The Sword of the Banshee (6 page)

As she stumbled across the field, a sheep dog jumped out of the brush and began barking. The closer she got to the cottage, the more he began to snap and growl. As she approached the dwelling, the dog stopped her, standing stiff-legged in her path. Suddenly the cottage door flew open. A man stood on the threshold, light flickering behind him.

"Who's there!" he demanded.

"Help me," India gasped. "Please," and she dropped to her knees.

"Jesus!" the man cried, dropping down to her. He looked around the clearing with a shillelagh in his hand and said, "Are ya alone?"

"Yes," India said breathlessly. The dog rushed forward and began to lick her face.

The man scooped India into his arms and in three large strides he brought her into the cottage. He laid her on the dirt floor in front of the peat fire and shut the cottage door.

He was a robust man in the prime of his life. His long, auburn hair fell in tangles around his care worn face. "What happened?" he whispered.

Before she could answer, he was opening her cloak to check for injuries.

"I am unharmed," she said. India's head began to spin and she felt her stomach churn. "A man is dead, his throat cut."

The man fell back onto his heels a look of horror on his face. He ran his eyes over India surveying her fine clothes. "Are you? Are you the wife of--?"

"Fitzpatrick," she said, nodding. India closed her eyes.

He looked frantically at the door as if he expected someone to burst in, and then back at her. "Was it your husband?"

"No, one of the guards at the estate."

He stood up and took his club. "Were ya followed?" he asked looking out the window.

India tried to raise her head, but it felt unbearably heavy. "I don't think so."

"The dog will warn us if they come,” he assured her. “I am going to move ya to the stable."

He leaned the club against the wall and slid his arms under her carrying her to the back of the cottage. Like so many of the peasant dwellings in Ireland, the stable was attached to the house. He put her down gently on some straw well away from the cattle and whispered, "The children must not know you are here. Wee ones have loose lips."

Something in India's eyes held his attention for a moment. He stared as if mesmerized then blinked, shaking himself free. "I must check on them to make sure they still sleep."

He returned shortly with a damp rag to wipe her hands and face, a blanket and some clothing. "These clothes belonged to my wife. When you have rested, change into them. We must burn your cloak and gown. Now rest. I will stand watch."

All was quiet the rest of the night. When she felt stronger, India changed clothes in the dark. Sleep would surely not come that night, so she lay there stiff and silent on the straw. After several hours, she was roused by the rattling of the stable doors. They swung open. The dog rushed in with the man behind him. It was still dark.

"You've changed,” he said picking up her bloody garments. “These will go into the fire right now." He stepped outside for a moment then returned, setting down a lantern and swinging a stool over to start milking.

India sat up gingerly, rubbing her eyes. Every muscle was sore, and there were abrasions on her arms.

“You saw no one?" she asked.

"No one.”

India's thoughts returned to Marcas Peadar. She tried to shake the image of his last moments from her mind, but it was difficult. She wondered if he had left a wife and children.

She examined her bruised and battered arms. She winced as she pulled straw from the wounds.

The man was watching her, and he offered, "I'll get soap and water for ya after milkin’.”

"Thank you for keeping me safe Mr.--"

"Donal McGuire, Lady Fitzpatrick."

"Thank you, Mr. McGuire. I must leave as soon as possible. I don't want to put you or your children in peril.”

He said nothing resting his cheek against the cow, starting to milk. For the first time since she arrived, India noticed her surroundings. The stable was small and smelled of straw, animals and smoke. There were four cows standing in the stalls waiting patiently to be milked. They rolled their eyes suspiciously at India as Donal murmured to them in a soothing voice.

“Are these your animals, Mr. McGuire?” she asked.

He chuckled, “No, they are the property of our landlord. Everything you see here is the property of Lord Griffith. I am his tenant.”

Inside the one room cottage she could see a crude table and chairs set in front of the glowing embers of a peat fire. Up above on the mantel were several plates and a cross. A shawl was hanging on a peg by the door.

“Are the children awake?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he replied, still milking.

India lay back and sighed, listening to the milk spraying rhythmically into the bucket. For a moment she was able to forget all the horrors of the night and feel safe and protected. It had been a long time since she had felt secure. She fancied herself Donal McGuire's wife, sitting there on the straw, dressed in country girl’s clothes, a warm peat fire in the next room. She watched his broad back, the shirt pulled taut as he bent forward, and a thrill shot through her. It felt strangely intimate being alone with this stranger in the dim light. India’s face flushed. After five years of conjugal relations, Colm had never thrilled India. He attempted to ignite desire within her, but she would not admit him. The gates were frozen shut. It was the one small corner of her world that she denied him, one room still under lock and key.

Almost as if he read her mind, McGuire turned and looked at India. He held her gaze until she looked away. No man had ever looked at her in such a brazen fashion. Colm’s men were taught to drop their eyes in her presence. On the surface, India resented this man’s pluck, but something deep inside her stirred. She assumed her icy reserve once more and began to tie up her hair.

“I never thought I would be giving shelter to the wife of the great Colm Fitzpatrick.”

India did not respond, continuing to work on her hair. Finally she said, “You lost your wife, Mr. McGuire?”

He moved his stool to the next cow and resumed milking. “Aye, a few years back to the pox. It killed two of my children as well.”

Before she could respond, she heard a child say, “Papa, who are you talking to?”

India leaned back into the shadows. A thin boy clothed in rags about the age of seven stood on the threshold of the stable.

“I’m talkin’ to the girls. Who else?” Donal said brusquely. “I have a job for ya. I want ya to find Uncle Finn and tell him to come here right away. Tell him a cow is down.”

