Celtic Mist Ch. 10

Michael watched for several minutes as he led the horses into the stable --- all whilst she kept one eye upon a door at the back of the building that likely led to the kitchen. She silently rehearsed her story. Once finished with the horses, the stable boy retrieved two valises from the box and carried them into the inn.

Quiet fell for several minutes, broken eventually by the giggles and chatter of a pair of wee lasses being pulled down the alley by a strong puppy on a leash. Their innocent voices receded.

The inn's rear door swung open and a lass near Aoife's age stepped out, her plain gown and stained apron confirming her to indeed be a kitchen maid. Under a white cap, golden hair was visible. She was holding two empty buckets which she carried to the well in the courtyard.

Michael took a deep breath: 'twas time for her gambit. "Hullo," she said with a little smile, waving her stick.

The maid looked up. "Hullo, what are ye about, then?" Her voice, mercifully, was more teasing than unkind. As Michael hastened to assist by turning the crank to raise the bucket, the maid smiled and said, "You'd be after food, I'd wager."

"I'd never say nay to vittles." Michael grinned. "But I'm just arrived here and need help a-finding someone. Do ye know the town well?" She exaggerated a countryish brogue in her speech.

The maid watched as Michael filled the buckets for her. "I do. I've lived here me whole life. Who are ye looking for?"

"Let me." Michael picked up the buckets.

The lass smiled and gestured towards the inn. "You're a rare, gentleman-like lad, so ye are."

"Well, me ma tanned me hide enough to know how to behave proper-like."

"What is your name?"

"Michael. And yers?"

"Amy. This way." She led Michael down a hall and into the kitchen where the cook and her assistant were busy at steaming pots on the stove. At the opposite end of the room, Amy emptied the buckets into a wooden tub on a table. She fetched Michael a bowl of colcannon, pointed to a nearby stool, then began washing plates in the tub. "Who are ye looking for, then?"

Sitting atop the tall stool with her feet on the rungs and her legs sprawled, Michael spoke between mouthfuls. "Well, me brother sent me here. He was a guardsman at the castle afore he joined the navy. When he was here, I guess he lost a wager-like and had to borrow money from his captain...Captain Blaylock."

"Oh, your brother was a guardsman? What is his name? Perhaps I met him."

Michael wiped her mouth upon her sleeve. "John Mullins."

Amy shook her head. "No, 'tisn't familiar."

"Well, he wasn't here very long." For a moment, Michael wondered if Amy knew Declan, then she cleared her throat. "Turns out me brother couldn't repay the money afore he left, but since then he's earned some money and sent me to pay it back. I'm supposed to give it to Captain Blaylock, but I dinna ken how to find him. Does he come into town regular?"

Amy was shaking her head with a smile. "I'm afraid you're out of luck. Captain Blaylock isn't here anymore --- he went back to England."

Michael choked upon her food. Amy pointed to a pitcher on the table behind them. "Cider."

As Michael drank, Amy continued, "Or perhaps, you're in luck, as it were. Your brother...or you (she winked) can keep the money now."

At last Michael found her voice. "When did Blaylock leave?"

"Oh...'twas late September, methinks. He came into an inheritance, so we heard."

Michael slumped on the stool, her mind struggling to absorb these tidings. Amy regarded her curiously, prompting her to lower her face and scoop another spoonful of colcannon. "Hmmmm...how about the guards Fitzgibbons or Burrows? Me brother said I could also give it to either one of them. Know ye where I could find them?"

Amy gaped at her for a moment, then shook her head and emitted a snorting laugh. "Aye...in Hell! I think God is telling ye to keep the money. Those two are dead --- murdered."

"Murdered!" Michael gasped. "When? How?"

Amy paused in her washing and glanced behind her at the cooks at the other side of kitchen. Leaning closer to Michael, she said in a low voice, "'Twas the middle of October last year...inside that very stable behind the inn. They were shot, both of them---" her voice lowered to a whisper, "---in their privates."

Michael flinched involuntarily, grimacing and pressing her legs together. She listened raptly as Amy continued. "And their throats were cut...they were nearly beheaded, so they were. Ye canna imagine the blood --- 'twas ungodly!"

