Saint Brigid's Bones (21 page)

Y
ou did what?”

I had just told Dari about my trip to Lorcan's island. I had never seen her so angry.

“Deirdre, truly, have you lost your mind or do you have some kind of death wish?”

She was stomping up and down the floor of our sleeping quarters. Thankfully no one else was around.

“Dari, calm down. I'm fine.”

“Calm down? Deirdre, you just went to see the most dangerous, bloodthirsty man in Ireland and barely escaped with your life and you want me to calm down?”

“I'm sorry. I know it was reckless, but I was desperate to find the bones. I really thought they were on Lorcan's island. And I thought being a bard and a nun would protect me.”

“Deirdre, you are my best friend and I love you, but this is too much. The bones of Brigid are important, but they are not worth your life!”

“Please don't worry, Dari. I promise I won't take any chances like that again. It was foolish, I know, but I was just trying to help save the monastery. Please forgive me. And please don't tell anyone what I did, especially Father Ailbe or my grandmother.”

“Oh, I'd love to see what your grandmother would do if she found out! That would be a fitting punishment.”

“Dari, please!”

“Fine, Deirdre. But if you ever do anything like this again, I swear I will tell her and everyone else. I mean it.”

She stormed out of the hut and slammed the door behind her. I couldn't really blame her for being so angry. If the roles had been reversed, I would have been furious.

But in spite of the harrowing experience on Lorcan's island, I had learned something important. The abbot and Dúnlaing's sons had indeed tried to hire the outlaw king to steal the bones of Brigid. The letter Cormac's men found must have been instructions to Illann and Ailill about how and when the theft would take place. Whoever the abbot had used to contact Lorcan had been rebuffed by the pirate sometime after he sent the letter to Illann's sons, but the abbot wouldn't give up that easily. He must have arranged for someone else to steal the bones when Lorcan rejected him, but who?

I decided the only path I had left to me was to go to Armagh and confront the abbot himself. Maybe one of the sisters there had seen something and could help me. Dari had grown up with a couple of the Armagh nuns, so I would take her along. Even if the sisters there couldn't help, I had no choice but to go to the abbot. He had to have the bones. There was nowhere else they could be. But how could I force the abbot to confess?
There was no way I could get Lorcan to testify against him to the bishops—he had only told me about the abbot's plan because he expected to kill me before I left his island. Maybe I could threaten the abbot with a satire? He was part of an old Irish royal family. The power of a bard might still mean something to him. If that didn't work, I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to get the bones back from Armagh. I would just have to figure it out when I got there.

The next day it began to snow. This wasn't so strange, since almost every year we would get a flurry in December or January, though by the next day it would always melt and the pastures would be green again. But this time the snow didn't stop or melt since the temperature never rose above freezing. For three days it continued to fall until there was at least a foot on the ground. I decided to postpone my trip to Armagh for a few days. Travel would be impossible with the roads covered in snow.

I remembered the opening lines of a song my grandfather had written:

Listen to the stags bellowing.

It snows in winter,

summer is gone.

For the first week everyone thought the snow was pretty, with the buildings of the monastery covered in a blanket of white and the bare trees outlined with frost. I enjoyed hearing the crunch beneath my feet and watching the children play in what was such a novelty to all of us. But the animals quickly began to grow hungry. The sheep and cattle couldn't reach the grass buried beneath the snow. We had not laid aside enough forage in the barns to feed them since no one had known such
a winter in the past. The weaker animals began to die, and even the strong ones looked thinner by the day. The old people said they had heard that in their grandparents' day snow had once covered the ground for weeks, but they had always dismissed it as a tall tale. Now we all began to fear those dark days had returned. The last lines of my grandfather's poem seemed to be coming true:

The cold has seized

the wings of birds.

A time of ice has come.

