Celtic Mist Ch. 13

Mrs. Sutton: "Magistrate! Hush! Do remember where you are!"

Man: laughter

Mrs. Sutton (in a serious tone): "If she proves me wrong and accepts, I do hope you will treat her honorably. After your 'arrangement' with Emma, she was fortunate indeed to find a young lad in her village willing to marry her, already with child."

Man: "A fair hit, my lady. But there is something different about this girl --- I suspect I might be in danger of falling in love with this one...and happily claiming a child by her. But cannot you teach her whatever it is you ladies do to prevent such blessings?"

Mrs. Sutton (indignant): "I am no bawd, sir."

Declan had heard enough at this point to doubt his continued self-control. He had turned from the notice board, seeing Aoife intently working on the tablecloth in the empty courtroom. Seized by a sense of urgency, he left the building.

He must address Aoife ere the imprint of his kiss vanished from her lips, and other men importuned her. Hastening round the side of the courthouse, he climbed the wrought iron fence into the garden and found the window closest to her.

He ken not what he meant to do, but when her big, aqua eyes had met his, Declan's besotted heart beat with the chaos of longing. As she had turned to respond to Mrs. Sutton's query from the vestibule, he leapt from the windowsill and ducked under the judges' bench...answering only to his heart as he crawled past the chair and table legs.

He had reeled in joy at her response to his tender message and touch, and in disbelief had he savored the caress of her hand upon his face and head. He knew not what madness save love had possessed him to forge ahead with the boldness that had followed, but in the dim light under the tablecloth his ecstasy had been boundless at her letting him part her thighs and expose her privates.

Alas, the darkness had veiled the treasure he yearned to see, but his fingers were tingling from the feel of her smooth, naked skin, and as he leant close, his cockstand had surged at the faint, delicious scent of her cunny...the scent that he had worshipped in the seam of his breeches this past winter...the scent and taste that had propelled him to many a blissful release in the solitude of his bed.

Here now, inches before his face, was the wee wellspring of her lass cream...bare, spread, and vulnerable. He had been overwhelmed...swimming in desire and elation...and had begun with a few adoring kisses in her soft, springy moss.

Any apprehension about finding her clitoris in the dark was soon dispelled when his lips in a delirium of lust discovered her little magical bud already standing stiff. Oh sweet Aoife! He had wanted to kiss everything, and without deliberation had followed his instinctual letch to taste it all too, fervently applying his tongue to her bewitching little article...gathering the intoxicating nectar from her cleft --- oh, Jaysis! He wanted to anoint his entire face with that enchanting fluid!

It had been over a year since he had bedded a lass, but with his recurring musings and frigging, he had not forgotten what he had learnt in his last encounter. The delightful anatomy that he had previously appreciated with his fingers, he now realized he could distinguish with his tongue and lips, and he was agog at the thought of giving her pleasure even whilst indulging his own.

Declan had had no experience with the wondrous diversion and had rarely heard mention of it among his male comrades, but he had attended her reactions to guide his inexperienced lips and tongue, all whilst his engorged organ had throbbed and wept eager fluid in his breeches. In bawdy fascination had he felt the glorious response of her little pouter as it swelled and lubricated itself.

With soft, wiggling stabs of the point of his tongue, he had endeavored to tap her hidden, honeyed inlet, but unsuccessful, he had resumed his caresses of her swollen playpip. As her hips had risen under his mouth and her hand tightened in his hair, he had reached down with one hand to free his overexcited cock. Already on the brink of ejaculation, her spasming crisis had sent him with a few swift strokes into a rapturous pearly shower.

The abrupt interruption of this remarkable oral testimony had sorely aggrieved him. Then 'twas but a few short minutes till Aoife had departed from the courtroom.

Now he wandered through the streets as if in a trance, nothing appearing capable of detracting from his exultation. He had in truth hoped to converse with her, and no words had been exchanged, but for Declan, there was little distinction between the most earnest conversation and the most libidinous act, at least when it came to Aoife --- his regard for her encompassed without chagrin all the seemly and unseemly urges of a man's full love.

Collecting himself as he walked, Declan presently became aware of the telltale traces of Aoife's entrancing female scent yet upon his nose and lips --- by the time he arrived back at Foley's tavern, its provocative effect had renewed in him such a state of excitement that he was desperate for a few minutes of solitude in which to again fetch mettle whilst savoring this happy token.

