Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (20 page)

Brocca tugged at Brigid’s sleeve. “I understand, Brigid, that ye labor for the Lord. That does not mean ye cannot… ” She shielded her mouth with her hand to keep her words private. “Marry.”

“Maither, shall we speak of this later?” Brigid cleared her dishes and headed for the solitude of the oak.

“Wait for me.” Brocca followed, her bread still cradled in her hand. “We’ll feed the birds together.”

Brigid laughed. She longed to feed all of Ireland and her mother threw crumbs to the birds. Brocca didn’t seem as driven as Brigid to touch everyone possible. Brocca was content in the space that she could cover with one swirl of her cloak. They were different in that way.

Brigid and her mother sat quietly, sometimes nibbling on the bread, sometimes tossing pieces to waiting sparrows. Perhaps they had run out of things to talk about.

When the time felt right, Brigid told her mother what was on her heart. “I’m praying that God will make me ugly, maither. So that no man will want me before I visit the bishop and devote my life to the Lord.”

“Oh, nay, Brigid. Yer beautiful, even to one with no sight. And ye
have
given yer life to the Lord. Everyone knows that.”

“’Tis not enough. I want to build a school of learning and place of worship here at the Cell of the Oak. That’s what we’ll call the place, maither.”

Tears streamed down Brocca’s face.

Brigid brushed them away with the back of her palm. “What’s wrong? Why do ye cry?”

Brocca held Brigid’s hand against her cheek. “For all these seasons I have never understood. Not until now.”

“Understood what? Why I must become part of the church Patrick served and bring their teachings to the Cell of the Oak?”

“Dear one, I never understood the prophecy at yer birth. Do ye know ’bout it?”

Brigid patted her mother’s hand. “We do not have to speak of this. We can just look to the future.”

More tears spilled from the corners of Brocca’s sightless eyes. “’Tis about the future.”

“Very well. Tell me, then.” Brigid lay down with her head in her mother’s lap and stared up into the branches of the massive tree. Sparrows lingered, hoping for more bread.

“The day ye were born was much like this day, damp but sunny. It was a glorious day and I was so happy.”

Brigid smiled as she watched the tiny birds hop back and forth on the branches like children at play.

“But the night before filled me with terror.” Brigid sat up. “Why?”

Brocca turned toward the sunrays piercing through the branches. She covered her mouth as though she was once again seeing the events she remembered. She flopped her hand back to her lap. “Bram invited a prophet from the woods to visit. I had never seen him before. He stared at me like he knew me. Like he had come specifically to see me.” She sighed. “I suppose he had. His eyes, deep like a peat bog, seemed to pierce my very soul. He declared that ye’d be born the very next day at dawn.” Her voice choked back tears. “Half inside the house, half outside. And wouldn’t ye know, that’s what happened.”

“What’s so terrible ’bout that?” Brigid lay back down and covered herself with a plaid blanket, thinking a nap after the meal would refresh her.

Brocca smiled down at her. “Nothing’s wrong with that. ’Twas not those words that frightened me. ’Twas the other thing he said, and also I was worried that Dubthach had sent him to snatch ye away at birth.”

Brigid shivered and wondered why the horrible man hadn’t done exactly that. He was loathsome enough to have done it for spite.

Brocca twirled a strand of Brigid’s hair between her fingers. “The prophet said ye’d be either a curse or a blessing to Ireland. Don’t ye see, dearie? What yer planning to do here at the Cell of the Oak will fulfill that prophesy. Ye’ll be the blessing, and ’tis much more than my small mind could have ever imagined.”

That night, while the pagans feasted and lit huge outdoor fires, Brigid dreamed she was alone in the forest. A fox came to greet her and did tricks, just as the fox in King Dunlaing’s castle had done long ago. The creature curled up in her lap, and she stroked its silky bronze fur that smelled of spring heather. Suddenly the animal jumped up and nipped her left cheek.

She awoke with a swollen eye.

Brocca padded her fingers over Brigid’s face. “Ye’ve gotten a sickness in yer eye. We must make a poultice.”

