"I--I suppose,” she stammered.
“Good,” announced Colm.
After giving her an outline, he dashed out the door, and India sat down at the desk to begin writing. She finished an hour later just as he burst into the room demanding the copy.
Her speech convinced the gentleman to donate money to the cause of Irish freedom. They had been so moved by her eloquence that they donated far more than Colm had ever anticipated.
India continued writing his speeches. Every night Colm would give her the main points to include, and she would prepare his talks. India wrote speeches so profoundly moving and persuasive that notables across Ireland and America began to take notice. Funds and support tripled. By late fall, thanks to India Fitzpatrick, Colm was able to fund an entire army for the rebellion.
Chapter 4
India had found her niche at last. She not only composed all of Colm's speeches but began drafting all of his letters too. She obtained benefactors for the cause all over Ireland, and she was wildly successful in the American Colonies. She found patrons from Massachusetts to the Carolinas. One gentleman in Delaware alone funded over one third of their operation. India learned that although Irishmen left their country to find their fortunes elsewhere, they never abandoned hope for an independent homeland.
Every evening she would sit at her desk in whatever manor they happened to be occupying and worked until the candles burned low. She not only courted new sympathizers, but regularly corresponded with current benefactors updating them on the progress of the rebellion. To keep support ongoing, it was necessary for the patrons to see growth and success. Not compromising these benefactor’s identities was important as well, so India employed several cryptology techniques when corresponding with them. She designed a stencil called a mask, concealing it inside a quill which she gifted to the benefactor. She would then post innocuous letters to the patron filled with mundane news, and they could put the mask on top of the letter to reveal secret correspondence about the rebellion. India also began writing codes into music for the pianoforte, but Colm found this foolishness and suspended the project.
The repparees had been very successful in the southern and central counties; blocking landlords from requisitioning land for grazing, harassing troops quartered in Irish homes and obtaining protection money from landholders. It was time to expand to Western Ireland. They started in Galway training sub-groups for the organization then they moved to County Mayo. The Fitzpatrick's changed residence more often now because of the heightened danger. Colm found he had to increase the number of guards to patrol the estates they requisitioned because local authorities were on heightened alert.
The house they occupied in Mayo was a weather-beaten manor located on the North Atlantic, a land of rock, wet peat and thin soil. In spite of the rugged terrain and weather, India walked several times a day. Her woolen cloak did little to shelter her from the damp icy winds and mist blowing off the ocean as she walked late one autumn afternoon. She looked down the rock face at the coves and inlets, sprayed with foam and she shuttered. This was rough country, and she wondered how people survived.
India's path was narrow, bounded by the treacherous waters below and soggy marshes above. She looked inland and spied several cows in the distance starting home for milking. The candlelight in the stone and thatch cottage looked cozy as the animals ambled toward the dwelling. She too decided to turn toward home.
India hopped from one flat stone to the other, jumping over mossy bogs on her way back to the manor. The house was a tall severe structure set back from the coastline. From the upper windows, the sweeping panorama of the sea was visible. India loved this place, finding it wildly beautiful but lonely.
Her skirts were soaked, and her hair fell around her face in tangles when she reached the front door. "Good evening Mr. Peadar," India said to the guard.
He was a large, middle aged man with scars etched on his face like a map. He tipped his hat and opened the door for her. India stepped over the threshold, pulling her gloves off. She walked through the massive hall wishing she had started a fire before leaving. There was just enough daylight left to find her way to the library. After lighting a fire she grabbed a cloth and toweled her hair off, sitting down at her desk with a sigh. She noticed the housekeeper had left her sliced mutton, bread and cheese on a tray.
Tonight after supper India decided to compose a letter to their best patron in the Delaware Colony. She sat back in her chair chewing and mentally composing her letter. She picked up her quill and began to write. She worked late into the night, encrypting large quantities of information about the rebellion into a letter which seemed to be nothing more than news of the day. It was a painstaking process and required intense concentration for hours.
The candles burned low and the fire needed another log when she finally finished her task. Except for her desk, the library was in darkness. She sat back and looked around the room. At last she had grown accustomed to being alone in these large houses. Being busy helped her immensely. If her mind was occupied then her imagination could not plague her.
