Celtic Mist Ch. 11

On Sunday she was again at the grindstone, sharpening pike heads, when Declan found her and intently questioned her about what she had seen at Rossnalough Manor, for he evidently had just been apprised of the development. His inquiry was not about the troops and weaponry, she noted with interest, but about Blaylock.

With Declan standing so close to her, she kept her face tilted down, continuing with the honing as she answered his questions, but she chanced a look up to gauge his reaction to the news of his former commander. The expression on his countenance was intent...quizzical even...but betrayed not his allegiances. By the time of the drill in the glen --- today on unseating a mounted soldier --- he seemed to have recovered himself.

In preparation for her visit to Rossnalough Manor the following day --- and in view of the ongoing threat of being recognized by Declan --- Aoife had decided 'twas time to dye her hair again. That afternoon, after leaving Fleetwood's farm, she headed east...further away from Enniscorthy...in the direction she had been advised a deep woods might be found. 'Twas evident that the land in County Wexford was admirably suited for tillage and grazing, and that most of the old forests had been sacrificed for this purpose.

After a walk of over half an hour she at last discovered an area sufficiently rocky and hilly that its mantle of trees was untouched, and she eagerly crossed a field to plunge into the quiet woodland.

For the past two days her mind had been in turmoil with thoughts of Blaylock, but as the cool, green-shadowed sanctuary enveloped her, she presently began to feel a lightening of her mood. She retrieved the crock from her knapsack and wandered among the ancient trees, collecting bark and searching for walnuts, determined to make double the usual amount of dye in order to ease her toil the next time.

All she now needed was water. Amidst the songs of birds and chittering of squirrels she by and by heard the burbling of a stream and followed the sound, pushing past low hanging pine boughs and undergrowth to find a rivulet tumbling down a haphazard stair of large stones. The allure of the unspoilt site beckoned her onward, and she climbed upstream among the rocks, trees, ferns, and flowers till she at length arrived in wonder at a waterfall whose vigorous plume cascaded some ten feet down to a clear pool among stones covered in lichen and moss.

Here upon the bank Aoife made her firepit and brewed her dye. Setting it aside to cool, she leant against a large rock and gazed at the glorious sight of the waterfall and pool...finding respite from her troubles in the ethereal beauty of Nature...a beauty that to her rebellious mind was unsurpassed, even by the purest, most noble religious devotion. Or perhaps Nature, God, and Medb were one and the same.

The rushing sound of the falls was an intoxicant to her, eliciting a sympathetic commotion in her body. A sly thought stole over her.

She glanced all about, bending to peep under draping tree limbs, then looked again at the pool. It had been years since she had bathed in water of sufficient depth to submerge her body...not since the stream near the O'Farrell farm when she was growing up. Even at the convent, she had bathed standing in a small tub and pouring water over herself with a pitcher. A wayward smile grew. 'Twould be such a pleasure to swim...and so much more practical for washing her hair, she reasoned.

Rummaging in her knapsack, Aoife found a piece of lye soap she had purchased from a woman's cart in Market Square. After another survey of her surroundings, she began stripping off the lad's clothes, one garment at a time...till at last she pushed down the drawers and straightened.

Oh, what a delicious sensation to be standing naked in the woods! The spring air, cool with the mist from the falls, tickled her bare skin, making her nipples peep up and wickedly feathering over her exposed cunny. She sat upon a stone dangling her feet into the cold water, then lowered herself shivering into the pool. A mixed giggle and squeak escaped her as the water encompassed her.

The pool proved to be surprisingly deep...so she discovered as she took deep breaths to dive to the bottom. For some time she paddled about, reveling in the novel experience of her body being suspended in the water's embrace, being intimately caressed everywhere by the cool flow. At length, the coldness prompted her to dally no further. Collecting her soap, she climbed up to the flat stone that caught the frothing torrent.

Surrounded by wet mossy rocks, pink cuckoo flowers, marsh violets, and white wood sorrel, she let the falls surge over her body, gasping at the thrilling sensation. Then she stepped aside to wash herself, lingering as she soaped her privates and now fully standing nipples...images of Declan's green eyes and humorous grin rising unbidden in her mind.