They boiled some yarrow over the cooking fire and added several sweet-smelling herbs. The eye burned and itched.

Brocca fussed over her. “Don’t scratch.”

Brigid dropped her hand in her lap. “How did ye know I was going to… ” She bit her lip. Brocca seemed to sense her every move.

“We don’t want the other eye to gather the sick fluid and become swollen also.”

One of the sisters in the Lord entered Brigid’s sleeping chamber, toting more herbs. She dropped them to her feet and gasped.

Brigid hurried to scoop up the precious harvest. “What’s wrong, child?”

“Brigid, yer face is so horribly swollen. Worse than when I saw ye this morn.” The girl turned away from Brigid and busied herself at the cooking fire.

Later that day, even with her left eye covered with a bandage, Brigid’s bloated face drew gasps and looks of horror from everyone she encountered around the building site.

Brocca stayed close to her side. Brigid reached for her hand. “It does not bother me much now. ’Tis good ye cannot see me or ye’d turn away like the others.”

Brocca slipped her palm inside Brigid’s. “Never. A mother’s child is always beautiful to her.”

Brigid’s face was still puffy when a visitor came to see her, saying he’d arrived from King Dunlaing’s castle. An odd fellow wearing a green tunic, he said he was a royal poet. In the evening people flocked to hear his stories while he strummed his harp. He spoke of battles fought long ago, of Queen Medb and her quest for a white bull, of monsters living in the lakes, of upcoming gatherings of Christians by the sea and, one night, he sang a song of Brigid.

Brigid happened to pass by on her way to fetch water from a stream for the new morn’s washing. She’d never sat in on such entertainment, just caught bits and pieces of the stories as she went on her way. This time the poet seemed to wait for her to pass at just the right distance so she’d hear him whisper her name.

She stopped, turned toward the assembly, and set her wooden bucket down at her feet. He never looked directly at her, but paced back and forth, looking every listener in the eye. He set the story of her unusual birth to song and told the people about her as if she were legend. How did he know about her? Had he, in his travels, visited Bram? She’d ask later.

The man’s tone was enthralling. His words flowed in stunning waves of heart-thumping thoughts. His gift to the people was his voice and the melody of words. Such storytelling was the way of the people, Brigid knew, but she longed to write down the tales, the true ones, and teach people to read them, and God’s Scriptures, for themselves.

The tale ended and Brigid continued on to the water’s edge and dipped her bucket into the coolness of the spring. She hadn’t brought a torch, but someone had left a candle burning at the base of two stone pillars. Were those pagan statues? She’d have to remember to order them removed.

The candlelight reflected in the water, casting a blurry image of her face – distorted, but clear enough to reveal the disfigurement. Brigid touched her fingers to her puffy cheek. Words, much sweeter than the poet’s, drifted to her. She heard the Lord’s voice in her head, the memory of what she had once written while living with Cillian in Aghade. She didn’t remember exactly what she had recorded so long ago, but the meaning was unmistakable.

Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord shall be praised.

Praise from men wasn’t important to her, but having God’s favor was.

She hurried back to her sleeping quarters and peeled back the bearskin door. “I have to go see Bishop Mel, maither. At the seashore. The poet’s songs say he will be there soon, so I must go. I will gain the blessing of the church from across the sea, and I will bring back supplies, everything we need to set up our center of learning and worship. When I return, I’ll invite Cillian and his monks from Aghade.” Breathless, she set the washing water down near the door and joined her mother on a straw-stuffed cushion near the now-cold fire ring in the center of the hut.

Brocca reached for Brigid’s hand. “Then I shall go with ye.

“Nay, maither. I want ye to fetch Cook. I’ll send men with ye so that Dubthach will not harm ye.”

“He’ll not harm me. He’s terrified of suffering Bram’s wrath.”

Brigid gripped her mother’s wrists. “Bram. Would he have known that poet?”

“The man visiting with the pagans and playing the harp?” “Aye. Would he have knowledge of Bram?”

“Perhaps. A druid travels much. ’Tis possible. Did ye ask him?”

“I will when I have time.”

Brocca laughed. “Daughter, calm yerself. Yer plans will succeed. There’s no need to rush.”

