Celtic Mist

Chapter 1: The Fighter

Author's note: This work has a lengthy plot with the sexual content admixed and increasing as the story progresses. Thanks for reading 😊

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PROLOGUE

The Celtic Gaeil people displaced the Stone Age inhabitants of Ireland by 200 B.C. For the next several centuries, these tribal Celts dominated the island --- divided into small kingdoms led by warlord chieftains, but unified in a shared art, oral narrative tradition, mythology, language, and system of law.

Christianity came to Ireland in the fifth century A.D., resulting in an amalgam of the new teachings and ancient Celtic traditions.

But with the arrival of the Normans in 1170 A.D., Ireland fell under English rule. The consequent suppression of Celtic culture was further augmented by the Protestant reformation which resulted in legally codified discrimination against the predominantly Catholic populace.

When this story opens, Ireland had been ruled by England for over six hundred years.

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Kilmaedan Castle, County Wicklow, Ireland, September 1, 1797

The fateful course of events commenced that September night.

The young man lay on his belly upon the floor of the spacious common room in the guards' quarters. To his right, a group of his fellow off-duty guardsmen were gathered round the long, heavy oak table where meals were served --- playing at cards with much cursing and laughing. To his left, three additional guards sat by the wide fireplace --- one engaged in rubbing oil into his tall, black boots, one stabbing at the fire with a poker, and the third smoking a pipe whilst relaying a yarn about an attempted burglary in a bawdy house.

Pressing his knuckles against the cool stone floor beneath him, the young man straightened his arms and held his body rigid, board-like --- balanced between his knuckles and his toes. He kept this position for a count of two minutes, ignoring the mounting burn in his belly, arms, and under the callouses on his knuckles. Then he bent his arms, lowering his chest to touch the floor before pushing back up to the straight-arm position. Over and over, he repeated the motion, counting to himself.

"Yo! Declan! Quickfist! Are ye here?" was heard over the rowdy chatter at the card game.

The young man halted his exercise and sat back upon his heels. "Here!"

At the doorway stood Lieutenant Fitzgibbons. "The Captain wants to see ye."

Declan scrambled to his feet and grabbed his dark blue uniform coat from a bench.

"By God, Quickfist, what did ye do? Summoned to the Captain's office?!" one of the men playing cards teased.

"Caught frigging on duty, were you?" someone else called.

"You're in trouble now, so ye are!"

His comrades whistled and hooted as he left the room. Fumbling with the coat's brass buttons, Declan followed Fitzgibbons down the dark, stone-walled corridor, past the snores emanating from the guards' chambers. As he walked, Declan bent to slap the dirt from the knees of his breeches. He had never been summoned thus to Captain Blaylock's office. What had he done?

He hastily thought on the events of the past several days --- his turns on guard duty, his interactions with other staff on the estate, his most recent boxing match --- yet failed to identify an infraction on his part. Indeed, his splendid victory over Lord H---'s man in the boxing ring had occasioned unusually warm words of praise and a slap on the back from the Captain. The memory elicited anew a swelling of pride at these marks of the Captain's favor.

They halted at the last door in the corridor; Declan tugged his coat straight and searched the lieutenant's face for a hint as to what was to ensue, but Fitzgibbons was expressionless as he rapped on the door. Bade enter, they stepped inside to face Captain Blaylock sitting at his desk in full uniform, writing. Declan and Fitzgibbons stood to attention and saluted.

Blaylock glanced up, then made a short waving motion with his quill that prompted Fitzgibbons to nod and turn on his heel. The door closed behind him, leaving Declan alone with the Captain.

"One moment," Blaylock said, dipping the pen in the ink well.

Declan stood stiffly. His nervous eyes attended the Captain as he continued to write, but the man's face was unreadable. As oft before, Declan's curiosity was roused in contemplation of the guardsmen's private nickname for their commander:

The Black Priest

. He could account for it only by the Captain's thick black hair, presently tied in a short queue at the nape of his neck. In no manner could he be said to resemble a priest --- all of whom Declan had known were short and old. Blaylock, by contrast, was tall, vigorous, and relatively young.

