Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter 5

“If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!”

Ecclesiastes 4:10

Brigid broke free of the masses and ran aimlessly across the open meadow. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the people disappearing into the woods. “Nay, wait! Where are you going? I need help.”

No one answered. She couldn’t help them. They wouldn’t help her.

What about the king? Brigid hurried back toward the limestone gates. “Sire? May I come in? I’ve nowhere to stay the night.”

A guard appeared. His red beard was barely visible beneath his headgear. She couldn’t see his eyes. “Off with ye! The king has no use for ye.”

“But please, can I not come in for one night? Will the king not show mercy to a traveler?”

The guard laughed and lifted his helmet to spit. “What? And have the whole lot of them filling every corner of the castle?” He spun on his heels and disappeared back into the fortress.

What now? She glanced in the direction the people had gone. They went somewhere. There must be a camp nearby. Those people likely begged from all the king’s visitors. The sky was graying. A wolf howled.

Brigid found a group of peasants huddled around a fire, attired in ill-fitting, shaggy clothing. Her tailored clothes and shoes, although standard for a slave, made her stand out like a fox in a sheep pen.

“Whatcha doing here?” an elderly woman barked. “Did yer husband kick ye out of yer home?”

“Wait a minute,” a man, likely her old husband, said. “Heard there was a slave let free at the castle. Ye must be her, aye?”

Brigid stepped back from the fire.

“Ye’ll not be eating our food,” someone snapped.

Brigid sniffed. They were cooking a wild boar on a spit. She had been too distraught to notice at first. “Nay, I don’t need food. Just shelter.”

A middle-aged man with a bare circle of scalp surrounded by black hair answered. “The trees offer shelter. Have ye made yer offering?”

Pagans.
She had forgotten for a moment that there’d likely be no Christian charity in this group. “I worship the God Patrick teaches of.”

The balding man sniffed. “Oh, do ye now? Well, I hear tell Patrick has passed on.”

Hushed voices spread around the ring of people. Nearly everyone at Glasgleann had heard of Patrick, even the visitors. Some thought he was a druid, but he was widely respected.

Brigid pulled her cloak up against the sudden chill and stepped forward. “How do ye know this?”

“Heard it from the abbot up in Dunshaughlin.”

A woman pushed Brigid toward the fire and wiggled around her. Her eyes watered, and she drew a hand to her mouth. She addressed the man who had spoken. “Donal, are ye sure ’bout this?”

“Aye, Maire. As sure as rain, I am. All those Christians up there are moaning and grieving. Seems they don’t believe in the next life.”

Brigid listened carefully. The focus was now off her, and she wondered if some in the crowd might be Christian after all.

The woman, not much older than Brigid, exchanged places with some of the men so she could converse with the balding one who had given the news. Brigid followed as closely as she could.

“Christians believe in the next life, Donal, but not in the Tuatha De Danann.”

The others backed away, their eyes wide. The woman was speaking about the supposed tribe living beneath the surface of the earth and in the depths of lakes – pagan beliefs.

The man answered. “Aye, Maire. But if they’d be wise to the Tuatha De Danann, they’d know their beloved Patrick was not far away, nor are any of us from the Other Side.”

Maire and Donal were the only two left standing near the roasted boar. Talk of the spiritual Otherworld had chased the rest into the shadows. Maire and Donal didn’t seem to notice Brigid so she remained close. Clearly Maire was either a Christian or a sympathizer.

“None of us is far from death, aye, true enough,” Maire said. “We have hope in Jesus that we’ll be reunited with Patrick one day in heaven.”

“Heaven is for birds.”

“’Tis not the sky I speak of. ’Tis a far better place.”

“That so? Well, then, tell me why they’re all carrying on so ’bout his death.”

Maire poked the meat with a stick to test its progress.

“The work’s not done. We, all the saints, know we must carry on for him and it will not be easy.”

We.
The woman had said “
We.
” She was a fellow believer! Brigid tapped her on the arm. “I am one who mourns Patrick and will help carry on for him.”

The woman turned to her. “If it is truly yer desire to do the Lord’s work, ye may stay in my house. But not for long.”

