Saint Brigid's Bones (23 page)

“But what about teaching the children?” I said. “I saw a school next the church.”

She looked at me curiously.

“The brothers teach the boys, Deirdre.”

“But what about the girls?”

“Girls? There aren't any girls in the school. But even if there were, we couldn't teach them. None of us can read.”

“You can't read?” I was astonished. “But that's one of the first things every sister at Kildare is taught if she doesn't know how already when she enters our monastery.”

“That must be wonderful,” Macha sighed. “I've always dreamed of learning how to read. It must be magical to be able to know what the words on a parchment say. I've taught myself a few words from old manuscript pages I've hidden away, but the priests would be angry if they knew what I was doing. They say that women shouldn't be educated, that they'll tell us everything we need to know.”

I had heard things were different at Armagh, but I had no idea they were this bad.

It was Dari who asked the question that had brought us across Ireland.

“Macha, we're so grateful for the hospitality you've shown us. But I was wondering if I might ask you about something that's been troubling us. Have you heard about the theft of the bones of holy Brigid from our monastery?”

Macha nodded. “The priests told us several weeks ago. You can imagine what they said. They claim God allowed it to punish the sisters of Kildare for their sins.”

“Did they?” Dari asked.

“Yes indeed, you sisters are one of their favorite sermon topics. The priests here hold Kildare up as an example of what happens when women reject the order that God has established on earth. They honor Brigid, at least with their words, but they say she was a faithful servant of Patrick who knew her place.”

“What?” I shouted.

“Calm down, Deirdre. The sisters here know the truth about Brigid. The priests can't keep us in the dark, no matter how
hard they might try. Sometimes at night after the candles are out, we'll gather in our quarters to tell stories about Brigid and pray to her. She means a great deal to us, as do all you sisters at Kildare.”

“Macha,” Dari said, “why don't you come back with us to Kildare? You could bring as many of the sisters with you as want. I can't promise an easy path ahead, even with the bones, but we'll find a way to carry on our work.”

“Oh Dari, that's easier said than done. You were the brave one, leaving and going south to Leinster. The nuns here are little better off than slaves, but this is still our home. You get used to a place after a while, no matter how bad it is.”

“But you don't have to stay here. It wasn't easy for me to leave Ulster either, but once I did I found a place where women can make their own way in life—and make a difference. In Kildare we work with, not for, men. We're doing something good there, for the needy, for the children and widows, and for ourselves. It's a new kind of life and you can be a part of it.”

“Dari's right, Macha. Come back with us. We can't promise you anything but hard work, but you can start a new life there. I'll teach you to read myself.”

Macha looked at me and smiled.

“You know, I just might. I'd love to see the abbot's face when he finds out I'm gone. He'll probably dedicate a whole sermon to Macha, the wayward woman led astray by the evil sisters of Kildare. But who cares? Maybe others would join me in time.”

“They would all be welcome,” I said. “But we would have a much brighter future if we could find the bones. Macha, I think the abbot stole them.”

“Really?” she said, shocked. She considered for a moment, “I wouldn't put it past him.”

“I know he tried to get Lorcan to steal them, but that didn't work. He must have found somebody else to do the job. Have
you heard anything from the abbot's men that could tie him to the theft of the bones?”

She considered before answering.

“I'm sorry, Deirdre, I don't think so. We're not around the monks that much except when we're serving them meals. I usually clean the abbot's office, but only when he and his clerk are out. None of the other sisters have said anything to me—and that not the sort of thing any of us would keep to ourselves.”

“Is there anything unusual in his office?” Dari asked. “Maybe something he's trying to keep out of sight, but still big enough to hold the bones.”

“There's a locked chest next to his desk, but it's been there for years.”

“What's inside it?”

“I don't know.”

I thought maybe I could sneak into his office and pry open the chest that night. But there would be hell to pay if I were caught.

“Macha, can you think of anything that might help us?” I asked. “Anything we could use as evidence against the abbot? If only we had something in writing I could bring before the synod of bishops.”

She shook her head. “I wish I could help. I really do. I would love to take the abbot down a few notches, and I don't care if he knows it's me who did it. But they don't usually leave any parchment lying around. I did get some scrap pieces from the clerk's waste bin a few weeks ago, but they just have names and numbers, I think. I've been using them to try to teach myself to read.”

“May I see them,?”

“Sure, they're under my bed.”

She pulled up the straw-filled mattress and handed me some small pieces of rough calf-skin parchment from underneath.
They weren't the carefully prepared sort scribes make for illustrated manuscripts, but leftover pieces quickly done. We used the same kind at Kildare to practice writing in the schools or for our account books. These listed the names of what I assumed were tenants of the monastery and their rents. The final piece also had landholding records written on it, but the material was different. The piece itself was poorly prepared, like something a farmer had cut from a hide and trimmed himself.

“Dari, will you bring me that candle?”

She placed the light on the table next to Macha's bed. I held the parchment up to the candle. There was something odd about it. I turned it onto its side.

“It's a palimpsest,” I said.

“A what?” asked Macha.

“A piece of parchment that's been used before and had the ink letters scraped off with a sharp knife so it could be reused. It saves the time and trouble of making a new writing surface. Macha, can you bring some more candles?”

