Celtic Mist Ch. 01

One level down, Declan realized they were in the cellar of the castle. As Brodie described to him the daily schedule of meals, duty, and drills, they walked along a dimly lit, plain stone hall, passing a large, busy kitchen and several storerooms and work rooms. Numerous servants, male and female, were about, all greeting Brodie cheerfully.

At length they came to a spacious room that was evidently devoted to laundry work, for three lasses were leaning over water basins scrubbing cloth, whilst another pair was ironing by the fireplace. Here Brodie introduced him to the head laundry mistress Mrs. McCombs, a slim brown-haired woman in her thirties.

"Yer an expert at cleaning things," said Brodie. "Can ye do anything with this eyesore? This is Declan --- our newest guardsman." He grinned.

As she dried her hands upon her apron, Mrs. McCombs' grey eyes passed over him in a purposeful, but not unfriendly survey, pausing on his matted hair and measuring his shoulders. "Aye. Bit of a nose-sore too, isn't he? Come along, Declan. We'll get you sorted."

Under Mrs. McCombs' auspices, he was promptly subjected to a bewildering array of changes: his unkempt, dark hair was cut short, his filthy garments were confiscated, and he was ordered to bathe with a strong lye soap. Then he was provided with a uniform.
The laundry mistress nodded in approval at his transformation.

Back in Brodie's care, Declan was next introduced to a guard named Tom Branagan, a young man with black hair and a friendly face. "He'll be yer roommate and teach ye the way of things, if he doesn't foul ye up. Have him report to Lieutenant Fitzgibbons when he returns." Brodie winked and left them.

"Come along, our room's over here." Down the corridor Branagan led them to a small, stone-walled chamber with a narrow window overlooking the courtyard. A cot was on each side, and a stand with a pitcher and basin was under the window. "You can put your belongings in there." Branagan pointed at a sturdy oak locker at the foot of the bed.
First off, his new roommate taught him how to make his bed to pass inspection. That done, he took Declan on a tour of the estate.

Branagan led him through the guards' quarters. Bathed and in clean clothes, Declan already felt himself a different lad, and he walked with his head and shoulders higher, the cool air oddly tingling over his shorn scalp.
"This is the common room where meals are served." They entered the large room with the table and fireplace. "There's hot water there on the hearth if ye want it. Cold water is in the buckets at the ends of the corridor." He acquainted Declan with the rotating duty of filling the buckets.
Eyeing Declan's face, he observed, "You'll need to address that beard. How old are ye?"

Declan shrugged in discomfort. "I dinna ken."

Branagan stared at him in puzzlement. "What are ye on about?"

"I guess I'm an orphan-like. I've been living on the streets all me life...all me life that I can remember."

"No family?" Branagan's eyebrows raised as Declan shook his head. "Jaysis! That's misfortune, so it is." He cleared his throat. "Well, ye'll not be alone here." Nodding his head towards Declan's face, he said, "We'll still need to get that beard sorted. The company's grooming standard dictates a clean-shaven face. I'll take you round to Milligan, the estate barber. Mayhap, he can also fix what Mrs. McCombs did to your hair." Branagan grinned.

Declan rubbed his chin. There was but a patchy, scraggly growth of hair on his jaw. "Estate barber? Is there a servant for everything here?"

"Aye, so there is."

Next along the corridor they passed the bathing chamber and the armory where Declan had first met Brodie, then they stepped into the courtyard. As Branagan described the connections between the guards' quarters, the old castle, and the new mansion, he paused to say hello to a comely maid crossing the yard carrying a basket of linens.
They walked along the row of outbuildings near the tall outer wall. "Stable...carriage house."

"How long have you been a guardsman?"

"Nigh three years now."

"How came ye to this position?"

"My family lives in Wicklow town. My Da is a cooper and me two older brothers will be taking over the business. I didn't want to be their assistant for the rest of me days, so I struck out on me own. A friend of my sister is a maid here and recommended me for the position." Branagan waved towards the low stone building on their right. "Blacksmith. How about ye?"

"Captain Blaylock and Mr. Bruckton chanced to see me fighting with a lad in the village and said I would make a good guard."

Branagan arched his brows. "It must have been quite the scene; the Captain is not easily impressed."

