Celtic Mist Ch. 04

Chapter 4: Medb's Plight

Men! Aoife fumed as she stalked through the fields clad in the young man's great coat and spare garments. She glared sideways at the owner of the clothes who walked alongside her, easily matching her pace with his long, loping strides.

Once beset by the rutting instinct, men apparently took leave of their senses...and indeed their very capacity for moral reasoning. If not by flirtatious cajoling, then they were importuning lasses with bolder forays ranging from sly innuendo to lewd proposals to outright force. 'Twas an epiphany that had been brewing for some time now.

With bitter irony, she missed the innocent days of childhood --- when the only vexations in her life were Da's and Granny's mysterious prohibitions. In her present state of mind, such carefree days seemed far preferable to contending daily with this disillusioning insight about the other half of the species. Given men's advantage of superior strength, a lass must ever consider the possibility that she might in one unguarded moment find herself thrown to the ground and brutally violated...not to mention her family being murdered to facilitate the opportunity to do so.

Aoife's teeth gritted as a knot formed in her throat.

And her own experience was by no means unique. During her employment at Drumlevy Manor, she had heard innumerable tales from the other maids of attempted seductions and assaults by not only the masters in the houses in which they had served, but also by fellow male servants. Clodagh too, she had come to understand, had endured a range of harassments from lads before marrying Paddy.

Clodagh! The grief rushed from her chest to her eyes. Eoin! Paddy! She fought the horrific images rising in her memory --- her fists clenched inside the overhanging coat sleeves, and her eyes burned with tears. Don't think on it! Don't think on it! Lest she succumb to despair...succumb to whatever this lad had planned...she must mark only the present and maintain her guard. Quickly, covertly she turned her head and whisked away the tear that had slid onto her cheek. A tight swallow forced the lump down in her throat.

Paddy had been one of the few decent lads of her acquaintance, Aoife grieved. He and Hugh McDonnell. She granted that she had known other decent lads and men...her brothers, Hugh's father, Mr. Darnaby...but she knew little to nothing of their conduct with the fairer sex. Did it follow that a man who was of good character in general, conducted himself honorably with lasses?

As they climbed over a stone wall, Aoife lifted the hem of the lad's oversized coat. His borrowed garments, like those he was wearing, were well constructed and serviceable without ornamentation. For the first time in days, she felt warm...a fact that offered small consolation to the bleakness of the circumstances.

In high dudgeon, she glanced at the lad striding silently beside her. "Quickfist" --- was that his name? So she had heard him called that night by the Captain. What the Devil kind of name was "Quickfist"?! It could not be his proper name, could it? Her eyes darted to his hands. He was no longer keeping them on the handles of the pistol and dagger...perhaps with each mile they put between themselves and Kilmaedan Castle his vigilance was easing. This observation she marked carefully, ever watchful for an opportunity to give him the slip. Notwithstanding, she could still see the weapons upon his belt when his coat swung with his stride --- any delay ere he seized them would be brief.

As for investigating the cause for his nickname, she averted her gaze from his hands lest her appraisal put him on guard.

Over the past two days, Aoife had repeatedly sensed his eyes upon her. By which method would this young scoundrel proceed in achieving his desires? Would he employ bawdy banter? Crudely proposition her? Would he use his weapons to force her to yield? In a moment she scoffed at that notion --- why would he use weapons when he was nigh twice her size and would need only a fraction of his strength to impose his will upon her?

To that point, come to think on it, why had he not done so already? She pondered the instances of his solicitous attention. Was the rutting triumph that much sweeter if he could compel her to be complicit in her own defilement? Or, might her previous supposition that he was transporting her to a higher bidder for her maidenhead be correct? Or perhaps a lad's attraction could merely be an indifferent fact that did not necessarily engender an urge to copulate.

For several hours they walked in silence, broken at last when he opened his mouth to inquire if she knew of any place to which she could be taken to safety. Aoife's eyes narrowed and she responded not for some moments before shrugging and replying no. What game was he on? Whither he was guiding them she had not been able to deduce, as they kept off roads where any signposts might be. Dublin, he had said to the farmer they had encountered...was that indeed the truth or was it a lie for the farmer's benefit? If anything, he seemed more intent on getting away from Kilmaedan Castle, than on reaching a specific destination.

