Celtic Mist Ch 10

Chapter 10: The Spy

AND now beneath the veil and hood

Her hidden eyes will glow,

The battle ardour's in her blood --

If she might strike one blow!

--- Katharine Tynan

It took three days for Aoife to walk from Dublin to Kilmaedan town.

The first night she stopped in Bray where she paid for a cheap room at an inn --- as much as she desired to preserve her coins, 'twas too cold to sleep outside and she needed a secure place to make her transformation. 'Twas an odd sensation, having her own bedchamber --- from her family's farmhouse to Drumlevy Manor to the convent, she had always shared a room, if not a bed, with other people.

In the morning, behind the safety of the locked chamber door, she stripped off her shift and donned the drawers and her coarse woolen stockings. She experimented winding the band of linen round her breasts, eventually sewing on strips of fabric for straps to keep it from sliding down. Her nipples stood taut in the cold room as she worked, and she was relieved to observe the repeated wraps of fabric at length obscure the small, pointed projections. Did men's nipples react so? A moment later she wondered why men had nipples at all.

Fortunately, the volume of her bosom did not render the exercise a burdensome task --- although it was not so small as to forgo the binding entirely. Finding the proper tightness was tricky: enough to subdue their protuberant bounce, but not so much as to constrict her breathing or movement. She hopped up and down a few times to test the result. Aye, 'twas secure.

Over this went the shirt made from her former nightgown, then the breeches, waistcoat, and coat.

She had left enough length to her hair to tie it into a traditional man's queue at her nape and thus avoid being suspected of rebel sympathies --- suspicions that she ken were roused by fully cropped hair on a male. Any detail of appearance that would decrease scrutiny must be seized. Pulling on the wool cap, she assessed the result in the cracked looking glass.

Aye, with her breasts bound and clad in the lad's garments, her female body was well disguised --- even when she stretched and reached upwards. Above the neck, however, her appearance gave her pause. To her advantage, the illusion was abetted by those features that lent her face a strange beauty among her more pert-nosed, round-cheeked female compatriots --- her high cheekbones and long nose.

To her detriment were the largeness of her eyes in proportion to her face, her heavy lashes, and the pinkness of her plump-lipped mouth. Tugging the cap lower over her brow and testing a variety of expressions in the mirror, she determined that she must keep her lips in a firm line --- she grimaced --- it might pass notice.

The entire counterfeit could only benefit by the addition of some dirt, she judged --- 'twould distract from the hints of femininity and suggest some meager stubble. She extracted a fragment of charred wood from the grate in the small fireplace and brushed it here and there upon her face and jaw. Aye, much better. Wrapping the burnt wood in a piece of cloth, she stowed it in her knapsack.

At last, Aoife took stock of her final appearance and felt confident that any passerby would take her for a lad. But --- she was not attempting to deceive a random passerby --- she was attempting to deceive Blaylock. Therein lay the weakness in her disguise. To anyone who had seen her as a lass, she feared that the combination of her bright red hair and odd, pale blue eyes was distinctive enough to prompt recognition, no matter how perfect the deception of her short hair and garments.

Meditating upon this dilemma, Aoife slung her knapsack over her shoulder and left the safety of the room. Her lips were pressed firm and her heart was beating fast as she descended the stairs --- her new name 'Michael' running through her mind. She paused on the threshold of the inn's common room, nervously scanning the occupants and wondering if she had made 'Michael' too unkempt to enter.

The inn was a modest establishment, and the custom at the tables and bar looked humble enough, albeit with cleaner faces than hers at the moment.

"Watch yerself, lad!" said a harried female voice behind her.

Aoife hastily stepped aside as a serving maid passed through the door with a heavily laden tray on her shoulder, leaving the scent of cinnamon in her wake.

The savory aroma decided her: Aoife ventured into the room. Sidling towards the bar, she selected a spot at the far end where the light from the window would be at her back. She set her bag on the floor as she eyed the barkeeper. He was a man in his forties with brown hair greying at the temples; presently he was waiting on customers at the other end. Nothing of his temperament --- kind or harsh --- could Aoife discern from his face. Oh! He was looking her way! She dropped her gaze.

