Celtic Mist Ch. 09

Chapter 9: The Convent

September 1797 (Eight months previously)

Aoife fled the ancient stone monument where the young man lay asleep. In the dark, she swerved around sheep and scrambled over low stone walls. For nigh a half hour she continued so, holding aloft the hems of the coat and nightgown as she ran from one rain-soaked field to another and splashed across shallow streams.

At last, she slowed to a stumbling walk, panting heavily. Behind her in the darkness, she heard no trace of a pursuer. Her bandaged ankle was hurting, but she dared not halt. Onward she pressed, generally north...walking, walking...some two hours till the night sky began to lighten and she eventually found herself limping through damp, misty pastures in the morning light.

By God, she had done it! She had escaped him --- escaped her strange kidnapper "Quickfist" --- erstwhile guardsman of Kilmaedan Castle. She had escaped the young man's oppressive...disconcerting attentions.

"Declan Muldowney" was his proper name, she reminded herself...she would not forget it.

Damn it all! In consequence of her infuriatingly divided emotions, she had let him elude her vengeful blade. She dared not find her way back to the stone cromleach now to remedy her lapse of will but vowed that justice would be served! So long as she lived and breathed, justice would be served...no matter how long it took...she would again not capitulate to her disgraceful weakness.

Aoife trudged on as the mist dissolved into a somber grey morning. By and by, she came upon a road where a muddy junction was marked with a signpost. She studied the faded letters on the wooden planks: to the right lay Kilcoole, to the left Dublin. Her mind in turmoil, she stared nigh unseeing at the sign.

Just over a month ago, she had been faced with the same dilemma of where to go when she had fled the lecherous advances of young Lord Walter Beresford at Drumlevy Manor. She had made the fateful decision to leave County Armagh and go south to find Clodagh --- a decision that had brought horror to the door of her sister's peaceful home. The conclusion was inescapable: had she not come to Kilmaedan, Clodagh, Paddy, and Eoin would yet be alive today. 'Twas her fault they were dead.

A knot twisted in her throat, and Aoife squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the tears burning as if choked off behind her lids and could only stand and helplessly simmer. The grief was tangled and battling with disjointed sensations of fury and...and...

NO!

She refused to let any such word form in her thoughts! Never would she allow that the disquiet she had felt in Declan's company...felt at his searching, green-eyed gaze and strong body...was anything but the product of a mind disturbed by grief and bitterness. The betrayal of her earlier wayward thoughts enraged her.

She swallowed hard and her eyes refocused on the signpost.

Her choices of where to go were more limited now than a month ago and were guided by additional considerations. She could head north to try to find her mother's relations whom she had never met, or her father's brother whom she hadn't seen now for over three years. But even if she had the slightest notion where to begin such a search, she decried ever again laying her troubles at a family member's door, lest bad luck follow. Henceforth, she would fend for herself.

Aoife wrapped her arms tightly round her torso; through the young man's oversized coat she could feel her body trembling and her heart beating. How had her life come to this pass? Just three years ago, the four O'Farrell children had been contentedly living on their farm in County Armagh --- Colm, Patrick, Clodagh, and herself. Then two years ago this month, Colm and Patrick had been killed in the Battle of the Diamond between the Defenders and the Peep O'Day Boys. And now Clodagh was gone too.

Aye, she was alone in the world...alone and could scarce manage a logical thought, so beset with confusion and distress was she. All the numb determination that had propelled her onward these past three days since Blaylock's squadron had attacked the cottage seemed to have dissolved.

In considering her destination, her worries were not limited to such practical matters as how she would secure bed and board, but even more profoundly ---- how to survive undetected by Blaylock and his henchmen...and undetected by the young man Quickfist. God let them find another source of diversion and let her be!

The choice seemed clear: in a city so large and populous --- and further away from Kilmaedan --- as Dublin, she might lose her pursuers...and make a life for herself.

