Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  “Here it is. The MacFirbis home. I can’t stay with ye, Brigid. There are others who need my help tonight.”

  She watched him drift into the woods until his white cloak appeared gray in the distance and then disappeared. She hesitated a moment before knocking. What should she say?

  The door to the minuscule cabin swung wide and MacFirbis met her. The man glared at her with wild eyes, slipped his coat over sagging shoulders, and ran into the woods.

  “Wait! Where are ye going?”

  Too late. He was gone. Men weren’t usually much help during birthing anyway.

  Brigid peered around the cabin. A mound of blankets told her where the expectant mother was. “Where’s yer maid?”

  “They’ve all left me,” the woman answered from the blanket pile.

  Just as Ardan said. They all feared an invasion of the dead. If they were that frightened, it could only mean the mother was in grave danger.

  The cabin was dark, cold, and vacant, except for the suffering woman.

  “Are the pains bad?”

  The woman grunted. She was curled up on the floor in a corner. The labor had progressed so that the woman could barely manage to speak. Brigid had seen it before.

  A shriek followed, rattling dishes on the shelves. Brigid set to work building a fire. All the while she sang softly, hoping to calm the terrified woman. But as she lit the candles hanging from the rafters, Brigid was met with a horrifying sight. MacFirbis’s wife had a scowl that would terrify the mightiest warrior in Ireland, even the legendary Cu Chulainn. Her hands were covered with blood and in her shaking arms she was cradling a still child.

  Brigid breathed deeply, asking God for strength. “Please, darlin’, let me hold yer child.”

  The woman cowered and hissed at Brigid.

  Brigid crossed herself. “Oh, God, do not let evil into this house tonight.” She tried again, pulling ever so gently on the woman’s sleeve. She softened and allowed the bundle to be taken from her.

  Brigid rushed to a bowl of washing water left beside the fire pit. A warming blaze illuminated what she held in her arms. The wee bloody face was so thickly coated that the baby’s mouth was hidden. Brigid dipped her hand into the lukewarm water and cleansed the child, a girl. She slid her fingers over the child’s mouth and pried the babe’s lips apart. The tiny face was blue, but the child’s body was still warm from her mother’s womb.

  Her mother wailed from the corner.

  “Don’t be afraid.” Brigid hummed a tune she remembered hearing the monks sing. The notes were cheery but not loud. The words were about hope in dark times.

  With as gentle a hand as she could muster, Brigid cleared the baby’s nose and then stopped her singing to breathe into the child’s face. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. The woman was starting to recover. Perhaps Brigid’s praise to the Creator had calmed her.

  The baby coughed and Brigid and the new mother laughed out loud.

  “What is that song ye sang?” MacFirbis’s wife took her cleansed infant into her arms to nurse.

  “A song to my God.” Brigid steadied herself against a wall. The hours passed, and the room transformed from a deep, dark cave into a brightly-lit home of joy. The rising sun shone tiny ribbons of light through the house’s wooden doorframe. “There’s something familiar ’bout yer god. Something familiar ’bout ye. Do I know ye from somewhere?”

  “Well, I’ve been living with Cillian’s monks in the woods for the past two winters.”

  The woman kept stroking her baby while staring at Brigid. “Yer name, lass?”

  “Brigid.”

  Her eyes widened. “I knew that name once. Dubthach’s slave child.”

  Brigid stiffened. She had thought she was a long way from Glasgleann. She hadn’t thought it likely she’d meet someone who knew Dubthach. “Seems ye know me. Did ye work for him?”

  “Work for him? I say not. I do thank ye for saving my child’s life. Though many thought that ye yerself died at yer birth.”

  Brigid pulled a three-legged stool to the fire and urged the woman to sit with her baby. “Now why would anyone think that?”

  “My mother believed so. Before she was Dubthach’s wife, she was my father’s. When my da’ died, she remarried. My aunt raised me, but I visited Glasgleann one summer. My mother never set foot on the place after yer pregnant mother left, and so she believed what Dubthach told her, that ye did not live. I knew better, of course, I’d seen ye myself. But I kept quiet. There’s a woman there that people call Cook?”