The snow continued to fall in the last few days before Christmas. It was now so deep that it was difficult to walk across the monastery yard except where we had shoveled paths. The food supplies were running so low even before the snow that we had sent home the students who lived near Kildare, promising they could return soon. Bread was served at dinner only once a week along with our thin twice-daily porridge. The sisters and the brothers had all agreed to give their own bread rations to the widows and schoolchildren from distant homes who remained behind.

When I came back into the yard from morning prayers on Christmas Eve, I saw an unexpected sight. Two men were driving a wagon loaded with barrels into the monastery followed by two fat cows tied to the rear. Behind them was a man on horseback. There was so much glare from the sun on the snow that I couldn't tell at first who it was, but then I heard a familiar voice.

“Ho, Deirdre! Beware of Greeks or Leinstermen bearing gifts.”

It was Cormac astride a fine black riding mare, large and broad-chested with a silver bridle and multi-colored blanket on its back. The animal must have cost him a fortune.

“Do you like the new mare?” he asked. “She's so beautiful! I bought her from a Spanish merchant. I won't even tell you what I had to pay.”

He jumped off his horse in one easy motion and warmly embraced me in front of the church. As I held him tightly, I saw Eithne across the yard staring at us from the widows' hut. I quickly let go of Cormac.

“Cormac,” I asked, “is all this for us?”

“Yes indeed,” he said. “I don't know if it will feed everyone until spring, but it should help.”

Sister Anna and Father Ailbe came out of the church at that moment. Cormac greeted the abbess first.

“Sister Anna,” he said bowing from the waist before her, “it's wonderful to see you again. May I present to you and the monastery a few gifts from my kingdom at Glendalough. It's not as much as I would like to give, but three of the barrels are full of grain and the other one has cheese. Both of the cows are pregnant and should give birth in the spring. They are an inadequate payment for all that you and the monastery of Kildare did for me while I was growing up, but I hope you will accept them.”

“Thank you, King Cormac. Your generosity is overwhelming in our time of need. We most graciously accept your donations.”

Cormac turned to Father Ailbe and bowed again, then embraced him like the prodigal son returned home.

“Father, you're looking well,”

Cormac then lowered his eyes.

“I beg your forgiveness for not coming to visit the last few years. I can only plead that my own father has long been ill and the daily governance of our small kingdom fell upon my poor shoulders.”

I could tell Father Ailbe was pleased to see Cormac again. I felt a familiar pang of jealousy. All during our school years I
had competed with Cormac to be Father Ailbe's best student. And although he never showed favoritism, I couldn't help but feel that Father Ailbe saw Cormac as the son he never had.

“King Cormac, you bring joy to an old man's heart with your return. I hope you have time to stay a few days so we can talk at length.”

“Father Ailbe, Sister Anna, please, you both always called me by my given name and it seems strange to hear any title in front of it from your lips. To you, let me always be just Cormac, whom you taught so well. As for the length of my visit, I'm afraid I must return home early tomorrow morning. My people are struggling with this terrible weather, as is everyone in Ireland, and I must do what I can to help them. But, Father, I do hope we can spend some time together this evening. I brought my text of Homer and a jar of Naxian wine. I even managed to procure some Egyptian dates from a Gaulish sea captain who returned recently from Alexandria. I hope you'll share them with me. But for now, I should supervise the unloading of these supplies.”

“You are most gracious,” said Sister Anna. “Sister Deirdre, help our benefactor store these goods in the kitchen. Sister Garwen, take the cows to the barn and see that they're fed. And Cormac—”

“Yes, Sister Anna?”

“I expect to see you in the church tonight for evening prayers.”

“But of course.”

Father Ailbe followed Sister Anna to her hut for what undoubtedly was a discussion about how long the supplies would last. Cormac clapped his hands and directed his men to drive the wagon to the kitchen hut. One of the sisters came forward and took Cormac's horse.

“Was the journey difficult?” I asked as we followed the wagon across the yard.

