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.

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 straight-backed 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 short nod.

***

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 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.

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…

***

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.

Amidst 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 curved pink mouth, a rounded bosom, a small waist? How lovely ‘twould be to put his arms round a maiden and kiss her! As he grew increasingly preoccupied with these thoughts, he experienced with wonder the sensations elicited in his body -- a warm ache in his belly, a stirring of his cock.

Endeavoring not to shame himself, he struggled to contain his burgeoning attraction to the fairer sex. Then the dreams started…and he could not control his body. Many a morning he awoke bewildered and chagrined to the evidence of a pleasurable dream. 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 bawdy imaginings, and to his daily pursuit of sustenance and shelter was added his agitated hunt for a moment’s solitude in which to frig.

His amorous adventures so far had been limited to a few kisses and furtive gropings -- 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 to 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 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.

Another imprisoned beggar lad and himself were caught fighting over a ham hock. The warden decreed that the two prisoners would fight each other in a match, and the victor would be set free. Those with money even placed bets upon the outcome. So it was that, in the wet, grey prison yard, surrounded by the shouts of the guards and prisoners, Declan won his freedom with his fists.

He had been turned loose to find himself in an unfamiliar county, unhappily too late in the year for harvest season. Thus, he now wandered into this new town, Kilmaedan, with a black eye and a growling stomach.

There was a market underway, and the pleasant town square with its cobblestones and trees was lively with activity. Families, couples, groups of lads and lasses, children, dogs -- all milled or scampered about as the vendors hawked their wares. Declan walked slowly past the colorful stalls and carts, inhaling the delicious aromas of the edible merchandise…cogitating upon possible tasks he might offer to perform in exchange for food, whilst intermittently being distracted by the glimpse of a pretty maiden.

Strolling in front of him was a pair of young men whose fine attire marked them as gentlemen. Declan had not given them any particular notice till he overheard one say to the other, “I daresay I’ve given it more than a fair hearing, but I can find no charm in country dining.” He emphasized “dining” with an ironic tone. All at once he tossed to the ground a roasted turkey leg that he had been holding; they strolled on.

Declan dived forward and snatched up the leg -- ‘twas nigh untouched! He had but one bite of the warm, savory meat before he was tackled, and the leg was knocked from his fingers. He and his assailant rolled on the ground, wrestling each other and reaching for the prized leg. Declan’s fingers had just grasped the bone when the other’s fists thunked him on the back. Rage overtook him -- Declan twisted and pounded his opponent’s shoulder with his fist. They scrambled to their feet, facing off with ragged breaths and venomous eyes. ‘Twas a lad near his own age, somewhat larger than himself.

Launching himself at the lad, Declan landed a volley of punches, and took answering blows to his chest and jaw. Back and forth the punches flew. He was weak from hunger and sore from the fight in the prison yard the previous day, but righteous wrath transported him. Knocked to the ground, Declan lurched to his feet, purposefully leaving his hands down. As expected, it drew a swift punch, which he dodged.

His opponent being momentarily off balance from the momentum of his swing, Declan drove a fist into his unclenched gut. With a grunt, the young man’s body hunched forward…and was met by Declan’s fist thrusting up from below. It slammed him in the gob -- the crack of teeth and spray of blood making the gathered bystanders gasp. The lad’s head jerked back, and his body followed in an arc, landing flat upon his back several feet away. He lay motionless for a moment than groaned.

Breathing hard, Declan dropped his hands and looked up to mark the ring of observers -- the shocked women, the cheering lads -- then saw a mangy dog trotting away with the turkey leg in its mouth. Glumly he wiped his bloody nose and mouth on his sleeve and turned away, the awestruck townspeople standing aside to let him pass.

He had reached the end of the row of vendors’ stalls when he was brought up sharpish by a hand grasping his collar. “Here lad, hold up now,” a man’s deep voice said.

Declan jerked forward, both by instinct and immediate distrust of the English accent but was unable to free himself. He twisted to behold a broad uniformed chest -- and redoubled his struggles, trying to slip out of his coat.

“Steady now.” The man tugged his collar. “Calm yourself. I am not the law. I witnessed the entire incident and know you’re innocent.”

Declan hesitated.

“Come with me. There’s a gentleman yonder who wishes a word with you.”

Declan eyed him.

“You may find the conversation to your benefit.”