  “Aye, there is.”

  “Stern one, she is. I was afraid of her when I was a child.” “Afraid of Cook?”

  “Aye. I met a shepherd boy there, I did.” Her face took on the look of a mischievous child. “We spent many hours together in Glasgleann’s meadows.” She blushed. “I told him that my mother believed ye dead, but I told no one else. Cook threatened to throw me into the bog if I told my mother.”

  “I don’t remember ye.”

  “Suppose not. Cook sheltered ye in that dairy. But I was there, nonetheless.” She regarded her in the growing firelight. “So, Brigid still lives and she’s near.”

  Dubthach’s old wife. Why could Brigid not escape that story? “Did yer mother send my mother away when she was expecting me?”

  “That’s the way I heard it. Dubthach told her the baby, named Brigid, had died at birth. My mother said she was so jealous of Brocca that she would have killed the baby had it not died.”

  Brigid wasn’t sure what to think. Did the old woman still harbor such feelings? A long time had passed.

  “Where’s yer mother now? Why is she not living with Dubthach if she loved him so much?” Brigid couldn’t imagine any woman feeling possessive over that loathsome man.

  “Love him? Nay. ’Twas an honor price she wanted.”

  Of course. The laws provided for such things when a person’s honor had been sullied. That woman should be seeking it from Dubthach, not from her.

  Brigid thought it best to avoid her. “Where does she live?” The infant suckled at the woman’s breast, distracting her. “Yer mother, woman,” urged Brigid. “Where is she?”

  “A brisk horse ride from here.”

  Brigid’s pulse quickened. She stood and rubbed her fingers over her face. Before she could stop them, the words spilled out. “That woman sent my beloved mother away. Dubthach wouldn’t permit me to stay with her. I have lived my entire life without my mother because of her. I am the one who deserves an honor price!” She trembled. Her ranting caused the infant to wail.

  MacFirbis’s wife quieted the baby and then whispered, “If I were ye, Miz Brigid, I’d run as quickly as I could back to the monks. My husband went to fetch my mother, and if she learns yer alive, she’ll be quick to call for her honor by having yer head.”

  “But King Dunlaing would never allow it. He gave me my freedom. He respects my God.”

  “King Dunlaing? He has nothing to do with it. My mother has been petitioning that druid Ardan for two decades to produce an honor price for her.”

  Ardan? The monks were right not to trust the druid. She’d been tricked. Brigid grabbed her cloak and headed to the door. “Wait! I want to know that God, Brigid. He spoke to me as ye sang and rocked my wee one.”

  Was it a trick? “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Learn that song. Trust me.’ ” Tears came to the new mother’s eyes. “And, ‘Save Brigid.’ ”

  MacFirbis’s woman patted her chest and cooled her eyes with a wave of her hand. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard those words. I didn’t even know it was Brigid herself who stood before me.”

  Brigid bit her lip. “That song is of praise and a plea for refuge.”

  Brigid forced the words out, though her heart raced, sensing imminent danger.

  Praise be to the Lord my Rock,

  who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle. He is my loving God and my fortress,

  my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield
, in whom I take refuge.

  Brigid prayed with the new mother. When she turned to leave, the woman stopped her once more.

  “May God deliver ye, Brigid.”

  “Where is she, then?” Cook’s voice trembled. She and Brian had ridden all day to get to Aghade where they met Philib beside the river.

  “The white devil came to get her.” Philib was on his knees praying to God for protection.

  Brian pulled him to his feet. “What are ye mumbling ’bout? Tell us where Brigid is, man.”

  The monk pulled away and flung himself back to the ground. “Oh, God, shield us from the Evil One.”

  Cook motioned to Brian to return to the horses. “Something bad has happened to drive him mad. We’d better get to the habitation right away.”

  Cook’s old bones complained about the riding, but her fear for the life of the girl she had sworn to protect overruled her body’s protest. A small fire led them to the monks, who were huddling together praying. They heard the horses and embraced each other as though they expected an army to come to slaughter them.