"And this took place in the stable just out back?" Michael nodded wide-eyed towards the door.

Amy's face was alight with pleasure at relaying the macabre tale. "Aye! Just thirty paces away! No one heard the gunshots on account of the band playing in the dining room."

"Was the murderer caught?"

Amy shook her head, peeked again at the cooks, and resumed washing the bowl she was holding. "Some witnesses claimed they saw a young man with blood on his clothes leaving the village --- but they were half-soused and could give no other details. Given the wounds to their...ye know...people thought it must have been the husband, or father, or brother of a lass they had...erm...abused. Some thought it must be at least two killers to dispatch those two --- armed and as strong as they were."

Michael's mind raced as she sat rigid, scarce attending Amy's recitation of the evidence that the stable was now haunted. When the maid reached to take the empty bowl and spoon from her hands, Michael roused herself from her thoughts. "Ta," she murmured.

"So you see...there's no one left to give the money to." Amy sighed with an exaggerated shrug. "I guess you're obliged to keep it, more's the pity."

Michael reminded herself to stay in character even as she reeled from these developments. She scratched her chin. "Well...it dinna seem right not to repay a debt. Me brother won't be happy to still have it on his conscience." Through the smeared spectacles, she glanced at Amy. "Know ye where in England Captain Blaylock went? Maybe I could send it by post."

Amy's eyebrows lifted. "Och! You're a most determined lad!"

Michael shrugged. "'Tis a matter of honor-like."

"No, I dinna ken where he went." She shook her head, smiling. "You lads and your honor!" Amy winked coyly.

Michael managed to keep a solemn expression as she realized the maid was flirting with her.

The next moment, Amy's face brightened. "Oh, but I do recall something! Me brother is a groom at the castle. He heard a rumor that Blaylock is returning...that he's taking command of a regiment in County Wexford. If your conscience demands ye exhaust every possibility..."

"Oh?" Michael's pulse quickened. "Where? What type of regiment?"

"That, I don't know. He only overheard it from the gentlemen talking among themselves."

"How long ago did he hear it?"

"A couple of weeks ago, I'd say."

Michael's expression was glum. "Seems like I'll spend more money than the debt if I go looking for him all over County Wexford."

Amy grinned. "Sure, you're seeing the way of it now."

After leaving the kitchen, Michael crossed the courtyard and stepped into the inn's stable, her thoughts whirling. She cast her eyes about the stalls and the flagstone floor scattered with straw --- no hint remained of the slaughter that had here taken place. The middle of October, Amy had said...just over a month after she had left Declan in the stone cromleach. A young man with blood on his clothes...could the angel of justice have been Declan? Why would he have murdered his comrades? On her behalf? For his own reasons?

But...she suspected that Clodagh's fate had not been unique --- that there were likely any number of outraged husbands, fathers, and brothers with cause to kill them.

Her exultation at the men's fate was marred only by the regret of not having done it herself...or at least having had the opportunity to triumph over their maimed corpses. The few words she now spoke in the empty stable were not what anyone would call prayers. "Damn you to Hell! You bastards deserved what ye got --- and more! I pray you suffered long and mightily."

Leaving the James Moore Inn, Michael next made her way to the Catholic graveyard on the edge of town. Despite viewing every grave marker, she found none for her sister's family. Bewildered, she even crossed the village to the church and searched the Protestant cemetery. Nothing. What had happened to Clodagh's, Paddy's, and Eoin's bodies? Had Blaylock disposed of the evidence?

Consumed with bitter grief, Michael walked out to the site of the Lanigan farm. She knew the way right well --- there was nothing like a ride bouncing upside down, pinioned and slung over Blaylock's saddle with his hand intermittently smacking her buttocks to sear that route in her mind...not to mention the mounting horror of the return journey later that night after escaping the castle. Now, her heart beat in chaos as she crested the rise in the road before the farmhouse.

There it stood in the waning afternoon light, as if no abomination had ever darkened its door. The roof had been rethatched, the door and window repaired. The scent of peat smoke rising from the chimney was as pleasant as ever. Innocent chickens and sheep were in the yard. No grave markers were in sight. 'Twas evident that the cottage had been refurbished and rented again.

