The Sword of the Banshee (15 page)

“True, my talks with the British have broken down. True our numbers are down for rebels but I cannot,” Colm bellowed. “I cannot accept the sacrifice you make. It is your greatest sacrifice. I thank you again, but I cannot accept.”

“No!” the crowd roared and shook their fists. “We stand firm for Ireland!”

The group who was sitting in front rose to their feet to cheer, and India’s jaw dropped. They were boys all under the age of fourteen. She looked around at the crowd. Every third person gathered there was a male child. Some of them stood by their parents, some came to the rally with siblings or friends and they all wore a look of supreme devotion to Lord Fitzpatrick and his noble cause. 

“Yes, the rebellion is in trouble,” Colm continued, nodding his head. “But we will persevere. Our men are strong, and I believe they will prevail on the battlefield. I cannot take your children.”

“Lord Fitzpatrick. We are not afraid!” cried a curly-haired lad with a voice that cracked.

Colm wiped a tear from his eye then held up his hands, “Now go home. The meeting is over.”

As he stepped down, the crowd made another collective roar, and began to surge forward. “Freedom, Freedom!” they chanted.

Remembering the riot years ago, India instinctively stepped back into the woods. Colm’s thugs began pushing the crowd back, but they continued to shove forward. Suddenly Colm was lifted back onto the stone. He thrust his arms into the air and nodded vigorously to settle and silence the crowd. He looked demonic in the dancing firelight. The audience stopped moving and grew quiet. India stepped back into the crowd to listen.

Colm opened his arms wide as if to embrace everyone, smiled warmly and said, “You have spoken!”

There was a collective roar, but India did not hear it. She was too stunned. She didn’t feel the crowd jostle her as they cheered or see them drive their fists into the air. She did not notice them push her, step on her feet or shout in her ear. She was in shock.

Colm began giving instructions on where the children should go for training camp. India stared at the fresh faces of the boys mesmerized by Colm and remembered the young girl who stood in front of her in her dream. Bronaugh Bree’s words haunted her. “You will see their faces and you will know that it is time.”

India broke away from the crowd and staggered to a tree leaning on it for support.
He is now posturing for formal warfare. He has manipulated them into giving up their children for the fight.

She thought she was going to retch but swallowed it back. Running down the path, she stopped and looked at Colm one last time. He was driving his fist into the air and ranting.
Bronaugh was correct. I will know when it is time.

Chapter 12

India stumbled down the path toward the manor frantically. Soaked and shivering, she wrapped her shawl around her arms and bolted for shelter. She needed the safety of her room and a warm fire to think.

Back in her bed chamber, she yanked the drapes shut, brought up the fire, and hung up her soaked clothing to dry. In her white shift and bare feet, she sat down on the apron of the hearth, drew her knees up and hugged them. India stared at the flames trying to devise a plan.

She pressed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. There was such urgency, and it was hard to calm down. Residue from the laudanum had left her mind dull and sluggish.  It was hard to sweep the cobwebs away and find a way to stop Colm. A coup was impossible because her credibility had been destroyed. There was no time to contact O’Donnell since he was too far away, and there were no repparees left that she could trust. She had to find another way, and it had to be fast, before the children were put into battle.

India was frustrated. Nothing reasonable presented itself. She jumped to her feet and paced, rubbing her forehead. She walked back and forth in front of the broad fireplace, trying to think. Suddenly, she stopped abruptly and stared straight ahead.

No, I cannot!

India paced again, her breathing quickening.

You ask your men to do it. Why shouldn’t you?

Someone knocked on the door. She jumped and ran to hide her wet clothes. Still in her shift, she opened the door a crack. One of Colm’s men stood in the door, sunshine flooding the hall behind him. It was morning.

“Lord Fitzpatrick wants you downstairs to taste his breakfast.”

India was surprised. Morning had come quickly. She murmured, “I’ll be right there.”

Closing the door she looked in the mirror. The anxiety had drained the color from her face and put rings under her eyes, she would be in no need of make up today. She dressed and started downstairs.

The mist had cleared, and the morning sun had dried the stone terrace where Colm was sitting. Holding a tray of food in one hand, India opened the French doors stepping outside.

Colm looked up and said, “Good, you’re here. There is something I must talk to you about.” Sitting in his wheelchair by the fountain, Colm had a blanket over his knees and a scowl on his face. His skin was gray and sagging. His finely cut clothing and expensive wig hung loosely on his body. The accident had altered everything about Colm Fitzpatrick except the smooth command of his voice.

“You simply cannot miss preparing my food,” he said addressing her as if she were a small child. “You have been sleeping around the clock again, and I will not abide it.”

India put the tray down on a table. She looked up at the sky, feeling the breeze on her face and took a deep breath. She was not listening to him.

Sweeping her gown under the table, she sat down to pour his tea. He continued to talk as she stirred his porridge. It was hot, and she did not want to burn her mouth. Absently, she brushed a fly from the tea cup and put a napkin in her lap.

She blew on the cereal and put it to her lips when Colm said, “The doctor said he was poisoned.”

India looked up. She lowered the spoon and gasped, “Who was poisoned?”

“Aengus Kildare, last night after the meeting when he tested my food. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying?”

India put the spoon back in the bowl, her eyes wide.

“You cannot miss preparing and tasting my meals.” he said, banging his hand on the arm of his chair. “There is a traitor in our midst.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, and then Colm said smoothly, “I’m hungry. You may resume.”