  Brian rode in close. “What’s going on here? Where’s Brigid?”

  One monk stepped forward and lowered his brown hood. He was nearly hairless from his circular head to his chin. “I am Cillian, tutor to Brigid.”

  A girl trailed after him.

  “Where is she?” Brian jumped down from his horse. “Ardan, Dunlaing’s druid, came for her just as night was falling. I had gone for my evening walk. Had I been here, I would have taken care of that white-robed devil myself. Without me, my brothers were unsure what was safe to do. They assure me the druid did not harm her and led her peacefully away. Please, come to the fire.”

  One of the brothers helped Cook off her horse. His hands were shaking. None of the monks would return her gaze. Had Brigid been killed? Oh, why had she allowed Brigid to go off alone with Dubthach to see the king that day? She’d worried constantly since then. She should have come looking for Brigid herself after that, instead of sending Brian. He was just a young lad who knew nothing of the evil that could take root in the fear of the unsaved.

  Cook warmed herself by the fire and tried to steady her trembling hands and listen to the monk tell about a time when white-robed druids had attacked his fellow monks. He explained that ever since that day they’d hidden themselves as much as possible. When Ardan came seeking Brigid, they knew they’d been exposed.

  Brian wagged his head. “Don’t be foolish, man. Ye’ve been here for years. Everyone knows where ye are. If the druids meant ye harm, they’d have come for ye long before Brigid arrived.”

  “But the massacre. What of that?” Philib emerged from the woods, still shuddering.

  Cillian went to him and offered an arm. He escorted the monk to the fire and Brian continued. “When ye first came, the druids feared ye. Thought ye’d take their powers. It was a shame what they did, but I don’t think it has anything to do with this. Where did Ardan take Brigid?”

  Philib piped up. “To the MacFirbis house to help with a birth.”

  Brian smiled. “Well, then. Ye see? ’Twas nothing sinister.” Cook tapped her forehead. “MacFirbis. There’s something ’bout that name. I’ve heard something ’bout that clan.” It was important. She knew it was. Please God, let this old woman

  remember!

  The monks were calmed by Brian’s pronouncement and headed off to their beds. The little lass followed too, slipping into a tiny hut. Only Cillian was left to aid the visitors.

  Brian towered over the monk. “Do ye know where the MacFirbis home is?”

  “Aye, but I don’t trust that Ardan. How can he be any different from the other druids – if it were not he himself who brutally killed my brothers in the Lord?”

  Cook interrupted. “I think I remember something, Brian.

  MacFirbis is relation somehow to Troya. I just know it.” Cillian’s eyebrows shot up. “Troya of Bran Coill?”

  “Ye know her?” Cook’s stomach tightened like a rock in a sling. She could not control the quiver developing in her lower lip.

  “Not really. I heard some folks call her a witch. So that’s what Ardan has to do with this.”

  Brian headed to his horse. “What do ye mean?”

  Cillian pulled his cloak back over his head as though he was trying to distance himself from the revelation. “Ardan, the druid, and Troya, the druidess. People say they work together to coax evil up from the waters. Word has it that Troya was so evil her own husband kicked her out.”

  “Dubthach!” Cook didn’t know how she had managed it, but she was on her horse before Brian had time to mount. “Point us toward this druidess, monk. We must save Brigid from her clutches.”

  Chapter 10

  “Go n-eiri an bothar leat. May the road rise to meet you.”

  Old Irish blessing

  Brigid praised God that the MacFirbis woman had given her a horse and told her which direction to ride. Brigid’s first foolish thought was to confront the woman called Troya, the one who had separated Brigid and Brocca. But good sense won, and she fled for her life. The monks’ habitation offered little protection, so she headed toward Munster where Dunlaing’s dominion ended. A woman traveling alone would not be required to pay admittance to the province. Sometimes being female had its privileges.

  God is good. Her mother was somewhere in Munster.