The next moment she chastised herself...both for this betrayal as well as for touching herself so in this place where, despite the sheltering trees and rocks, someone might happen upon her. Quickly she washed away the soap and climbed out of the water to whisk off the water droplets. She re-bound her breasts and pulled the lad's clothes back on over her wet skin.

She had not come prepared for the impromptu bath, but next time she would bring spare garb and wash her present garments, she promised herself. The brown color had been washed away from her hair --- but with her tresses darkened by water, she judged herself safe after donning the wool cap and tucking the re-tied queue under her coat. The now cooled dye was transferred to her water gourd to be applied tonight in her chamber with the aid of the washbasin.

* * * * *

Monday at last arrived --- the day of her return to Blaylock's garrison at Rossnalough Manor --- but Aoife was obliged to suspend her anticipation a bit longer as she carried out her established routine of working at the Militia garrison at dawn and in the dressmaker's shop during the day. Every time she thought on her looming visit to Rossnalough Manor, her heart accelerated and her stomach twisted. 'Twas not till she was done at the shop in the afternoon that she could transform back into Michael and sneak out of the house.

She walked briskly out to the estate. Torn she had been over whether to bring her dagger --- what if the opportunity to strike at Blaylock presented itself that very afternoon? Eventually she decided she must wait to become better acquainted with the new garrison's security measures...how thoroughly would she and her bag be searched?

Thus, she arrived unarmed at the entry gate in the stone wall. The two blue-coated sentries shifted from their rigid attitudes to close the space between them. "What is your business?"

Michael swallowed. "Me name is Michael Goodwin. I was here on Friday when ye's were setting up camp. I talked to Lieutenant Drury about a job polishing boots, and he told me to come back today, so he did. I polish boots for Captain Snowe and the officers at the Militia garrison in town."

The two men looked at each other, agreeing between them that they had heard nothing of this.

"Well, the Lieutenant seemed a bit flustrated-like. He likely forgot about it."

'Twas decided that one would go consult with Lieutenant Drury whilst the other watched the lad. Michael gripped the straps of her bag and scooted a stone about with her toe as they waited, the other sentry resuming his silent stance.

At length, the sentry returned with a second man whose uniform markings identified him as an orderly. The sentry nodded to the other and turned to Michael. "We'll need to search you."

She was prepared, although every search was another moment of anxiety. Whilst one sentry ran his hands over her body and searched her pockets, she watched the other's procedure in inspecting the knapsack from the corner of her eye. In all, 'twas a frisking and inspection much like those at the other garrisons.

The orderly now escorted her up the lane towards the mansion. On the field to the right, Michael observed the Yeomen running in a drill formation and heard the chorus of their shouts. She was also able to make out the final arrangement of tents upon the park: four rows of ten --- two hundred soldiers...a large company to be sure!

The interior of the manse was very like Drumlevy Manor where she had been a laundry maid: a grand entry hall extended from the front door to an elegant stairway, under which was no doubt the door to the servants' areas. Midway, the entry hall was intersected by a narrower, but equally luxurious corridor along which Michael wagered were the dining room, library, ballroom, and various parlours.

Her heart thumped: Blaylock was here somewhere!

They turned left at the corridor, and at the second door the man knocked.

Summoned inside what indeed appeared to be a parlour of some kind, Michael approached the writing desk where sat Lieutenant Drury, looking considerably more composed than he had been at her last encounter with him. He looked up. "Michael Goodwin, is it?"

"Aye, sir."

"What is your proposal?"

Holding her cap in her hands, she described her service at the Militia garrison.

"So you have a sutler's license to polish Captain Snowe's boots?" He seemed to find this humorous.

"Aye, sir. His and Lieutenants Starr, Brownrigg, and Harland. I could use all the coins I can get, so if ye want a like service, I'm eager to oblige."

Drury then asked the lad for an accounting of himself, and she related Michael Goodwin's history. He studied her for a moment, and at last said, "We'd need them done by seven in the morning."

