Celtic Mist Ch. 11

Two soldiers held the ramp fast, whilst four others jumped into the wagon. Enlightenment shortly came: the men wheeled out backwards a cannon in its sturdy carriage as the officers observed the proceedings with evident pleasure. Now Michael realized that the broad doors to the storage building were open. As the cannon was rolled inside, her eyes took quick inventory of the artillery and arms therein.

That evening at supper in the kitchen, Aoife could scarce attend the conversation with Mary and Alice, so restlessly did the new intelligence occupy her thoughts. At length she excused herself and retreated to her room where she opened the dormer window and breathed the crisp night air, gazing over the glowing windows in the town. 'Twas too early yet to retire...and she was too agitated to attempt it.

A moment later she arrived at a decision and changed into Michael's garb. Captain Fleetwood had encouraged her to come by the farm whenever she had intelligence to report --- there she would thus go.

Waiting till a woman in a house across the courtyard had emptied a bucket out the window and reclosed the shutter, Michael climbed out the dormer window onto the roof.

Her walk along the country lane was attended by the scant light of a crescent moon, sounds of wind in the trees, and occasional owls...as well as the fleeting worry that she might encounter Declan. Some twenty minutes en route, she heard the sound of hooves approaching on the road before her. Soon, a wagon filled with hay bales was discernable in the darkness, and as it neared, she saw Captain Fleetwood and another man...thankfully not Declan...on the seat.

Fleetwood pulled to a stop. "Michael McArdle! What brings you out this way so late?"

"I've come with tidings about the garrison."

"Climb on up. We're going into town. This is Lieutenant Colin Foley...this is the lad I told you about."

Michael exchanged greetings with a man who appeared to be in his forties --- in the darkness not much more could she tell. She clambered up to join them on the seat. In her limited experience so far with the United Irishmen, one thing immediately evident was the sense of camaraderie...the informality of the leadership structure. Aye, there were officers, but the distinction of rank seemed to correspond to a division of tasks according to talents rather than a hierarchy based upon social status as in the Crown's forces.

As the wagon resumed motion, Michael recounted the incident in the garrison courtyard with the arrival of the cannon, and what was inside the storage building. The keen expressions the two men exchanged were unmistakable.

"What did the cannon look like?"

She described it as best she could.

"How wide and long was it?"

"Umm...a little less than a foot wide at the widest, and a bit longer than me."

"Six-pounder," Foley said.

"And the cannons inside the building?"

"One of the same, and three that looked different --- much shorter and wider with smaller wheels."

"Howitzers."

She described the racks of muskets, barrels, and crates of cannon balls and lumpy canvas bags.

Fleetwood nodded with a solemn expression. "This is some fine information, Michael. Excellent work. We should pay you more, so we should."

"Sure, yer not paying me anything," she joked, and they all laughed.

Upon arriving in Enniscorthy, Fleetwood steered the wagon through several streets north of Abbey Square and reined to a stop before a tavern with low light in the windows and the name Foley upon the sign. This must belong to Lieutenant Foley on the seat next to her, she realized --- the man who now was climbing down and saying, "Come inside, Michael, and I'll stand ye a pint."

After a moment's hesitation, she followed the men in. She had no experience drinking ale or beer...now was evidently when she had to pretend otherwise.

Inside was a pleasant room with a fire burning in a large fireplace, lanterns flickering on the wall, and a good number of customers, most of whom were clustered round the bar.

Michael reminded herself that she was a lad as she accompanied Fleetwood and Foley to the bar, where they were greeted jovially by many of the patrons, among whom she recognized several United Irish lads she had met at the farm on Sunday.

From her brothers, she knew that taverns tended to cater to one sympathy or the other --- Catholic or Protestant. Although she had taken Foley to be Catholic, could his tavern be the rare, religion-blind, rebel establishment? Fleetwood was certainly a Protestant, and he was agreeably mingling with the men.

Foley and Fleetwood had managed to press through the assembled men to reach the bar, as Michael stood back. After a few minutes, Foley handed back a full mug to her.