Brigid didn’t ask questions. She followed Maire into the deep woods – the darkness shrouded their surroundings. Before long they arrived at the door of a small thatched cottage.

Maire whispered, “My husband’s not a believer, lass. Ye’ll not be able to stay long. ’Tis a wee bit crowded. We all sleep back to back. But I can offer ye some broth, unless ye want to bargain with the others for meat.”

“Yer so kind. Broth is fine.”

Brigid held her breath when they entered. Human sweat mixed with smoke from an ill-vented fire created a rank odor that made her cover her mouth with her hand. There were mounds of sleeping bodies, covered in thin blankets. She had to step over them to reach the fire ring.

“They’re sick.” Maire took a scoopful from the kettle over the fire and held a mug out to Brigid.

“Thank ye.” The broth was watery and contained but a few slivers of turnips. Cook’s mutton broth would be only memory now. While Brigid sipped, Maire prepared a place for her on the floor.

“Sit here by the fire. I’ll give ye some mending so my good husband knows yer worth yer keep.”

“Aye, I don’t mind at all.” Brigid lowered herself to the floor and studied the person closest to her. In the faint glow of the fire, she thought the face she stared at might be stricken with leprosy.

Maire drew a piece of cloth up around the sleeping person’s face. “Don’t look. And don’t be speaking ’bout it. ’Tis my own sweet Aine. If my husband finds out she’s been stricken, he’ll throw her out, no matter if she’s his own flesh.”

“I understand.” Brigid understood all too well.

The door crashed open and the sleeping bodies groaned. “Stop yer whining! ’Tis only by my woman’s good graces yer out of the weather.”

Clearly the master had arrived home.

“Ye’d better have yer rent now or out with ye!” He glared toward the fire where Brigid busied herself with the mending Maire had just thrown into her lap. “What’s this, Maire? We’ve no more room.”

“Dear, ’tis only for a few days. And she’s helping out, see?” He grumbled in a way that reminded Brigid of Dubthach.

She could not stay under the roof of another man like that for long.

By the time Brigid woke the next morning, the boarders had left, as had the master.

“He’ll be back for supper.” Maire had freshened up and she looked lovely for one so poor. Her raven hair was pulled away from her face and held in place with two combs made of bone. Her dress, though ragged, was clean.

Brigid struggled to tidy up with the bit of water Maire had brought her. She splashed it on her face and ran her fingers through her hair. “What will ye do about Aine?”

“I… don’t know. I prayed God would send the answer. She’s only six summers old now. I… I think she’s supposed to go with ye.”

“With me? I don’t know where I’m going myself.”

“Go to Aghade. My brother’s a monk there.” Maire removed a leather bag from a cupboard and placed a folded tunic inside. Then she tucked in some parchment bags of grain.

Brigid was only nine summers older than little Aine, maybe ten. She’d never traveled other than going to the seashore. Not that she could remember, and certainly never alone. “But I don’t know how. I mean… I’ve never been there.” “’Tis not hard. Travel by day. I’ll tell ye where the landmarks are. Please, Brigid. Otherwise my Aine will be turned to the wolves.”

Brigid sighed. She was looking for help from Christians and instead she herself was called to service. But leave a little lassie to the wolves? Of course she had to help.

“Please, Brigid. God will direct. If ye believed in Patrick’s words, then ye’ll do this for his people.”

For his people.
The words still rang in Brigid’s ears when she left the cottage with Aine bundled at her side. Patrick was not Irish, but he, like her, had been a slave on this isle. Long after he was freed, after his formal training with the church, he had returned because the voices of the Irish called to him in a dream. Brigid clearly remembered him saying so when she visited him with Cook. He was speaking to hundreds of people that day, but perhaps he had really been speaking only to her.

Chapter
6

“He who loses money, loses much; he who loses a friend, loses more; he who loses faith, loses all.”

Old Irish saying

“Don’t cry, child.” Brigid knew no words to comfort little Aine. She herself had been forced to leave her mother when she was such a young lass. The similarity in their situations made Brigid shiver. This young one had a heartless father as well.

Maire had given Brigid directions to head south and follow the river Slaney. At the ford, she was to cross and keep her eyes on the horizon. She was warned the forest would be thick, but if she looked, she’d find the habitation.