Declan allowed himself to be steered back across the square by the strong hand on his collar whilst he continued to suspiciously assess the stranger, who looked to be about thirty. He had never seen a man so tall before, nor of such a splendid fighting figure. Under a crescent-shaped, cocked black hat with a gold insignia on the brim, his black hair was tied smartly back in a queue. In seeming confirmation of the man’s statement, Declan did not recognize the dark blue, brass-buttoned uniform as that of the Militia. Still contemplating a possible escape, Declan doubted that he -- even if not hungry and tired -- could best such a stalwart-looking man in a contest of arms.

To Declan’s mounting confusion, they halted at the edge of the square alongside a large, gleaming black coach complete with a gilded coat of arms upon the door and four matched white horses. A coachman and footmen waited fore and aft, one holding the reins of a grey stallion.

In the open window, a sky-blue coat sleeve with an enormous, silver embroidered cuff emerged from the shadowed interior as the man waiting inside leant forward. Then his face appeared. He rested his arm upon the edge of the window frame and gave Declan a slow perusal up and down.

Declan stared back. Under the man’s powdered wig was a broad, ruddy face whose squarish jowls and faintly creased eye corners placed him at around forty years of age. In stark contrast to the white wig, his black eyebrows looked like bushy inverted vees. His hand upon the window frame was nearly level with Declan’s face…the nails were well groomed, and on his thick forefinger was a gold ring. It was set with a weighty red gem whose facets caught and sprayed the sunlight.

The man’s brown eyes were looking directly at him. Declan blinked away the spell of the sparkling stone when he heard the man speak.

“What is your name, lad?” Another English accent, this with a smoother tone.

When he did not reply immediately, the uniformed man’s hand on his collar prodded him.

“Declan,” he mumbled.

The hand prodded him again. “Declan, sir,” the uniformed man corrected.

“Declan, sir,” Declan repeated sullenly.

“Declan who? What is your family name?” the man in the coach asked.

He shrugged.

“Where is your family? Have you none?”

“No…sir.” He leant imperceptibly forward and felt his collar still imprisoned.

“Are you a Catholic?”

Declan shrugged again.

“Protestant?”

Again, he lifted his shoulders.

The two men exchanged looks. “Well, ‘tis a novel answer, by God.”

The uniformed man said, “If it is no matter to him, then ‘tis no matter to us.”

Both were regarding him closely. At his sides, Declan’s fingers closed and opened round the ragged ends of his coat sleeves.

The red stone flashed again as the man tapped his fingers on the window frame. “How old are you?” he asked.

Declan pondered the question for a moment, then shrugged once again.

“Quite the chatterbox, this one.”

The uniformed man chuckled in response. “A man after my own heart.” He released his hold on the collar, and Declan felt the strong hands squeezing his shoulders and upper arms from behind, as if assessing him. Then he lifted Declan’s left arm and examined his fist.

From the corner of his eye, Declan saw him nod at the man in the coach. They seemed to be agreement upon some matter, for after nodding in reply, the wigged man readdressed him. “Declan, how would you like the opportunity for regular employment? Bed and board included.”

Declan’s attention immediately perked. He looked from one man to the other. “What doing?”

“Let us say that your duties would be commensurate with your natural proclivities.” They were both grinning now.

He comprehended not what they were on about and wondered if they were merely sporting with him. The two pairs of humorous eyes looked down at him. Feeling no restraint on his collar, he started to turn away…only to be brought up short by the hand returning to his shoulder.

“Hold up, lad. ‘Tis an earnest offer. I believe you would make a fine guardsman for the Duke of P.,” the uniformed man stated.

Declan looked at his lean, clean-shaven face, then at the wigged man. Guardsman…he knew not what answer to make, beset as he was with conflicting emotions. The red stone of the ring winked at him.

The uniformed man interrupted the lengthy silence by striding over to the grey stallion and taking the reins from the footman. “Think on it a while, Declan.” Grasping the pommel, he swung astride. “Do you know where the castle is?”

Declan nodded. He had seen the grey, square-towered mass some two miles distant as he had walked into town.

“When you arrive at your answer, come there. Tell them Captain Blaylock sent for you.”

Declan stepped back as the man steered the horse between him and the coach and signaled the coachman, who with a crack of his whip set the horses in motion. The wigged man disappeared behind the closing window. Declan watched the lavish conveyance leave the square, attended by the rhythmic clopping of hooves on cobblestones and townspeople moving aside to make way.

Think on it Declan did. He pondered the offer as he explored Kilmaedan town the remainder of the day. He managed to earn a few pence carrying whiskey barrels into a tavern and was able to buy a bowl of stew. Thus fortified, he thought on it more as he sat atop the stone wall of the churchyard, from whence he could meditate upon the purplish bulk of the castle in the setting sun.

