary circumstances! What if he had seen her at the Kilmaedan town fair on one of his leave days? He might have offered to carry her purchases for her...or invited her to dance. He might have courted her as the decent lad he sought to be. Instead, he walked silently beside her, longing for her...hoping to gain her favor by his actions from the moment he ceased being Declan Quickfist and became again Declan Muldowney.

Thus they pressed on, side by side, each absorbed in their thoughts.

In the late afternoon, their forward progress was thwarted by a river --- small as rivers went, but larger than any stream they had forded so far. 'Twas slow moving with few rocks; Declan could not be certain of the depth. For some time, they worked their way along the overgrown bank, but failed to find a bridge. Eventually however, they did encounter a spot with enough stones in the water to contemplate a crossing. Here the flow was faster, make a soft bubbling noise. They stood assessing the potential steppingstones.

"'Twill take some long steps, so it will," Declan said. "I can carry you."

Aoife's expression was disdainful.

He shrugged, then tightened the straps on his bag before venturing onto the first rock. With several cautious jumps he negotiated the wet, moss-covered stones and landed safely on the other side. "Take care, 'tis slippery," he called to her.

He watched as she leapt nimbly from stone to stone. The last, largest span proved to be her undoing...whether from the unfamiliar shoes or the hem of her nightgown restricting her leap, her foot slipped off the stone and with a yelp she plunged into the water.

After an instant of shock, Declan jumped onto the nearest stone and stretched his hand towards her flailing arms. Then she stood up, and 'twas apparent the water was only a couple of feet deep. Ignoring his hand, she trudged through the water and climbed out onto the bank.

He turned after her. "Are ye injured...?" His voice faltered at the wondrous vision before him.

The thin, white linen nightgown, drenched with cold water, was nigh transparent and...sweet Heaven!... all her charms were revealed! The film of wet fabric clung to her limbs and alluring curves...her small, plump teats with the nipples standing tight, the pink barely veiled...her slim waist and flared hips...the irresistible dark patch of her cunny hair --- even wet, the visible reddish hue enthralling him.