"By yourself, lad?" The man approached.

Aoife nodded.

"What'll be, then?"

"Tea and porridge, please sir." Her voice came out as a croak as she tried to lower the timbre.

The man nodded and disappeared through a door behind the bar.

Aoife struggled for a nonchalant demeanor, leaning against the bar with a hand in her coat pocket as she glanced round the room. Apart from the barkeeper, no one else had taken notice of her.

You can do this...you can do this...you're a lad, she encouraged herself.

The man by and by returned with the vittles, and Aoife hid her discomposure as he lingered opposite her, drying mugs. She kept her face down.

"Did ye stay the night in the inn?"

She nodded, her mouth full of porridge.

"Whither are ye from, traveling alone?"

Ah damn! She should have answered no. "Ummm...well...here and there...various places," she mumbled.

The barkeeper set a mug on a shelf. "Ye sound like you're from Ulster."

Aoife froze. Had she blundered? His tone was seemingly naught but friendly. She swallowed hard and her frightened eyes lifted to his. "Ummm...well..."

The man leant a little closer and said in a lower voice, "Put your mind at ease, lad. There's no dragooning here in County Wicklow." He winked and straightened, before turning away to answer the summons of a patron at the other end of the bar.

Had he given particular emphasis to the word 'lad'? Aoife's mind raced. What was he hinting at? She gulped the rest of her tea, put coins on the bar, and decamped.

In the relative safety of the streets, Aoife reviewed the incident with more deliberation. Perhaps he had seen through her disguise...or perhaps he had merely assumed the lad was a fugitive from the Crown's campaign of terror in Ulster. Either way, she reminded herself, the man had no bearing upon the success of her mission...she would never see him again.

But what she did take from the unnerving first test as Michael was that she needed to fully inhabit the character. Michael needed a story and she needed to know it as if she had indeed lived it. She had launched herself ere she was full prepared. In the brief exchange with the man, she had moreover struggled with her voice.

As she walked through the streets without drawing attention, her ease gradually grew. By and by, Aoife found herself invoking the spirits of her brothers Colm and Patrick --- adopting a more careless swagger in her gait, slouching her shoulders, and thrusting her hands in her pockets.

'Twas not too onerous a proposition, Aoife eventually realized. Indeed, simply by tapping into her latent impertinence and letting it take the lead over her reticence, she struck the proper chord. How ironic! All the unseemly mannerisms which Granny, and even Clodagh to some extent, had attempted to smother in her --- sit with your legs together, keep your back straight, don't climb on things, don't stare, don't be saucy --- now most fortuitously completed the portrait of Michael.

Wandering through a waterfront market, an idea began to brew...aye...some items would be necessary. Soon, she found what she required: a small stoneware crock and wool wax --- a good lump worth wrapped in a cloth square. In addition, the exchanges allowed her to further practice Michael's voice. After repacking her knapsack, Aoife was about to leave the market when she saw an additional item that made her grin.

They had not been part of her plan, but when she spied the spectacles on a peddler's cart, she was seized by inspiration. The visual deficit of the original owner was not so severe as to distort her own vision beyond function --- she adjusted them upon her nose. They would help distract from her striking eye color when near others, but she could not wear them constantly else her head would ache.

Back upon the road south, Aoife's mind was preoccupied with a range of thoughts. For one, she needed to concoct a history for Michael --- the barkeeper's questions had illustrated that right well. Next, she debated her course of action once she would arrive in Kilmaedan town. Finally, she searched her memory for her method for dyeing wool brown.

The weight of such considerations was in part soothed by the solace of once again being in the country...breathing the crisp, clear air with its intermittent hints of peat fire...surrounded by trees, stone walls, and pastures with sheep. This early in March, she felt the suspense of verdant life on the cusp of bursting forth over the present golden-brown fields, but even the sight of Ireland in winter sufficed to buoy her spirits.

