Celtic Mist Ch 03

Chapter 3: Red-haired Lass

Author's note: Pronunciations: Aoife = EE-fa. Medb = Mave

*****

Oh, my love has an eye of the softest blue,

Yet it was not that that won me;

But a little bright drop from her soul was there,

'Tis that that has undone me.

--- Charles Wolfeby

.

Damn! Damn! Damn it all!

Aoife bit her shaking lip as she swung the coat over her drenched nightgown. So acute was her humiliation that she did not even scorn the proffered dry garments. She pulled off her newly acquired, now sodden shoes. Under the cover of the coat, she unknotted the torn front of the gown and peeled it down her shivering body.

As if her pride had not been savaged enough when she fell into the river, she had been mortified when she looked down and discovered the cause for the young man's open-mouthed gape when she climbed onto the bank. He could see everything, so he could! True, he had in the next moment presented his back and given her his spare clothes to cover herself --- instead of assaulting her --- but she refused to credit him with any nobility of character. She trusted the bastard not and awaited in agitated suspense the revelation of his true intentions.

The breeches, which on him would have ended just below his knees, went down to her ankles. The waist, even cinched to its smallest by the gusset ties in back, was yet too large on her. She shook out the shirt. It pulled on over the head, obliging her --- after confirming his back still turned --- to doff the coat, momentarily standing naked from the waist up with her nipples stiff from the chill and her thighs pressed together to hold up the breeches. Rolling up the too-long sleeves, she uncovered her hands.

Once fully garbed again, Aoife looked about for something to secure the oversized breeches. The young man, having cautiously faced round, immediately perceived the problem and began sorting through his knapsack. When he offered her the leather strap from his canteen, she accepted it silently and tied it round her waist. Lastly, she draped the wet nightgown over her back, atop the coat, with the sleeves hanging over the coat front. After a mile or so of resumed walking, the wet shoes were chafing so painfully that she slipped them off and carried them.

As they walked side by side --- several feet apart --- Aoife sensed his intermittent glances in her direction. But she could not bear to look at him, for anytime she did her throat tightened and she was overwhelmed by an uproar of emotions. This man had been one of them --- they had murdered Clodagh, Paddy, little Eoin...and even the dog Orla. She could not even dwell upon that misery, for she must be on guard in his presence and could not yield him any glimpse of weakness. Her grief must remain hidden behind a hard façade.

Intertwined with her rage on that score was her fury and excruciating mortification regarding her own treatment. Whenever Aoife met the lad's gaze, she was reminded that those intense green eyes had ogled her nakedness. Faith, why should she now be embarrassed at her exposure in the wet nightgown, she thought bitterly, when he had already seen all her unclad charms? He, in company with the other three men in that room, had lecherously gaped at every detail of her body!

This one had pinned her arms to the table --- she would never forget that. She had stared at his upside-down face above hers as they examined her, committing his appearance to memory should an opportunity for justice ever be granted.

Had this lad seen it all from his vantage point at her head? What would it matter, yea or nay? Aoife could not assuage her shame by supposing he had not studied all the finer points of her most private orifices as the others had...that he was not imagining them when he regarded her. During the past two days in his company, she had caught him on several occasions staring at her with an expression of longing upon his countenance...and had in disquiet felt her cheeks warm and her belly tighten.

As she had done from the moment when he crashed through the shutter on the tower window, Aoife again wondered what this one's intent was. Why had he abducted her? Only two possibilities seemed logical. One: having seen her naked, he was bent on bedding her himself. Two: he was transporting her to another man who would give him a better reward than the Duke.

That night in the tower she had quickly pondered her choices and judged that out of the locked room, alone with just one lad, she had a better chance of escape than she did if she stayed. She had kept a watchful side-eye upon him ever since, both for an opportunity to escape and in anticipation of an attempt at rape.

To Aoife's puzzlement, he was, in truth, inconsistent as a kidnapper. Aye, when she had attempted to run from him outside the castle wall, he had restrained her forcefully with his hand over her mouth...and earlier this morning he had thwarted her second attempt to flee. He had indeed kept a close eye upon her, his hand ever on the handle of his pistol or knife. In the abandoned cottage last night, he had placed himself between her and the doorway with his weapons close at hand and a pile of sticks and leaves outside the door to alert him if she tried to escape.

