Her actions were misinterpreted. The man jumped back, holding up his arms.
She reached her free hand toward the beggar. “I mean no harm. I’ve no food, but ye can take this.” Brigid lifted the gleaming sword over the edge of the wagon. She offered it to the pitiful man handle first. The leper stared at her for a long moment, then grinned, the expression briefly lighting his disfigured countenance.
“Thank ye kindly.” The fellow scampered off with his treasure.
Her father returned just in time to see the man melt into a crowd of beggars standing behind a border set-up and guarded by the king’s soldiers.
“Thief! Catch that man!” Dubthach pushed a few peasants aside, but neither he nor the guards could find the fellow.
Brigid leaned over the side of the rig and held her arms out toward her father. “Oh, nay! He’s not a thief. I gave him the sword.”
Just over her father’s shoulder Brigid spied King Dunlaing, and she sat up straight. He wore a puzzled look as he stood under the arched gateway of his stone castle. The ruler of Leinster bore a beard speckled with the first gray hairs of age, and his sapphire eyes smiled at her with an approving wink. He seemed to think the gift she had made was some kind of joke. He approached the wagon and two servants followed him, carrying the king’s trailing robe on their outstretched arms. Brigid’s father bowed in response to the king’s approach, but the ruler’s eyes never left Brigid. He tapped his golden scepter on the ground and then held it up to her as she sat frozen on the wagon’s seat.
“Touch it,” one of the servants whispered. “It means yer granted audience with the king.”
Brigid had never spoken with him before, knew nothing of royal procedure. She was just a slave girl after all. Her mind drifted to Queen Esther in the Holy Scriptures. Alana had recited the story more than once. Esther had been given permission to speak when the king held out his golden scepter. Brigid stretched her hand, and gently brushed her fingertips across the tip of what looked like an elaborate golden walking stick. She had not been asked to disembark the rig, so she stayed seated.
The king nodded briefly in her father’s direction and he also touched the scepter.
“Why do ye seek to sell her?” the king asked.
Brigid’s father drew a long breath, seemingly measuring his response. “Dear king, she takes my things and gives them to worthless men. Ye’ve just witnessed it.”
Her father’s words were daggers in her heart. Worthless? No one whom God Almighty had created should ever be called worthless. Dubthach thought her mother was worthless. He thought Brigid was worthless.
The king spoke again with an unfaltering voice, confident from years of settling disputes. “Why do ye do this, lass?”
Brigid returned the king’s stare, peering back at him with an intensity that matched his. She spoke without hesitation. “I tell ye, sire, if I were ye, with all yer power and wealth, Christ, knowing what he’d blessed me with, would expect no less of me.”
The king hung his head. “She’s far nobler than I.” King Dunlaing nodded once more at Dubthach. “From this day forward she shall be God’s slave alone. I remove her from yer service, and I will not take her into mine.”
No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity.
“What are ye waiting for, lass? Ye heard the king. Be on yer way.” Dubthach waved at Brigid but didn’t return her stare. “Better to have ye far away from Glasgleann. Even if I get no compensation.”
The king and his attendants disappeared back into the fortress. Only the masses of people at the edge of the woods remained.
The hearing was finished. This was the end. She was really being cast out. She should have heeded Cook’s warning. She should have listened to her mother. God knew she had not been grateful and now she would pay. Dubthach hadn’t plotted to kill her, but he might as well have.
Brigid lifted the hem of her skirt and stepped down from the wagon. Just as soon as she was clear, Dubthach whipped the horses and thundered off toward Glasgleann, leaving a trail of dust. A crowd of people surrounded her.
“Yer kind Brigid, aren’t ye?”
“We’ve heard how ye give away food. Can ye give us a wee bit?”
Fingernails scratched her arms. Hands pulled at her hair. Her cloak was ripped from her, and then thrown back when they found it held no food.
“Ye’ve got nothing!” they taunted.
Nothing. They were right. She was alone, unloved, and now she had nothing to give.
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 dept
hs 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 mo
re 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?”
Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) Page 4