Aoife turned left towards Dublin. For hours she trod through the fields, keeping the road in sight for guidance. Several times men on horseback passed by, obliging her to hide, but none were her pursuers...or Declan, for that matter. Mid-day, she ate some hard, sour apples picked from a gnarled tree and sat for a time with her throbbing ankle submerged in a cold stream. Not knowing what the next hours and days would bring, she pocketed a few of the unripe fruits before setting on her way again.

Night fell and weariness overtook her with miles yet to go. In a misting rain, she limped into a village. Keeping the coat carefully closed lest her torn, dirty nightgown show, she roamed the dark streets in search of food. Behind houses she found rubbish heaps, but the rotten stench warned her away from digging for food. At last she ate a couple of the small apples from her pocket...but this only made her belly feel worse.

She needed a place to lie down --- she could walk no further. Recalling her flight from County Armagh, she found the village inn, and behind it a stable. Not a soul was in sight as she crept in. Inside, by the moonlight coming in through the windows, she discovered three horses and, as she had hoped, a ladder ascending to a hay loft. 'Twas here that she curled up inside the voluminous coat and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Not long had the lass slept when she was startled awake by a strident voice. "Here now! Who are ye? Ye canna be sleeping here!"

Aoife bolted upright in panic. Where was she? A glimpse of the ghostly hay bales in the moonlight streaming through the small window revived her memory. Before her stood a shadowy figure. Scrambling to her feet, her eyes darted to find the hatch with the ladder.

"Who are ye?!" the figure demanded, the voice not immediately recognizable as male or female. In the dim light she realized 'twas a young lad, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, a little taller than her.

Aoife edged towards the ladder. "No one," she murmured. "I'll be going now."

"Wait! What do ye think yer doing ---." As Aoife moved, the beam of moonlight illumined her face, and the lad's words were cut short. He stepped closer and held out his hand towards her. "Wait," he said in a softer voice. For several moments he peered at her curiously. "Are ye in trouble? Do ye need help?"

Aoife stole a glance at the ladder again, then looked back at the lad. His eyes were searching her face with an expression of concern. "Are ye running away from someone?"

She nodded, her eyes watchful as she gripped the edges of the coat together.

"Who?"

After a moment's hesitation, she mumbled, "Some men."

In the dark, his countenance looked indignant.

She continued, "I-I'm trying to get to Dublin, but I haven't money for a place to sleep."

The lad nodded. "We won't let them find ye, then. You can sleep here, so ye can. I sleep here meself --- I'm the stable boy --- I was just surprised-like to find ye here." A grin flashed in the moonlight.

"Oh no, I dinna want to cause trouble or intrude."

"'Tis no trouble at all," he said quickly. "My bed is over here." He jumped over a hay bale and waved at the space behind it. "You can have the other side."

Aoife pondered the offer. His youth was no guarantee of his virtue, and he was likely stronger than she was. The change in his demeanor from berating to chivalrous no doubt was prompted by the discovery that she was a lass...but what did that imply about his intentions? She remembered the dagger at her side...and considered him again. He was presently arranging hay upon the floor to make a more comfortable pallet for her.

Something about him reminded her of Hugh McDonnell...when he had given her the little stone...when they had walked together in the pasture discussing marriage. Aye, perhaps 'twas his earnestness, the guileless admiration in his regard.

After the recent encounters with Walter Beresford at Drumlevy Manor, the young men on the stagecoach, and Blaylock's squadron, she had sworn to never again trust a male...but here she was about to do that very thing once more.

"Well...if you're certain 'tis no trouble..."

"No trouble." He waved his hand at the hay. "There ye be."

"Ta."

"And you can have me blanket!" He jumped to his side of the hay bale.

"Oh no. I have this coat, 'tis like a blanket. But thank you."

Thus they lay down on the hay covered floor, separated by the bale. Aoife slipped a hand under the coat to keep it near the dagger handle. She tried to slow her breathing, but she was now too tense to sleep.

When the sudden growling of her stomach interrupted the silence, the lad started up and begged her pardon for not inquiring if she were hungry. Against her protests, he hastened down the ladder. "Me sister works in the kitchen."

Shortly he returned with a bowl of stew, bread, and a mug of buttermilk. "Here, this will sort ye."