“Which cow, Papa?”

“Never mind which cow. Now go!”

The boy shot out of the cottage. Donal told India that once informed his brother could remove her to a safe house where she could meet her husband. India nodded. She knew Colm would be frantic.

She stood up and was stiff and unsteady. Holding onto the wall for support, she worked her way into the cottage to wash. She noticed the sun was up although it was raining. A little girl lay on a trundle by Donal’s bed, no more than three years of age. The child was sprawled out fast asleep, her red hair all in tangles.

Donal came into the cottage and poured water into a bowl on the kitchen table. He handed India a crock of soft soap and a towel. Gingerly, she washed the wounds on her arms and face, dabbing herself dry with a towel.

Donal looked up from his breakfast squinting at India, examining her face. “You’re not done.”

India looked at him surprised. “Yes. I’m done.”

“No ya aren’t,” he announced, standing up.

He took the towel from her and dipped it in water reaching up to wash the wounds on her face. He stood so close to her she could feel the warmth of his skin. Donal rubbed the towel on her forehead, then across her cheek brushing her lips lightly. He dropped his arm looking at her intensely. He believed her eyes were as purple as the lavender growing outside his front door.

India froze. She had never been this close to another man, and it felt wildly sensual. She wanted him to bear his lips down on her mouth, but instead he whispered, “Ah, but you’re a grand beauty.”

     The dog started barking, and the spell was broken. McGuire stepped to the door, picking up his shillelagh. He looked out the window and announced, “It is Finn and the lad. He will take ya back now.”

Chapter 5

After the death of Peadar, Colm moved the operation north to Donegal. They found an estate near Kilcommon and settled once more into the routine of training repparees and planning strikes against the British. It was a small manor overlooking a quaint harbor filled with colorful fishing boats.

India thought she had settled back into her old routine again; making her husband’s meals, writing letters and taking her walks again, but in reality, she had changed. The violence and bloodshed of the rebellion had found its way to her doorstep, and she was shaken. For a long time she had nightmares about the death of Marcas Peadar, waking up soaked in perspiration and gasping for air. At the most unusual times the grisly scene would flash before her eyes, starting her heart pounding and her palms sweating. She felt the need to arm herself, but Colm refused. It had been months since he had found and hanged the traitor who killed Peadar, so for Colm, the incident was over, but for India it lived on.

“Why would you want a weapon?” he said. “This is foolishness. Have I ever failed taking care of you?"

“No, Colm but--“

“When I am not here, do my men not watch over you?”

“They do, but what if I had not been walking that night Peadar was killed? The assassin would have found me alone and defenseless.”

“Nonsense,” was his reply as he patted her on the cheek. “I have increased security now, and they will never get to you. There will be no more of this talk about a weapon.”

India knew better than to argue with Colm. She had learned a long time ago that every aspect of their lives must meet with his approval. It was this unyielding vision which made him such a powerful and unstoppable force in the rebellion. She admired it in the political arena, but she was not sure she liked it in a marriage.

Something else had changed India as well. She could not forget Donal McGuire. It was not the man that haunted her but the look in his eyes and the words he whispered to her, “
Ah, but you’re a grand beauty.”
 

India was astounded by these words. No one had ever bothered with Lady Fitzpatrick before. It was always her husband, Colm they wanted to see. For the first time in her life, she wondered if she was even remotely attractive. The possibility made her smile and warmed her blood. She started to notice the men stealing looks at her, and she wondered if they had been doing it all along or if she had suddenly changed. They were frequently tongue tied when they spoke with her, but she had assumed it was because she was the wife of the great Colm Fitzpatrick.

India leaned forward and looked at herself closely in the mirror. She did not think her eyes were unusual. They always looked blue to her. She knew that she was indeed tall and slim and her light hair had a pleasant sheen, but she could not see anything exceptional.

One fact did remain the same though, Colm treated her no differently. He continued to pat her on the hand and call her his, "little sparrow”.  In the past, India had accepted this description of her, but now she was not so sure she agreed with him.

*           *            *

The manor Colm and India inhabited in Kilcommon was the residence of Lord and Lady Gilmore of Rochester. India remembered her mother speaking of them years ago. They were known throughout England for their exquisite taste, gentility, and money. Although the manor was small, the interior of the home was exceptional. The furnishings were of the latest design and several of the rooms on the main floor had wall murals, two in the sitting rooms depicting the English countryside and one in the dining room of the Orient.

India loved the house. She had the housekeeper take all the coverings off the furniture so she could enjoy the superb Chippendale craftsmanship and the French upholstery. India’s favorite room was the master bedroom. It was a large chamber with tall ceilings and walls painted a pale yellow. The massive oak four poster bed with canary-colored linens was dwarfed by two expansive windows that soared from the floor all the way up another story. India loved to sit and read by the windows in the afternoon when the sun drenched the room. In the evening, she looked forward to retiring there. It was a joy spending the last few moments of her day in such a beautiful room. She would slip into her plum-colored dressing gown, sit by the window, and look at the lights flickering in the hamlet below. The other window overlooked the moors and was as dark as a sea after the sun set.

India was surprised one evening when she was looking out this window and spied an orange glow in the distance. She assumed it was the bonfire from one of Colm’s meetings. The dancing light reminded her of All Hallows Eve that night so long ago at Cragmere Ruins. Bonfires always stirred India’s Celtic blood. It brought to her mind images of pagan rituals and primeval rites. She stood in the window with the breeze moving her hair and her light dressing gown.