This would tend to argue against the theory that he was bringing her to another man...why would their course be so haphazard in that case? Aoife could only conclude that he must be dissembling in some manner --- although she could not discern his purpose, she must anticipate his slyness extending to any degree.

When night fell and the air grew chilly, they found a potential shelter in an abandoned church alongside a grove of gnarled hawthorn trees. The young man inspected the interior whilst she waited without. Naught remained but the stone walls, a crumbled tower, and toppled gravestones amid overgrown shrubs. The roof was gone and nary a window nor a door remained in the arched spaces. Aoife wondered if the ruin was a ghost of Oliver Cromwell's rampage through Ireland over a hundred years ago.

Emerging from the doorless entry, the lad said, "Aye, 'twill serve for tonight."

Inside, they both looked about at the stark space. Illumined by the moon and stars, Aoife beheld scattered fallen stones, broken carved plaques, dry leaves, and a few plants.

"I'm thinking we can stand a fire tonight," the lad said. He stepped outside once more, where Aoife soon heard him snapping branches and rustling among the shrubs. Perhaps this was her chance to escape! But she could not rightly tell where he was in relation to the doorway, he was moving about so.

Restlessly Aoife wandered among the rubble, sliding her hands into the pockets of his coat, wherein her fingers encountered several items. Her curiosity roused, she drew them out. In the right pocket was a neatly folded, plain linen handkerchief, a torn ribbon watch fob, a bottle cork, and three coins --- a halfpence and two farthings. In the left pocket she found two smooth opalescent pebbles and an acorn. Then her fingers encountered what felt to be a crumpled strip of fabric.

Pulling it out, she discovered it to be a pair of silk ribbon garters --- red with white embroidered flowers they appeared in the dim light. They seemed unworn...there was even a string tying them together as might be expected in a shop display. It scarce seemed a gift a man would purchase for a female relation --- she could only surmise they were connected in some manner to his amorous pursuits.

This new intelligence gave her pause. What sort of maiden had inspired such a gesture in this lad? Had he a sweetheart? The thought aroused in her a vague sense of irritation...she instead endeavored to see the garters as evidence of some nefarious escapade, rather than as a token of affection to another lass.

When the young man reappeared in the doorway, Aoife hastily thrust the garters back into the pocket. He deposited an armful of bramble and small branches upon the floor, then stepped back out to drag in larger branches. Standing aside with her arms crossed, Aoife watched as he set about making a fire, using his knife to cut the thicker branches before breaking them into shorter lengths across his knee. Next he produced a tinderbox from his knapsack. Once ignited, he tinkered with the fire for some time --- poking and fanning the wood to achieve a sustained flame.

Returning to the mystery of the name Quickfist, Aoife studied his hands by the firelight, finding them to be more compelling than she had anticipated a pair of man's hands being. Naturally, they were large, commensurate with his overall frame. Under a tracing of dark hair upon the broad backs, the sinews shifted as he worked, his motions adept. The fingers were long and squarish. Most arresting however was the curious pattern of thickened skin over his knuckles, surrounded by scattered healing cuts and bruises. Aoife had seen the hands of many different types of laborers throughout her life, but she could not conceive of an occupation that would cause such callouses.

"Have some food, Aoife," his voice interrupted her thoughts. He gestured with his chin at the vittles he had pulled from the bag. Inwardly she shrugged...starving herself would not salvage her wounded dignity, nor would it abet an attempt to flee...she would need her strength, so she would. She took some bread and cheese and sat upon a stone on the opposite side of the fire. As she ate, she observed him prop her still wet shoes against a rock near the fire before he too sat down and partook of the food.

When he presently stretched out upon his side to sleep, Aoife realized in frustration that he again had claimed the floor nearest the doorway. She remained seated upon her stone, gazing at the night sky above the ruined church as she tried to gauge his breathing above the crackling fire between them. For some time she listened to the intermittent calls of owls and nightingales as she watched the subtle motion of his back with his breaths --- she could not ascertain that he had truly fallen asleep. Glancing at the empty window arches, she wondered if she might climb out once assured of his slumber. Alas, she would need to pile stones against the wall to reach the sill...an action guaranteed to wake him.