Declan noted the spartan room: the only items of furniture were the plain desk, a pair of chairs, a large, padlocked oak trunk, and a wooden rack holding an assortment of firearms, swords, and knives. The bare stone walls were relieved only by a map of what appeared to be the county.

'Twas but a brief moment ere Blaylock set aside the quill and stood. He walked round to the front of the desk to stand before Declan, his arms crossed over his wide chest. Declan kept his gaze forward as he felt the Captain's eyes moving over him, deliberately assessing him.

"At ease," Blaylock said.

As Declan assumed a more relaxed stance, Blaylock leant back against the front edge of the desk, stretching his long legs before him. He continued to ponder the younger man as he tapped his finger upon his chin. "Declan Quickfist," he said at last. "You have been in the Duke's service nigh two years now."

Whether 'twas a question or a statement was unclear, however, as the pause lengthened Declan spoke. "Aye, sir."

"I've had my eye upon you these two years past. I must say that I have experienced the unprecedented sensation of having my expectations exceeded in every regard."

Declan's heart beat a little faster.

"You are disciplined. You follow orders with zeal --- and find ways to accomplish their ends most effectively. In the boxing ring you are ruthless. When the fists start flying you are a veritable beast...I daresay you would have crushed Kincaid's skull last Saturday had we not pulled you off him." The Captain's eyes glinted with humor.

Declan was unsure what response to make --- if any.

"But perhaps most estimable in your character --- you keep your own counsel," Blaylock continued. "You are a man of few words, and you do not compromise your reticence with overindulgence in spirits." He paused again, crossing one booted ankle over the other. "In view of your accomplishments, I feel it is time for an advancement in your position here."

Declan felt a rush of pride at the praise but controlled his countenance admirably, only straightening slightly.

"You know of my Crusaders?" were the Captain's next words.

"Aye, sir."

"What do you know of them?"

"Well...that they are your choice squadron for special missions, sir." In truth, 'twas all that Declan could surmise of the select group of guardsmen...the most esteemed among the men...Fitzgibbons, Lynch, Burrows, and Ferguson, whose midnight excursions were shrouded in secrecy.

Blaylock nodded and stood. He paced back and forth before the desk as he spoke, his hands on his weapons belt. "Yes. But alas Ferguson is lame with the bloody gout again. Once more I am a man short --- a situation arising all too often now. 'Tis not to be borne --- expediency demands a steadfast crew."

He stopped pacing and faced Declan. "Thus, the time has come to train his replacement." His dark blue eyes fixed on Declan's, who met his gaze without flinching. "Young you may be, but I am certain that a man of your merits is equal to the challenge."

"Aye, sir!" Declan squared his shoulders and raised his chin.

The Captain's lean, clean-shaven cheeks creased with a smile. "'Twould seem this news is to your liking, Quickfist."

"Aye, sir! Thank you, sir." Declan could not contain a brief grin. The Captain's Crusaders! He was to join their ranks!

"Be ready with full gear in one hour. I shall give you your orders as we ride." Blaylock turned back to the desk, dismissing him with a nod.

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Declan hastened to the small chamber that he shared with Tom Branagan. Branagan being on guard duty, Declan had the room to himself as he lit the lantern and prepared for the night's unknown excursion.

What was the mission to be? Were they escorting the Duke to a dangerous appointment? Were they confronting rebels inciting revolt among the estate's tenants? Were they rooting out highwaymen from their lair? Would he be called upon to fight? By fist or by sword? The Captain had ordered full gear --- he must be prepared for anything.

From the oak locker at the foot of his cot, Declan extracted his leather weapons belt, sword, knife, and flintlock pistol. Excitement twinged in his belly as he fastened the scabbards and holster to the belt. He loaded the flintlock and confirmed an adequate store of additional cartridges in the pouch on the belt.

Finding the keenness of his dagger wanting, he drew out the honing stone and oil and set them upon the lid of the box. Seated on the edge of the bed with his legs straddling the corner of the locker, he began sharpening the blade, rhythmically drawing one edge then the other over the stone.

