The Sword of the Banshee (10 page)

India took the birds from Cian and joined the other women to prepare supper. She smiled as she walked away. It had been invigorating talking to the clan leader. He didn’t patronize or dismiss her observations. The man actually seemed impressed with her suggestions. She felt encouraged; perhaps some of her views had merit.

*           *            *

Colm’s intimate demands of India had been few lately, but that night, he took her to his bed. He did not like the way O’Donnell looked at her across the campfire, and he wanted to remind India to whom she belonged. It was imperative that he distance himself from the world of the O’Donnell clan as quickly as possible. He announced the next morning that when the reconnaissance was complete, they would move their headquarters to an estate in County Louth.

Colm did not discuss this with India. She wished he would inform her of his plans before he announced them to the general encampment. Once again, he reminded her of her inferior status in the community. She heard about it from the other women as they were collecting water for breakfast.

“Why does he want to leave?” they asked India.

“I am sure I don’t know,” India murmured, stepping away from them as quickly as possible. She was tired of explaining that her husband told her nothing. She walked to their tent and set his bowl of oatmeal down, looking back at the women. They dropped their eyes guiltily as if they had been caught discussing her. India frowned. She had forgotten bread and returned to the breakfast fires. Luckily the women were taking their leave and asked nothing more.

India walked back to their tent, tearing off a piece of bread savagely and chewing. She was upset about leaving the mountain camp. She loved living outdoors and hated the thought of returning to the loneliness of life at a manor. She took a spoonful of Colm’s oatmeal to test it and sat down on a log, looking around the campsite. The energy and excitement of the encampment thrilled her. Out here, plans were being made and horses and supplies were coming and going. Life was in motion. She loved taking in the delicate fragrance of wildflowers in the sunshine and the husky aroma of bonfires at sunset. At night, she fell asleep to the murmur of voices or the melancholy strains of someone playing the fiddle.

India sighed. It appeared Colm was going to miss breakfast again. She pitched the rest of his oatmeal in the woods. She looked around the glade for the last time. Shaking off her disappointment, she ducked into the tent to start packing. It was going to be a long day.

*           *            *

     India dragged herself through the morning feeling light-headed and nauseated. Initially, she thought it was merely her monthly complaint, but then her stomach cramps grew more severe. She ate little dinner and did not attend the campfire that night, staying on her bedroll with her knees drawn up. The next morning, India could not rise, and when one of the wives came to check on her, they found her in a swoon, vomit caked in her hair.

Colm had been gone all night and when he returned, he became frantic then suspicious. He believed that India had been poisoned. He guessed it had been intended for him and that India had ingested it when she tested his food earlier that day.

After the excruciating pain subsided, India grew as pale as death; her lips white as she lay unconscious. The wives of the O’Donnell clan tended to her diligently, keeping her clean and comfortable nursing her around the clock while Colm made frantic preparations to depart.

“Their solicitous ministrations are merely a ploy to deceive me,” Colm roared at Aengus Kildare, his new head of intelligence, an oily insincere dandy.

“I agree, Lord Fitzpatrick,” the young man said. “This clan has a reputation for ambition and treachery.” 

He stole a look at Colm to see if this was the correct response.

“Yes,” Colm said, nodding. “I should never have included them in the rebellion. They lust for my command, especially that Cian O’Donnell.”

“I agree, milord.”

After that, all communication shut down between Fitzpatrick and the O’Donnells. The strides made in forging a united front in Ulster were lost. Colm did not care. He could not leave fast enough. He had the rest of Ireland behind him, and he believed that he did not need this clan's support.

Ignoring the risks involved in moving his wife, he loaded the delirious India onto a pony cart and left for County Louth. He gladly left the pushy O’Donnell clan behind.

India drifted in and out of consciousness on the open cart. Sometimes she was lucid enough to see white clouds and tree branches overhead, then she would fall back into delirium and wild dreams. After several days, she began to notice the stars at night and watch the birds during the day. The cool night air filling her lungs and the warm afternoon sun baking her skin gave her strength and nourishment. By the end of the journey, she was sitting up for short periods of time drinking broth. Headaches continued to plague her, and she had grown alarmingly thin, but by the time they reached County Louth, she was able to say a few words and smile at Colm once more.

By autumn, she was fully recovered. She would sit in the garden at the manor in Louth with a blanket on her lap and read. Mrs. Daley, the housekeeper, would turn the fountain on so India could listen to the water splashing out of the cherub’s urn all day. India knew she was recovering when she grew restless, and  so she began taking her walks again. Even though she could put the ordeal behind her, the thought of testing Colm’s food again terrified her.

After Watermore, Colm had fewer public meetings. It was no longer necessary to rally the people of Ireland. They were poised and ready for action. India had gathered enough money now for the cause, and Colm decided to do more than just raids, it was now time for formal battle.

India’s knowledge of the rebellion had diminished during the time that she was sick. One evening after supper, she followed Colm to the bed chamber. He was getting ready to go out, and he stood in front of the mirror adjusting his lace jabot. She picked up his topcoat and handed it to him. “You have chosen your finest coat. Where are you going tonight?”

“I have been invited to the home of Ryan Oliver.”

“I know of him,” she said, frowning. “Why would you be invited to the home of a prominent Protestant landlord?”

“I know it seems unusual my dear, they are indeed Protestants, but Oliver and his family are
not
members of the Anglican Church. As I have told you, we Catholics are not the only ones the British have abused for not being Anglicans.” He reached for a crystal atomizer and sprayed sandalwood cologne all over his neck and shoulders. “This family has suffered greatly at the hands of Great Britain. Most notably, Oliver’s military ambitions have been squelched because of his religious affiliations. Tonight we will discuss several new military possibilities for him with us.”