The solace of a full belly soon gave fatigue sway over her worries, and Aoife fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning, she awoke unmolested to a pale light coming through the loft window. The lad was gone. Smoothing her disheveled hair as best she could, she descended to the stable floor. Through the open door she beheld her young benefactor --- lean of frame, light brown hair, and a cheerful face --- approaching from the back of the inn.

He halted before her, grinning and holding out a linen cloth. "These are for ye."

Inside she discovered a pair of scones.

"If ye come to the kitchen, ye can have a proper meal," he urged.

She gratefully accepted the scones but demurred going inside. "I think the fewer people who see me, the better." Nervously, she scanned the surroundings. "Aye, I must be going. Please dinna tell anyone ye saw me." At his vow of discretion, she squeezed his hand and smiled wanly. "Thank you so for your help. You're a rare, fine lad, so ye are."

The lad's kindness lifted her spirits as she set off towards Dublin, but upon her arrival in the city in the afternoon, her agitation returned full force.

Never had she seen so large a city, nor imagined the existence of one. The view of buildings, church spires, and pouring smokestacks seemed to stretch without end.

In amazement Aoife wandered through the crowded neighborhoods, observing street after street lined by decrepit houses and populated with impoverished souls --- men, women, and children, all thin and ill-garbed. There were beggars --- some standing and importuning passers-by, and others with crippled limbs slumped against buildings. Without shame, men opened their breeches and women squatted to piss in alleys. Here and there, groups of young men jostled each other on street corners, rudely calling out to lasses as they passed. Men at handcarts hawked their wares as women and children clustered round. Occasionally a wagon clattered over the cobblestones, drawn by a gaunt horse.

As if the sights were not bleak enough, the stench was ungodly: excrement ran openly along the edge of the streets, and the harsh smoke billowing from the smokestacks stung her eyes and throat. In one neighborhood, the foul air was fortified by the odor of blood and decaying flesh emanating from a profusion of slaughterhouses.

The origin of the name 'Dublin' from the Irish for 'black pool' was apt indeed. Aoife's regret at her decision redoubled by the minute.

Then, within a few streets, she experienced the unnerving juxtaposition of well-kept neighborhoods and parks with shining carriages and finely dressed people on horseback.

She walked without a destination. Finding employment was paramount, and accordingly her eyes searched the shops and businesses for work opportunities.

Engaged in this quest, she noticed what she had not appreciated on her first survey: loitering about in some neighborhoods were women whose overly reddened lips and immodesty of garb indicated their bold occupation. Aoife was cognizant of the fact that lasses might exchange their favors for coin, but she had never, to her knowledge, encountered anyone in that profession. Furtively she glanced at the women as she passed, in a few instances witnessing them being addressed by men. What if she were unable to secure employment --- would this be her fate?

Desperately Aoife began making inquiries door to door: did they have a position for a hard-working lass? From shop after shop, she was turned away. She expanded her search to include taverns and warehouses...securing only a couple of bawdy proposals for her troubles.

In the window of one alehouse was a hand-scrawled sign advertising for a barmaid, and Aoife eagerly entered. She found the tavern empty save for the landlady leaning upon the bar, writing in a ledger book. When Aoife asked about the position, the woman looked her up and down with noticeable interest, then asked her to remove the great coat.

She was taken aback by Aoife's nightgown, but a moment later she shook her head. "Aye, ye've a right bonnie face on ye --- though a wee bit morose. But I'm looking for a lass with large bubbies."

"What has my bosom to do with carrying trays of beer?" Aoife challenged.

"Nothing at all." The woman settled her own generous chest upon the bar and returned her attention to the ledger. "But large bubbies draw in the custom. More custom means more profit."

"Have you any other work needing doing? Cleaning? Laundry?"

The landlady did not even look up as she shook her head.

Jerking the coat back on, Aoife retreated to the street. What if no honorable work was to be found? She forced down her rising apprehension and scanned the street. Maybe in a more prosperous neighborhood she might find employment as a maid? In the maze of streets, she knew not in which direction to turn --- she began walking briskly, chanting to herself 'Be brave, be brave, be brave,' in time with her footsteps.