His misgivings were essentially born of the uniform and the English accents. Even growing up on the streets absorbed in self-preservation, he felt some fundamental loyalties. Could a decent Irish lad work for the English oppressors? And, whether Irish or English, uniforms had ever represented the enemy. Perhaps, as the man claimed, being a guardsman was not the same as the law…but how could he become one of them -- a figure of authority?

Yet, Declan reminded himself, in all the years with his various employments, he had never previously interrogated the politics of his employers. Contemplating his recent imprisonment, and assuredly facing the prospect of another freezing winter in his current mode of life, would it not be foolish to dismiss a good position? Bed and board, they had said. ‘Twould be cutting off his nose to spite his face.

A motion caught his attention -- a large black crow glided over the churchyard. Declan’s troubled eyes followed it as it circled then alit upon a carved stone cross marking a grave. Tilting its head to and fro, the bird’s shiny black eyes seemed to be studying him. He returned the gaze, wondering if the bird had some wisdom to impart regarding his dilemma. Was it trying to warn him? Could the offer be a trick? But to what end? If they wished to collar him, why lure him to the castle? Witnessing the brawl, they certainly had had sufficient grounds upon which to arrest him there and then for vagrancy and disorderly conduct. Or, perhaps there was no guardsman position…perhaps they meant to conscript him into the army. He knew not the answers to his questions. By and by, with a rustle of feathers and a mournful caw, the crow took to flight, heading in the direction of the castle.

Curling up on the ground with the stone wall at his back, Declan gazed out over the valley at the starry sky, still thinking on the exchange with the two men as he grew sleepy. Blaylock, Blaylock, he repeated to himself lest he forget it. Was the wigged man the Duke?

The next morning, as he walked down the main street once more looking for an opportunity to barter for vittles, Declan’s thoughts returned to the offer. He pictured the Captain, striding across the square in his crisp uniform -- tall and confident, his sword swinging at his side. A sensation of wistful admiration crept over Declan. What would it be like to be a man of dignity, commanding respect? If he could be such a man, he would commit his strength to glorious undertakings…a present-day knight, as it were. Instead, he was a dirty urchin ignored or shooed away by all and sundry.

The discovery of this hitherto unknown aspiration produced in Declan a sudden decisiveness. After all, he hadn’t succeeded in keeping himself alive by shrinking from risks. He turned and headed out of town.

Kilmaedan Castle proved to be even larger than it had appeared from town. As he drew near on the road, the massive battlements loomed above him, some sixty feet tall and stretching several hundred feet in length. Square towers punctuated the corners and the gatehouse of the enclosure. Above the top of the wall were visible the towers of a taller structure inside. He crossed a drawbridge over what appeared to have once been a moat, but now was boggy ground. Two sentries -- stalwart-looking young men dressed in the same uniform as the Captain -- stood one on each side of the arched entry. They regarded him dubiously as he approached.

“Halt!” one ordered. “What is your business?”

“Declan’s me name. Captain Blaylock sent for me.”

This appeared to signify something to them. One stepped nearer. “Raise your arms.” With an expression of distaste, the guard searched Declan’s ragged, soiled garments. “Unarmed. Follow me.” Declan was led into the passageway through the wall, under the iron spikes of the raised portcullis.

Inside the walls he discovered a remarkable sight. The battlements, he now appreciated, delineated a hexagon, encompassing within their boundaries the keep or castle proper wherein the Duke must live, as well as multiple smaller stone buildings, gardens, and a wide, grassy bailey the size of a large field. He looked about in wonder as they crossed the open ground. The keep had two different sections: an older portion with heavy lines, built against the far battlement, four stories tall with even taller towers -- and a three-story wing of more recent appearing, graceful construction, connected to the south side of the older structure. Decorative gardens flanked this newer wing. As they passed, Declan observed a pair of gardeners at work in the flower beds.

They headed towards the north side of the keep, to an area which clearly was reserved for utilitarian purposes, one side occupied by a long, stone, two-storied wing extending from the north face of the castle. Next to it was the stable and several other low buildings whose purpose Declan could not identify, together demarcating a shared cobblestone courtyard.

All about them was activity: a lad grooming a horse in front of the stable, a man working on the axle of a carriage, another man hoisting a bucket from a well at one end of the courtyard, maids hanging out linens to dry, two children playing with a dog. ‘Twas an entire village inside the walls, but devoid of beggars and the stench of excrement. Everyone was clad in tidy garments and looked well fed, he was keen to note.