"Ta." She sipped the strange-tasting drink, trying to attend the overlapping, animated conversations about her. To her left, some men were ranting about Napoleon's present military campaigns and the dwindling likelihood that he would send aid to Ireland. Before her, they were discussing something they referred to as 'ten-day ultimatums' for rebels to return stolen weapons. Further down the bar, a group was speculating who would replace Abercromby as the Commander in Chief of the Crown's forces in Ireland.

All the voices faded to a dull din as she caught sight of Declan between the shifting shoulders and heads of the men in front of her --- he was tending the bar! A swift step back and to the side placed her behind the taller figure of Fleetwood. She tugged her cap lower as she peeked round Fleetwood's shoulder.

Aye, Declan was a barkeeper in Foley's tavern!

There was another young man working alongside him --- a shorter, wiry lad whose bright red hair was nigh the natural color of her own. By his face, he must be Foley's son. Michael's eyes shifted back to Declan and narrowly followed his motions as he moved about behind the bar, reaching for mugs, pouring ale, and talking to the customers. Every now and then he grinned at some comment made. A couple of times his gaze paused upon her, seeming more to be assessing the state of her mug than to be querying a suspicion.

Michael succeeded in maintaining a calm demeanor, drinking the ale, and intermittently wiping her mouth on her sleeve as she observed him. As he spoke to Fleetwood and Foley just in front of her, he was but six feet away --- much closer to her than he had been at the farm on Sunday. The glowing lantern on the bar disclosed no significant alteration to his appearance over the past seven months since she had fled from him at the stone cromleach: the green of his eyes shone the same, and the thin white scar in his dark left eyebrow was the same.

There was an enigmatic quality to him, so there was. She thought on the various young men of her acquaintance throughout her life --- her brothers' friends, the other servants at Drumlevy Manor, the lads in the United Irish company. Whilst others were quick to chat, share a tale, or jest, Declan kept his own counsel. 'Twas not through any lack of wit that she could perceive, for even in his quiet composure, his demeanor was alert and contemplative. And it detracted not from a sense of camaraderie, for he was plainly well liked and esteemed by the others.

But, unlike other lads, she could not readily decipher his expressions...indeed this inscrutability of manner had contributed to her discomposure during the three days they had traveled the countryside together after fleeing Kilmaedan Castle. Aye, during that journey, she had occasionally identified an expression of admiration upon his countenance...but the unreadable stoicism the remainder of the time had left her dubious of his intentions. Was this reserved quality deeply rooted in his nature, or was it the cultivated, protective device of a hired ruffian whose continued well-being depended upon him betraying not his next action?

She watched his large hands as they deftly uncorked a whiskey bottle. Had those hands been the instrument of justice for Fitzgibbons and Burrows?

Michael became aware that one of the lads nearby was relaying a bawdy joke about a novice milkmaid who accidentally milked a bull --- the men roared with laughter and Declan's full, strong lips widened in a grin. Beset with a perturbing fluttering in her belly, Michael took this opportunity to sidle away from the bar.

There were a few customers at tables, and she nodded at them as she made her way towards the fireplace.

Evidently the Foleys were devotees of the sport of bare-knuckle boxing, for upon the walls were several drawings of fighters standing with their fists cocked, as well as numerous, variably tattered notices of boxing matches throughout Ireland.

Abruptly her eyes fixed upon one notice: Declan "Quickfist" versus Mal MacDonald "The Highlander" it read, giving details of the Dublin match site. The date was just over a year ago. Understanding now came to her: the nickname, the scars upon his face, the strange callouses on his knuckles. But the epiphany still contributed nothing to her understanding of his loyalties. She stole a glance over her shoulder at him, then moved on.

By the hearth, she discovered a sleeping black and white dog. When she bent to pet it, its tail began to slap against the floor. Remembering that she was a vagabond lad and not a lady, she plopped down upon the floor to sit cross-legged with her back to the bar. For some time, she stroked and scratched the contented animal's head as she took swigs from her mug.