“It surely was,” he said. “The snow is even worse in the mountains than it is here. My horse handled it easily, but the wagon got stuck more than once and I had to help push it out.”

“Cormac, thank you so much for bringing us the food. I don't mind telling you, we were getting desperate.”

We went into the kitchen and sat down at the table while his men unloaded the barrels, then left us alone together. I brought him a cup of milk.

“I thought you might be needing some food,” he said as he drank. “I was hoping to make a good impression on Sister Anna—and on you.”

“Well, you have.” I leaned across the table and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Have you thought any more about my offer?” he asked.

Before I could answer, I heard a woman's voice from the shadows behind us.

“I wonder what offer he made you?”

I turned and saw Eithne standing near the pantry. She must have come through the back door. Cormac sighed and motioned to a chair.

“Eithne, why don't you join us?”

“I don't think so, Cormac.”

She walked across the room and stood beside the table with her hands on her hips.

“Well?” she looked at Cormac. “You didn't answer my question. What offer did you make her?”

“Eithne,” he said, “this isn't the time. Why don't we talk about it later?”

“Oh, would you like me to come to your quarters tonight? That's the way we did it at Glendalough last summer. We
had several long and intimate conversations, if I remember correctly.”

I looked at her dumbly, then at Cormac.

“Eithne, really—” he started to speak.

“You mean you didn't tell Deirdre? I'm sure she'd be fascinated to hear all about it. Tell her about how I came to you after I buried my parents and asked if you would consider starting a monastery at Glendalough. I knew Kildare was failing even then. It was only a matter of time even before the fire at Sleaty and the theft of Brigid's bones. I asked if you would make me abbess there. I may be a peasant, but at least I'm a member of your own tribe. When I left you said you would consider it. I was fool enough to believe you cared for me, Cormac, like you did long ago. But you tossed me aside for her then and I see you've done it again. Did you offer to put her in charge of your new monastery instead of me?”

Cormac looked at her, not unkindly, but with firmness that belonged to a born king.

“Not exactly, Eithne. I suggested she might oversee a shrine to Brigid in Glendalough, if the bones turned up. But more important than that, I offered to marry her and make her my queen.”

Eithne looked as if Cormac had stabbed her through the heart.

“I think you should leave now, Eithne,” he said. “I need to speak with Deirdre alone.”

I felt sorry for Eithne as she left the kitchen hut, but I had other matters to deal with.

“Cormac,” I said as I rose from the table, “you are the most despicable, duplicitous—“

He stood up and put his hand gently on my shoulder.

“Deirdre, please sit down and listen to me. I think I deserve that.”

I sat on the bench with my arms crossed in front of me and listened.

“Yes,” he said, “Eithne did come to me last summer and suggest starting a new monastery in my valley. It was an idea I had toyed with before, but when she described the details of Kildare's troubles, I began to think about it more seriously. I knew I couldn't do anything while my father was still alive, so I sent her away with a promise that I would consider it.”

“But it seems you enjoyed her company for a while before dismissing her,” I said.

“Yes, I confess I did. I'm not proud of leading a nun into temptation, but Eithne was hardly an unwilling participant. And I remind you, Deirdre, that I hadn't seen you then for several years. You had married, left Fergus, and then joined the monastery here. I had no reason to believe you still cared for me. I did not betray your affections by sleeping with Eithne.”

I remained facing him with my arms crossed. He had a point. We hadn't spoken then for a long time. I hadn't tried to see him or even contact him since I became a nun. I wasn't happy that he'd been with Eithne, but I couldn't exactly blame him either.

“Alright, Cormac, you had your little fling with Eithne. She's not my favorite person in the world, but it's over and done. It is done, isn't it?”

“Yes, Deirdre. Do you want me to take another oath?”

“No, your word will do this time. What I want to know now is why when we spoke after your inauguration, you misled me into thinking that the idea of having a shrine to Brigid in Glendalough was something you had just come up with? You had stolen the plan from Eithne months before.”