The Sword of the Banshee (16 page)

When the cramping passed, Colm looked up at her. He was panting. He searched her eyes and said, “You. You’re not--sick.”

India raised her eyebrows and said matter-of-factly, “That’s right, Colm. I’m not sick because I stopped testing your food.”

At first, he could not comprehend her words, so firm was his belief in her devotion. He blinked in disbelief trying to read her face. He could not fathom her audacity and her disloyalty.

Then his eyes blazed, and he lunged for her throat. India jerked back, but she was not fast enough. His hands reached her bare breasts. Like a rabid animal, he dragged his long nails down her skin, gouging her from her neck to her nipples.

India jerked away, but she did not cry out. Her nostrils flared, but her expression was like stone. Blood oozed from the wounds, and she pressed her neckerchief to the gashes. Colm writhed on the chair, moaning and clutching the upholstery.

“Help—please,” he gasped, reaching out toward her.

India watched him coldly. She thought he looked like a buffoon drooling and babbling with his turban askew. She stood before him like the statue of Greek goddess, looking at him with lifeless eyes of stone.

Suddenly blood began to bubble from his mouth and run from his nose. India cocked her head thoughtfully. It was uncanny how his blood matched the wine-colored fabric of the chair.

His eyes grew wide with terror as he struggled for air then with a rasping sound; he fell back into the chair, motionless. Colm Fitzpatrick, leader of the Great Irish Rebellion, was dead.

Chapter 13

India knew that she didn’t have much time. She reached in her pocket and withdrew a bag filled with powdered bayberry and buck thorn. She took a kettle from the hearth, poured hot water over the mixture into a cup, and drank it quickly. The concoction was bitter, and she gagged. Next, she opened the sitting room door, took a breath and screamed, “Help! Someone help!”

As India turned back into the room, the emetics began to work, and her mouth started to water. Nausea swept over her so violently, that she dropped to her knees vomiting onto the Oriental rug. She heard footsteps running down the hall as she dragged herself to the foot of Colm’s chair where she lay doubled up, prostrate with cramping.

The valet was the first to enter the room followed by several guards. Instantly, they knew Colm was dead. The valet carried India upstairs to bed where the housekeeper attended to her as the guards dashed out searching the grounds for intruders.

News spread quickly in County Mayo about the poisoning, but it was squelched by Colm’s top leaders being put down as rumors. It was imperative the incident be kept quiet. Any signs of weakness and instability would play into the hands of the British and put everyone at risk.

Colm’s funeral would be in secret and delayed until India could attend the service. The leaders waited and watched her recovery anxiously until she was back on her feet, thin and weak but improving. India’s ruse lasted three days. The herbal emetics were effective in mimicking poison initially, but they did not last long enough to imitate near fatal doses. She had to carry on a masquerade for three days, pretending to be ill, using the memory of her previous poisoning as her guide.

*           *            *

“If it suits ya, milady, we will not make a formal announcement of Lord Fitzpatrick’s demise until he is buried, and the repparees have dispersed,” said Taghd O’Meadra, one of Colm’s men. He stood in the foyer with his tricorne hat in his hand waiting for her approval. O’Meadra was one of Colm’s top guards, a good-natured redhead with a face like a jack-o-lantern. He waited and searched her eyes.

“Very good, Mr. O’Meadra,” India said turning slowly, starting upstairs to change clothes. She was fatigued and took the steps slowly.

“We will be back in an hour to escort ya to the funeral, Lady Fitzpatrick.”

India nodded, lifting her skirts and dragging herself up the steps. She heard him return to sit with Colm's remains in the sitting room.

She sighed. At last she was alone. The day had been an ongoing stream of repparees and their families offering condolences and prayers. One after another, they queued up in the sitting room, speaking in hushed tones, filing past Colm’s cadaver with reverence and giving India their blessings.

India looked at Colm only once and noticed that someone had laced a rosary through his fingers. She shook her head in disgust and ran her eyes over his remains. The poison had turned his skin a bluish-gray. It matched his expensive silk top coat and britches. He was surrounded by plants and flowers, but the odor from his decomposing body oozed into the room. India fought the urge to gag. She couldn’t wait to get away from the macabre sight.

Back in her room, she dropped onto a chair and looked out the window at the sharp sunshine. She felt unsettled and resentful. She thought that Colm’s death would leave her feeling relieved, but instead, she felt troubled. Something nagged at her belly which she could not identify.

India stood up and began to dress for the funeral. The housekeeper had prepared a mourning gown of black muslin for her, which included a black stomacher edged in lace and a long veil. After pulling on the gown, she walked to the long mirror and looked at herself. She was glad that her blonde hair stood out, defying the volumes of black. She arranged a wide brimmed hat, heavy with plumes, onto her head and dropped a veil over her face.

She leaned closer to the mirror. Her face was drawn and her eyes looked lifeless. She remembered Taghd O’Meadra’s eyes. They had been full of hope and expectation when he talked to her today. He had been waiting for her to take charge of the funeral, of the rebellion, of everything, and she had ignored him. Everyone looked to her once more with those expectant, childlike eyes. They looked to her for leadership, leadership she did not want. The rebellion was in shambles, and India did not want the responsibility of resurrecting it.

Yet, how can I turn my back on them? The people of Ireland need me. But why? More useless bloodshed?
True, with Colm’s demise I saved children from the battlefield, but have I been short-sighted? The rebellion is now without leadership. It is in a shambles, and Ireland is still enslaved
.

India sighed deeply, suddenly feeling very old. There was a knock on the door. It was time for the funeral. She stepped out the front door and heard music coming from the hills. Fifteen men stood on the mount paying tribute to Colm with the mournful wailing of their bagpipes.

