Celtic Mist Ch. 05

His decision was swift. Given the bustling activity of Kilkenny town, 'twas as good a place as any to seek employment.

In the morning he found work at Smithwick's brewery --- loading and unloading casks from wagons. Upon inquiring about cheap lodging among the men there, he was invited to share the cost of a room in a boarding house with three lads --- two other brewery workers and a street cleaner. The lodgings were spare but sufficient, however Declan spent little time there. Agitated with his mission, he scarce slept. The work at the brewery was hard and the wages were decent, but he spent his evenings in search of additional occupation for his services. Round the taverns and inns, he oft earned extra coins performing whatever tasks needed doing.

Over the next few weeks, he delved a little further into the past. The grave marker for his family, although not ostentatious, had been no mean stone slab. Someone must have arranged its construction, and the burial. Declan wracked his mind for memories of possible relatives...coming up with indistinct recollections of aunts, uncles, perhaps cousins? No names, faces, or relationships manifested themselves with certainty. He made inquiries about town and searched the town directory but found no other Muldowneys. His mother's maiden name he remembered not.

At the church he discovered old Father Flynn gone. The new priest, Father Callahan, endeavored to find records of the Muldowney burial, but came up empty handed. Nothing nefarious seemed to underlie this...Father Callahan explained that many of the records had been destroyed by flooding some five years ago.

Procuring a knife was not without its own challenges. On High Street Declan found a knife and sword cutler's shop, but upon entering after his day of work at the loading dock, his stained clothes and unkempt appearance occasioned such suspicious regard from the proprietor that he hastily withdrew.

Better prepared he would be for his next visit. He searched his belongings...the garments Aoife had worn he still held sacred and did not sully by wearing himself. Instead, he donned his other remaining clothes --- what had been his Sunday best. He shaved, combed his hair, and polished his boots with a rag. Lastly, he pocketed his watch and secured the gold fob across his waistcoat. This time they waited on him.

Among the rapiers, knives, sabers, and carving blades, he identified a dagger that suited his purpose. He attempted to barter the pocket watch for it, but the owner insisted on coin. Thus, he sold the watch at a jeweler's shop...for far less than he had paid for it. 'Twas a fine piece, purchased when he had been flush with his prizefighting earnings. But what choice had he? The money was still short of the dagger's cost, so he was obliged to work another three weeks to make up the difference.

Throughout his daily toils, Declan's thoughts were possessed by his mission --- envisioning possible circumstances in which he might confront Blaylock, contemplating various means by which to shape the encounter to his advantage. If presented with the opportunity to simply shoot him and make his escape, should he take it? He would not have many chances...perhaps he should take what he could get. But his bitter heart rebelled against this thought, decrying forgoing the triumph of invoking his family's name and seeing the recognition in Blaylock's cold, blue...dying eyes.

Even as he labored and conserved his coins, Declan made his preparations in another regard: as his back healed, he continued his daily regimen of physical training as he had done these two years past as a prizefighter. At dawn he rose and ran through the streets and along the River Nore, then performed his arm, leg, shoulder, and belly exercises.

Every now and then, he allowed himself to peek inside the hidden spot in his mind that he had made for Aoife...a spot, like the clothes she had borrowed, that he kept inviolate as a symbol of hope. He meditated upon the turbulence that shone through her clear, aqua eyes...and the beauteous female form that for Declan represented something beyond mankind's brutality. What had become of Aoife of the fiery red hair? Was she safe somewhere?

In early October 1797, just over a month after his arrival, Declan packed up his knapsack and left Kilkenny, stopping on his way out to kneel one last time before his family's grave marker. On his weapons belt he carried the pistol on one side and the new dagger in its scabbard on the other. The autumn was growing chilly, and he wore his other purchase, a second-hand cloak. 'Twas not of the quality of the previous, but he minded not, content that the better coat was warming that slim, wee lass.

*****

The watching and waiting began.

He would have to catch Blaylock unawares. So formidable a fighter was the Captain that Declan needed every advantage he could get. 'Twas thus imperative that his presence back in Kilmaedan be concealed. So well-known was the Duke's champion prizefighter in town, that he could not risk taking lodging or meals there. He had devised an alternative stratagem.

The castle and the town were connected by a two mile stretch of road running between fields and pastures. Near the half-way mark was a small river spanned by a stone bridge supported by three arches. Under the bridge, inside an arch on the bank, he made his camp --- every night curling up in his shelter to fitful sleep.

In the mornings, after the blanket of mist over the river lifted, he would slip out from under the bridge and assume his position for surveillance of the road: upon the limb of a nearby oak tree on the riverbank. Enough foliage remained to disguise his location, and he could see in both directions along the road...with a line of fire if the chance presented itself. He might even be able to jump down upon a second person. As for food, he had arrived in the area with several days' worth of vittles in his knapsack.

Thus, Declan waited. He saw numerous people he knew pass: guards, servants, the Duke in his coach, another time Mr. Bruckton in his coach, the mayor of Kilmaedan, magistrates, and numerous delivery wagons. He even saw Lynch and Fitzgibbons, riding with the sheriff of the county. But he did not see Blaylock.

On the fifth day he was obliged to venture out for more food, walking to the next village some six miles distant. He had three weeks' growth of beard at this time --- with his collar turned up and his hat low, he did not see any sign of recognition among the few villagers with whom he coversed.

When four days later, he again had exhausted his food stores without spying Blaylock, Declan began to suspect something was up. Over the past two years at the castle, he had never seen more than a pair of days pass without the Captain leaving for some excursion. But he would not cede the field yet --- he bought more food and continued his vigil. Another four unrewarding days passed. Where the devil was that bloody bastard?! Was he ill?

On the evening of the thirteenth day at his post, Declan was preparing to climb down from the tree when he heard horses' hooves coming from the direction of the castle. He resumed his ready stance upon the bough as the sound grew louder. 'Twas not yet full dark, and as the riders approached, he saw dark blue uniforms. Let it be Blaylock! Let it be Blaylock! But nay, neither was his quarry: they were Fitzgibbons and Burrows. Declan's tensed shoulders eased.

He perused them briefly, noting their relaxed demeanor --- the horses were walking, they were debating the merits of ales versus stouts, and they were not fully armed for no swords hung at their sides. It occurred to him that they were going into town for an evening's leave. Swiveling on the tree branch, he watched as they reached the crossroads a quarter mile hence...and his theory was further supported when they continued straight on the road leading into town.

The thoughts roiled in his mind. To confront the two Crusaders would guarantee Blaylock's learning of his return. Yet, two weeks without a glimpse of a man with normally prolific activities outside the castle spoke to some unanticipated circumstances. These two would know where Blaylock was, so they would.

Waiting till it was full dark, Declan jumped from the tree, fetched his knapsack, and headed for Kilmaedan town. He made his way along the outskirts of the village, peering around houses and walls.

Recalling his former comrades' wont to stable their horses and drink at the James Moore Inn, he sought out the distinctive building with its chocolate brown façade and blood red shutters, and darted into the alley alongside it. Between the inn and its stable was a cobblestoned courtyard, at this time empty and lit by a few lanterns. He slipped into the stable and quickly identified Fitzgibbons' and Burrows' steeds in the far stalls.

When Declan stepped again into the courtyard, he saw the inn's rear door open and several men emerge; hastily he ducked into the shadows of the alley. He recognized Fitzgibbons' and Burrows' voices, intermingled with those of at least two other men. They were laughing and discussing where to go next. After a minute of debate, they agreed upon O'Haggerty's and took the alley towards Main Street, away from Declan's hiding place.

There were but five drinking establishments in the town, so they would return eventually. Aye, he would wait for them here, next to the stable.

He waited. And waited.

Golden light shone from the inn's windows, and within could be heard a group of musicians playing --- the lively fiddle and drum paradoxically both tempered the waiting and heightened his agitation. Where the alley ended at Main Street, between the inn and another building, he could see the merrymakers intermittently stumble by under the street lantern.

A couple ventured into the dark alley, prompting Declan to press into the shadow of the doorframe, but they were absorbed in each other, halting some fifteen feet from him, and passionately embracing. Silently Declan watched their kiss...watched the man's hand fumbling to lift her skirts, clasping her pale thigh above a dark stocking. Then with giggling and whispers, they scampered hand in hand down the alley, their footsteps fading.

Declan's thoughts strayed to Aoife...to their sham kiss...to the feel of her warm, lissome body against his that night on the battlements...and the night in the ancient stone cromleach where they briefly lay together as one...and he had breathed in the scent of her hair and skin. Oh, fair lass, where are ye now?

After some two hours the men returned. First, Declan heard the loud voices at the end of the alley. From his hiding spot he could see Fitzgibbons and Burrows with three other men whom he did not recognize, standing under the street lantern. Above the music he heard Burrows say, "I'll be putting this in me saddlebag then we'll meet ye there!"

"Aye, we'll order a pint for ye!"

Declan's heart beat faster as the two Crusaders turned into the alley and approached the stable. From their voices and gait, he perceived that they were slightly inebriated, but were by no means impaired. Both were armed with pistols and daggers --- he could see now. Burrows was carrying a bottle.

When they reached the stable door, Declan stepped out of the shadows and into the pool of light from the lantern on the outside of the stable. "Hey, lads," he said in a pleasant tone.

There was an instant's hesitation over the beard, then he saw the recognition in their faces --- angry recognition --- they both erupted in invectives: "Bloody Quickfist, is it? Fuck you!" "Go to Hell, ye whoreson bastard!"

Declan held his hands out. "Hear me out. I saw ye's come into town and I've been waiting to talk."

They stared at him.

"Yer fucking prank cost us each a hundred pounds. Let's talk about that!"

"A hundred pounds?"

"Aye, ye fool! That was to be our take for bringing in the wench. Yers too if ye hadn't gone off the damned hooks!"

"Yer a right bloody idiot, turning up here!" Burrows snarled.

"Aye! You should thank yer stars that the Captain isn't here to see ye back! We just want our money, but he's out for blood --- deserting and stealing the Duke's property?! My God! Yer a fucking halfwit, so ye are!"

Nay, he hadn't missed it. "The Captain isn't here?"

"He's gone back to England, so he has. His father died."

Declan was stunned. "Gone to England? Is he returning?"

"We've got a new Captain, so I'd venture a nay to that."

"Do ye ken where in England?"

Fitzgibbons snorted. "Wanting to send him a Christmas card, are ye? I know you were his favorite, but lad, a word to the wise --- yer out of his books now."

Thinking quickly, Declan replied in a pensive tone, "I was wanting to see about me fight winnings that I left in his care. If I could get the money, then I could pay ye's the hundred pounds."

The two Crusaders guffawed. "Think ye that ye'll ever see a penny of that money?" Burrows cried. "By God, yer a pretty bumpkin!"

"Our money...what is yer brilliant plan now?" Fitzgibbons growled.

Declan looked nonplussed. "Perhaps if another boxing match could be arranged, I could pay ye's back," he extemporized even as his mind raced.

The two men exchanged looks.

"Aye, there's a thought. We can talk to Bruckton --- see if he'll give ye another chance," Fitzgibbons said.

Burrows nodded, then opened the stable door. Declan followed them inside. Having distracted their ire, he scrambled to find a way to return the conversation to Blaylock's whereabouts. The lantern light shone through the windows, dimly lighting the interior.

Whilst Burrows went to stow the bottle in his saddlebag, Fitzgibbons turned to Declan. "So, Lynch said that wee fire gash was the finest bit of virgin cunt he'd ever seen. That ye's all were bursting yer breeches when she was spread on the table." He leered at Declan. "Was that what made ye go mad? You wanted to crack her ring yerself?"

Declan managed a rueful expression and improvised, "Aye, so it was. But she wanted none of me. She spurned all me advances."

"She spurned yer advances, did she?" Burrows snickered as he returned. The two men stood grinning at him. "So ye put on yer Sunday clothes and picked her some flowers and courted her proper?" Burrows continued in a mincing voice. They burst into laughter.

"This is why I always thought you weren't fit to be a Crusader," Fitzgibbons said. "Aye, yer a fierce fighter in the ring, I'll grant ye. But ye haven't the spirit for life's true battles. Yer just a mawkish country lad."

"What became of the lass?" Burrows asked.

Declan shrugged. "Och, she took up with a band of rank riders, so she did."

Burrows shook his head. "Dinna ye see that ye needn't be wasting yer time with courting? Why do ye think God made men stronger than lasses? You see a lass ye fancy, ye take her."

Fitzgibbons agreed. "Till ye've forced a woman, yer nothing but her slave --- just a lily-livered boy. Aye, a whore will do yer bidding, but why waste yer money and get a dose of the crinkums? You can make a fresh, fair maid do whatever you want if ye use yer strength --- things even the finest wife or sweetheart won't do. That cunt's sister wasn't spurning our advances, so she wasn't."

Burrows smirked. "Aye, the things we made her do...!"

"I'll tell you a secret, lad...that I learnt from the Captain himself." Fitzgibbons prodded Declan's shoulder and winked. "There is no sweeter pleasure in life than choking a lass as you fuck her --- and shooting yer spunk with her last spasms of life."

Declan's stomach turned.

"Aye, sometimes we fight over which of us will have the honor," Burrows crowed.

"Or we put her between us and fuck her at the same time so we both can have the pleasure. 'Tis how we sent that Lanigan taig to her popish heaven. Can ye imagine her facing Saint Peter with that being her last sensation in life...plugged fore and aft and riding a double geyser of spunk?" Fitzgibbons chortled.

Despite himself, Declan flinched.

"Oh ho! Look at the poor lad's face!" Burrows hooted. "He's about to flash the hash!"

Fitzgibbons shook his head. "Like I said, ye dinna have the makings of a Crusader. I told Blaylock that ye hadn't the stones for it, but he disagreed...said you have the soul of a killer."

"Perhaps he was right on that count," Declan said, drawing his flintlock and shooting Fitzgibbons in the ballocks with his one shot. The explosion was immediately followed by Fitzgibbons' blood-curdling scream.

Burrows yanked out his pistol as his comrade fell to his knees clutching his groin. With a backward swing of his own gun's muzzle, Declan knocked the weapon from his hand. Before Burrows could grab his dagger, Declan drove a mighty right cross into his eye, knocking him to the stable floor.

As Fitzgibbons' screams continued and Burrows struggled to rise, Declan bent and jerked Fitzgibbons' pistol from its holster. He cocked it full and without hesitation shot Burrows between the legs too. Now they both were howling, Fitzgibbons on his knees, Burrows writhing upon the floor. Even in the dim light, their breeches were awash in blood.

"That was for Clodagh Lanigan...and all the lasses you've raped," Declan said tonelessly, then drew his dagger. "And this is for everyone whom ye murdered." He grasped Fitzgibbons' hair and slashed his throat, the cut so deep that the knife chattered over the bones of his spine. Burrows was wailing as he crawled away, struggling to draw his dagger when Declan seized his hair and delivered the same justice.

*****

It took Declan two days to walk to Dublin.

When he had left Kilmaedan, he strode down the alley, away from Main Street, heading out into the fields. Alas, he had been unable to avoid passing a pair of lads walking into town --- he bade them good evening and continued. Several miles out of the village, he had noticed by the moonlight that his garments were covered in blood. Jaysis! Had the two lads seen it in the dark? Presently coming across a stream, he had stripped off his garments and set them afire. Then he had bathed and shaved off his beard.

He arrived in the metropolis in the late afternoon. In his years of wanderings, he had avoided Dublin given the bleak reports made of it by other roving urchins. But now the maze of teeming streets and squalid alleys was the perfect place to disappear for a while...and contemplate the next course of action in his presently thwarted mission. Employment to secure sustenance and shelter was paramount.

Walking through the streets and observing poverty and despair on a scale never before encountered, Declan experienced a growing sense of misgiving.

Resorting to his usual tactic of surveying the streets for opportunities to present himself as a solution to a problem requiring an able-bodied lad, he was met with rejection after rejection. Painters, coopers, colliers, bricklayers, blacksmiths, taverns...no one was in need of assistance. He did manage to earn a couple of pence --- holding a sign level as it was fastened to the building above a shop in one instance, and helping reattach a wheel to a wagon in another --- but each was a singular occurrence with no opportunity for continuing employment.

Dusk found him methodically walking up and down alleys and streets in the City Quay neighborhood near the docks, weaving among weary looking, ill-kempt adults and dirty children, dodging horse drawn wagons and push carts.

He was picking his way among scattered shit piles and broken crates in a yet another foul-smelling, dark alley when he beheld ahead of him a wagon obstructing egress to the street. As he drew closer, the lantern light showed three men standing alongside the conveyance, upon which Declan now could appreciate the painted Guinness sign.