As she had yesterday upon the road from Dublin, Aoife encountered an occasional mounted detachment of Redcoats. Yesterday, dressed as a lass, the unpleasant memories evoked by the uniforms caused her fists to clench inside her mittens when she beheld them approaching. She had sensed their eyes upon her as they trotted past, and a couple of the soldiers had hooted at her.

But today --- by God, today in her male garb they scarce marked her presence! 'Twas odd, this sense of calm she felt as a lad...a sense of invisibility that she had not enjoyed for several years now as a lass...not since before her figure had started to change.

After several miles, Aoife veered off the road when she spotted a dense woods covering an area of steeper terrain. Once in the forest, she meandered for some time searching for specific trees, eventually gathering walnut hulls, oak bark, and blackthorn bark. All this she ground between stones and placed in the crock with water from a stream.

She collected branches, constructed a small firepit with stones, and lit the kindling with her tinderbox. As the mixture simmered, then cooled over the next two hours, Aoife was flooded by memories of her family and home...how long had it been since she had last brewed a dye? Over two years ago now, it was...the green dye by the River Blackwater. Aye, in the summer of '95 when her brothers and sister were still alive.

Aoife then recalled the last woods she had been in --- when Declan had carried her in his arms and his lips had grazed her temple.

The rising tension of her thoughts provoked a spate of activity --- she ran hither and thither in the woods, darting among the trees and jumping over fallen moss-covered limbs. At last returning to the firepit, she crouched and poured the dark brown liquid into her gourd canteen, straining it through the needles of a small pine bough.

That night in her room at an inn in a small village, Aoife undertook her experiment. She had never dyed human hair but supposed it to be not too dissimilar to wool. Her past experiences had taught her how avidly the dye would stain anything it touched; to guard against this, she coated her hands, face, and neck with wool wax. Before pouring the dye into the room's washbasin, she likewise treated the porcelain. Stripping to her drawers, she placed the basin of brown liquid upon the floor and lay with her head tilted back to submerge her hair.

In the morning, her hair full dry, she viewed her reflection in the looking glass.

A triumphant smile spread over her face: the fiery red tresses were now brown --- indeed, a brown sufficiently drab as to attract no notice at all. She secured the thick, wavy locks at her nape. Where she had missed a spot with the wool wax by her ear and under her fingernails, her skin was stained brown --- but no tragedy this...it was in keeping with the unkempt beggar she was counterfeiting...and was furthered by the charcoal she now smudged upon her face.

The discordant russet color of her eyebrows she remedied by brushing on a little soot and wax rubbed together between her fingertips. She could not do anything about her eyelashes, but the reddish hue was not so readily visible there, save in certain lights. Here the spectacles came to her rescue --- smeared with the sooty wax 'twas hard for anyone to have a clear view of her auburn lashes and pale irises.

The grimy lad Michael grinned back at her in the mirror.

* * * * *

As she neared Kilmaedan town, Michael donned the spectacles and fastened the dagger sheath at her hip where it could be concealed by her coat.

Approaching from the countryside to the north, her apprehension steadily rose, for above the trees and rolling fields, the blunt towers of Kilmaedan Castle were visible for a considerable distance. Should she walk by to survey it, or give it a wide berth lest someone recognize her? What if Blaylock or one of the other men from that night came out?

She reminded herself that she was Michael now and must confront the risks if she wanted to accomplish her mission. On the road she thus remained. Her heart thumped as the massive battlements and squarish keep loomed larger and larger before her.

Above the rim of the spectacles, Michael's eyes intently surveyed the structure as memories from that September night six months ago prodded her. Somewhere in there was Bruckton's chamber where she had been stripped and spread upon the table for the men to examine...with Declan holding her arms above her head. And there was the tower where she had been held prisoner afterwards...from which Declan had extracted her. Had they truly climbed down from that astonishing height?

The road now ran parallel to and some two hundred paces away from the castle's encompassing walls. She studied the massive stone battlement that rose starkly from the colorless, winter-dormant ground. Her face had to tilt up to see the top. Upon that wall Declan had kissed her during the sham embrace that had deflected the on-duty guard's suspicions and secured their escape. Down that sheer stone face they had descended to freedom...she squelched a sudden image from her dream of Declan watching her cunny ride down the rope.