But upon entering the tavern, he found the room already busy with customers --- most being United Irishmen --- and Brian working behind the bar.

His appearance again seemed to afford them much amusement. Thanks to Brian, all his comrades were now teasing him about his supposed light-o'-love. Crossing to the bar, he bore their ribald queries and jokes good-naturedly.

"Went to see yer little lassie, did ye now?"

"Did ye play at cuddle-me-cuddy? Pogue the hone hard and proper?"

"Looks like our sergeant of arms delivered his ammunition right well!"

At their hoots and whistles, Declan now glanced down to see that he had rebuttoned his breeches askew and there was a spatter of spunk upon his coat front. He shook his head with a wry grin.

One of the men threw an arm round his shoulders and with his other hand gestured with his pint mug. "Shag away, me lad. Come the rising, there'll be precious little time for the lassies." He leant close and inhaled deeply next to Declan's jaw. "Been doing a bit of larking in her wee mossy face, have ye?" He sniffed again with a knowing leer. "Och, there's the scent of a fresh, bonnie lass! I wouldn't mind a taste of that kitty meself!"

Flushing, Declan shoved him away as the men guffawed. He repaired to the kitchen to wash and tidy his garments, but he balked at cleansing the traces of her from his face, loathe as he was to part with this sweet keepsake of the impromptu, whimsical tryst. Unwilling to let any other man know her treasures, he would simply have to keep his mates from getting too close.

His hopes for an unremarkable evening behind the bar to be followed, when at last alone, by a blissful reliving of the afternoon's encounter whilst breathing her scent and stroking his cock, did not come to pass.

Shortly after nine o'clock, the street door was flung open and a group of men in working class garb strode in. They lined themselves up shoulder to shoulder in front of the door --- seven hearty lads they were --- with stout shillelaghs in their hands along their sides, a belligerent gleam in their eyes, and orange ribbons on their coat lapels.

Orangemen! Ruffians from the loyalist Protestant gang! Silence fell over the tavern as the men unflinchingly stared at the intruders. Declan's quick eyes scanned them for other weapons and spotted a couple of knife sheaths but no firearms. Next to him, Brian quietly reached for the shillelagh that Colin now kept behind the bar.

The Orangeman in the center spoke. "So this shitehole is what passes for a rebel tavern?" His scornful eyes swept over the men clustered at the bar. "Ye know what 'United Irishmen' means, lads?"

His companions shook their heads with sly grins. "What does it mean then?"

"That their mothers spread their legs for all men, no matter what religious creed!"

With a roar and clatter of tumbling barstools, the brawl was on. Declan and Brian vaulted over the bar and launched themselves into the affray --- seven cudgel-armed Orangemen versus ten essentially unarmed United Irishmen, only six of whom were sober enough to fight effectively.

'Twas a morass of flying fists, swinging shillelaghs, shouts, and oaths --- chairs and mugs were broken over heads, and tables collapsed under falling bodies. It had been a few months since he had last engaged in a battle of the fists, but Declan's reflexes and unflagging training immediately rose to the challenge.

Over the next fifteen minutes he knocked three Orangemen to the floor cold whilst dodging multiple inexpert punches and taking a few blows from their sticks. Spying a man with an upraised shillelagh about to strike Brian over the head from behind, Declan tackled him, throwing him to the floor, where with a blunt fist to his temple, he rendered him senseless. As Declan sprang back to his feet, a bottle smashed over his head.

At last with several men down and groaning on both sides, the three yet standing Orangemen made a flustered recalculation and cut short their losses, hoisting their fallen companions to their feet and supporting or dragging them as they stumbled out.

Among the United Irishmen, those yet able helped their injured comrades. Wet cloths, bandages, and whiskey were administered as necessary. Many were the bruises, lacerations, and bloody noses, but apart from a couple of broken noses and fingers, there were no severe injuries.

For some time, bitter talk raged concerning a retaliation, but was eventually curtailed in anticipation of Captain Fleetwood's assessment on the morrow at the farm. Any day now, they would have more important foes to consider, Declan thought.