“Hurry along, child. We must not be on the road after dusk.” The sun was still high, thankfully warm, but Brigid knew the hours would slip away like so many grains of sand in her fingers. If they didn’t reach the monks’ shelter by nightfall, they’d have to fend for themselves in the forest. Something she had never done before.

A voice from beside the path rang out. “Yer kind Brigid, are ye not?”

A cackle of people popped from the woods. “We’ve heard tale ye can produce food from nothing at all.” They circled Brigid and the sick lass, chanting to their gods and reaching out their arms.

“I’ve nothing to give. Please, leave us.”

“Ye need nothing, lass. We know what magic ye can produce. If only ye will.” A man with a face like weathered bark jutted his finger toward her and joined the others, surrounding her like hawks closing in on mice.

“They must be mad from hunger,” she whispered to Aine who had begun to whimper and hide her face.

“Give us some bread.” “An egg will do.” “Have ye no pity?”

The people’s demands evolved into curses and pleas to their gods to rain down troubles.

“Nay, please! I’ll pray for ye. I can do that. God will provide what he pleases.” Brigid could not pry Aine from her side so she pulled her down to the ground with her. Rocks in the path cut into her knees as she cried out, “Merciful Father! See these yer starving children. Feed them with earthly food and with living water. If any desire, let them ask about yer kindness.”

The pagans’ chants quieted. Brigid continued to pray with her hands on the hood of Aine’s cloak. When she opened her eyes, the people were gone. Why? Brigid’s eyes lighted on a fragment of bread, then another. Had God fed them? “Oh, praise the Father.”

“Miz Brigid? My hands. Look!”

Brigid brushed Aine’s black cloak away from her arms. “Dear one! Ye’ve got no more marks.”

The girl lifted her head. She had no signs of the disease that had plagued her. “Oh, praise the Father even more! Ye can return to yer mother.”

Aine collapsed into a heap on the road, sobbing. “Nay, Miz Brigid, I cannot.”

Brigid scooped the wee one into her arms. “Why not, child? Yer healed. Yer father will welcome ye.”

“He’ll not. And my mother has sent me off. I must work for my uncle as she said.”

“Oh, nay. I’m sure she’d want ye… ”

“There she is!” A rustling arose from the forest.

Brigid pulled the girl to her feet. “We must go. Climb on my back. They’ve brought others.”

Even carrying a child, Brigid outran the masses. The people were emaciated and could not keep up.
The poor will always be with us.
The truth was sad enough. Perhaps there was not enough food in all of Ireland to satisfy those who roamed the wilderness.

Much later Brigid stopped to rest. “When we get to Aghade, I’ll send word back to yer mother about yer healing. She can come for ye. I’m sure she will, Aine.”

The girl’s hair was dirty and matted. Brigid couldn’t detect its true color. “Would ye like to wash in the river, child?”

“Well, I’m not sure if… well, my mother has said there are no gods in the river who’ll hurt me.”

“Of course not.”

“But my father… he says beneath the rushing water live the gods of the Otherworld.”

“The Tuatha De Danann.”

Aine’s eyes became as large as goose eggs. “Ye believe it, then? And still ye ask me to wash?”

“Ah, nay, dear Aine. I know most believe there are frightful spirits under the waters. There’s evil all right, but not in the river.”

“Where, then?”

“In the hearts of some men.” “Men?”

“Aye. Some women also perhaps. But ye’ve nothing to fear from washing the filth from ye in the river. God created the river. ’Tis not evil.”

Aine smiled, revealing a simplicity that only children possess. The lass was beginning to trust her. Brigid watched as the child lumbered off toward the water.

“Careful, now. Do not wander too far off.”

“’Tis not deep, Miz Brigid. Up there I can see a place to cross.”

The ford.
Praise the Lord. They’d made it.

The habitation could be seen through the trees, but as Maire said, one had to look. The series of buildings built from fallen trees looked at first glance like shelters for pine martens or weasels. They so blended into the landscape that Brigid wondered what the monks were hiding from. There were so many people who needed to know about the love of Jesus. Why had God’s people obscured themselves in the woods?