By and by, Aoife's head started to nod...she slid off the stone and lay upon the ground, curling up inside the great coat.

When she woke, the moon had full risen and shone directly above. The fire was still burning, but lower. Silently she sat up and looked over the firepit at the young man lying upon his side, now facing her, an arm folded under his head --- his slow, soft breaths now gave evidence of a deep sleep. This might be her chance! She might be able to slip past him to the doorway! Her gaze fell upon the flintlock and dagger upon the ground in front of his hands...she hesitated, then looked at his face again.

Aoife had studied his visage well that night when he held her arms down on the table, so she had! It had been directly above hers, albeit upside down. Since that night she had given him only the briefest and coldest of glances. Now in this unguarded moment, her curious eyes lingered upon his features.

His hair was dark brown, thick, and shorn short. Although closed now, his eyes under the darkly lashed lids were an intense green, she recalled. His pale complexion spoke to a shared Celtic ancestry, and the fresh color in his cheeks and full lips told her that he was not much older than her. But for all his youth, a life of violence was evident in the scars and bruises upon his face. Amidst two days' growth of dark stubble, old scars were scattered over his chin and jaw. More scars were visible over the bridge of his nose and brows --- one thin white line interrupting the strong, dark eyebrow on his left side.

With her brothers' recurring brawls with the Peep O'Day Boys, Aoife was familiar with bruises. The majority of this Quickfist's bruises were the bronze-yellow color of week-old injuries --- whilst staring up at his face above hers when she had been on the table, she had particularly noted the ghost of a black eye. Now, however, she saw a reddish-purple bruise on his temple that was clearly a more recent acquisition...she did not recall its presence that night. How had he come by all these injuries? Were these simply the badges of honor in his life as...what was he...a hired ruffian?

Was he a Catholic or a Protestant, she wondered? Given his position at the castle as some sort of uniformed enforcer, she had assumed he was a Protestant.

As Aoife contemplated him, she reluctantly appreciated that he was in truth a handsome lad --- his battle scars lending a roguish quality to his youthfulness...

She inhaled sharply and berated her gullible, girlish heart for this betrayal. Remember how he abused you --- this "handsome" lout!? Those powerful hands had pinned her wrists to the table! Her heart pounded as the sensation came back to her of the other man's awful fingers prying mercilessly between her legs and buttocks...of how she had seen this one's eyes shifting up and down during the examination...traveling back and forth between her naked, spread body and her eyes...clearly gloating over the spectacle and her distress!

Gritting her teeth, Aoife rose to her feet. With a silent prayer to Medb, she tiptoed round the fire, her eyes fixed upon him and the two weapons. Slowly...slowly, she crouched and wrapped her fingers round the handles of the pistol and dagger. Then she leapt back and snarled, "Wake up!"

The speed with which he shot to his feet made her jump back another step. "Put your hands up!" she barked.

His face was a picture of surprise and chagrin as he obeyed, his eyes watching her intently. Aoife had not a plan before launching upon this venture --- she stared at him wordlessly for several moments, keeping the pistol pointed at him and the knife poised in her other hand, her heart racing with the thrill of her sudden power. At last, she snapped, "What is your name --- your proper name?"

"Declan," he said promptly, "Declan Muldowney."

Declan? Could he be a Catholic after all? "Where are you from?"

"Kilkenny originally."

"What are the others' names? The other men that night?"

Declan cleared his throat. Keeping his hands elevated he recited, "Captain Blaylock, Burrows, Fitzgibbons, Lynch, and Mr. Bruckton...he's the Duke's chamberlain."

Mr. Bruckton, the chamberlain --- that would be the elegantly dressed man in the castle who had examined her. Captain Blaylock was of course the black-haired devil who had talked to Paddy...and led the attack on the cottage. If only it were those two standing before her now at her mercy! By God, what she wouldn't do to them! Her belly spasmed with fury. "The other men...who was where?" she said.

The lad seemed puzzled.

"Who was in the cottage? Who came back to the castle with us?"

"Oh. Fitzgibbons and Burrows were in the cottage with the Captain and stayed behind...Lynch came back with us."

"What are their full names? All of them!" she demanded.