When five candles had been lit next to each other, I held the parchment just a few inches away. I could barely make out the remains of the old letters crossways to the newer ones on top of them. What lay underneath were not names and numbers but some sort of message. The older letters were hard to read, but fortunately the clerk hadn't been thorough when he scraped them away. The words were crudely written in the Roman alphabet with atrocious spelling:

ABOT—I WENT TO CHIRCH LIK YU TOLD ME—BUT THE BONES WER GONE—DONT NOW HU TOOK THEM—WAT ABOOT MY MONEY?

“What does it say, Deirdre?” asked Dari.

I threw the parchment on the table.

“That no good, lying, pathetic, son of a—“

“Who, Deirdre? What does it say? Who are you talking about?”

“Look for yourself,” I said. “It's from Fergus. I'd recognize his terrible handwriting anywhere.””

Dari held the parchment up to the light and read the words slowly.

“You forgot to add he's a conniving, low-life, stinking piece of—“

“Who are you two talking about?” Macha asked.

“My former husband.” I read the words for her. “The abbot must have contacted him to steal the bones when Lorcan refused.”

“But Deirdre, when Fergus got there the bones were already gone.”

“I know, Dari. The abbot must have realized his mistake in trusting that worm and found another thief who beat him to the bones. But it doesn't matter. Now we have written proof that the abbot hired someone to steal the bones of Brigid. He must have them hidden somewhere in his hut. I'm going to march into his office tomorrow and demand he give them back or I'll haul him before the synod of bishops with this letter as evidence.”

“You want me to go with you, Deirdre?” asked Macha. “I'm stronger than I look and I know how to use a knife if he causes trouble.”

“I'll come too,” said Dari.

“Thank you both, but no. Don't worry about me. The abbot and I are just going to have a friendly little chat. But I'm coming out of that hut with either the bones or the abbot's privates in my hands.”

I took the parchment letter from the table and put it safely in my pack.

“And when we get back to Kildare, I'm going to have a talk with Fergus.”

T
he next morning one of the sisters brought word that the abbot would see me at noon.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, Dari. It's the only way to get the bones. I'll be fine. But I think you and Macha should take our bags and wait for me by the stream in the woods south of the monastery. I'll meet you there when I'm done. We may need to get out of here quickly.”

“Don't worry about me,” laughed Macha. “I'm fast as a horse.”

I helped them pack, then went to the abbot's hut just as the sun was reaching its mid-point. I knocked and one of the brothers, the same clerk I had seen at Kildare, opened the door. He told me brusquely that I would have to wait, then went back inside and shut the door tightly. He looked like he was afraid I'd give him some disease.

I made myself at home on the bench outside the hut and tried to enjoy the sunny day. The monastery was bustling with the same familiar activity as at Kildare—people scurrying about, the sounds of farm animals, the smells of food cooking—but the striking difference was the look on the faces of the people. At Kildare, we would talk, laugh, argue, even sing as we went about our daily business, but here they all looked miserable. The heads of the monks were bent in prayer or fear, I couldn't tell which. The only woman I could see was a sullen old nun carrying a heavy bag of turnips to the cooking hut. There were also many slaves, all male, who looked like they hadn't had a decent meal in months. They were distinguished by their tattered clothes and shaved heads. A group of them were loading sacks of grain into the storehouse next to monks' quarters.

The monastery had a stable across from the abbot's hut. Sister Macha told me the abbot rode out regularly to survey the monastery holdings and make sure all the tenant farmers were working hard. Those who couldn't pay their rent were thrown off their land. As I waited I saw a monk with a crowd of young boys behind him walk to the stable and stop in front of a standing stone. I assumed it was just a post to tie horses, but as I looked carefully I could see it was a carved figure from the waist up holding his severed left arm in his right hand. The priest was telling the boys this was one of the idols of the foolish Irish heathens who worshipped stones instead of the living God, the creator of heaven and earth. The priest explained to his class that the monastery kept the idol there as an object lesson. When he was done speaking, he urged the boys to throw horse manure at the stone to show their love for the true God.

I was disgusted at the ignorance of this priest and the behavior he was encouraging among his students. At Kildare, we taught our students to respect the old ways even if we disagreed with them. Father Ailbe himself had an ancient,
three-faced carved stone he had picked up somewhere on his travels around the island. He used it to teach our students that the idea of the Trinity was not unique to Christianity, but was common among the people of the world for expressing the multiple aspects of divinity. He told us that no one—Greek, Roman, or Irish—ever worshipped a stone, but instead honored the god it represented, much as we honor the cross. When the teacher and students had moved on, I walked over to the stable and used an old rag to wipe away the dung on the figure.

After I had sat on the bench for at least an hour, the same monk as before came out of the hut and motioned for me to enter. He stood as far away from me as possible as he held the door open. I was tempted to give him a big kiss just to see his reaction, but thought the better of it.

The abbot's hut was large and lit with many tallow lamps and candles. There was a wall dividing it in half, behind which I presumed were his bed and personal items. The front section where I found myself had a tall shelf lined with books. There was also a writing desk with a stool, which I presumed belonged to the clerk. Across from it was the locked chest Macha had described, big enough to hold a large treasure—or a small woman's bones. Next to the chest was a massive oak table, behind which sat the abbot. In his lap was a cat, white and fat, that the abbot was slowly stroking.

“Sister Deirdre, it's so good to see you again. Welcome to our humble monastery. I hope your journey from Kildare was pleasant.”