Michael had already considered this: notwithstanding the fact that she no longer needed to work at the Militia garrison now that she had found Blaylock, 'twould arouse suspicion if she quit and then was discovered to be working at Yeomen's garrison. Besides, she could continue to collect information at the Militia camp to pass on to the United Irishmen.

"Well, I need to be at the Militia garrison at dawn. Could I come in the evening, after ye's take yer boots off?"

Drury nodded. "Come after eight. We'll have the boots somewhere where you can find them. Corporal Bates, draw up a sutler's license and make the necessary arrangements. Let it not be intimated that the Yeoman officers were stinted of a luxury enjoyed by their counterparts in the Militia."

Dismissed from Lieutenant Drury's office, Bates led the lad back to the entry hall, where he surveyed the space. "The boots will be left here." He pointed to a spot under the stairs, then led the way through the door there and down a flight of stone stairs to the kitchen, indicating a corner where the boot black might work. Michael observed two cooks busy at their task, and wondered how many of the staff had been willing to stay and work for the Yeomen...or had they no choice?

Michael walked back to Enniscorthy celebrating her successful first foray. She was in! Tomorrow evening she would come prepared to do murder, so she would!

That night in the attic, overcome with elation, she zealously trained with her dagger, practicing the maneuvers she had been observing in Declan's drills at the farm --- the lunges, the twists, the recoils. She backed her imaginary opponent onto the bed where with several bouncing parries and a vigorous thrust she felled him. Aoife collapsed onto the bed panting, her eyes agleam.

For some time, she had been pondering the problem of how to smuggle her dagger past the sentries. She had noted at each of the now five garrisons she had entered, that the soldier searching her knapsack only inspected the interior. A thought came to her as she weighed the knife in her hand. The next moment, she tossed the blade onto the bed and gathered her sewing supplies and the knapsack.

She proceeded to widen the shoulder straps of the bag and create a long narrow pocket in one --- large enough to admit the dagger --- and padded to conceal the weapon's contour. The other strap she likewise padded to match. As Aoife worked, she opened the window to let in the orange cat she had befriended and named Malachy, and now explained to him her mission whilst he swatted at the strip of fabric she was stitching.

Evening could not come soon enough, Aoife fretted the next day as she basted the seams of a gown in the workroom at the back of the shop. The morning had begun on an inauspicious note when Mrs. Sutton asked, "Kitty, what was all the commotion last night in the attic?"

Kitty had paused ironing. "Commotion, mum?"

"Yes, it sounded like you were running and jumping about. I was afeared the ceiling would come down upon my head."

"Oh yes, I heard it too," Susanna said, looking up from her needlework. "I guessed there was a mouse or a bat."

Kitty had thought quickly even as she calmly shifted the cambric on the ironing board. "Oh, I learnt a new jig at my cousin's house on Sunday. I was practicing the steps. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, mum. I shall take care to tread more quietly."

Her agitation was only furthered when Mrs. Sutton's chatter presently switched to the topic of the new counter-insurgency campaign being implemented by General Lake in the neighboring counties. Reports of house-burnings and floggings had made their way south to County Wexford. Kitty bit her tongue as Mrs. Sutton lamented how the political unrest would curtail the demand for fine gowns.

When at last free, her departure from the shop was calculated to bring her to Rossnalough Manor a few minutes after eight. Michael took several deep breaths of the cool night air before presenting herself to the sentries, who now knew who the lad was. Handing over the knapsack with its hidden secret in the strap, she unbuttoned her coat and held her arms out. Could the man feel the racing of her heart and the sweat as he palpated her sides?

From the corner of her eye, she saw the other soldier pulling out rags, wool wax, a small, speckled stone, and a dry piece of bread as he held the bag by the upper edge...the straps dangled untouched. At last the bag was thrust back at her and she was waved through. She had done it!

Walking up the lane to the mansion, Michael scanned the dark gardens, trying unsuccessfully to spot whatever other soldiers were patrolling the grounds.