When at last the men cleared out, Declan and Brian silently surveyed the wreckage of broken furniture, mugs and bottles. "Well," Brian said with a rueful expression, "The one thing Da always says when he leaves me in charge is 'Dinna wreck the place.'" He nudged a splintered table leg with his shoe; it rolled and stopped against the base of a broken bottle. "He'll have me guts for garters, so he will."

The crowning vexation of the night for Declan was the bottle he had taken over the head. In the looking glass above the washstand, his face was all over whiskey and sweat --- he was obliged to wash and thus washed away the precious scent of Aoife's little cunny from his lips.

*****

Fleetwood's farm, east of Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Saturday, May 19, 1798

The following morning, they discovered that the Orangemen's attack on Foley's tavern had not been an isolated incident; indeed, various groups of gang members had gone on a rampage in the nearby Catholic neighborhood. Windows had been broken in many homes and shops, businesses had been plundered, and numerous buildings had been defaced with obscenities painted in blood including 'Death to Papists,' 'Fuck the Pope,' 'Die Croppies,' and on a girls' school 'Whores in training.' The glazier's shop where Rose's husband John Moynihan worked had been ransacked, and its specially constructed wagon for transporting glass panes set afire.

Tensions were running high as the men gathered at Fleetwood's farm, but their ire quickly found a different target when they heard the tidings that had arrived with the courier in the early morning hours: the date of the rebellion had been decided by the Society's Dublin executive. 'Twas to start on the night of Wednesday May 23, 1798 --- to be signaled by the burning of the mail coaches leaving Dublin. By this signal thus coordinated, simultaneous risings were to erupt in the surrounding counties.

May 23^rd --- four days hence! The months of preparation were at last to be put to action.

All was in uproar. Captain Fleetwood met with the officers and together they devised a plan of response to the anticipated signal. The men would seize up their pikes and firearms and gather at the bend of River Ballyedmond. They would need to coordinate with the other nearby United Irish companies and Defenders lodges to amass their forces for the attack.

Fleetwood and Declan communicated the plan and trained with the men in the hidden glen, whilst Lieutenants Foley, Coe, and Bolger took to the roads to meet with their co-conspirators. The affronts of the Orangemen in the Catholic neighborhood paled in comparison to the looming battle --- more likely than not they would be fighting the very same men in open battle in a matter of days --- there was no advantage to be gained in expending their strength now.

The previous day, Declan had been all eagerness to see Michael at the farm and say in sober words to her face what his intoxicated lips and tongue had communicated to her sweet little split. Notwithstanding the urgent preparations underway, he kept an alert eye upon the activity throughout the farm. To his disappointment, no sign of the spry lad Michael did he see. True, with the Yeomen's flogging of the Rory Redmond and destruction of the forge, there were no new pike heads to sharpen, but Declan still had been hopeful that she would make an appearance.

As the morning marched into the afternoon without sighting her, Declan began to be concerned. Given her precarious masquerade as she spied in the garrisons and the increasing violence in the county, there was no telling what might have happened.

In the early evening Declan headed back to Enniscorthy; in dread did he behold far in advance of his arrival two different plumes of smoke rising in the darkening sky over the town. That distinctive odor could mean only one thing.

Back at the tavern, Colin Foley --- returned from his mission to the neighboring villages --- apprised him of the new outrages. Mr. Preston, a chandler, and Mr. Murdoch, a solicitor --- both members of the United Irishmen --- had been arrested by the Yeomen. Their homes had been plundered and set afire.

The developments the following day were only more sobering. Captain Fleetwood broke the news: another urgent message had arrived via courier --- Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the most esteemed and influential leader of the Society next to Wolfe Tone, had been arrested in Dublin last night after two months of eluding the authorities, and he had been shot in the shoulder resisting capture.

Even whilst he had been in hiding, Fitzgerald's leadership had been steadfast --- now what would happen? Who were the new leaders to be? What should the United Irish companies throughout the country do? After discussion with the officers, Fleetwood determined that they would proceed with rising as planned unless alternative orders were received.

Nearer to home, a report came from County Wicklow: Martin Goff, the United Irish leader who had given them his company's store of firearms, had been flogged to death by the Yeomen from the Carnew garrison.

Bitterly indeed did Declan lead the men in their grim pike drill as they absorbed the news.

