Chapter 4: Medb's Plight
Men!
Aoife fumed as she stalked through the fields clad in the young man's great coat and spare garments. She glared sideways at the owner of the clothes who walked alongside her, easily matching her pace with his long, loping strides.
Once beset by the rutting instinct, men apparently took leave of their senses...and indeed their very capacity for moral reasoning. If not by flirtatious cajoling, then they were importuning lasses with bolder forays ranging from sly innuendo to lewd proposals to outright force. 'Twas an epiphany that had been brewing for some time now.
With bitter irony, she missed the innocent days of childhood --- when the only vexations in her life were Da's and Granny's mysterious prohibitions. In her present state of mind, such carefree days seemed far preferable to contending daily with this disillusioning insight about the other half of the species. Given men's advantage of superior strength, a lass must ever consider the possibility that she might in one unguarded moment find herself thrown to the ground and brutally violated...not to mention her family being murdered to facilitate the opportunity to do so.
Aoife's teeth gritted as a knot formed in her throat.
And her own experience was by no means unique. During her employment at Drumlevy Manor, she had heard innumerable tales from the other maids of attempted seductions and assaults by not only the masters in the houses in which they had served, but also by fellow male servants. Clodagh too, she had come to understand, had endured a range of harassments from lads before marrying Paddy.
Clodagh!
The grief rushed from her chest to her eyes.
Eoin! Paddy!
She fought the horrific images rising in her memory --- her fists clenched inside the overhanging coat sleeves, and her eyes burned with tears.
Don't think on it! Don't think on it!
Lest she succumb to despair...succumb to whatever this lad had planned...she must mark only the present and maintain her guard. Quickly, covertly she turned her head and whisked away the tear that had slid onto her cheek. A tight swallow forced the lump down in her throat.
Paddy had been one of the few decent lads of her acquaintance, Aoife grieved. He and Hugh McDonnell. She granted that she had known other decent lads and men...her brothers, Hugh's father, Mr. Darnaby...but she knew little to nothing of their conduct with the fairer sex. Did it follow that a man who was of good character in general, conducted himself honorably with lasses?
As they climbed over a stone wall, Aoife lifted the hem of the lad's oversized coat. His borrowed garments, like those he was wearing, were well constructed and serviceable without ornamentation. For the first time in days, she felt warm...a fact that offered small consolation to the bleakness of the circumstances.
In high dudgeon, she glanced at the lad striding silently beside her. "Quickfist" --- was that his name? So she had heard him called that night by the Captain. What the Devil kind of name was "Quickfist"?! It could not be his proper name, could it? Her eyes darted to his hands. He was no longer keeping them on the handles of the pistol and dagger...perhaps with each mile they put between themselves and Kilmaedan Castle his vigilance was easing. This observation she marked carefully, ever watchful for an opportunity to give him the slip. Notwithstanding, she could still see the weapons upon his belt when his coat swung with his stride --- any delay ere he seized them would be brief.
As for investigating the cause for his nickname, she averted her gaze from his hands lest her appraisal put him on guard.
Over the past two days, Aoife had repeatedly sensed his eyes upon her. By which method would this young scoundrel proceed in achieving his desires? Would he employ bawdy banter? Crudely proposition her? Would he use his weapons to force her to yield? In a moment she scoffed at that notion --- why would he use weapons when he was nigh twice her size and would need only a fraction of his strength to impose his will upon her?
To that point, come to think on it, why had he not done so already? She pondered the instances of his solicitous attention. Was the rutting triumph that much sweeter if he could compel her to be complicit in her own defilement? Or, might her previous supposition that he was transporting her to a higher bidder for her maidenhead be correct? Or perhaps a lad's attraction could merely be an indifferent fact that did not necessarily engender an urge to copulate.
For several hours they walked in silence, broken at last when he opened his mouth to inquire if she knew of any place to which she could be taken to safety. Aoife's eyes narrowed and she responded not for some moments before shrugging and replying no. What game was he on? Whither he was guiding them she had not been able to deduce, as they kept off roads where any signposts might be. Dublin, he had said to the farmer they had encountered...was that indeed the truth or was it a lie for the farmer's benefit? If anything, he seemed more intent on getting away from Kilmaedan Castle, than on reaching a specific destination.
This would tend to argue against the theory that he was bringing her to another man...why would their course be so haphazard in that case? Aoife could only conclude that he must be dissembling in some manner --- although she could not discern his purpose, she must anticipate his slyness extending to any degree.
When night fell and the air grew chilly, they found a potential shelter in an abandoned church alongside a grove of gnarled hawthorn trees. The young man inspected the interior whilst she waited without. Naught remained but the stone walls, a crumbled tower, and toppled gravestones amid overgrown shrubs. The roof was gone and nary a window nor a door remained in the arched spaces. Aoife wondered if the ruin was a ghost of Oliver Cromwell's rampage through Ireland over a hundred years ago.
Emerging from the doorless entry, the lad said, "Aye, 'twill serve for tonight."
Inside, they both looked about at the stark space. Illumined by the moon and stars, Aoife beheld scattered fallen stones, broken carved plaques, dry leaves, and a few plants.