Presently she beheld Colin Foley and Captain Fleetwood to her left, engrossed in low conversation by the door to the street. Fleetwood gave a short nod and left the tavern.

Foley turned and joined her by the fire, taking one of the chairs. "You've made a friend for life, so ye have." He smiled.

"What is his name?"

"Dara."

"Dara," she repeated.

"Michael, have ye a place to stay? Ye look a wee bit ragged. I dinna have an extra bedroom, but you're welcome to a pallet in the storeroom with Declan."

Michael nigh choked on the ale. There was a fine proposal! "Umm...thank ye...but I'm set up fine in a hay loft near the market." She glanced again towards the bar and glimpsed Declan, his head visible above the other men's. "In fact, I'd best be heading there --- I have to rise early to go to the garrison." Thanking Foley, she took her leave and headed out into the dark streets, her mind turning.

So...Declan worked and lived at Foley's tavern...'twas fortunate that he was on the other side of town from the dressmaker's shop, but she still must ever be watchful when she was on the streets, especially if she were dressed as Kitty McDonnell.

Declan had evidently secured the trust of these earnest men of good judgement...was that not testimony enough as to his loyalties?

Well, she argued, even the wisest men might be deceived by a wily enough bastard. She would continue to think on him as she did before, she concluded and climbed up to her attic window.

The dream Aoife had that night was this:

She was walking along the side of the hidden glen at Fleetwood's farm, dressed as Michael, but clad only in the breeches and shirt...she was bereft of the protection of the waistcoat and coat. In the clearing, the rebel soldiers were practicing the knife fighting drill, but with sticks instead of real blades...their motions were oddly slow and their voices echoed among the surrounding trees.

Without a partner she attempted to mimic the sequence of motions being trained...Declan was all at once standing before her telling her to control the twist of her shoulders. When he bade her try again, they faced off, crouching slightly and circling each other...but the daggers in their hands were now real and no longer sticks.

Now was her chance to kill him if she could! With the difference in height, her slashes opened slits on his breeches and scratched his thighs...he acknowledged the strikes with a nod and half-smile, but insensible to her bitter purpose, he encouraged her, calling out corrections to her method of attack.

Then he stepped behind her. One of his hands closed upon her raised wrist whilst the other was on her back; he adjusted her stance as he commented about the use of the muscles in the torso. Then his fingers came to a stop upon the linen binding, no doubt palpable through her shirt.

Most bizarrely was she fixed in this attitude --- her legs braced in a half crouch and her knife arm upraised --- even as he tugged the shirt out of her breeches. She felt the cool air on her now bared lower back, then a slight pulling on the layers of the binding. The cold tip of his dagger tickled up her spine as it sliced through the fabric...there was a sudden opening of the breached edges and the fabric bands slid down her chest under the shirt and fell at her feet.

The next moment, his dagger with a thunk embedded itself blade first in the earth next to her left foot, where the sturdy, upright handle vibrated. Her own blade glinted in her trembling, raised hand. As he continued to calmly discuss the importance of commencing a knife strike by clenching the muscles of the belly, his large, warm hands were moving under her shirt to point out the anatomy in question.

Her heart pounded in her chest and low in her belly as his palms slid up to clasp her breasts...gently at first...but the motions rapidly escalated to a voluptuous squeezing with his thumbs testing her stiffening, tingling nipples. His body pressed hard to hers and she could feel the rigid column of his cockstand against her bottom. "Ye must twist your chest as your arm arcs across your body," he instructed, his voice sounding thick next to her ear. With his hands upon her breasts and his chest tight to her back he twisted her torso side to side.

Next to them, the training men continued in the drill, strangely unconscious of the pair at the side of the glen. One hand yet cupping a breast, Declan's other hand now burrowed under her breeches and drawers, following her belly down...and his fingertip found the secret, swollen spot that throbbed in chaos. Urgently did his finger up front and cock behind press against her in synchrony. "When ye recover, take a step back out of your opponent's reach," his hoarse breath filled her ear. Further back did his fingers delve between her braced-apart thighs, and she knew he must feel the wetness there. "Oh, love...aye!" he whispered...