Declan shrugged.

"Carpenter's workshop."

"How do you like working here? The Captain made it sound like a right decent position. Is it all true?" Declan gave a wry half smile.

Branagan nodded. "Aye. Before here, I carried bricks, cleaned streets, and mucked stalls. I'm well contented here. The duties are taxing, 'tis true --- sometimes I'd rather be warm in me bed than pacing up down the wall on a cold night --- but the rewards make it worthwhile. Good wages, good food, me own bed." He indicated the last building in the row. "Mason's workshop."
They started across the grassy stretch towards the gatehouse through which Declan had entered the estate earlier.
"Captain Blaylock is a more decent master than me previous. Aye, he'll never be a jolly good mate with the men...he's strict naturally. But he's fair."

They were passing a small orchard near the battlements, and Branagan called out a greeting to a bonnie maid collecting apples, then said in a low voice, "Another boon --- lots of pretty lasses about here and in the village." He gave Declan a confidential smile. "Let's introduce you to the guards at the gatehouse, then I'll take ye to the barber."

Thus began Declan's life as a guardsman. The next few days were likewise a whirlwind of novel practices and routines, and Declan eagerly devoted himself to learning the habits and skills of his new profession.
Every Monday and Thursday the forty guardsmen attended drills --- some held in the courtyard, some on the bailey, some atop the battlements, and others in the fields outside the walls. The drills were led either by Captain Blaylock, the master of arms Brodie, or by one of the four lieutenants --- strapping men some thirty years of age: Fitzgibbons, Lynch, Burrows, and Ferguson.
Under this leadership, the guards were provided instruction in a myriad of subjects including engagement by sword, knife, pike, and firearm, cleaning and loading their firearms, shooting accuracy, horsemanship, riding in formation when attending the Duke's carriage, and restraining prisoners. Sham attacks on the carriage and the castle were arranged to practice their defense tactics.

Moreover, the master of arms Brodie gave Declan additional instruction to foster his knowledge of weapons posthaste. 'Twas Brodie who explained to him the need for such enhanced vigilance: unrest across Ireland bred by the successful revolutions in America and France. There were rumblings of various rebel forces in Ireland scheming to throw out the English and Irish gentry and overturn the landlord system of land ownership.
In his former life, Declan had been vaguely aware of the agitated and suspicious atmosphere as he had wandered about the country --- he had even witnessed floggings and hangings of accused rebels --- but preoccupied with his own troubles, he had not given it further thought.

When not at drills, on watch duty, or working with Brodie, Declan employed his free time practicing his new skills, repeating maneuvers again and again till they became second nature --- showing off when there were maids about. Sometimes in the midst of these solo drills, Captain Blaylock would walk past and give him a brief nod as Declan paused to salute.

Declan soon committed to memory the design of the castle --- the purposes of all the outbuildings, the locations of all the staircases in the battlements, the defense mechanisms of the gatehouse and postern gate, and the advantageous and impaired sight lines on watch duty.

He learnt that the wigged man was not the Duke after all, but the Duke's chamberlain Mr. Bruckton. Captain Blaylock was oft seen in the company of Mr. Bruckton, conferring in the courtyard or coming out of the keep together --- that part of the castle in which the rank-and-file guardsmen were not permitted.
From his shifts on duty at the gatehouse, Declan began to appreciate the complexity of the lives of these men of power. In addition to observing Blaylock, usually with his lieutenants, riding out on unknown missions, Declan admitted through the gate numerous visitors for the Captain or Mr. Bruckton, including the mayor of Kilmaedan town, the sheriff of the county, various magistrates, Militia officers, and a number of other men and women of unknown position, most well-dressed but some not, whose names had been given in advance to the gatehouse guards.
By and by, Declan became aware of the guardsmen's nickname for the Captain: 'The Black Priest'. No one could enlighten him as to its origin or meaning. Nigh the same time, he learnt of the 'Crusaders' --- the name of the select squadron of guards comprised of Blaylock's four lieutenants --- Fitzgibbons, Lynch, Burrows, and Ferguson. The nature of the Captain's and Crusaders' night excursions remained a mystery, for the members never divulged a word of their doings, even after a couple pints of porter.