On the other hand, his vigilance had intermittently faltered: he had not tied her up whilst he slept...and he had let her out of his sight in the public house when she went to the washroom. She had on several occasions been on the verge of running, then hesitated. Her fear of being apprehended by the other guards --- especially the tall, black-haired Captain --- surpassed her fear of this one. Whatever be his purpose, this lad was seemingly no longer in allegiance with the others, and thus offered her protection from them.

Nevertheless, last night when he had ordered her into the deserted cottage at gunpoint, she had been convinced that the time had arrived for his claiming of his prize. She had stood, stick in hand, prepared to defend herself to the last...but he had simply lain down and gone to sleep. Wary of a trick, she had remained awake watching him for as long as she could. At last, she had sat upon the floor and leant against the wall...and had fallen asleep. In the morning she had awoken to find herself unharmed and warm --- to her chagrin, he had covered her with his great coat.

As they walked, Aoife thought on the repeated instances of his solicitous regard in this manner. She would not allow them to sway her opinion of his character. If he was presenting her to another buyer, he naturally needed to transport her in tolerable condition.

Thus, she bolstered her bitter ire towards the man beside her. Again, she thought of Clodagh...of sweet wee Eoin...and despaired of the dull emptiness in her heart. Had years of bad luck for the O'Farrells inured her to pain?

*****

There had been four O'Farrell children: the oldest Colm, then Clodagh, then Patrick, then Aoife --- the youngest. Aoife remembered not her mother, who had died when she was a wee bairn. Granny, who lived with them, was the only mother she had known.

Their farm was south of the village of Benburb in County Armagh in the northern province of Ulster and consisted of ten acres of tillable land and two additional, more rocky acres upon which they kept sheep, a few chickens, and a cow. Although tenant farmers on the estate of the Marquess of G---, their family had been on this land for several generations, Da would oft brag.

The chores were divided among them. Da, Colm, and Patrick did the tilling, planting, and harvesting of the yearly crop of flax which was their main source of income. Granny, Clodagh, and Aoife had the care of the house and garden where they grew potatoes, cabbage, carrots, and parsnips for their own sustenance. As to the sheep, the shearing was done by Da and her brothers...after that Granny oversaw the preparation of the wool. She instructed Clodagh and Aoife in washing, carding, and spinning, then took the girls to Benburb to sell the yarn at the market to supplement the household finances.

Granny also taught the girls to sew and knit, which became Aoife's favored industries. As she grew older, her wont to devise new stitches and patterns became a source of strife with Granny, who strictly adhered to the ways that had been passed down through generations of women in the family. Granny would cluck her tongue and shake her head when Aoife presented her with her latest invention, dourly foretelling its poor resistance to wear.

The other aspect of the sheep that was most particularly the purview of Da and her brothers was the yearly mating of the ewes with a ram rented from the McDonnells on a neighboring farm. One such day during the mating season, when six-year-old Aoife was chafing under her confinement inside the cottage with Granny and Clodagh, she climbed upon a stool at the window, curious to see what was happening. But Granny snatched her away before she could get the shutter open. "Och, get away from there, ye bold lassie. 'Tis not a sight for yer eyes!"

When, some two years later, Clodagh informed her of what the sheep were doing --- told to her by Colm --- Aoife was shocked. When she further learnt that people made babies in a like manner, Aoife swore to herself that she would never have children --- so shy was she of being seen naked.

Such modesty was not surprising given the constant admonitions, whether from Granny, Da, school, or the priest, on the subject of vanity and licentiousness. Granny was ever warning Clodagh and herself against immodesty and touching themselves. In the one room interior of the cottage in which lived the entire family, she had schooled the girls in changing into and out of their nightgowns without revealing their bodies. So cowed were they by Granny's disapproval that Clodagh and Aoife maintained such strictures even between themselves.