Aoife started awake in her bed in the garret at the dressmaker's shop --- the blood was rushing in her ears and was taut in the bud between her cunny lips where she discovered her own fingers to be, under her nightgown. She felt the ache of longing and the slippery fluid.

'Twas most vexing --- for over a month since leaving the convent, her mission had driven all amorous imaginings from her mind, and despite at last having the privacy of her own room in all the towns in which she had stayed, no further exploration had she undertaken of that irresistible place where desire and shame battled. Now the sensations had suddenly returned, and it was that hated lad again insinuating himself into her thoughts.

Oh Medb! Why does he torment me so?!

* * * * *

Come the weekend, Michael was back at Fleetwood's farm for part of Saturday and most of Sunday, sharpening pike heads and sweeping up the telltale wood shavings and metal dust from the pike assembly operations. Several times did she spy Declan from afar: meeting with Fleetwood and the other officers at a ring of stones in the pasture, carrying an armful of pikes across the field, and training with the men in the glen.

Aye, despite her prudent intentions, she was drawn back to the training field. She tried to squelch the giddiness in her belly at the memory of her dream, determined to pursue her initial purpose of learning fighting techniques to use against Blaylock.

The drills that weekend were on various battle formations with pikes: the men presently were arranged in rows and charged up the field one row after the other with their pikes before them --- driving them into bales of straw stacked at the end of the clearing. Michael's eyes followed Declan as he ran alongside the men, pike in hand, his stride vigorous and his shoulders powerful under the fluttering, white linen shirt.

Finding a pike in the grass, Michael could not resist running up the field with the next row of men, wielding the weapon and whooping with exhilaration. As she pulled the tip out of the straw, she was flustered to find Declan a few paces away grinning at her.

"Aye, lad, a fine charge. The shaft is a wee bit too long for ye, but hold the tip at a higher angle...the level of a horse's neck or a foot soldier's chest."

"Aye," she said, keeping her face down as she weighed the pike in her hands. He nodded his approval at her next attempt, and she remained for some time observing and participating along the side --- staying several paces away from Declan.

In the late afternoon Sunday, she was standing at a makeshift table next to the barn, filling powder horns with gunpowder when the men returned from the glen. Not long after, she witnessed Declan engaged in his own exercises, running in apparent loops round the farm from the glen, through the field, and to the lane out front --- all whilst disturbingly stripped to the waist.

Next came a stint of punching straw bales behind the barn whilst he danced about. This in turn was followed by him flopping upon the grass some twenty feet away from her, where he lay on his back with his knees bent and his fingertips behind his head, and repeatedly sat up and lay back. Then he lay on his belly and pushed his body off the ground balanced between his arms and toes...only to lower himself and repeat again and again.

Michael had never seen the like of such remarkable exertions and could only account for them as the discipline of a professional fighter. As close as he was to her, she kept her face partially averted, and watched him covertly, noting the sheen of sweat upon his lean muscles and the interrupted, faint pink stripes of the healed whip marks upon his back.

From this observation she was distracted by the sudden appearance of Captain Fleetwood at her side. "Michael, I have a special commission for you."

Michael lent him her full attention. "Aye, sir?"

Fleetwood proceeded to outline a plan to collect a shipment of guns in Wexford town with the wagon. To further the ruse of a farm family taking fleeces to market, he wanted Michael to be one of the party making the excursion, which was to be tomorrow. Her brief hesitation before agreeing rested only upon the fact that tomorrow was Monday, and Kitty McDonnell was expected to work in the dressmaker's shop --- but she could not explain this to Fleetwood.

She left the farm shortly after this conversation; as she started down the lane away from the cottage, she glimpsed Declan at the stream along the edge of pasture, one knee upon a stone as he vigorously splashed water over his chest and armpits.

Once returned to the shop and restored to the form of Kitty, she sought out Mrs. Sutton. To explain her absence from the premises Saturday evening and most of Sunday, she had already established the fiction that she had found her cousins upon a farm near Enniscorthy and would likely be spending most of her weekends there.