From time-to-time, young Declan did see the Duke himself or the family --- lavishly dressed --- as they stepped into or out of a coach for which he was a member of the protective escort. The Duke appeared to be in his late thirties, and beneath his wig had a long face with pale eyebrows and an oddly pink, full-lipped mouth for a man. The Duchess looked to be in her early twenties, and Declan's impression of her was of a pretty face nigh lost under a variety of opulent hats and coiffures. There was a son, some four or five years old...and a series of other distinguished visiting relations.

Over the passing months, Declan observed that although the Captain's rules were strict, they were clearly stated, and infractions were few. True to Blaylock's word, the administering of discipline was fair, and adhered to the stipulated punishment for the offense. Unlike in his former life, Declan felt confident performing his duties without fear of arbitrary or vengeful correction.

Indeed, most remarkably, he no longer felt himself a discreditable young ruffian. He felt for the first time in his life like a man --- a man of worth. Each morning he donned his uniform and cocked hat with pride, buckling on his weapons belt nigh ritualistically. As he walked, he endeavored to emulate the Captain's self-assured stride --- and if a lass were in sight, he could not help but swaggering a little, his sword swinging weightily along his thigh.

Declan's gratification in his new position was only augmented by the recompenses. His own bed --- albeit a straw pallet on a simple frame --- dry and warm. Wages every week that allowed for diversion and the purchase of a few simple possessions of his own. And, sweet Heaven, the meals...brought down to the common room on trays by the kitchen maids. Meat every meal --- beef, pork, mutton, bacon --- as much as he wanted, Brodie repeatedly urged him. Bread, cheese, eggs, potatoes, peas, cabbage, milk, tea.
In the plenitude of nourishment and vigorous exercise, Declan's heretofore thwarted body was released to Nature's will.
Over the next two years, his uniform was exchanged twice for a larger size. He grew nigh as tall as the Captain, his chest and shoulders broadening with lean muscle. His beard came in full proper --- well, at least the dark stubble did, he noted as he shaved. And to his satisfaction, his privates demonstrated a commensurate development.
To this point, the rotation of the watch duties fortuitously allowed him time alone in the chamber he shared with Branagan --- time in which to frig as he thought on a pretty kitchen maid, a random lass he had seen in town on his day of liberty, or his ever-recurring imaginary sweetheart.

Yet, with all the changes in Declan's life, there was one thing that remained constant --- his quiet nature. More content observing and listening, he was not like many of the guardsmen who could entertain a room with witty rejoinders and ribald stories. But his reserve did him no disservice --- he was well liked by all his comrades. Indeed, sensing their respect and mutual brotherly regard, Declan experienced the unfamiliar, but rewarding, sense of belonging to a family.

'Twas one day at drill some two months after joining the guard company, that Declan noticed Captain Blaylock closely observing him. In a drill led by Fitzgibbons, the men were on the grassy bailey, paired off, and fencing with tip-capped swords. The Captain was slowly walking round the group with his arms crossed over his chest. He was studying all the men as he passed, but his attention seemed to return again and again to Declan. Declan, unable to account for this scrutiny other than as an assessment of his progress, lunged and thrust with the sword for all he was worth.

When the drill ended, the Captain signaled him with flick of his hand. "Come here, Declan," he called.
Declan approached nervously and saluted. "Sir."

"At ease." Blaylock looked him up and down. "How does the notion of fighting for sport strike you?"

Declan was puzzled. "Fencing, sir?"

"No. With your fists...prizefighting --- bare-knuckle boxing."

"'Tis done for sport?"

Blaylock nodded and grinned. "'Tis not just done for turkey legs. Matches are arranged for sport, for prize money --- for glory. His lordship is in need of a new champion...he has been without one for some two years now since his last champion retired. That was Brodie, of course."

Declan regarded him with interest. "Brodie, sir?"

"Yes. He made quite the name for himself across Leinster. He even had a bout with Mendoza the Jew."

"What would I do, sir?"

"You fight...just the way you used to do. There are a few rules...which you would learn. You would be fighting the champions of other patrons --- the matches are arranged by the Duke and Mr. Bruckton. If victorious, you bring glory to his lordship and Kilmaedan Castle...and win for yourself a handsome purse. If vanquished, 'twill not be entirely for naught, the loser is still paid a portion of the ticket take."