Reluctantly, India stirred the porridge again and brought the spoon up. Colm was watching her. A tingling of terror started at her toes and spread up through her fingertips. She remembered the agonizing nausea and the unendurable pain from when she was poisoned months ago.
What had she been thinking resuming this perilous task?

All of a sudden, a swallow landed on the edge of the fountain near Colm. It caught his attention and India lowered the spoon back into the bowl without putting it to her lips. The bird began to drink, dipping his beak delicately into the water. Tilting his head up, the little creature trickled the water down his throat then dipped again.

India remembered something she had heard once about swallows and a smile flickered on her lips. She slumped back in chair and sighed.

“What is it?” Colm asked, annoyed.

“Do you know what the swallow symbolizes, Colm?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “What?”

“Resurrection.”

He looked at her as if she was daft and looked away. The bird darted off.

Nothing was said after that for some time. Colm was waiting to see if India displayed any symptoms of poisoning. He watched her closely. She arranged the table, pinned her hair, examined her nails, and then stood up putting her hands behind her back to stroll across the terrace. She walked down the steps, admiring the topiary plants, sitting on the edge of a fountain, running her hand through the water. She could feel Colm’s eyes on her, waiting for her to clutch her belly or to cry out. She strolled back to the table and sat down.

Colm studied her and barked, “Here give me that. It’s been long enough.”

India moved the tray across to him and sat back. She lowered her eyes looking at her hands folded primly in her lap.

As Colm lifted the spoon she said, “Take care.”

Colm looked at her with panic in his eyes. “What?”

With a shrug, she murmured, “It’s hot.”

*           *            *

Colm’s food was not poisoned that day or many days after that, but India knew it was only a matter of time. The assassin would strike again. She would watch and wait.

Spring was slow to come to Ireland that year, and the weather was foul. Colm returned to the manor late one night, cold, wet, and hungry. The wind was wild, and the rain was driving down in sheets. India could hear it hammering on the windows and drumming on the roof. She didn’t hear Colm’s carriage return, and it surprised her when she was summoned downstairs.

Colm’s valet had changed him into a dressing gown with a turban and propped him in a wing back chair in front of the fire. He sat thumping his fingers on the arm of the chair. The wind shook the windows and whistled through the casements, but he did not notice; his mind was on his belly.

India glided into the room.

“There you are,” he said. “It’s a terrible night. I am tired and I am hungry.”

India noticed the whine in his voice and noted his eyes lingering on her breasts. India swept over to his supper tray, removing the silver cover. The entree was fish in a light sauce, as well as new potatoes and carrots. The cook had placed two forks on the tray, one for Colm and one for India to use for the tasting.

“It smells delicious,” she said, bringing it over to the little Chippendale end table next to Colm. She sat down, spread a napkin in her lap and leaned over the tray. Carefully, she took a tiny bit of fish, carrot, and potato on her fork.

“Rub it in the sauce,” he demanded.

India sopped up the sauce and put the food in her mouth. Pretending to wipe her lips, she spit the food into her napkin. She then retrieved a piece of soda bread from her pocket, chewed and swallowed that instead. 

It was all ridiculously easy because Colm never questioned India’s devotion to him.  He was convinced that she adored him and would willingly die for him, so there was no need to doubt her loyalty.

After waiting the appropriate amount of time, Colm began to cut into the fish and took a bite. He was happy now that he could fill his belly. “I have good news. The lads are ready to fight,” he said wiping his mouth and taking a sip of wine. “They have finished the last of their training now. The weather was brutal, but they endured.”

India sighed and said, “Colm, they are just boys.”

Colm raised his gray eyebrows. “Exactly my dear, they
are
boys, and that is why they are so special. We must recruit them while they are young. Their minds are so pliable and their devotion unshakable.”

Yes, devoted because they don’t understand death, thought India. She held her tongue. She must continue to act submissive and not allow Colm to suspect that she was out of the fog of laudanum.

He finished eating and poured himself another glass of wine. “Would you care to join me?” he said with a smile.

India shook her head. “I’m weary this evening Colm. I am going to retire.”

“Darling, I beg of you. Please stay a few more moments. Haven’t you missed me?”

India eased herself back down on the edge of the chair, sitting with her back rigid. More than anything, she wanted to retreat to her room. She kept her eyes down studying the floral pattern of the Oriental rug.

“Come,” he said, extending his hand. “I need to be near you tonight.”

India swallowed hard. She took his hand as he guided her down onto his lap. Immediately, Colm began to nuzzle her neck and pull the pins from her hair. Her smooth flaxen volumes tumbled down over her shoulders and onto his chest.

He picked up a handful of her hair and put it to his nostrils. “Lavender,” he murmured.

India bit her lip as he began to unlace her stays. She felt him run his lips along her neck and the stubble from his beard grazed her skin. His hands were hot as they cupped her breasts and his breathing quickened. “Lovely, lovely,” he said.

The wind rattled the French doors. India watched the rain pour down the paned glass as she clenched her teeth, enduring his groping.

Abruptly Colm snorted, then lurched forward, clutching her gown. At first, she thought he was in the throes of passion, but when he grimaced and threw his head back gasping, she knew what had happened; Colm had ingested poison.

She tried to get up, but he was clutching her gown so tightly, she could not rise. He jerked his head up and opened his eyes. They were wide with horror. “The food—poison,” he gasped.

Taking short little breaths, he bent forward, burying his head in her bosom, still clutching her gown.

India didn’t move, and she didn’t embrace him. She watched him indifferently as if she were waiting for water to boil. She noticed the fine brocade of his dressing gown, the graying hair on the back of his hands and the chestnut brown turban on his head.