And once again, that entire Sunday at the farm, Michael was nowhere to be seen.

In his rising concern that morning, Declan had, before heading to Fleetwood's, walked by the Militia garrison and the dressmaker's shop, stopping in the Golden Arrow to chat with Will. A casual, "How goes your courtship of the dressmaker's assistant?" was sufficient to elicit the worrisome report that Will had strangely not seen her in a few days either.

Next Declan had returned to the scene of the erotic interlude under the judges' bench...an interlude that now seemed too miraculous to be real...too flattering sweet to be substantial; but Aoife had not been at the courthouse either. In consternation had Declan considered the possibility that that man --- the Magistrate Captain Jacob --- had already embarked upon his matter-of-fact seduction of the fair maiden Kitty McDonnell, and that she might be being held against her will at the man's lodgings.

Declan had inquired among his comrades at the farm, but none had seen Michael. Now as he left Fleetwood's farm, another thought occurred to him, and he headed east away from Enniscorthy, returning to the woods where he had first, most astonishingly discovered that Michael was Aoife. He made his way through the quiet, shadowed woodland to the waterfall, but here found naught but birds, flowers, and tumbling water.

In the late afternoon light, Delcan sat upon a large, lichen-speckled stone and watched the falls, retrieving from his knapsack the iridescent black feather that had pointed him towards the waterfall the first time he had been here. As he listened to the steady rush of water and the songs of birds, he turned the feather stem round and round between his finger and thumb.

Where was Aoife? Was she safe? Had some calamity befallen her?

More powerful perhaps than even his hate for Blaylock was his love for that wee lass. He had loved her ever since the September night eight months ago when he had first laid eyes upon her. He had loved her knowing himself unworthy of her regard, knowing of her enmity. He had loved her even when he thought he would never see her again.

Now on the eve of battle he had discovered hope where there had been none --- in three days' time he would be marching off, possibly to his death, and he was flailing against the clock to grasp at that ephemeral thread of hope for passion requited. Oh, what was in her heart?

Even as he had rediscovered his beloved faery maiden, Declan had also at last found his sworn enemy, the villain who had raped his mother and slain his family. That score yet smoldered unsettled. He thought on Ma, Da, and Rory...he thought on Kilkenny with the cold priest's hole in the field where he had lost his childhood...and he thought on the silent stone cross of the Muldowney family in the graveyard. Three days were left for vengeance. After that he would need to find Blaylock on the battlefield --- God willing he survived to see that reckoning.

He thought on Ireland...his own Erin brought to her knees by centuries of English oppression...and he thought on the army of his Irish brethren making ready to free her.

The conflicting claims upon his heart tormented him. Declan gazed at the shifting highlights of blue and green in the ebon quill, then raised his face to the dusky sky. Morrigan! Where was she now that he most needed her guidance. No ruffle of wings nor eloquent caw disturbed the serene setting.

At length, Declan rose to his feet and headed back through the dense woods towards Enniscorthy.

Later that night he waited in the large oak tree outside of Rossnalough Manor for his chance to once again enter the mansion in search of Blaylock. The brawl with the Orangemen Friday and the cleaning up of the tavern on Saturday had momentarily thwarted that mission.

In the hope of seeing Aoife, he had already been waiting for some time on the road between Enniscorthy and Rossnalough Manor, lurking alongside a stone wall by a field, knowing that she usually arrived at the garrison at eight. But eight had come and gone without spying Michael. Shite! What had happened to that lass?!

Timing his advance with the guards' patrols as before, Declan scaled the stone wall and made his way across the grounds through several points of cover. 'Twas not long ere he was back in the parlour where he had encountered Michael on Wednesday...the room he had not been able to search the first time. That night's bawdy spectacle had suggested that the officer assigned to the room was not Blaylock, and a swift survey of the documents and correspondence on the desk confirmed that supposition.

He would have to try another room. But when he opened the hall door a crack, he at once saw a soldier standing guard where the corridor intersected the main entry hall. This was an unexpected, damnable obstacle! Back out through the window Declan slid, to creep along the terrace both in front and back, looking for other unlatched windows. In one chamber, he spied a pair of men sitting by the fire; they were conversing, but with their backs to the window, further assessment was impossible.