As Declan and the sentry entered the busy courtyard, Captain Blaylock emerged from the stable door, his tall form ducking slightly to clear the frame. Resplendent in his uniform as yesterday, he strode across the courtyard towards them. The sentry stood to attention and saluted. “The lad Declan, sir.”

Blaylock had already noted him and nodded. “Return to your post. You, come with me.”

Declan hastened to follow in the brisk footsteps of the Captain.

“So, you’ve decided to give the offer further consideration,” Blaylock stated. They entered the two-storied wing and turned right into a dim, stone-walled corridor. “The duties are as follows: providing security for the castle, maintaining order upon the estate, and protecting the Duke and his family when they travel.” They were passing a series of identical small chambers, each with two tidy cots visible through the open doors. “As you may need to confront evildoers, the position is not without hazard. You will thus be trained in the use of all weapons.”

Now they were crossing a large room with a long wooden table and a wide fireplace. Blaylock led him down another corridor arising from the far end of the room. “In recompense you will be paid one pound per week. You will receive bed and board besides. You will be granted one day of leave every fortnight.”

At the end of the hall, they entered a spacious room whose walls were covered with racks laden with every manner of weapon: swords, knives, muskets, pistols, pikes, lances and many more implements of battle that Declan did not recognize. In the center of the room, a man stood at a stout workbench strewn with tools, lead balls, and scraps of wood, metal, and paper. He was turning the crank on a vise but stopped to salute the Captain. Then he reached for a pistol lying upon the table and presented it butt first to Blaylock. “I adjusted the frizzen, sir. ‘Tis firing proper now.”

“Thank you.” Blaylock examined the firing mechanism, then slipped the flintlock into an empty holster on his belt. “Brodie, this is Declan…our new recruit, or so I hope. Declan this is Brodie, our master of arms.”

Brodie, a sturdy man in his mid-thirties, had reddish-blond hair and a freckled face with prominent scars on his chin, nose, and brows. He regarded Declan with interest, then grinned. “Welcome, laddie.”

Declan scarce had time to reply before the Captain turned on his heel. “This way,” he commanded.

Declan followed his broad back along the corridor from whence they had come. Blaylock halted in the room with the long table. “Come here.” He showed Declan a paper sign nailed to a board on the wall at the head of the table. “Can you read?”

“A piece…sir.”

“Then you must have had some schooling at one point in your life, eh?”

Declan wondered why he himself had never arrived at this logical deduction. He looked at the paper, reading the first few lines:

Insubordination or defiance of orders………Fifteen lashes

Tardiness for watch or drill………Forfeiture of 1 week’s wages

Truancy from watch or drill………….Ten lashes

Slovenly appearance or quarters…….Forfeiture of 1 week’s wages

Drunkenness on duty…….Forfeiture of 1 week’s wages and loss of leave day

“’Tis a list of infractions and the corresponding punishments. Mark them well. In this company all rules and expectations are plainly stated.”

Declan nodded.

They returned to the courtyard, where two uniformed men waited on horseback. A stable boy was holding the reins of the grey stallion. The Captain took the reins and turned to Declan. “What say you, Declan? Do you want the position?”

Declan straightened. “Aye.”

“Aye, sir,” Blaylock corrected, the corners of his dark blue eyes crinkling as he smiled. He mounted the horse.

“Aye, sir.”

“Excellent. Report to Brodie.” He reined the stallion round, and the three mounted men headed for the gatehouse.

***

Brodie’s first order of business was escorting Declan through a stout oak door at the end of the corridor in the guards’ quarters; on the other side was a landing of a stone stair. Directly across was a much finer door. “This way,” Brodie said, pointing down the stairs. “Dinna go through that door -- it goes into the castle proper.”

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, grinning. “Can ye do anything with this eyesore? This is Declan, our newest guardsman.”

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 thick straw-colored hair and a friendly face. “He’ll be yer roommate and teach ye the way of things -- that is, 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. His new roommate first taught him how to make his bed to pass inspection. That done, he took Declan on a tour of the estate, starting with the guards’ quarters.

Bathed and outfitted in the new blue uniform, Declan already felt himself a different lad; 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 without companions 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 older brother will be taking over the business. I didn’t want to be his 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 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 visitors. According to Branagan, the family had even been favored last year with a visit from King George when he had come over from England -- a visit that had been preceded by a year of preparation.

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 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.