The Sword of the Banshee by Amanda Hughes

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.
     
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    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