At the front door, Corporal Bates admitted her and pointed her towards a row of boots under the stairs. Quickly she concealed her dismay to discover a soldier standing guard at the foot of the grand stairs. No one else was in sight. Thanking Bates, she picked up the first two pairs of boots and headed for the kitchen.

Michael found a small stool and set to work, contemplating what she had gleaned so far. Lieutenant Drury had evidently been assigned one of the parlours for his office --- perhaps Blaylock likewise had one of the other main floor rooms as his. And perhaps the officers had taken bedchambers on the upper floors.

Thus, there might be two places, bedchamber or office, where she could find Blaylock alone, but with the soldier standing guard, she could not investigate further...at least not by way of the halls out there. But there must be a servants' stair --- her time at Drumlevy Manor had taught her that.

The cook and her assistant scarce noted her as she worked, busy as they were preparing supper...activity which suggested that Blaylock might at that very moment be found in the dining room. When Michael presently inquired if she should bring the boots up to the officers' bedchambers, one maid advised the lad to leave them where he had found them --- only the chambermaid was allowed on the second floor. Corporal Bates had already instructed Michael to leave them under the stairs, but at least the question had confirmed her theory about the bedchambers.

There were six pairs of boots to polish, and none of them bore the name Blaylock in the shaft --- no surprise. Doubtless he had his own manservant as had been the case with the commanders of the other garrisons.

Once finished, Michael carried the last pair of boots as she explored the servants' passageway leading away from the kitchen, soon finding a narrow stair that must service the second floor. She started to creep up, but as she reached the first turn, she glimpsed above her the boots of another soldier standing guard at the top. Hastily she retreated before entering his line of sight.

'Twas evident that security was much more stringent here than at the previous garrisons...either on account of the presence of civilian servants in the officers' living space, or Blaylock's intrinsic habit of command. Or perhaps there was more to conceal here...aye, there was that...she thought on the villainous gang he had assembled for his own profit as Captain of the Guard at Kilmaedan Castle. Whatever be the cause, 'twould make her mission all the more challenging.

Thus thwarted, Michael left Rossnalough Manor for the night.

* * * * *

The next day was again spent in a state of disquiet as Aoife waited for the hours to pass before she could re-enter Blaylock's garrison. Upon completion of her work in the shop, she paced up and down in her garret room, attempting to calm herself with knitting...without success. There was not time enough to walk out to Fleetwood's farm, return, and arrive at Rossnalough Manor at the designated hour.

Last week Fleetwood had indicated to her that she could also report intelligence to Colin Foley. Aye, his tavern was but on the other side of town --- she could go there and report her initial surveillance of the new garrison. The fact that Declan worked there in no way influenced her decision, or so she assured herself.

But when Michael entered Foley's establishment --- cap low and smeared spectacles in place --- she did not see Declan...she peeked over the rims to be sure. Only Foley's red-haired son Brian was behind the bar, and the atmosphere was decidedly somber compared to her previous visit. The dog Dara nuzzled her hand as she approached the cluster of men at the bar. She did not see Colin Foley but did find Jamie Byrne from the Wexford gun-procuring mission...even his lively demeanor was subdued.

"Hey me brother, why all the long faces?" she asked.

Jamie leant closer to her. "The wool merchant McBride in Wexford...where we got the guns...he was arrested yesterday."

Michael gasped. "On what charges?!"

Jamie shrugged. "We haven't heard the details yet. Captain Fleetwood is here...out back talking to Declan."

Michael had but a moment to absorb these tidings ere Declan appeared from the hall next to the bar, his expression nonplussed. "He wants to talk to you," he said to Jamie. "I told him about the lasses, but he's not angry about that."

Jamie gulped the dregs in his mug and disappeared down the hall.

"Hey, Michael," Declan said to her. "A pint for ye?"

Thinking on the evening's pending visit to Blaylock's garrison, she shook her head. She wanted to ask about McBride, but Declan had already stepped behind the bar. Petting Dara, she reviewed her memory of the journey to Wexford, wondering if the mission had been betrayed. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the empty spot on the wall where had been pinned the old notice of Declan Quickfist's boxing match. Who had removed it? And why?