He swung around on his high heels, took her hands and said in his velvety voice, “But enough, I shall not bore you with the details.” He kissed her on the forehead and said, “I am sure it is far too confusing for you. Good night darling.”

India watched him climb into a carriage from the bedroom window. This Oliver must be successful at making money, thought India.  After all, Colm went to his house in a coach.

India read for a while then decided to retire. She undressed down to her shift then braided her long smooth hair. Slipping under the azure covers of the big four poster bed, she sighed and stretched. She loved listening to the rain splashing on the windows when she was in bed safe and warm. Colm would be gone until late, having the bed to herself felt luxurious. When he was there, he held her tightly all night as if he was afraid she would leave, and it was suffocating.    

     She stared dreamily at her faded everyday gown draped over the chair. Sometimes she missed dressing her hair and wearing lace and ribbons. She wondered what Cian O’Donnell would say if he saw her in all her finery. Even though Colm hated him, she liked the way his eyes had followed her around the bonfires. India wondered if that was why Colm detested him so adamantly.

Drifting off to sleep, she thought of her parents and her days in the verdant Ballydunne Valley. Then her mind moved to Ryan Oliver, his fine home and his hopes that Colm would give him a new military career.

     Suddenly, her eyes flew open. Oliver was not interested in a military career with the rebellion.
He wanted to serve the King of England, and the best way to do that was to assassinate Colm Fitzpatrick!

Throwing off the covers she ran to the window. Pulling up the sash, she leaned out in the rain and called, “Guard!”

A bald man of middle years ran around the side of the house, holding his musket.

“Mr. Hogan,” she ordered. “You must go to the Oliver estate and warn Lord Fitzpatrick immediately. Warn him he is walking into a trap. I will take full responsibility. Go now and I will be riding behind you!”

India ran to the chair pulling on her gown and shoes. Throwing the oak wardrobe open, she rummaged in the back pulling out her pistol and shoved it in her belt. She flew down the stairs and out to the stables mounting the fastest horse at the manor. She rode astride even though she was in a gown, her blond hair flying out behind her. She kicked the mare, urging her to go faster and faster. She had no time to not worry if her steed would slip in the mud and rain.

They were racing down the main road toward the Oliver estate when the mare started so abruptly she almost threw India. It was Hogan who surprised her. He was riding on his mount and leading a horse with a man slumped forward in the saddle. It was Colm.

“Lady Fitzpatrick! I was too late!” he cried.

India jumped down and ran to Colm. Her heart was pounding as she ran her hands frantically over his face and head, looking for injuries.

“I found him like this,” Hogan explained frantically. “The horse was walking home.”

When she touched the back of Colm’s coat, it was wet. Automatically her fingers went to his neck. There was a faint pulse.

“Shot in the back. He is still alive,” she said. “Take him to the first cottage you see and have them tend to him.”

India could see the confusion on the guard’s face. “But Lady Fitzpatrick--”

     “I am not going with you,” she announced. “There are more lives at stake than Lord Fitzpatrick’s tonight. I must warn the repparees. They cannot be without a leader.”

County Longford 1775

Chapter 8

When she wasn’t looking, Cian O’Donnell would study Lady Fitzpatrick. He knew the burden of leading the rebellion wore on her. He had watched her work furiously resurrecting the revolution and sustaining it. Watching her in front of the fire every night, he would see her fall into a deep silence, brooding until someone woke her from her reverie. Then she would blink as if emerging from a deep enchantment.

It had been several years now since Colm had been paralyzed and Lady Fitzpatrick had taken command of the rebellion. Shortly after the accident, she had summoned Cian O’Donnell to help her reestablish order among the rebellion and create new plans. It had been no easy task, but within a year, everything was back in order.

Many nights, Cian would see her set off to walk alone in the woods or out by the sea. If they were quartered indoors, he would hear her pacing in her room like a caged animal. She was like no woman he had ever known. She worked day and night and had a firmer grasp on military strategy than any man he had ever encountered. The rebellion flourished under her command, and in spite of her sex, the men followed her like she was the reincarnation of Brian Boru.

     Where ever Lady Fitzpatrick traveled, the incapacitated and addled Lord Fitzpatrick went too. She ate supper with her husband dutifully every night, but she no longer bedded with him. He slept in manor houses, whereas Lady Fitzpatrick slept under the stars. She believed if her troops must endure the elements then she must too. In the morning, she would rise, go to the manor, drink a cup of tea with Colm then resume her work once more as commander of a great rebellion.

Lady Fitzpatrick didn’t know Cian O’Donnell was in love with her. She was too driven by her work to notice. They spent endless hours together pouring over maps and discussing tactics, and it tormented him that she never acknowledged he was a man. He spent more time with her than his own wife, yet there was a barrier between them as great as the Blue Stack Mountains.

The man upbraided himself.
How can I love someone I do not know or understand? How foolish I have become.
Yet when she looked at him with those indescribable eyes, it took his breath away.

O’Donnell watched Colm Fitzpatrick closely as well. Slowly, the man was gaining strength, and his mental faculties were improving. The bullet had dug deep into his spine, and there was no question he would not walk again, but it was entirely possible he would regain command of the rebellion once more.

Fitzpatrick had been unconscious for many weeks, losing weight and muscle tone until he resembled a corpse, then one day he awoke, befuddled and confused. Over time, under a nurse’s care, he was able to feed himself and look at books, but he tired easily.