India straightened up in her chair and stretched from side to side. After sanding her letter, she placed it in an envelope for Colm's approval and stood up. Walking to the window she pulled the heavy drape back. She gazed at the lawns stretching out to the sea. It was a clear night and even though there was no moon, the stars cast a silver glow on the leaves wet with dew.
India needed some fresh air before Colm got home so she decided to take a walk before bed. Pulling on her cloak and gloves, India opened the front door. Marcas Peadar was still there. "My goodness Mr. Peadar," she said. "You are still here. Have you eaten?"
"Aye, Lady Fitzpatrick. That I have," was his reply.
"Well, will your replacement be here soon?" she pressed.
"Aye, milady."
India paused a moment then said, "Well then, I am going to the cliff walk for about twenty minutes."
He tipped his hat, and she set out for the coastline. India liked to walk, especially in the evenings. There were fewer distractions at night, and she seemed more in tune with the rhythm of her footsteps. She thought the cottages in the distance looked pretty with candlelight flickering in the windows. Even though it was a wild and remote place she liked it here by the sea. The steady beat of the waves soothed her. Listening to it kept her from worrying about Colm. India tried not to dwell on the dangers he encountered every night, but she knew violence was a fact of his life. His men were loyal and committed, but it was small consolation when they encountered the well-armed and ruthless British garrisons.
India stopped and looked out to sea. Sometimes it all seemed too much to bear. She wanted to run away, maybe to America to start a new life. She wanted peace and stability, a home and children. Yet, she and Colm were committed to something more important, something fine and worthy that would bring peace and stability to an entire land. Her needs were not important.
She wrapped her cloak more closely around herself and thrust her chin into the air. She must not think of hearth and home anymore. She must bury these thoughts with her children. It was dangerous to dream.
India smiled cynically as she turned back toward the house. It was no wonder they called her the "Ice Queen". Every bit of fire and passion had been snuffed from her soul. Now only lofty ideals and frosty thrones remained.
Suddenly, she felt tired. She pulled herself up the hill toward the manor house. Mr. Peadar was gone from his post, and she was glad. Poor man, perhaps now he can get some rest.
As she approached the steps, she noticed that he had forgotten his pack. The bundle lay across the threshold just inside the open door. As she approached, her heart jumped. It was no bundle at all, but a man lying under the stone archway. In a flash she was on her knees beside the man. It was the guard, Marcas Peadar. When she pulled him toward her, blood spattered her face and gown. India blinked and jumped back in horror. He was still alive, and he clutched her bodice frantically. He was gasping
and gurgling, blood pumping from his neck. Quickly she gathered her cloak pressing it against his throat. The gash was too deep, it soaked the material instantly. India watched helplessly as the life poured out of the man. Suddenly his body relaxed and he was silent.
India stared at him, too stunned to move. Slowly she stood up, holding her palms out, soaked with blood. She looked at the open door, then out toward the woods. She opened her mouth to call for the guards than caught herself. The assault had just occurred. Whoever had killed Mr. Peadar may be in the house at this moment searching for her. She pictured the assassin going from room to room, knife in hand ready to slit her throat. Like a bolt of lightning, India shot down the steps and across the lawns toward the cover of the wood.
Tearing madly through the brush, she dashed into the darkness, running madly and without direction deep into the woods. She began to sob, looking back over her shoulder again and again, but she saw no one. She followed a deer trail yanking her skirts up, jumping over fallen trees, tearing branches back. Suddenly she lost her footing and tumbled down a ravine, rolling head over heels, hitting rocks and razor sharp brambles, ripping her clothes and banging her head. She lay at the bottom, bruised and exhausted. Her head was spinning. When she caught her breath, she listened. She heard the wind rustling the trees, nothing more. She pulled herself to her feet and stumbled on through the brush toward a light in the distance. There was a stabbing pain in her side, and her lungs felt as if they would burst. She continued to run and look over her shoulder. She was so parched that she started gagging. Finally she came to a large clearing with a cottage in the distance. It was the cottage she had seen earlier that day.
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 i
nto 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.”
The Sword of the Banshee Page 4