The unexpected turn of the evening's events was difficult to grasp. He could scarce believe his good fortune...by contrast to his life just two years ago. The Captain's Crusaders! The honor of the distinction did not escape him --- the opposing fluxes of pride and humble gratitude nigh overwhelmed him. Aye! Whatever unforetold trials awaited him in this promotion, he was resolved to prove himself worthy of the Captain's faith in him.

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He had been on his own for as long as he could remember. mother...father...family...home: had he ever possessed any, he remembered them not. The only things he ken were his name --- Declan --- and hunger and cold. For years he wandered, ever seeking food and shelter, pleading for work to earn his keep.

In towns and villages, he took any work he could find --- if any could be found...if anyone was sympathetic enough to give work to a ragged urchin. When naught but a wee lad, his various employments had included chimney sweep, mucking stalls at livery stables and inns, crawling through tunnels in a copper mine, and washing blood and offal from the floor in a butcher shop.

As he grew older and stronger, he loaded and unloaded guests' trunks at inns, carried bricks and wood for builders, hauled barrels and crates at distilleries and taverns, worked as a blacksmith's assistant, and toiled on road construction crews.

Best was when he was given food and a bed in exchange for his labors. When paid in coin, 'twas usually insufficient to satisfy both needs, in which case he spent the money on sustenance. True, the "bed" he was given was usually simply being allowed to sleep upon a floor in a kitchen or stable, but the alternative was worse: the street.

Met with this fate, Declan would trudge through the streets and alleys, the stench of piss and shite rising from the wet cobblestones, whilst he scanned the rooftops for a smoking chimney. He would then search for a corresponding exterior fireplace wall against which to curl --- hoping for a spot with overhanging eaves to deflect the rain, and one not under a window out of which a chamber pot might be emptied.

But all too often, no work was forthcoming, or he was shooed away with varying invectives about his character and parentage --- then Declan resorted to digging in rubbish heaps for scraps of food or begging for coins.

In the larger towns, he was but one of dozens of similarly desperate souls...other children, often even younger than himself...women, men...all cold, hungry, dirty, and many sick. Their shared plight offered few advantages: they all were competing for work, food, sheltered doorways, and coins from passers-by. Suspicion and antagonism were rampant among them. Rare it was indeed that Declan found a friend, and never did it last...a lad or lass with whom he shared a crust of bread one day, would the next day have vanished, never to be met with again.

The gilding upon the lily of this life was the ever-present threat of the town watchman arresting them for vagrancy and sending them to work-houses or orphan homes. In some towns, the sheer number of indigent people tempered the watchman's diligence to detaining only those who had committed a crime more sinister than sleeping on the street. In other towns, no such leniency was shown. Declan had learnt to evade these patrol men --- had learnt their routes through the town, recognized the sound of their footsteps, knew which nooks and crannies were out of their line of sight.

But to Declan's shame, there had been two terrible winters during which desperation had driven him to deliberately let a watchman apprehend him. When he had heard the approaching clopping of the man's heavy boots, Declan's numb fingers scraped in the snow, pried a stone from the street, and hurled it through a shop window. Being yet a wee lad, he had been sent to orphan homes on both occasions. With bread and hot --- albeit watery --- soup in his belly and under a blanket, he felt that he had made a shrewd bargain, well worth the daily chores, scoldings, and spankings.

As soon as the weather warmed, he had escaped the homes to return to his roving life.

In the spring and fall, he made his way to the countryside and found work on farms --- usually those with children too young or too few in number for the chores. In exchange for meals and a pallet upon the floor, he tilled soil, planted tubers, hoed, cut turf, repaired stone walls, sheared sheep, and, in the fall, dug the praties.

Declan loved the times in the country best. He could eat his fill of praties and buttermilk. There was always a nearby stream in which he could bathe regularly. The air smelled good of soil, peat fires, animals, and flowers. Sometimes, depending on the farm, he even felt like he belonged to a family. For a few months twice a year, his belly was thus full, and he was free of worry. Inevitably though, he was turned loose after the planting and harvest seasons, and he was obliged to make his way back to a town.

Admist the fundamental needs of food and shelter, two other primal impulses began to assert themselves as he grew.

First, there was the fighting. He knew not why he ever found himself brawling with other lads and even grown men --- to his mind he did not seek out or instigate conflict. Years upon the streets taught him that Shillelagh law was his only recourse in defending himself...and the threats abounded.