Brigid turned her mother’s face toward her. “I’m leaving tomorrow. But I must know yer safe. Bram’s threatened curse on Dubthach may not be enough to deter him. Grant me this, maither. Take an army of believers with ye.”

“As ye wish, darlin’.” Brocca reached for her healing herbs stored in a leather pouch around her waist. She untwisted the ties and slipped the purse around Brigid’s neck. “Keep treating the eye with the poultice. Tell me ye will, child.”

Brigid almost wanted the ailment to remain. No man desired a wife with a hideous face, making her work much easier. But she did not want to lose her vision, so she agreed.

The sparrows and thrushes chattered at the first ray of light as Brigid prepared for her journey.

“Who will go with ye?” Brocca clung to her side and rubbed one hand against Brigid’s cheek.

“I need no one. I’ll travel faster that way. I expect to be gone no longer than a few days. Ye’ll be back before I will, of course, but know we’ll be together soon, with all our friends.” “And I shall kill a calf for yer return.” Brocca kissed her daughter’s right cheek.

The poet offered to ride part of the way with Brigid, saying he had to turn westward when they reached the wide river. Brigid didn’t mind. She wanted to ask about Bram and hoped to teach this pagan poet about Christ on the way.

Chapter 19

[The Lord speaking:] “I will take vengeance: I will repay those who deserve it. In due time their feet will slip. Their day of disaster will arrive, their destiny will overtake them.”

Deuteronomy 32:35, New Living Translation

Brigid packed a leather bag with only the barest essentials: a cooking pot, herbs for her eye, and some cheese and brown bread. She tied a dirk to her ankle the way she had seen Cillian do, but her knife would be only for cutting kindling and slicing her cheese. The ride to the river would not be far. From there they would board a boat and sail down the river toward the bay that emptied to the sea. Brigid remembered the place, though through a child’s eyes. Even though Patrick would not be there, she looked forward to the gathering of Christians at the ath, the ford in the river.

The mysterious royal poet met her at the boundary of her property with his harp slung over his shoulder. He looked like a hunter bringing home a prize on his shoulders. “I’ll part with ye at the ath. Immediately after I have a word with Old Conleth.”

The poet’s long black hair blew behind his grass-green robe in the stiff wind. Soon, Brigid hoped, she’d be able to ask about Bram.

The air smelled newly laundered, like a bolt of cloth fresh from a drying rack. Brigid loved the spring season because it gave her a chance to sweep out the cobwebs in her dwelling as well as those in her mind. She was content with silence for the time being.

The poet hummed a tune. Now might be a good time to ask him about the song he had composed about her birth. He paused between notes.

“Poet, how is it that ye know the circumstances of my birth? Were ye there?”

He threw back his black mane and howled with laughter. “What’s so funny?”

He glanced only once at her and then stared down the road. “I must look older than I am.”

She felt her face flush and her sore eye throbbed. “My apologies, poet. Ye must have heard ’bout it from someone.” The man’s eyes were concealed within his cloak. She couldn’t judge his reaction. “Could it have been the druid of Ennis Dun, the ancient Bram?”

He resumed whistling and humming. Had she unknowingly asked him to break some kind of druid’s code? She wished she understood these pagans better.

The grass in the meadow had sprouted the first green stalks of the season. The ground under the horses’ hoofs was slippery. Old Geall had turned out to be a valuable gift from a poor woman, the one whose child Brigid had helped save. The animal served her well. God worked wonders.

Just when she thought the poet had dismissed her comments completely, Brigid heard Bram’s name in the song he hummed.

Old Conleth sought the babe at the house of Bram, Said she was special, of course.

Her birth would be blessing or curse, or curse, Old Conleth said of Brigid’s birth.

Brigid slowed her horse. “Ye
do
know Bram.”

The poet paced his horse alongside. “We have never met.” “Then how is it that ye know this?”

He pushed the mossy-colored wool hood away from his head. “Old Conleth.”