"Erm...I'm thinking the Captain's given name is John. I dinna ken the others' full names...I'm sorry, we only called each other by our surnames."

Damned men! She was sick of their bravado. "And where are they from?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

Aoife glared at him, her hands tightening upon the handles of the weapons. This bastard might be the only one she would ever see brought to justice. This bastard had wrestled her to the ground whilst Clodagh was being raped inside the cottage...he had gaped at her nakedness and held her down for the obscene inspection. The recitation of his crimes made her eyes sting with rage. She aimed the pistol at his chest --- she could kill him right now, so she could...without the least remorse!

The green of his eyes glowed in the firelight as he stared at her. "Aoife, I..." he began.

"Undress!" she ordered.

His mouth fell open.

"Undress, I said! Remove your coat and shirt!" She waggled the pistol at him.

With an expression of bewilderment, he reached for the front edges of his woolen coat and eased it off, dropping it to the ground. Underneath he wore a long-sleeved, light brown waistcoat and buckskin-colored breeches. His fingers moved down the row of buttons on the waistcoat and slid it off, revealing a plain, white linen shirt. Next, he pulled the loosely knotted blue neckerchief from round his neck.

As he disrobed, his eyes shifted between her face and the pistol.

Unbuttoning the shirt placket, he reached behind his neck to grab the collar, pulling it over his head with an awkward motion of his shoulders and a little grimace. Now naked from the waist up, his eyes returned to hers.

Although her heart was pattering, Aoife maintained a cavalier expression as she regarded him. His form seemed admirably suited for a life of brutality...his chest and shoulders were wide and powerful with cords of lean muscle highlighted by the moon and the firelight --- more bruises and a long scar over his ribs were also apparent. Upon his chest and forearms was a sprinkling of dark hair.

The young man's strong hands were not so fearsome now...fidgeting at his sides. His uneasiness emboldened her. Arching an eyebrow, she said, "Go on then --- undress completely."

The green eyes flickered. After a moment, he bent forward and, balancing on one foot then the other, tugged his boots off and removed his stockings, exposing well-muscled calves under a dusting of dark hair. The buttons at the knees and front flap of the breeches he undid next. When he stepped out of them, he was clad only in linen drawers, knee-length like the breeches but much more closely fitting, showing the bulge of his privates.

At this point he hesitated, looking into her eyes again. Aoife rejoiced in his discomfiture --- she would get some of her own back before shooting him, so she would. "Completely," she repeated, managing to sound poised despite her discomposure.

He swallowed, then untied the laces of the drawers and pushed them down over his hips and thighs, bending to pull them entirely off. Slowly he straightened. No longer did his eyes meet hers; instead, they remained fixed upon the pistol in her hand. He stood pliant as she gazed at his naked body...his arms hanging at his sides, his fingers curling and uncurling.

Aoife had been so intent upon her vengeance that she had not readied herself for her first view of a full-grown man stark naked. Naively, she had depended upon her righteous rage to carry her through any bashfulness she might experience.

When confronted by Declan Muldowney stripped and straightening to his full height a few paces before her, Aoife had initially acknowledged the sight with a nervous, unfocused survey. Briefly, she noted his long, muscular legs...his hard, flat belly...

Then irresistibly --- squeezing the gun tighter to hide the trembling of her fingers --- her eyes at last shifted to his loins. Having come this far, she could not let her own shyness dilute the triumph of humiliating him with a rude perusal of his privates...could she?

Nothing Aoife had encountered in her young life...neither the ram, nor her fleeting glimpse of Lord Walter Beresford's organ, nor seeing Clodagh bathe wee Eoin...had prepared her for this close, unrestricted view of a man's genitals. From the ram, Aoife knew the essential parts, but she was shocked by the difference in proportions. Even in its quiescent state, the man's cock was so much larger than the finger-like organ of the ram! It hung between his thighs, pale and weighty looking, adorned at its base by a tight nest of short dark curls. Behind it was the plump, rosy sac of his ballocks where she knew the seed was made.

Aoife felt the warmth flood her cheeks as she stared at his sex organ. Her eyes darted up --- his likewise reddening cheeks reassured her that she was yet master of the situation...no matter her own embarrassment.