Declan thought quickly: glory and money doing something for which he had a knack. "I'll do it, sir."

"Excellent. You'll start working with Brodie on the morrow."

From that day on, Declan's duties were modified to allow daily training with Brodie. Each morning began with him running ten times around the battlements to improve his wind. Then they worked at a large sack of grain that Brodie hung from a beam in the stable, refining Declan's punches: straight jab, up from below, arching across, combinations --- again and again thunking into the sack as Brodie braced it on his shoulder.
When Brodie observed that he boxed left-handed, he showed him how to fight in either stance and trained Declan's right arm to make it as deadly as his left. He taught him the importance of defense: keeping his fists up, blocking with his arms, the proper way to take a blow. Declan did exercises to toughen the skin on his knuckles, strengthen his arms and shoulders, and make his belly as hard as a board. Brodie showed him footwork that he had learned from the celebrated fighter Mendoza --- dancing, bobbing, weaving.
And Brodie talked strategy --- when to strike, when to feint, how to anticipate your opponent's moves. "Ye fought a fair bit when ye were living on the streets, did ye laddie?"

Declan nodded.

"Were ye ever defeated?"

"Twice."

"Out of how many fights?"

Declan shrugged. "Dozens."

"A fine record, so it is. 'Tis no wonder. Ye've the ideal proportions for yer size...and ye've got keen instincts and the heart of a fighter to boot. But I want to tell ye fair and square what yer undertaking. No stray gutterpups will ye be fighting now. These will be men full grown whose primary occupation in life is prizefighting...they're training just like we are, and most will have the advantage of years of experience."

Declan regarded Brodie with a fierce expression. "I can do it. I'm not frightened."

Brodie nodded. "Aye. I wouldn't be training ye if I didn't judge ye equal to the task. Ye just need to know --- 'twill be hard...and long...some bouts last over an hour. My greatest victory took an hour and a half, so it did. Ye need to be prepared."

Nigh one month into his formal pugilistic education, Brodie and he were sham sparring on the grass next to the courtyard. Brodie was dancing about, holding in each hand a wooden plank padded with sheepskin, whilst Declan threw punches at the shifting boards. "Throw from the gut...put yer weight behind it...aye...right, left, right...keep yer hands up...light on yer feet...light on yer feet!"

They stopped and saluted as they saw the Captain striding past. He approached, gave Declan a brief perusal as he stood at attention, then unbuckled the belt that held his pistol and sword. Handing it to Brodie, Blaylock faced Declan and cocked his fists. "Punch me," he commanded.
Declan blinked. "Sir?"
"Raise your fists. Strike me."

Declan looked from him to Brodie in bewilderment.

"Guardsman, that was a direct order. Don't oblige me to flog you for disobedience." The smile lines in Blaylock's cheeks appeared.

Declan raised his arms into fighting stance. His upper body began to shift from side to side, and his fists bobbed as he looked for an opening. He jabbed gingerly with his right and was blocked by the Captain's forearm.

"Stop playing!" Blaylock barked. "Strike me as if you mean to kill me."

Declan did as he was ordered. His left fist swung hard and thudded into Blaylock's chest. Blaylock's fist flashed. The next moment Declan was flat on his back upon the ground, the clouds spinning above and a burning circle of pain expanding in his jaw. Dazed, he lifted his head and saw the Captain refastening his belt.

"You're standing too flat-footed. You'll be put down every time. When Brodie says, "light on your feet", you bloody well be light on your feet. Now you'll remember."

Declan struggled to rise and salute as the Captain turned away. "Aye, sir," he croaked to his departing back.

And remember he did.

For the next several mornings as Declan shaved in the looking glass, he admired the red, then purple, then yellow mark of the Captain's notice upon his jaw, vowing to become a champion fighter and do the Captain and Kilmaedan Castle proud.

The day he learnt that his first boxing match had been arranged, Brodie and he were working at the grain sack in the stable. As he attacked the bag, attending Brodie's recommendations on the rotation of his shoulders, he noticed in the background two stable boys saddling the Captain's grey stallion and another horse.