Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (17 page)

The man’s teeth chattered. “N-n-n-no, sir.”

Ardan didn’t let go. “I see cowardice in yer eyes. Yer unfit for service. I’ll see to it that yer king knows this.” He patted the man’s ruddy cheek while keeping a grip on his helmet with one hand. “Pity this head will soon be separated from these shoulders. No king can tolerate disobedience. Hearing about it from a visiting king’s head druid… well, that would be an insult. Aenghus will likely order yer head sliced from ye this very day.”

The guard’s lips turned blue. “Oh, please, nay. What do ye want of me, druid?”

Ardan smiled and let go of the man. “Well, I suppose if yer king was not to hear of my visit today, I could be persuaded not to mention yer failings to my king. If King Dunlaing doesn’t hear of it, yer king will not either.”

The man bowed and scurried in front of Ardan as they continued down the hall. Ardan was let into a small room where he found Dunlaing laboring over a board game. His attendant sat opposite him on a low stool. Twin candles hung from the rafters, illuminating the activity while casting shadows around the game.

“I beg to enter the king’s presence.” Ardan stood at the room’s edge. His escort had already left.

Dunlaing turned to look. The attendant’s mouth hung open. He was young. Ardan didn’t remember seeing him before. The lad probably had no idea who had entered the room.

Dunlaing shoved his chair away from the table. “Ardan, what brings ye here today?” His blue eyes appeared gray in the dim light, but the creases at his temples told Ardan the king was in a fine mood.

“I have a matter to discuss. Something of utmost importance.”

The king joined him at the door and held out his signet ring, which Ardan kissed, a custom he detested, but endured. Dunlaing had no real authority in Ireland. Ardan was the one who spoke with the gods, who proclaimed curses when necessary, who won the heart of people. Dunlaing was just a figurehead.

Dunlaing put his arm around Ardan and ordered the young boy out. Just as the lad was leaving, the king hollered, “Bring us some drink, lad! Do ye not see my cherished druid has arrived?”

The boy disappeared down the corridor with a torch and Ardan sat down in a scrolled chair topped with a silk pillow.

Dunlaing resumed his place at the game table, scrutinizing the location of the pieces. “Excuse my new servant, Ardan.

He knows little. When I return to Leinster, I will obtain better attendants.”

Ardan eyed the corners of the room. “It would appear the reigning king has set ye up in better comfort now.”

Dunlaing flipped his bejeweled hand beside his head. “It will do. Now, what business is so important as to interrupt my leisure? I was winning the task at hand, ye know. Just like I’m winning with land negotiations, Ardan.”

The king needed stroking. Ardan bowed his head. “Excellent, king. I’m glad to hear this news.” He had to tolerate several minutes of hearing the king extol his successes.

The attendant brought in a two-handed vase. Ardan recognized the shape of its swollen belly and the carvings on the brass handles. “Does this king not offer ye hospitality that ye have to drink yer own wine while in another man’s castle?’

Dunlaing chuckled, his blue eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Of course he has extended his best for me, druid. I will drink now with you from my own stores.”

Dunlaing was keeping his best from his druid. The thought made Ardan grind his teeth. He sighed and took a sip of the cup. The taste of the sweet wine, a beverage Ardan rarely drank, was wasted on his lips. He took care to set his chalice down gently so as not to give away his annoyance. He needed the king’s help to carry out his plan.

Ardan spoke his rehearsed words, raising his voice in just the right places and leaning his head closer to the king. “Troya was a devoted wife, fully unaware that her husband wandered like a wild boar, taking his pleasure where he willed.”

The king looked away, likely reflecting on his own indiscretions. Ardan continued to play up Troya’s right to have her honor restored.

The king made no comment so Ardan spoke the name he knew would annoy the king most. “When Dubthach’s maid ripened with child, Troya sent her away. But Dubthach later called for the child, a lass named Brigid.”

Ardan took another sip from his cup, this time enjoying the experience. Dunlaing raised his eyebrows.

Ardan had woven the tale as though he were a king’s weaver crafting tightly-bound cloth on a royal loom. Ardan was as talented in bending opinions in his favor as any bard.

Dunlaing made a declaration. “It shall be as ye said. We shall convene the Brehons here tonight in this room.”

Ardan bit his tongue. “But, king, shall we not take the women back to Leinster first?” Ardan had heard rumor that the man called Patrick had converted the king of Munster to Christianity. He would surely be sympathetic to Brigid. Ardan’s intimidation of the guard had hidden the matter thus far, but convening the Brehons at Cashel would require the presence of the reigning king, something that had to be avoided.

“I see no need for that.” Dunlaing clapped his hands together, bringing several servants into the room. “By order of Dunlaing, king of Leinster,” he instructed the young boy he’d sent away earlier, “the Brehons will convene tonight in my chamber. A matter of honor will be decided.”

Ardan was losing control of the situation. “But, king… ” “’Tis the least I can do for ye, druid. And for that woman I previously believed was a burden. She shall have her complaint answered tonight, at long last.”

“But she’s not here, king.” “Ye’ll stand in for her.”

Rain sprayed from late-day clouds. The sky was fringed with shades of purple and gray. Although the shower would not last long, Brigid knew she’d be uncomfortably damp the rest of the evening – and so would her sick mother.

She glanced at the gray figure in the cart. There was not enough daylight left to see her face. “Maither,” she whispered, “how do ye feel?”

Brocca giggled. “Wet, I’d say.”

“Aye. That wicked Ardan, to leave us here with no shelter. ’Tis getting dark.”

“I know it is, darlin’.”

“How do ye know, when ye cannot see the light? ’Tis always night to ye, I suppose.”

Brocca leaned her head back toward Brigid. “Yer eyes have convinced ye they are the only tool ye have with which to learn.”