Countless times he had awoken to find a fellow vagrant searching his pockets, or even trying to pull off his shoes or coat --- ragged and worn though they were. Food had to be consumed on the sly lest someone wrest it from his hands --- the same for any coin that might be tossed at him by a passing gentleman. All too often there would be another urchin who wished to dispute with him his possession of a particularly desirable cranny along a row of houses. And then there were the lads of the towns --- lads with homes and families and money --- who found sport in tormenting the poor wretches huddled along the streets.

Declan's heart would thump as he faced off against his antagonist. When his clenched fists connected with flesh, he was a boy possessed --- his fists lashed out in a blur, his heart roaring with rage as noses and cheekbones crunched under his blows and bodies doubled over to a fist driven into the gut. Only when his opponent lay whimpering and bleeding upon the ground was his fury quenched.

No lad had ever been foolhardy enough to challenge him twice. Rarely indeed did it happen that he was the one put to the cobblestones. Although most of these fights occurred in towns, he was not entirely spared in the country. He had defended himself against lads from neighboring farms, and even the sons upon the farms where he worked, who had taken exception to the presence of this interloper. Then there had been the times when a farmer in one instance, and a farmer's son in the other, had taken him to task with their fists for kissing his daughter or sister.

The second development was the baffling change in his mind and body with respect to the lasses.

Declan's existing impression of females as simply a weaker version of the human creature...who, for their own protection, might benefit from his greater strength, was replaced by an inexplicable fascination. Even as he was marking the changes in his own body, he had started to notice the different...most appealing...shape of lasses. How had he never before appreciated the comeliness of a pink mouth and a curved figure? How lovely 'twould be to put his arms round a maiden and kiss her! In concert with these thoughts, he experienced with wonder the sensations elicited in his body.

Endeavoring not to shame himself, he struggled to contain his burgeoning attraction to the fairer sex. Then the dreams started...and to his bewilderment and chagrin, he could not control his body. On the subject of this disconcerting mystery, he was eventually enlightened by the other lads of the streets, and with that revelation, coupled with his observations of animals upon the farms, Declan now understood for what he was longing. Nigh every hour of the day and night he was beset with amorous imaginings, and to his daily pursuit of sustenance and shelter was added his agitated hunt for a moment's solitude in which to indulge in his musings.

His romantic adventures so far had been limited to a few kisses --- the sweet memories of which he cherished. But in his quest to fully experience the pleasures of the flesh, he was as yet unfulfilled.

Declan was daydreaming about the lassies when he arrived in Kilmaedan town in County Wicklow one fine October day in 1795. 'Twas his first time in this town and he made a survey of the salient points as he walked along the main street: indicators of prosperity, possibilities of work, number of other street urchins. He was at present penniless and had recently escaped a trying ordeal.

The past winter, once more being famished and frozen, he had allowed a watchman to capture him. Alas, this time the gambit failed: when he was brought before the magistrate, he was deemed too old to go an orphan home, and he was thrown into prison instead.

Prison had proved to be an unfortunate price to pay for some bread and a roof over his head. The conditions were even more miserable than in the orphan homes --- confined he was in a small, damp cellar with dozens of other prisoners, with a few filthy pieces of straw for a pallet. His fellow inmates were a mix of beggars like himself, petty criminals, debtors, madmen, drunkards, and murderers...all of whom were subject to the whims of the corrupt guards and warden, who profited from their charges in whatever manner they could.

Worse, unlike the homes, he was unable to slip away in the night when the winter was over. His sentence for breaking a pane of glass had been four months, but the warden ignored the court's recommendation and consulted his own judgement on the matter: he made Declan's release contingent upon the payment of a bribe. Having no money naturally, Declan's imprisonment continued infuriatingly, unjustly on. No degree of pleading or raging elicited mercy.

The subsequent weeks of smoldering fury were marked by two failed attempts to escape. After five more months, perhaps the warden came to realize that no money would ever be forthcoming...perhaps he was bored...perhaps the cells were growing too crowded with more serious criminals...whatever be the cause, Declan was at last granted an opportunity to gain his freedom.