Da relegated the bulk of Clodagh's and Aoife's day to day upbringing to Granny. He was more preoccupied with the operations of the farm and with Colm and Patrick. Aoife did not begrudge her brothers his attention, for she in truth was more than a little frightened of her father's changeable temperament.

A stern man usually, his customary interaction with her was correcting her performance of her chores. When troubles beset the farm, he was inclined to express his frustration in shouting at his children and boxing their ears. Aoife had learnt to read his mood by the lines between his eyebrows...if the vertical furrows appeared, then she nervously kept her distance as she went about her work.

At other times, especially after a meal and a cup of whiskey, Da was merry and affectionate and regaled the family with tales of his roving days and how he had courted their mother.

Clodagh, who was three years older than herself, was Aoife's constant companion during childhood --- together they worked, played, and occasionally quarreled. As they worked, they filled the hours making up songs and telling each other stories. Clodagh had improvised a continuing tale of a lass who found her way into faery land, whilst Aoife narrated the adventures of a lass who had been shipwrecked in America.

At night they shared a bed with Granny, warm and snug, whilst on the other side of a dividing curtain, Da and her brothers occupied the other bed in the cottage.

Long envious of her brothers' freer diversions, Aoife strove to gain their approval and acceptance --- eventually her tenaciousness earned her occasional inclusion in their amusements. Sometimes she joined them when they ran across the fields to the little stream nearby. Here, along with other lads from the nearby farms, they played in the water --- racing toy currachs they had constructed...trying to dam the flow with stones and sticks to create pools...catching crayfish. When she was a little older, Aoife succeeded in fashioning herself a hurling stick from a broken wood plank, and Colm and Patrick begrudgingly allowed her to practice with them in the pasture.

When not planting or harvest time, the children attended school in an old barn a couple of miles down the road. Shy around others, Aoife kept close to Clodagh at school, and once Clodagh stopped attending at age ten, Aoife sought her brother Patrick's company. When he subsequently ceased going, eight-year-old Aoife found herself on her own among the other children.

Being small and quiet, 'twas inevitable that she became a target for teasing and cruelty. "Mute" and "imbecile" were recurring epithets, but their favorite subject of derision was her strange, pale blue eyes. "Devil child, Devil child," was the frequent chant that accompanied her departure from the barn at the end of lessons.

For months Aoife responded not, walking past the jeering children, forcing herself to keep her head high and eyes straight ahead, whilst she struggled to contain her tears --- refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her hurt.

This usual course altered abruptly one afternoon. Earlier in the day, the schoolmaster Mr. Doyle had called upon Aoife to recite her multiplication tables. 'Twas a subject that he had recently taught her age group...a subject that was giving them difficulty. Nervous at being singled out, she had risen slowly to her feet...but she knew her mathematics, so she did, and recited as commanded, her small voice growing more confident as she continued. "...Three times two is six, three times three is nine, three times four is twelve..."

When she concluded, the master blinked, seemingly taken aback. "That is correct," he said finally.

Her pride at her accomplishment may have distracted her attention, for when school was dismissed, instead of lingering inside as usual, Aoife stepped outside directly into a group of her tormentors --- mostly other girls, her age or a little older. They gathered round her as she hastened down the path to the road.

"What ho! Here she is, the little braggart!" the leader Mary proclaimed. "Going home to crow to your granny?" The older girl made a cock-a-doodle-doo sound, which the others at once mimicked --- Aoife was promptly surrounded by a flock of crowing children flapping their elbows. "Do your Devil eyes see all the answers?"

Aoife clenched her teeth and kept walking, but they were not yet satisfied.

"Your ma lay with the Devil and you're his bastard child!" Mary taunted.

Something poked Aoife in the back, making her shoulder jerk. Above a chorus of "Devil's bastard, Devil's bastard!" Mary hollered, "Your ma was the Devil's whore and that's why God made her die!" They all danced round her chortling, and the poking of her back redoubled.

Aoife did not ken the meaning of all the words, but she understood 'twas something unspeakably dreadful --- she whirled round. Mary was holding a stick in her hand, smirking. "Oh ho! Look, she's going to cry!" She waved the stick round Aoife's face. "Go on and cry, ye little brat!"