"I'm thinking we can stand a fire tonight," the lad said. He stepped outside once more, where Aoife soon heard him snapping branches and rustling among the shrubs. Perhaps this was her chance to escape! But she could not rightly tell where he was in relation to the doorway, he was moving about so.
Restlessly Aoife wandered among the rubble, sliding her hands into the pockets of his coat, wherein her fingers encountered several items. Her curiosity roused, she drew them out. In the right pocket was a neatly folded, plain linen handkerchief, a torn ribbon watch fob, a bottle cork, and three coins --- a halfpence and two farthings. In the left pocket she found two smooth opalescent pebbles and an acorn. Then her fingers encountered what felt to be a crumpled strip of fabric.
Pulling it out, she discovered it to be a pair of silk ribbon garters --- red with white embroidered flowers they appeared in the dim light. They seemed unworn...there was even a string tying them together as might be expected in a shop display. It scarce seemed a gift a man would purchase for a female relation --- she could only surmise they were connected in some manner to his amorous pursuits.
This new intelligence gave her pause. What sort of maiden had inspired such a gesture in this lad? Had he a sweetheart? The thought aroused in her a vague sense of irritation...she instead endeavored to see the garters as evidence of some nefarious escapade, rather than as a token of affection to another lass.
When the young man reappeared in the doorway, Aoife hastily thrust the garters back into the pocket. He deposited an armful of bramble and small branches upon the floor, then stepped back out to drag in larger branches. Standing aside with her arms crossed, Aoife watched as he set about making a fire, using his knife to cut the thicker branches before breaking them into shorter lengths across his knee. Next he produced a tinderbox from his knapsack. Once ignited, he tinkered with the fire for some time --- poking and fanning the wood to achieve a sustained flame.
Returning to the mystery of the name Quickfist, Aoife studied his hands by the firelight, finding them to be more compelling than she had anticipated a pair of man's hands being. Naturally, they were large, commensurate with his overall frame. Under a tracing of dark hair upon the broad backs, the sinews shifted as he worked, his motions adept. The fingers were long and squarish. Most arresting however was the curious pattern of thickened skin over his knuckles, surrounded by scattered healing cuts and bruises. Aoife had seen the hands of many different types of laborers throughout her life, but she could not conceive of an occupation that would cause such callouses.
"Have some food, Aoife," his voice interrupted her thoughts. He gestured with his chin at the vittles he had pulled from the bag. Inwardly she shrugged...starving herself would not salvage her wounded dignity, nor would it abet an attempt to flee...she would need her strength, so she would. She took some bread and cheese and sat upon a stone on the opposite side of the fire. As she ate, she observed him prop her still wet shoes against a rock near the fire before he too sat down and partook of the food.
When he presently stretched out upon his side to sleep, Aoife realized in frustration that he again had claimed the floor nearest the doorway. She remained seated upon her stone, gazing at the night sky above the ruined church as she tried to gauge his breathing above the crackling fire between them. For some time she listened to the intermittent calls of owls and nightingales as she watched the subtle motion of his back with his breaths --- she could not ascertain that he had truly fallen asleep. Glancing at the empty window arches, she wondered if she might climb out once assured of his slumber. Alas, she would need to pile stones against the wall to reach the sill...an action guaranteed to wake him.
By and by, Aoife's head started to nod...she slid off the stone and lay upon the ground, curling up inside the great coat.
When she woke, the moon had full risen and shone directly above. The fire was still burning, but lower. Silently she sat up and looked over the firepit at the young man lying upon his side, now facing her, an arm folded under his head --- his slow, soft breaths now gave evidence of a deep sleep. This might be her chance! She might be able to slip past him to the doorway! Her gaze fell upon the flintlock and dagger upon the ground in front of his hands...she hesitated, then looked at his face again.
Aoife had studied his visage well that night when he held her arms down on the table, so she had! It had been directly above hers, albeit upside down. Since that night she had given him only the briefest and coldest of glances. Now in this unguarded moment, her curious eyes lingered upon his features.
His hair was dark brown, thick, and shorn short. Although closed now, his eyes under the darkly lashed lids were an intense green, she recalled. His pale complexion spoke to a shared Celtic ancestry, and the fresh color in his cheeks and full lips told her that he was not much older than her. But for all his youth, a life of violence was evident in the scars and bruises upon his face. Amidst two days' growth of dark stubble, old scars were scattered over his chin and jaw. More scars were visible over the bridge of his nose and brows --- one thin white line interrupting the strong, dark eyebrow on his left side.
With her brothers' recurring brawls with the Peep O'Day Boys, Aoife was familiar with bruises. The majority of this Quickfist's bruises were the bronze-yellow color of week-old injuries --- whilst staring up at his face above hers when she had been on the table, she had particularly noted the ghost of a black eye. Now, however, she saw a reddish-purple bruise on his temple that was clearly a more recent acquisition...she did not recall its presence that night. How had he come by all these injuries? Were these simply the badges of honor in his life as...what was he...a hired ruffian?