Michael's fists clenched. No amount of whitewashing could hide the truth of what had happened here. Her memory admitted no lapse. She knelt at the edge of the yard and prayed for her family. When she stood, the tears hardened in her eyes. "You whoreson bastard --- I'll find ye, so I will."

* * * * *

Aoife took to the road in her guise of Michael --- headed for the next county to the south --- on the strength of an overheard rumor of Blaylock assuming command of a regiment in County Wexford. 'Twas her only clue, and her conscience did indeed demand that she exhaust every possibility. If the rumor was true, was he already there, or was he yet to arrive? There was no way to know save seeking out all the garrisons in Wexford, one at a time, and gathering information. No clue had she of how many there might be.

With her impatient pace, the journey should have taken one long day, but her progress was frustrated by rain --- initially drizzling, but soon becoming a torrent that obliged her to run for the cover a rocky outcropping on a hill. She huddled under the overhanging stone and stared in agitation over the fields --- the sky and ground united in the grey downpour.

When darkness fell with no abatement in the weather, she at last admitted defeat and slept in the rocky crevice with her postulant's gown and shift for a blanket over her lad's clothes. Waking in the morning to a dense mist hovering over the ground, she picked her way among wet sheep in the boggy fields to find the road again.

In the late morning, she crossed into County Wexford and began seeking information in the villages she encountered.

Michael revised her story as she made her inquiries: now Michael was searching for his cousin in the army...and the only thing he knew was that he was stationed in County Wexford. The name of his cousin's commanding officer he could not quite recall but would recognize it if he heard it. She dared not specifically mention Blaylock's name, lest it warn the man of her quest.

Michael soon discovered townspeople to be a reasonable source of general intelligence about the locations of garrisons and the type of military corps there stationed. Every now and then a garrulous barkeeper or shopkeeper was even able to supply the name of an officer or two. The information gleaned from the citizenry, although helpful, did not fully satisfy Michael. Aye, she needed to know all the officers' names to be sure she was not missing him.

The various units of the Crown's forces were confusing, but it seemed that the two predominant corps were the Militia (Redcoats) and Yeomen or 'Yeos' (usually in blue coats). To augment the confusion, sometimes they were stationed in the same garrison. Indeed, the first garrison to which she was pointed --- in Gorey town in the north of the county --- was shared by a company of Yeomen and a detachment of Militia.

She approached Gorey town from the countryside to the north, beholding before her a small town nestled in a shallow valley, surrounded by modest hills. The road took her past a large estate, where a sprawling, elegant mansion was visible through the trees --- this must belong to the local landowner, she surmised, analogous to the Marquess at Benburb and the Duke at Kilmaedan.

Arriving in Gorey, Michael walked through the streets getting her bearings. Main Street sloped gradually up and down over the gentle underlying hills, and upon the street and sidewalks, Michael observed the usual activity of men, women, and children --- marketing, working, chatting, and playing. She noted a stately brick and stone Market House and marked its location should she need to buy necessities. The time on the clock surmounting the building reminded her that she mustn't tarry if she wanted a glimpse of the garrison ere dusk fell. To the east edge of town then did she hasten.

Her first glimpse of the garrison was of a tall wrought iron fence enclosing the immediate grounds about a long, low plain brick building. Hands in her breeches pockets, Michael sauntered past a pair of Redcoat sentries on duty at the gate, whose eyes only flicked in notice. Outside the fenced grounds was a large park where dozens of tan canvas tents were pitched in tidy rows, no doubt where the rank-and-file soldiers slept. Beyond that was a field presently occupied by innumerable Redcoat soldiers. 'Twas a drill underway, she realized.

As an officer barked orders, the rows of men advanced, one at a time, to simultaneously take a knee, put their muskets to their shoulders, and aim at an imaginary target. After a brief panic, Michael perceived that the officer was not Blaylock.