Dunlaing tore the flesh from the bone with one bite, waving away a servant who presented a knife. He chewed as though grinding the meat between his teeth would relieved his angst. The king wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and peered up at Ardan who stood still before him. No one had offered the king’s chief druid a chair.

“Why have ye sent me these advisors? They bring no pleasant news.”

Ardan squeezed his hands together behind his back. “Oh, king, I have yet to interpret their messages for ye. And we have not yet heard back from the poet who visits with Brigid.”

Dunlaing swigged down his ale and glanced up. “I want to hear what the poet has to say, aye. But I heard the others well enough with my own ears.”

Ardan’s palms sweated and the collar of his linen tunic was strangely tight. “I will go to the oak sanctuary, king, and seek the gods’ direction. They will speak to me.”

Dunlaing’s shoulders jiggled, and he spoke between bites of food. “Ye do what ye must, druid. Know this: the astronomer declares that the stars speak of a new king coming to Ireland, and the prophet foresees changes as well. Ye told me these men were masters, did ye not? What can ye say that’s different?”

Ardan closed his eyes. He was a cauldron about to boil over. “The gods will speak, King Dunlaing. Ardan, the great master druid of Leinster, will receive their message and reveal to ye the path to overcoming these forces of change.”

Ardan opened his eyes to find the king smiling.

Dunlaing pushed away his platter. “Then off with ye, Ardan! Do not make the gods wait.”

Ardan flew out of the king’s presence like a songbird freed from a cage. He passed the visiting druids in the corridor. “Go home, ye two. The king has no need for ye, and neither do I.”

He pushed by their surprised faces and stomped out to the stable. He saddled one of the king’s horses – why shouldn’t he have the best? – and made for the sacred oak.

He leaned down to whisper in the horse’s ear, “No one understands the gods. No one but Ardan the Great.”

The late afternoon sun slipped behind clouds, and drizzle coated Ardan’s hands and face and slid down his long cloak like raindrops on forest leaves. He dug his heels into the horse’s hindquarters. “Faster, animal! May the gods curse ye if ye do not bring me to my sanctuary swiftly.”

The massive tree reached out to Ardan like a mother’s arms. He slid from his horse and tied him to an iron ring mounted on a stone pillar. The altar lay waiting with dozens of vessels holding candles. He pulled out his fire rock. “No one commands fire like I do. No one but the gods.”

After lighting all the candles, he sat down on the dirt in front of the altar. He crossed his legs to make his body as small as possible and leaned so close to the ground that his nose nearly furrowed the soil. “Others, hear me now! I call down great curses on the woman called Brigid. May she have no more power to display. And may any king who defies Ardan the Great fall to the same fate.”

He was pleased with the name he had given himself. The words rolled off his tongue sweeter than any poet’s verses. He was great, as mighty as the oak he sat under. The gods were pleased with him, he knew. But he must not tempt them. He left the holy oak to seek a proper animal sacrifice.

The poet led Brigid to the home of the druid called Conleth. He lived alone in a rock house, a pile of boulders actually, in an area not far from the river. Brigid needed to get to the seashore soon, lest she miss the bishop and Patrick’s followers traveling down from the north by way of the sea. Even so, this delay was necessary. She had to meet this man, this mysterious prophet her mother had encountered the night before Brigid was born.

Conleth met them outside and asked that they follow him in. He wore an unusual robe for a druid, embroidered with silk threads in too many colors to count. Brigid noted a pile of identical cloths stacked in a basket near the door.

The old man moved like a timid mouse, hesitating every few steps and gazing back at them. “I’m not used to entertaining visitors.” He motioned for them to sit when they entered a main room furnished only with a few three-legged stools and a sleeping mat.

Brigid smiled at him and touched him gently on the arm. “We won’t be staying long, sir. We are so grateful for yer hospitality.”

He turned his slight frame toward her and cocked his head. He reached out his gnarled fingers and lifted a lock of Brigid’s hair. “Poet, could it be ye’ve brought her to me at long last?”

Brigid stared into the druid’s furrowed face. He was as ancient as Bram. She wanted to look away, but his gaze held her there. Her mouth went dry.

“’Tis the one ye prophesied, Old Conleth.” The poet picked up his harp and resumed the song he had been singing on the way to the cave.