Presently she perceived at the end of the street a wrought iron fence suggesting a park in more genteel surroundings. She turned left when she reached it. No sooner had she begun walking along a row of elegant homes, when she spied four men in blue uniforms striding towards her!

Aoife spun and ran.

Into the first side street she dashed, her panic directing her back into the teeming streets from whence she had emerged. People stared and dodged aside as she hurtled down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of oaths and "Watch where yer going, girl!" in her wake. In terror, she veered randomly at intersections, instinctually heading deeper and deeper into the squalid neighborhood.

Damn it all! How had the guardsmen found her, so far from Kilmaedan, and in this enormous city?! After several more turns, her burning lungs at last brought her up short, and she staggered onward, panting harshly.

She was in a narrow alley, empty of other people but littered with rubbish and excrement. Fear rose as she recalled the last time that she had found herself in such an alley --- when Declan with his fists had rescued her from the pair of lecherous ruffians. Glancing behind her, she saw that she was more than halfway to the next street and decided to press on. A moment later she jumped when a striped cat scampered across the cobblestones and darted through a gap in a planked fence at her left.

The dilapidated fence with its missing and sagging planks enclosed the yard of what appeared to be a defunct warehouse --- as Aoife passed by, she could see crates in various states of disrepair strewn about amid weeds. Over the sound of her own breaths, Aoife became aware of voices somewhere close at hand. A quick glance showed no one behind her. In the next moment, she discovered the source and froze.

There, some ten feet away, through a gap in the fence she beheld a man and woman shamelessly engaged in sexual congress in broad daylight --- no mistake!

Aoife had a side view of a young couple --- inhabitants of the area by their garb. The lass was sitting upon a crate with her threadbare skirts completely turned up, and the lad stood between her widespread legs with his breeches' flap hanging open. His elbows were under her knees and his hands upon her bare bottom. Their gazes were fixed upon each other and they both panted as his hips lewdly pumped between her thighs...she arching against him with her arms round his neck.

As one in a spell, Aoife stared --- shocked and fascinated by the brazen sight. She knew she should turn away but, God forgive her, she could not help herself! Then the young man spotted her. Wholly unabashed, he continued his lascivious gyrations, grinning at her.

Frozen to the spot, Aoife could only gape as he withdrew his battering ram from the lass's body and, with a gleeful twisting motion of his hips, waggled it at Aoife. At such close proximity she could see nigh every detail of the glistening, thick-veined staff.

"Longing for a go, are ye love?" he said. "Wait a mo' and I'll fuck ye next."

His partner turned to see Aoife, then the couple exchanged looks and burst out laughing. With a plunging motion, their bodies rejoined, eliciting a little yelp from the lass, and prompting Aoife to flee.

Frantically she stumbled out of the alley and through the streets, weaving among people and carts --- her face aflame. Aye, she was a wicked lass, so she was! How could she have simply stood and watched such a wanton display?! Shame drove her in a blind run...anywhere to get away from the couple...running till her ankle began to protest again. Slowing her pace, she at length came to a stop and sank down upon the front step of a building where she covered her face, panting into her hands as her mind whirled in chaos.

Eventually Aoife's breathing slowed, and she raised her head. A group of dirty children was playing in the street before her, and their innocent voices and laughter were a momentary distraction from her troubles...till she noticed among them a pair of wee lasses --- plainly sisters by their similar red hair and features --- of an age difference similar to Clodagh's and hers. At one point the younger one was snubbed by the other children in their game, and her older sister came to her defense. A lump rose in Aoife's throat, and she stood and continued on.

With one eye upon the building fronts, and one eye scanning the passersby for uniformed men, she walked up and down the streets, asking in vain for work in shops that she passed --- shop after shop till night fell.

In a large park called St. Stephen's Green, she walked slowly in the dark, eating the last portion of scone remaining in her pocket and pondering the dilemma of where to pass the night. After the scenes she had observed in the neighborhoods, she judged herself safer not sleeping in a doorway there.