The Sword of the Banshee (12 page)

The woman stared at the gold. She had never seen so much wealth.

“Of course,” she mumbled, looking at India with surprise.

After explaining the details, India and Mrs. McGrath spent the rest of the day making plans for the celebration. It was good for India to be planning something other than battle.

As they finished up, Mrs. McGrath asked, “Tell me Lady Fitzpatrick, don’t ya’ get tired of all those men tryin’ to be boss?”

India sipped her tea and smiled. “I do get weary at times. Many of them think whoever yells the loudest or hits the hardest wins.”

“Do ya have any women to talk to?”

India shook her head.

“I don’t know how ya do it, all alone like that,” the woman said, searching India’s eyes. “Do ya get lonely?”

India felt uncomfortable and shrugged. She truly did not know the answer.

Mrs. McGrath got up and looked out the window. “We each have our own battles, do we not?” She turned back to India and said, “My hair was shorn by the British several months back. They held me down and took a shears to me. It was their way of lettin’ everyone know that I was married to a rebel.”

*           *            *

It amazed India how fine conversation could keep one warm, inside and out. Her step was light, and her feet were warm on the walk back to Roslow. It was the first time in her adult life that India had felt kinship with another woman, and it quelled some of her loneliness.

The walk seemed short back to the village, but her light-hearted afternoon took a serious turn when she rounded a bend.  She saw three British officers by the town well, watering their horses at the trough and harassing a boy about the age of ten. The child was skinny and barefoot, standing in the mud, holding a bag. Although he was quivering, he looked up at the soldiers with his lower lip thrust out defiantly. Several villagers gathered to listen to the confrontation.

“Give me the bag, boy. My horses are hungry,” said a portly officer with saggy skin.

“I won’t!” the child said in Gaelic, standing firm.

“You cocky little bog. Speak English!” the officer barked. When the child replied in Gaelic once more the soldier kicked him. The boy staggered back and fell in the mud, his bag spilling open with oats scattering everywhere.

The soldiers chuckled and pulled their horses over to eat the oats. Tears of humiliation streamed down the boy’s face as he got up on his knees to scoop up the food before the horses consumed it. The soldiers went back to their conversation, ignoring the child’s frantic attempts to recover the muddy oats.

India pushed her way through the crowd reaching the lad, just as Jamie Kinsella arrived as well. He dropped down to help the boy, nodding and mumbling, pushing oats back into the sack with the child.

One of the officers roared, “Hey! Get away from him, you simpleton!”

Lifting his boot, he kicked Kinsella in the shoulder, sending him sprawling into the mud as well. When Jamie fell, his pistol flew out of his belt, landing on the ground a few feet away. Everyone in the crowd was stunned. The soldiers stared at the gun.

Before anyone had time to move, India stepped in front of the officer who kicked Jamie, pulled her pistol out and put a bullet into his face. The horses bolted and someone screamed. In a flash, Kinsella rolled over recovering his firearm. From flat on his back, he aimed and shot another officer in the chest.

Before the third officer could act, he was hit in the face by one of the villagers with a flail. He staggered back falling against the well, blood pumping from his smashed skull. India and Jamie recovered the frightened horses as the villagers scattered to their homes.

Shouting to Kinsella, India ordered, “Go warn McGrath’s wife.”

Kinsella nodded, mounted a horse and tore down the road to the McGrath farm.

The villager with the flail pulled the boy up into his arms as India tossed him the reins of one of the horses. “You and the lad go into hiding.”

After they rode off, she mounted a horse too, jerked the reins and raced off to camp to warn the repparees. When she arrived, she was spattered with mud and out of breath. One of the guards grabbed her horse as she jumped off The men were eating supper by their campfires.

“Addis!” India called, picking up her soaked skirts and running toward him. “There has been bloodshed in the village. Kinsella has gone to warn your wife.”

McGrath stood up; his eyes large in his care-worn face. “I must go to her.”

India nodded and turned to the others as they gathered around her. “Collect everything. We leave immediately.”

Within the hour, the repparees had evacuated the area. They split into small groups, taking different routes to Killarney.

Late the next day they arrived in Killarney, exhausted but relieved. After getting Colm and his nurse settled at the host manor, India changed her soaked and dirty clothes and rode out to the encampment. It was growing cold again. She pulled the hood up on her red cloak as she wound her horse through camp, making sure everything was in order. The men had built fires to warm themselves, some were smoking and others were eating. One man was playing a mournful tune on the tin whistle, echoing through the glen.

When Cian saw India, he stood up from the fire and walked over to meet her.

“Has everyone arrived?” she asked, dismounting.

He did not reply.

“Mr. O’Donnell?” she asked, searching his eyes.

“Lady Fitzpatrick,” he said, taking his hat off. “We have just received word from Roslow. The British hanged Jamie Kinsella, Addis McGrath, and his wife.”    

Chapter 9

Stunned and grief-stricken, the repparees carried on with their duties. Jamie Kinsella and the McGraths were highly respected in the rebel community, and the men were shaken, but somehow it strengthened their resolve. It was difficult for them to articulate their sorrow; some of them withdrew, while others found comfort in hard work, but they always found inspiration from Lady Fitzpatrick. She led them bravely and with a stoicism that sprang from her nature of quiet reserve and fortitude. The rebellion survived, and it was stronger for it.

Outrage over the hangings swept across the counties in Southern Ireland increasing support and enlistments. The uprising expanded now to the political arena. Barry Gallagher brought news one summer afternoon that several members of Parliament had taken notice and were taking up the cause of emancipation. Jamie Kinsella and the McGraths had not died in vain. 