India lowered her veil and took the hand of an officer who escorted her to a carriage. They followed a heavily draped hearse pulled by horses wearing tall black plumes. They stopped at an overlook by the ocean. A small group was gathered on the cliffs, just Colm’s top officers and several guards. It was far too unsafe to have the funeral open to everyone.

The site was barren, and the wind swept bitterly off the ocean coming in icy waves up and over the cliff tops, sweeping over the group. It snapped India’s skirts and stung her skin making her eyes run and her lips burn.

They laid Colm Fitzpatrick to rest on the rocky moors overlooking the sea. It was a wild and lonely place with waves exploding violently along the jagged coastline.

As they lowered the casket, India considered her lack of emotion. She found it curious that after so many years, she could so easily dismiss her husband. He had been her only companion for years and years. He had given her the most precious gift ever, her twin girls, and for that she was grateful, but beyond that she felt nothing. There was no sadness, no bitterness, and no remorse.

India sighed, and without a tear, she threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. She realized suddenly that she did have one feeling. It was gladness. She was glad to be burying the remains of the man that reeked not only of hatred but of sandalwood.

*           *            *

Kinnel O’Mordha, a handsome young repparee from Galway, met India’s carriage at the manor after the funeral. He took his hat off and helped her down the steps saying, “Lady Fitzpatrick, please forgive me, but the men have asked me to talk to ya. May I have a minute of your time?”

India nodded her head reluctantly and paused on the doorstep.

“I will come to the point right away, milady,” the young man said. “We know you are in mournin’, but the rebellion needs your leadership, and we need it right away. Things are an awful mess, and there is a meetin' tomorrow night. Could ya help us please?”

When India looked at him, he dropped his eyes to the ground. He had never talked to Lady Fitzpatrick before, and it stirred something deep within him to look into her eyes.

She did not answer at first and he was afraid she had taken offense. He knew that she was grief stricken, yet it was imperative he enlist her aid quickly. He had heard about her years of leadership. It was called the Golden Age of the Rebellion, and her expertise was crucial for them to resume.

The mourning veil brushed against India’s full lips as she said, “I will do what I can, Mr. O’Mordha. I will look at Lord Fitzpatrick’s accounts and papers and have an answer for you at the meeting tomorrow night.”

*           *            *

India slept for only a few hours that night. She heard the clock strike one then two, and when it struck three, she threw the covers off and put on a dressing gown. Lighting a candle, she went downstairs, made tea and started wading through the mountains of papers and documents pertaining to the rebellion and her husband’s personal affairs.

At sunrise, the cook brought in breakfast, and India thanked her absently, continuing to calculate the notes Colm owed. He had expensive tastes, and he had not been afraid to indulge himself.

By midday, India was starting to see a trend. Colm regularly siphoned money donated to the rebellion into his own personal account. He was living high off the devotion of others.

India sat back and sighed, pushing the hair from her face and shook her head. It was no surprise, and the evidence was before her in black and white. Colm had been embezzling contributions for years. She did not start on the affairs of the rebellion until after sundown and those numbers were not good either. It seemed that Colm had depleted the funds first on himself and then on payoffs and bribes for the revolution, bribes that would never be honored. She rubbed her forehead. The news was not good for the repparees. The rebellion was bankrupt.

After changing into a simple gown and neckerchief for the meeting, India dined alone in her room. It was almost midnight and time for the meeting. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she tried to loosen the kinks in her back. She wished she could offer the repparees at least some monetary compensation. Rubbing her temples, she was trying to think of a way to compensate them when she remembered her patrons.

Had they stopped contributing?
Perhaps donations addressed to me had come without Colm’s knowledge
.

India ran to the library and dumped everything onto her desktop, sifting through half written proposals, old speeches and pages of addresses. She wondered if she had tucked something away in her desk, forgetting about it in her drug-induced stupor.
Perhaps the housekeeper had put something addressed to me in a drawer months ago.

At last she found a letter from a patron in France. She ripped it open. There was a pledge of support and a bank note. She found another letter from a wealthy aristocrat in Dublin and even more correspondence from America. They all contained bank notes yet to be drawn upon.

Elated, India stuffed them into a leather pouch. She was about to grab her cloak and head for the meeting when a letter on the desk caught her eye. It was from the patron she had known for years in the Colony of Delaware, the patron who had sent her the pistol. It was sent months ago and was still unopened. She broke the seal and began reading it. When she finished, she leaned back in her chair and stared straight ahead.

Shaking her head she blurted, “Foolishness!” and jumped up, starting for the meeting. But as she stepped over the threshold, Bronaugh Bree’s voice echoed in her ears, and she stopped.

India thought for a moment then said, “I must be mad,” and pulled the bell cord. She went to the desk, signed all the notes and put them back into the pouch. The housekeeper appeared, and India handed the pouch to her.

“Mrs. McBain,” India said. “Please have your son deliver this to the meeting tonight.”

The woman took the pouch, curtsied and disappeared. India headed back to her desk one more time. She had almost forgotten to burn the letters from her patrons. The fire was low, but she tossed the papers onto the coals. Afterward she grabbed her cloak and pistol and left the manor.

When she stepped outside, cold air nipped her face. India straightened her back and stretched, rolling her head back and forth several times. She looked up at the bonfire on the hill where the repparees were meeting. The golden light winked at her through the swaying trees, but this time she did not follow its beacon. Instead, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and started down the road away from the meeting.

Back in the library, the letters burned slowly on the grate. The last paper to ignite was the letter from India’s patron in Delaware. It read: