Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (22 page)

Chapter 21

“The future is not ours to know, and it may never be. So let us live and give our best, and give it lavishly.”

Old Irish saying

“Ye’ve been here before.” Brigid’s statement sounded more like a question.

“Many times.”

Brigid and the poet fell in line with other small crafts and waited to disembark. Crowds of people bunched together on the riverbank like wild berries. Brigid and her escort clambered out of their leather boat.

The poet chatted with some men and then fell in step with her. “The bishops from Patrick’s church have traveled in large boats down the coast. We’ve arrived late. The boatman tells me the church leaders will depart tomorrow.”

Brigid adjusted her outer garment on her shoulders. “Well, then, we’ll have to find Bishop Mel right away.”

A boy toting rolls of parchments pointed them toward a large tent. Its white sail-like covering flapped endlessly in the salty air. Inside, several men stood examining a scroll and speaking softly to each other. The men in long robes paused, looked at the newcomers, and acknowledged the poet.

The poet dipped low, brushing his green cloak on the tent’s sandy floor. He spread out his arm toward her. “Here is Brigid of Ireland. She has no clan, no allegiance to any place. She seeks to do her work all over our green isle.”

He was right, although she hadn’t thought of the difference her mission would make in her title.

The men waved them closer. The oldest and tallest stood in the center of the gathering. His robes were similar to Conleth’s but graced with more embroidery. She wondered what the holy men would think if they saw little children at play wearing patches of cloth matching the bishop’s robes.

The head bishop spoke. “I am Bishop Mel of Ardagh, but I too travel all of Ireland. I have heard of the wondrous faith of this woman.” He smiled at her. “What is it that you seek?”

The room was as snug as any cabin. The cloth walls were anchored and did not give way when a squall from the sea struck them. Brigid plunged to her knees in front of the men. “I wish the church’s blessing on my work. I devote my life to Jesus and become his bride only.”

In the midst of the quietness, a low roar built, growing in intensity until Brigid cupped her hands over her ears. She huddled on the ground and never glanced up because the noise was in her head.

Gradually the rushing clamor ceased. The men’s footsteps rustled and Bishop Mel spoke in Latin. He consecrated her as a bishop and asked her to rise. As soon as the poet extended his hand toward her, the men began bickering.

“She is a woman, Bishop Mel.”

The bishop smiled at his counterpart. “I am well aware of that. What has happened, the Lord intended. Did ye not see the flame of the Holy Spirit rest on her head?”

The discussion continued. Brigid didn’t know what to say or do. Did she have the church’s blessing, and their aid, or not? Finally, Bishop Mel held up his hands. “It is done.” He studied her and cocked his head. “Sister Brigid, your eye is healed.”

She touched her face. It was no longer swollen. She turned to the poet and pulled away the linen covering the wound. He laughed and smiled. It
was
true. Now that she had given her life wholly to the Lord in front of these men, God had restored her.

The bishop tapped her shoulder. “Where will you do the Lord’s work? When you do not travel, that is.”

“At the Cell of the Oak. Brothers and sisters in the Lord are busy building a house.”

Bishop Mel’s countenance beamed and her memory of Patrick’s kind face seemed to merge into his, like shape-shifting. Pagans believed gods could merge from one being into another, from a man to a bird or some such thing. Brigid rubbed her eyes. There was a plausible explanation. Perhaps she
had
seen Patrick in him. They were related, she’d heard. There would be clan similarities.

She muttered a prayer.
Lord, have mercy.

He waved his hand, and his silky robe brushing against her hair sent a tingle down to her toes. He remained a bishop, no change.
Lord, help me to think only of you and not of ridiculous superstitions.

Bishop Mel sent his sleeve sailing over her head a second time. “Then you shall have the authority of bishop over the Cell of the Oak. It’s God’s will for you, Brigid of Ireland.”

The poet plucked his harp and sang. They were escorted to another tent and supplied with food, quills, pestles for grinding ink, rolls of parchment, and a two-wheeled cart to pull it all home. The poet stored the bounty in his own shelter while Brigid found lodging with a family living along the banks of the river.

Once they were settled, Brigid’s hostess, a kind woman bearing thirty summers, asked about her companion. “Dear Brigid, bring yer escort to sup with us. He must be very hungry.” The poet joined them at a long plank table for oats and stew made with lamb’s meat. Not long after they began to feast, the walls rattled and tin mugs danced on the table. The thundering hoofs of dozens of horses rang in their ears.

“Raid!” The host’s son bolted from the table.

The residents scrambled to free themselves from the confines of the small room, sending ale and tea splashing across wooden plates of bread and broth. By the time Brigid joined them outside, the intruders had left. She heard them whooping amid the calls of the cattle they drove away.

“We’ll be ruined!” the woman of the house wailed. “We’ve nothing left but the food on our table and our mounts,” another complained.

Brigid whispered to the poet. “We can catch up to them if we borrow horses.”

Her companion didn’t question her, though she wouldn’t have blamed him. How could one man and a wisp of a woman call back those cattle rustlers? She held onto a thought: With God, all things are possible.

They caught up to the men as they were crossing the river. The cattle protested as they were driven into the water. Brigid, the poet, and her host who had ridden alongside them, watched. A small contingent of servants waited nearby.

One by one the men stripped their clothing and tied their garments and their shoes to the beasts’ backs.

The poet chuckled. “Think that will keep them dry? Might as well see them all drown and then collect the cattle. The animals are smarter than the thieves who took them.”

The raiding party managed to drive the cattle midway into the river when the beasts halted. The cows turned their heads in Brigid’s direction and swam back. Once they climbed ashore, they stampeded in the direction of their owner’s home, the naked cattle rustlers scrambling after them, trying to snatch back their clothes in vain.

The owner’s workers held the men at spear point. Brigid intervened. “These men should do penitence for their crime. Send them to the Cell of the Oak. There is much work to be done there.”

The owner’s head servant agreed to send for a wagon and drive them there as soon as they dried out.

Brigid and the poet continued their journey, this time employing the service of a large craft to carry all their supplies. After they crossed the river and collected their horses, the poet broke his usual silence. “’Twas wise, what ye did back there.”

Brigid smiled and used her cloak as a shield against the evening cool. “Men may think cattle are their most valuable possession, but life should be cherished the most.”

“There are some who think the punishment is not severe enough. Stealing cattle is a serious offense.”

“The laird received his cattle back. The raiders have been humiliated, poet. To stroll stark naked among the people is indeed punishment. And now they must work for me. And hard they will labor, too.”

They continued to travel along the riverbank until they reached the widest part where the poet departed from her. He called to her before she turned away. “I will report these things to Ardan, as I have promised to do. But do not fear, Brigid. Ardan has no power that is lasting.”

She remembered what her friend Brian used to say. “I fear only one Master.”

Brigid made the sign of the cross over her chest, and the poet bowed his head. He rode toward the sunset, his black mane streaming behind him.

What did Ardan have planned?
Oh, God, protect yer children and give us strength for whatever we must endure.

Ardan spotted the poet approaching the castle. He had watched every night for the man, wondering if he was ever going to return from his visit with Brigid. He had begun to doubt his decision in sending the young poet, but the lad had finally returned and would now give a full report.

Ardan bolted from the castle’s lookout tower and flew down the stone steps to the interior hallway. He snatched a guard from the king’s doorway and pulled the man’s ear toward his lips. “’Tis urgent to tell King Dunlaing that the poet has returned.”

The guard’s face drained of color, and he vanished inside the king’s chamber.

If only they feared me like they do a poet of satire.

Moments later the man returned. “Fetch the other druids immediately,” Ardan told him, thinking a council would be more persuasive.

Receiving the expected summons to the king’s chambers, Ardan was followed by a cluster of men he’d hand-selected. Superior in spiritual insight, the group would speak the truth of what the gods were revealing, if Ardan asked them to, and the king would be impressed. The poet, a man who rarely spoke but rather sang most of his message, trailed behind. Rebellious at times, the man who would only be called “poet” chose a bard’s green attire rather than the snowy robes of a priest. The poet was important, however. Ardan sensed the gods were with him.

Dunlaing hovered over a game board. The druid council was introduced, and the king dropped a game piece to the floor where it rattled around until coming to rest near the table leg. “Whatever Brigid is doing must be of utmost importance to disrupt me.”

Ardan wished he had interrupted the king at some other activity. The man delighted in his amusement and would be distracted. Flattery might help. “King Dunlaing, I see yer intelligence has been too much of a challenge for yer opponent – once again.”

The king turned toward the servant sitting at the game board. “’Tis true?”

The servant bowed his head.

Dunlaing grinned and flicked his hand at the servant who scampered off like a frightened mouse. “Well, Ardan, I suppose I can hear the poet now. It would not please the gods to ignore a poet, would it?”

Ardan sucked in air. “Nay, it would not.”

The poet was announced and strolled into the king’s presence carrying his harp.

The king extended his scepter. “What say ye, poet?”

The man bowed his dark head and then turned to Ardan. “I have followed the woman Brigid for many days.”

Ardan could stand the suspense no longer. This young bard spoke so slowly, dishing out each word as though they were precious jewels. “Well, do the people follow her, poet? Do they bow to her King?”

Dunlaing jumped to his feet. “What king?”

The poet hummed and sang out, “They call him the King of the Jews, but he’s King of the people everywhere.”

“What is this?” Dunlaing’s face grew red. He clenched his fingers into tight fists.

Ardan hurried to his side. “King, ’tis only what they call their god.”

“Their god is their king?” Dunlaing glanced at Ardan and then the poet, his eyes searching first one and then the other. He seemed to be collecting all the messages the druids had delivered and setting them in place like game pieces.

Ardan drew his expression as stern as he could. “Aye. They will soon follow no other, I fear.”

The poet sang of Brigid’s exploits, of the healing of her eye, of a flame of fire that appeared over her head during the blessing of a bishop. He told of naked cattle rustlers whom she helped catch. “And then,” he sang, “I saw another miracle she did not see.”

All of the druids had been mute during the meeting, but now one spoke. “Nonsense. No one does miracles they are not aware of.”

The poet laid down his harp. “Oh, yer mistaken. On the way we stopped to see Old Conleth.”

Ardan rolled his eyes. “What has this to do with Brigid?” “Much. And I will tell ye.” He spun around like a seanachaidh weaving a tale, engaging every listener. It was his gift, and he performed well. The poet pointed to his face. “I saw these things with my own eyes.”