Without thinking, Aoife grabbed the other end of the stick, yanked it from Mary's hands, and swung it with all her strength at the girl's head. It lashed the older girl across her face...a band of red droplets sprouted from a fearsome scrape over her cheek and nose.

There was a collective gasp, then Mary screeched, "Ye little BITCH!!" She launched at Aoife with outstretched hands, knocking her to the ground.

In a moment the other children joined in the affray. Aoife desperately defended herself --- scratching, hitting, and kicking her attackers. Outnumbered however, she soon succumbed and curled up with her arms over her head as they continued to drag her by her braids and kick her.

"Here, you weans! Stop that at once!" a man's voice shouted.

"Run!" shrieked someone...in a scuffle of footsteps the children scattered.

A moment later, Aoife felt a gentle tugging on her arm. "Aoife, are ye hurt?" a child's voice said.

Her hands shook as she slowly uncovered her eyes and turned her head to see the light ginger hair and freckled face of fellow schoolmate Hugh McDonnell...and behind him the schoolmaster Mr. Doyle...both staring down at her in concern.

She sniffled, endeavoring not to break into tears. "I'm f-fine," she said as she accepted Hugh's hand and let him pull her to her feet.

"Are you injured, girl?" Mr. Doyle asked.

She shook her head with a fierce expression.

"I'll walk her home, sir," Hugh said. "We live near each other."

Aoife gratefully fell into step alongside Hugh on the lane home. She had known Hugh McDonnell all her life --- his family lived on the adjacent farm. A year older than her, he was more Patrick's mate, but they had always gotten on well.

"Your nose is bleeding," he observed as they walked.

She wiped it on her sleeve and sniffled again.

Hugh nudged her shoulder with his. "Dinna let them trouble ye, Aoife. They're all just jealous of you."

She looked at him, disbelieving. "Jealous?"

"Aye. You're by far the prettiest lass in the lot."

She shook her head. "My eyes are ugly."

"Nay. They're...they're magical."

Aoife gave him a wondering look, then a smile crept over her face. "You're a silly lad, Hugh McDonnell."

He thrust his hands in his pockets with a pleased expression. The next moment he hopped up onto the low stone wall alongside the road and began walking, balanced upon the top. "Let's see if we can walk all the way home without touching the ground," he challenged.

"Oh yes, let's!" Aoife jumped up behind him, forgetting her bruises in the pleasure of the game.

So diverting was the remainder of the journey home --- leaping from wall to wall and climbing across gates --- that she forgot her bedraggled appearance till she arrived at the cottage and Granny gasped, "What have ye been up to?!"

Looking down, Aoife saw her dirty, torn pinafore and remembered her bloody nose and disheveled hair. She tried to explain the afternoon's events as Granny stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head.

"You hit a girl with a stick?! Yer lucky ye didn't get worse, ye little hoyden!" was Granny's assessment. "Now fetch a needle and thread and mend yer clothes. Serves ye right, so it does...a good girl never strikes another person!"

Aoife regarded Granny in wordless confusion, having for the first time in her young life connected such an admonition with the fact that Granny's preferred means of punishing them was striking them. Wisely, Aoife did not share her epiphany.

The next day as Aoife glumly trudged to school, whom should she chance to meet but Hugh McDonnell. He was standing where the footpath to his family's farm met the road, tossing pebbles into a puddle in the sheugh. She could not help smiling as she approached. He grinned at her.

"Hullo Aoife. Shall we walk together?"

From that day forward, Hugh walked with her to and from school, for which she was most appreciative. Up till then, he had always crossed through the fields instead of walking on the road as he traveled to and from the school barn. The other children let her be...at least for the moment, but Aoife sensed their speculative eyes upon her and Hugh and feared that the score was not settled.

At the end of the second week of walking together, they paused as usual where Hugh would turn on the path to his family's farm. He came over a little odd at that moment --- scuffing his shoe on the ground with his hands in his pockets. "Aoife," he mumbled at last. "This is for you." He drew his hand from his pocket and held something out. 'Twas a small stone. She took it in confusion. Before she could even respond, Hugh abruptly leant close and kissed her cheek. The next moment he was running down the path to his home.