Her attention shifted back to the tents, drawn by activity there. To her surprise, she beheld scattered women, apparently making preparations to cook over firepits in front of the tents. Did the army not feed the soldiers? Not wishing her loitering to rouse suspicions, she soon resumed a brisk pace along the road.

Several streets away, she found a tiny, garret room at a modest inn called the White Stag. That night as she emptied her knapsack, Aoife wracked her brains for a ploy by which to gain more intelligence about the officers --- present or incoming. Given the current tense, suspicious atmosphere in Ireland, she could scarce walk up to the gate and ask for a roster of the officers, even couched in the story about a cousin in the army. Nay, a more subtle approach was needed.

All at once she found inspiration in the bottom of the bag: the wool wax and rags! During her two years at Drumlevy Manor, many had been the time whilst hanging laundry in the courtyard that she had observed the cook's young son seated on a stool polishing the gentlemen's boots and shoes with wool wax.

The Crown's soldiers' red and blue uniforms had endless variations in the facings, buttons, ribbon cockades, and braid, but the one thing all the officers had in common was tall black boots!

The following morning, Michael found a small wooden crate on a rubbish heap behind the inn. Returning to the road in front of the garrison, she set up on the sidewalk opposite the gate. As she waited for officers to emerge, she called out to an occasional passing man of means, offering a shoe polish for a farthing. A couple of them accepted, giving her an opportunity to quickly master the skill, kneeling on the sidewalk as the standing man placed his foot upon the crate.

Otherwise, she occupied her time reading a newspaper (also retrieved from the rubbish heap), bouncing an acorn atop a board as she used to do with her hurling stick, and playing with a stray cat. After a while, she quashed her disquietude at the uniforms and dared to cross the street and approach the sentries.

"Polish yer boots for a farthing, sirs?" Michael waved a rag.

"We're on duty," one said, his eyes fixed upon the street behind her.

The other at least looked down at her. "We polish our own boots. Privates haven't the coin to pay someone else to do it."

"Oh." She returned to her crate.

In the late morning, groups of uniformed men intermittently emerged from the gateway, some on foot, some mounted. Most were in formation and marching purposefully, indicating them to be on duty, and she importuned them not. Later, her attention perked as a pair of men passed through the gate, pausing in their conversation to return the sentries' salutes. That they were officers was readily apparent from the elaborate braid upon their red coats and the feathered cockades upon their black, crescent-shaped hats. Neither was Blaylock.

Their unhurried pace decided her. "Hey, sirs!" she called out.

They glanced at the lad without halting.

"Polish yer boots for a farthing?" Ah ha! That seemed to capture their attention.

"A farthing is well worth not having to do it myself," said one to the other, who nodded in agreement.

Thus it was that Michael lured in her first Militia officers to her enterprise. If anyone had told her that she would one day be kneeling at the feet of Redcoats, servicing their boots, she would have laughed in derision. Nevertheless, here she was, performing that very task with diligence and attention --- marking their conversation above her head, for they continued talking as if she were not there, every so often calling each other by their last names, as men oft did.

The one named Penn had dark hair and an English accent, whilst Filgate had dark blond hair and spoke with an unfamiliar, refined Irish accent...she guessed him to be some sort of middle- or upper-class Protestant. Mostly they discussed where they would dine and find diversion tonight --- debating whether a certain tavern was also a School of Venus. Michael was asked to settle the question, but she could only shrug and say, "I dinna ken."

Their conversation turned to an apparent meeting they had attended earlier in the day in which was discussed the proposed expansion of the garrison's numbers and whether barracks should replace tents. Michael listened with keen ears as names of officers were mentioned: Swayne, Elliot, Bowen, Fetherston...but no Blaylock.

Her task at last completed, each officer gave her a coin.

The following day, Michael again plied her business outside the garrison. An unaccompanied officer availed himself of her services, but she learnt nothing from him as he simply stood silently, gazing at the street as she worked. Penn and Filgate appeared again in the late afternoon, eagerly seeking out the boot black when they spotted 'him'.

"'Twould be capital if you could work in the garrison --- a polish for a farthing!" Penn exclaimed as she knelt to address his boot on the crate.

"There's a splendid idea," Filgate said. "What's your name, lad?"