Brigid shook the rain from her hair. “I don’t know what ye mean.”

“Daughter, think for a moment with me. Close yer eyes.”

There was nothing to look at anyway but dark bulging rocks. “Aye, they’re closed.”

“Fine, then. Point yer head toward the heavens.”

Brigid obeyed and blinked her eyes against the raindrops. “Now, do ye feel the warmth of the sun on yer cheeks?” “Nay.”

“Be quiet. Do ye hear birds?”

“Nay. But, wait, I do hear something.” “I thought ye might.”

Beyond the sound of rain pelting her back and bouncing off the road, Brigid heard squeaking.

“Bats? In the rain?”

“Ye can’t hear them as well as usual, ’tis true. But they are in the trees, waiting for the rain to stop.”

“That’s amazing.”

“We’re not done yet, Brigid. Are yer eyes still closed?”

Brigid squeezed her lids shut. “I’m not looking, though ’tis too dark anyway.”

“Fine. Now, with no sun, how do ye feel?”

“Chilled, maither. Ye must be too. I wish we could hold each other.”

“Don’t think ’bout that. Think only of the way the wind feels on yer skin.”

Brigid held her face toward the sky again. The rain stopped. The breeze on her face was especially damp.

Brocca whispered, “With practice ye’ll be able to tell the tingle of a nighttime wind as opposed to the tickle of a daytime breeze, even if the day is overcast and bleak.”

“Aye.” Brigid wasn’t sure she knew the difference, but she’d try to learn. Her mother still had so much to teach her.

“Maither, what sickness steals yer health?’

“Try not to worry, darlin’. I’m better. Let’s talk of other things. We still have so much to learn about each other. I have missed ye all these seasons. Even though we know not what Ardan has planned for us, I cherish the moments we now have alone in this wagon.”

“As do I.”

“Is there anything ye want to ask me, darlin’?” “Are ye sure yer up to talking, maither?”

A sigh rose from the dark mound where her mother lay with her wrists tied together and bound to the side of the cart. “I am much stronger than I was. ’Tis Troya ye want to talk about, aye?”

Brigid breathed in the evening mist. “I would like to know why she’s concerned about me. And what happened before I was born.”

“At first I did not want to tell ye, daughter. But the Lord whispered into my ear, telling me yer grown now and I
should
tell ye. If yer to meet her soon, ye need to know what evil yer facing.”

“Evil? Is it proper to use such a word? Many people in Ireland are misguided by their fears, but not many are truly evil.”

“Listen carefully, Brigid.” Brocca’s tone turned as quickly as Cook’s had that day long ago when Brigid had asked about her mother.

“I will listen.”

“I am sure I’m not a fair sight today, but ye probably noticed that I’m not many seasons older than ye. I was just barely turned a woman the night ye were conceived.”

Brigid’s throat tightened. Did she really want to hear the story?

Brocca whispered, “I was born a slave and sold into Dubthach’s household. That’s what Cook told me. I never knew my parents. Cook was like a mother to me.”

“And to me.”

“God is gracious even in the midst of dire circumstances, child.”

Brigid longed to hold her mother, but Ardan’s knots held firmly, keeping them apart.

Brocca continued. “Dubthach and Troya had a terrible fight one night. All the servants had gone to bed, but we could hear screaming coming from the master’s quarters. ‘Ye look at the young maidens with lust,’ Troya said. Dubthach shouted back, ‘I do no such thing!’ And so the hollering continued.”

Brigid tugged at the knots holding her prisoner. “He’s a horrible man, maither.”

“I have been over those events many times in my heart, daughter. My blindness has caused me to see with more than my eyes. I know now that at that time, Dubthach was not horrible. He was misguided, as ye say, but not evil. Not like Troya.”

“He’s disgusting!” Tears flowed and Brigid could not wipe them away. “He took me from ye. What more terrible evil could there be?” She felt sick, as though she had just eaten cabbage stew.

“Please, listen, darlin’. I hear the hurt in yer voice, but ye must hear. Dubthach did a terrible thing to me that night, ’tis true. I didn’t know what was happening at first, but by the time I figured it out, it was finished. He had planted the seed that grew into the lovely Brigid.”

Brigid’s voice choked with tears. “So Troya was right. He was lusting.”

“He wept that night and apologized.” “Dubthach? Never.”

“I heard it with my own ears. He said he had never done such a thing before, and would never again. In the years ye lived with him, did ye ever see him abuse a maid?”

Brigid wanted to say yes to prove that he was indeed a monster, but she couldn’t. “He was gruff and stern. He never showed me any love, maither. He treated me like any other servant. He was greedy, too. Always seeking to expand his wealth.”

“Aye, I will not argue that.”

Brigid’s stomach turned and though she heaved, nothing came up. That rotund man with smelly breath and yellow fingernails had touched her mother. How could she bear it now that she had seen for herself just how gentle and loving Brocca was?

“Shh, darlin’. These things happened long ago and God turned them into good. We are together and we are free. The Brehons are just. They will set us free.”

Brocca’s words were fresh green heather in Brigid’s world of dry dirt. “I’m praying to forget, maither. We should plan for the future. We’ll travel and preach, just like Patrick.”

“I would like that, daughter. There are so many in Ireland who need the Light. We must carry on Patrick’s work.”

Brigid was reminded of Maire’s words when she had asked Brigid to take Aine to Cillian. God indeed had intended for Brigid to minister to the lost. That’s why he allowed her to perform miracles. She could now see why God had allowed

Ardan to bring them to the king. They’d be truly set free to begin their work. Her mother’s fear of Dubthach’s old wife made little sense. Perhaps she had been frightened by her because she was so young when she was sent away. Brigid wasn’t afraid.