Water in a cauldron blackened by age was boiling over a fire pit, but no one fetched it. Brigid gulped. Had they ensnared her? Did they wish her dead for some reason?

The old man released the strand of hair, letting it drop to her shoulder. “Let me get the tea, child. Tell me, what happened to yer eye?”

She slumped to the ground. “A curse.”

The old man shot the poet a look. “Has her fate been decided, poet? Does Ireland await a curse now?”

Brigid touched her bandage. “I will tell what happened to my eye, but ’twas I who did it.”

The poet strummed his instrument, but ceased singing.

He shook his black locks from his eyes to look at her.

Brigid gazed at the fire. “I want no man to desire me for his wife. I asked the Lord to take away my outward beauty until I make my vows in the presence of the bishop and receive his blessing. I’m on my way to the seashore now.”

The old man poured steaming liquid into a mug and handed it to her. The tea’s aroma soothed her. Old Conleth seemed gentle, and she no longer feared him.

He handed the green-cloaked one a mug. “’Tis good news ye’ve brought me, poet.”

The dark one sipped and hummed.

Brigid’s thoughts swam like a bowl full of minnows. “What does all this mean? Are ye the one who visited my mother the night before I was born?”

The old man’s cracked lips turned upward. “I am.” “So yer a prophet from the woods?”

He lowered his body to his sleeping mat as though doing so caused him some pain. “I was. Now I am a prophet for the Lord.” She lowered her cup. “The Lord? Are ye speaking of the True God, the Creator?” She glanced back at the poet who, having traded his mug for his harp, grinned.

The old man refilled the poet’s cup anyway. “Aye, lass. I was made a bishop by Patrick himself.”

Brigid placed her mug on the dirt floor and clasped her hands. “Oh, praise God! ’Tis a church robe ye wear. Tell me, sir, what did ye mean by saying I’d be a blessing or a curse?”

The old man pointed to the poet. “I suppose that’s why he brought ye here. So ye could discover the answer to that question. That so, poet?”

The younger man set his harp aside. “Ardan sent me to spy on ye, Miz Brigid. He wrongly believed I followed his teachings. Ardan is a great sorcerer, but I never feared him. I was mentored by Old Conleth, and I do the Lord’s work in the woods, with the common people who come to hear my tales.”

Brigid had not expected that revelation. “But ye sing of legends, of gods, of monsters.”

“Do I, now?” He accepted a biscuit from the old man. “Ye do not listen, Brigid. I tell the people the old stories, aye. But I tell them how the Creator is in them. The truth’s what I tell them. That’s all.”

She had judged him too quickly. “Forgive me.”

The old man twisted his stiff neck. “Ardan. He seeks to harm ye.”

Brigid knew that. “Aye, he does. I know not why.”

Conleth and the poet shot each other a look. The old man cleared his throat. “’Tis good ye seek the bishop. He will lay hands on ye and bless yer ministry. But having such a blessing will bring dark forces upon yer head.”

Brigid rubbed her fingers over her chin, though it was her eye that itched. She considered the man’s words. There was a force out there that disapproved of what she was doing. She must brace herself for spiritual battle.

The old man waved his arms toward bats snuggled above. “Poet here shall report to Ardan, truthfully, on what ye do while yer away. We walk in the Light. Is it not so?”

Brigid agreed and continued to sip her hot drink. She remembered the plans the poet had told her about and agreed. “I believe the poet desires to turn westward, however. He was not to accompany me to the gathering.”

The old man blinked. “He will go with ye. He will see great things. And he will sing of them.”

The poet’s black head bobbed. “It will be as ye say.”

The luxurious garments near the door caught her eye again. “May I look at those?”

The old man waved her on. She lifted them from the basket. They were, as she had thought, identical to the garb Old Conleth wore.

Bishop Conleth glanced at the pile of cloth. “Those are all the clothes I have. Given to me by the Roman Church.”

Brigid held up one robe to examine its size. “Do ye know how much these could help someone? I have seen many people with short shirts and gowns who shiver in the cold.”