Distracted momentarily by that reverie, she was unprepared for the sudden sight of the gatehouse towers as the road curved. There, standing at either side of the portal across a waterless moat, were two guardsmen in dark blue uniforms with brass buttons...the unforgettable sight of which made her heart palpitate.

Stay calm! Dinna act strange! What if they were Fitzgibbons, Burrows, or Lynch? Or even Declan? What if he had been accepted back in his position after his misconduct in September? The guards had seen her --- 'twas too late to turn away now. As she neared, she could see their faces, neither of which she recognized. Michael briefly acknowledged the sentries by raising the tip of the willowy stick she was twirling in her hand. They nodded back.

As formidable as it had been to escape the castle from within, it seemed impossible to sneak in from without. A bold ploy such as presenting herself at the gatehouse dressed as a whore and claiming that Blaylock had sent for her seemed to be the only plausible means by which to gain entry, but she knew not enough of the man to determine if that ruse was commensurate with his habits. Nay, she would need to confront him outside the castle --- she must discover when and where that would be.

She soon arrived in Kilmaedan town, her belly tense and her eyes alert for blue uniforms, tall men, and elegantly dressed men that might be the chamberlain Bruckton...scouring both the sidewalks and horses and carriages on the road. The village seemed as pleasant and unremarkable as any other like sized town, with villagers working, conversing, and marketing, children playing, and scattered cats and dogs trotting about...and yet the horror of what had happened on the estate lent the streets and houses a sinister air.

Aoife had only lived with Clodagh and Paddy a month ere Blaylock unleashed his attack --- during that time, Clodagh and she had ventured into the village twice to go to the market. Now passing through the town square, Michael faltered and a knot formed in her throat --- under yonder ash tree Clodagh and she had discussed selling items at the market as they had done in Benburb town once upon a time. She blinked and resumed walking.

To her end of uncovering intelligence as to Blaylock's habits, Michael decided to start with taverns--- that was where men usually congregated. On her first survey of the streets, she discovered that there were five such drinking establishments, and she eyed each in turn, debating her opening foray.

Standing across the street from O'Haggerty's Alehouse, she glimpsed two men in blue guardsmen's uniforms emerge from the front door. In a spasm of fear, Michael ducked behind a street hawker's cart and peered through the hanging rabbits, chickens, and onion strings.

"Here now! What are ye about, ye rascal?!" a man's voice demanded. The vendor stood before her with his hands upon his hips, and his eyes shifting suspiciously between herself and his wares.

"Nothing, sir. Just hiding from me brother." She backed away as the man shooed her.

"Hide yerself somewhere else, lad."

The two guardsmen wandered away from the tavern --- they were strangers to her.

At length, Michael concluded that 'twould be foolhardy to simply bluster into the taverns and make inquiries --- Blaylock himself, or Fitzgibbons or Burrows, might be inside...or a patron or barkeeper who knew the men might alert them to the presence of the inquisitive stranger. Nay, she needed to question someone behind the scenes...someone who kept abreast of the gossip about the town.

Her experience at Drumlevy Manor told her to start with serving or kitchen maids. True, there was a chance that she might inadvertently address a mistress of one of the men, but given what she knew of them, she doubted there would be many lasses about town favorably disposed to them.

Only one of the taverns in town was associated with an inn --- Michael stood in the street and assessed it. 'Twas a modest, but well-kept building painted a chocolate brown color with windows framed by crimson shutters and cream-colored window boxes. Being it March, they presently contained only the dried, brown remains of flowers. A sign upon the façade had carved, gold painted letters that read 'James Moore Inn'. Aye, an inn meant a dining room, kitchen, and bedchambers --- and thus kitchen maids, serving maids, and chamber maids such as she sought.

Avoiding the front door, she followed an alley at the building's side to a cobblestoned courtyard that lay between the rear of the inn and its stable. In the courtyard currently was a stable boy unharnessing a pair of horses from a carriage.