After announcing the news to the repparees, India went to the manor house in Kerry to share their progress with Colm. As she came through the front door, the housekeeper introduced herself.

“Lady Fitzpatrick, it is indeed an honor,” said the distinguished, elderly woman. “I am the housekeeper here at the Cahill estate. My name is Maeve O’Banain. If there is any way I can be of service.”  With her hands folded primly at her waist, the tall, stately woman bowed her head slightly in deference.    

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Banain,” said India, pulling off her gloves. “We appreciate the risk you take housing us here at Cahill. We will try not to be a burden to you.”

The housekeeper looked surprised. She murmured. “Lady Fitzpatrick, you really do not understand. Do you?”

India’s eyebrows shot up. “About?”

The woman opened her mouth to say something then stopped. India continued to look at her. “If there is any problem, please advise me.”

A smile flickered on Mrs. O’Banain’s lips. “You and your husband are living legends. You are no burden. We—I had not anticipated you being so--”

India smiled bitterly and started up the stairs. “Ah yes, you have listened to rumors about the ice queen.”

“Oh no, milady,” Mrs. O’Banain said, taking several steps toward India “It’s just that you have not seemed real until this moment. Not since the time of the high priestesses has there been a woman to lead the Irish people.”

India stopped and stared at the housekeeper, nodded uncertainly and continued up the stairs.

*           *            *

It was getting late, and Colm was in bed reading, candles flickering on the night stand. He was propped up against several pillows, dressed in a fine silk dressing gown. His wig was on a stand on the dressing table, his bald head bent over a book. He had returned to his normal weight, but India thought he looked much older. His skin had sagged and his eyes had yellowed.

“I applaud your optimism, my dear,” he said to India when she had shared the progress the rebellion had been making politically. “It is truly good news, but I must warn you. I know these men in Parliament. They are political opportunists and motivated by self-interest.”

India turned her back on Colm to hide her frown. It seemed as if he was always discounting recent strides in the insurrection. She walked to the window, put her hand on the casement, and said, “If you are so perceptive, why didn’t you see the self-interest in Ryan Oliver before he shot you?”

Immediately, India wanted to take back her words. She winced, ready to be reprimanded.

There was a pause, and Colm said, “Don’t you ever address me in such a manner.”

India struggled to hold her tongue. She was the leader of a great rebellion and treated with the utmost respect everywhere but here in this room. Here with Colm, she was nothing more than a lackey.

There was a tense silence, and then he said, “I am willing to overlook your insubordination this time India, but I suggest you mind your tongue in the future.” He held out his hand and demanded, “Now, come here.”

Reluctantly India walked to him, taking his hand. He guided her to sit down on the edge of the bed. She did sit, but refused to look into his eyes.

“My dear, you are on edge. All of this has been too much for you. I can imagine how overwhelming these responsibilities are for a young woman. So, after much deliberation, I have decided that it is time to relieve you of your duties.”

India looked up at him, her eyes flashing a brilliant green, her face flushed.

“The strain is showing on you--,” and he paused, as if reluctant to say the words, “and quite frankly it is showing on the men. It has been a struggle for them these past few years without me. But now I am ready to restore order and put the rebellion back on track.”

India was stunned. She had hoped this day would never come, and now it was upon her. She knew her eyes would reveal her feelings, so she looked at the floor.

“You will resume your role as secretary, and since I have limited mobility, you will be my assistant as well.”

“How--how soon will you assume your position?” she murmured, afraid her voice would crack.

“Soon, my dear,” he said reaching up and stroking her cheek. He ran his fingers down her neck then stroked her lightly between her breasts. “I am ready to be a husband again as well. I may have limited mobility, but you can be my assistant in that way too.”     

India took a slow deep breath, trying to maintain her composure.

“Tomorrow, you will move your things back into the manor.”

She left Colm’s room, walked down the stairs and outside into the night air. She felt as if she was suffocating. Trying to take a satisfying breath of fresh air, India walked briskly through the gardens and along the river until she reached the moor where she stopped. The wide expanse seemed to calm her and quiet her anxiety. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed, and she sighed.

India had always found peace in the Irish countryside, and her eyes scanned the misty vista which was dimly lit by the stars. She spied a fire in the distance on a hill and another. She remembered that it was Midsummer’s Eve, and the residents of Kerry were upholding the ancient Celtic tradition of bonfires.

Suddenly, she recalled the women around the fire a long time ago. She rubbed her forehead, as if to massage the scene into clarity. Then it returned to her. They had told her she would be a great leader, and that she would be the first woman to lead the Irish people since the time of the Celts.
So that is why the housekeeper’s words sounded so familiar.

An owl hooted in the woods, but India did not hear it, she was too deep in thought.
It had all come true—how did they know?
And then she remembered that strange woman saying, “I have seen it, my child. You will fail on your home soil.”

India chuckled bitterly and shook her head.
They had been right about that too
.

*           *            *

India hated the thought of Colm reestablishing himself as a leader of the insurgents. She believed in her mind that it was only right that he return, but in her heart, she railed against it. India told herself that she was acting spoiled and selfish, not wanting to give up power, but deep down she questioned Colm’s motivations.

India organized a meeting that night to discuss replacements for the seats left empty when Jamie Kinsella and Addis McGrath were killed. Dressed in her threadbare riding habit, she rode to town leaving her mount at the cottage of one of the local repparees and passed through town on foot.