“My uncle’s name is Cillian. He reads words out of marks. Mother said he’d teach me. I need to stay with him, Miz Brigid – so I can learn. Please don’t send me back to my mother yet.” “Ye mean he writes?” Brigid longed to learn also.

The lass, her brown hair still damp, shrugged her shoulders. “I believe so. Anyway, he’s going to teach me.”

“Cillian. Aye, ’tis as yer mother told me. Said I’m to put ye into his service for a time. Is that what ye want, child?”

“Aye. To learn to speak those marks and to… write, as ye said. My mother says I can become wiser than any druid. Says my uncle has God’s words on parchment.”

The rude huts were only paces away. Brigid was not sure how to introduce herself. The monks would not be expecting her or this child. She had no choice, nowhere to go. Surely men of God would not turn them out.

Just as they were about to approach some men huddled in the center of the settlement, Brigid stopped short. “They might be praying. Let’s wait.” She pulled Aine over to a pile of chopped wood. They sat and waited. Minutes passed, but the men did not move.

Aine leaned in to whisper. “How much longer?”

“I don’t know, little miss. Prayers can take as long as one… ” A gray blur of fur streaked in front of them. Without warning a wolf leaped into the clearing. His eyes were wild and spittle dripped from his long white teeth. Aine let out a scream and the monks faced them and gasped.

Brigid pulled the lass behind her and held out a hand toward the animal. “There now. What have ye come looking for? Has a hunter scared ye?”

“Woman!” a monk shouted. “Are ye so crazy as to talk to a wolf? Philib, man, fetch the spear.”

“Nay. There’s no need.” Brigid kept her eyes on the animal. “He’s frightened, that’s all. Can ye not see that?” The wolf lowered its eyes to the ground and stepped toward her like a camp puppy. “’Tis fine now, wolf. Yer safe here.”

“Safe? Are ye mad?” The monk who had spoken earlier stood with the others near a fire. He reached for a torch to light, all the while keeping his eyes on the wolf.

“Someone’s hunting him. Hide him in yer dwelling.” The monks looked at each other.

Brigid stared at the one who seemed to be in charge. “Ye’d better do it now before it’s too late. If the wolf feels cornered, he’ll tear us all apart.”

“Do as she says,” he ordered.

The men held open the pelt door of one cloister, and the animal ducked inside.

The one called Philib waved his hand in front of his chest. “Now what?”

Hoofbeats held off the answer. Four riders emerged from the woods with painted spears. “Seen a wolf?”

“I’ve seen many,” the head monk answered.

The men rode off in pursuit of distant howls. As soon as they were out of sight, Brigid released the animal. He disappeared as quickly as he had come.

The head monk marched up to her. By his thinning hair she judged him to be in his fourth decade of life. “Now I must ask, young woman, who are ye to have such rapport with the creatures of the wild?”

Aine answered. “Kind Brigid. She’s bringing me to my uncle Cillian.”

The monk knelt beside the girl. “And ye’ve found me, Aine.”

Brigid and Aine were treated to a fine meal of boiled beef – a gift from a visitor, they were told.

Cillian poured ale and then reclined on a straw mat. Other monks busied themselves with manuscripts in their private dwellings. “My sister vowed the day that little Aine was born that she’d send the girl to me for training. Seems that day has finally come.”

“I was sick, uncle.” “Oh?”

Brigid explained. “She had sores, boils. It was pitiful. Her mother sent her to ye to hide her from her father.”

Cillian reached for Aine who scuttled to his side. He brushed back her nearly-dry golden-brown tresses. “I see no marks at all.”

“Brigid prayed for me, uncle. On our trip here. There were terrible hungry people who pulled at our cloaks.” Aine went on to detail their adventure as though she were a bard with a harp entertaining a crowd with legends and song. That one had the gift of storytelling.

Cillian cast Brigid a long look while speaking to his niece. “Seems this young woman has healing gifts from our Lord along with the ability to tame wild animals.”

Aine giggled. “Aye, she does. Can she stay, uncle? Ye can teach her to read marks, too.”

“I’d be pleased. We’ve got an empty dwelling suitable for ye both.”