  By midday Brigid figured the threat was past. No one, as far as she could tell, had followed her. The landscape was less rocky now. A high patch of green grass topped by limestone boulders stood before her. She stopped to admire the steep ascent when a horse and rider appeared on the road behind her. Her horse sidestepped until she successfully wriggled his head toward the encroacher. She chastised herself for being careless.

  A young lad, not a white-robed druid, was gaining on her.

  What could he want?

  “Greetings!” he called out.

  Brigid shifted in her saddle and the reins in her hands turned slippery with sweat. “Who are ye?”

  She stood as still as stone until he drew near. A wooden pole attached to his saddle carried the flag of the Leinster king. What was Dunlaing’s messenger doing out here?

  He brought his spotted horse nose to nose with hers. “I’ve come to bid King Aenghus of Munster greetings from the great King Dunlaing who approaches one day hence. Tell yer people, good woman!”

  He thought she was a citizen of Munster. She would not correct him. “Dunlaing? Are ye quite sure?”

  The fellow chuckled and rode off toward the rising hill, the blue and white flag flapping in his wake.

  Brigid gazed in the direction the messenger had come. The king’s entourage was one day behind. Had Dunlaing followed her or did he have business with the reigning king? She wiped her clammy hands on her tunic-covered thighs. If Dunlaing was coming, would he bring Ardan, the king’s druid, and Troya, Ardan’s cohort?

  Her body felt like a bag of rocks after riding through the night and half the day. Her sides ached, if not from hunger then from the excitement of being free enough to decide where she’d go and where she’d lay her head.

  She’d best avoid the king’s residence and trust God that she followed the right path. She’d find shelter and food and move westward again in the morn.

  Brigid dropped from her horse and led him at a leisurely pace. Dunlaing and his attendants could not find her today. Both she and her horse were glad to be free from the jarring rapid escape.

  Wait a minute.

  She looked again at the rise in the land. Its prominence seemed to signify importance. She cast her gaze to the top of the hill. A rock barrier surrounded it. Would Dunlaing come in peace? Better to be hidden in the woods.

  The smell of charred wood mixed with the sounds of harps and drums indicated a gathering was nearby. She tied her horse to a sturdy elm and headed toward the revelry.

  Brigid blended with a crowd of people who had gathered to hear a man tell a story. She soon ascertained, however, that t
his wasn’t the usual spinning of a yarn. The storyteller was a simple-minded fellow who had trouble forming his words. His frustration was apparent in his flushed cheeks and bulging eyes. His eyes darted around the crowd. He spotted her and pulled her to the front.

  “P-p-lease, miss, tell it for me!”

  She struggled to understand him but finally determined that he had gotten himself into a plight at the king’s residence and needed help.

  “Best we not be fooling with that king,” one woman said. Brigid turned to her. “The king from the clan of Eoghanachta? I have heard from the people in Leinster that he is a Christian.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Whether Patrick baptized the king of Munster or nay, ’tis of no concern in this matter. This fool,” she pointed to the stuttering man, “runs from the visiting king.”

  Brigid reached for the woman’s hand. “Dunlaing?”

  The man’s face went white at the sound of the name. He nodded, but would say nothing more.

  The gathering started to break up, looking for fresh entertainment. Some left to dance, others crowded together for warmth around the fire. But the man would not let Brigid leave.

  “They’ll k-k-kill me cuz I k-k-killed the king’s fox.”

  The man clutched her arm with the grip of a wolf’s jaw. She patted his hand. “Why would the king bother with a fox?”

  “’Twas his pet. Did tricks. I di… di… didn’t know.”

  Brigid tried to ignore the perspiration dripping down her back. Although she wished to avoid Dunlaing, this poor man needed help and none of the woodsfolk would do anything. “I’ll go with ye to see the king tomorrow. I know King Dunlaing. He’ll listen to me.”

  “Thank ye much. P-p-please come with me to my brother’s home. Name’s Liam. He’ll p-p-put ye up there.”

  While the shelter and dinner of lamb’s leg was more than Brigid had hoped for, she pondered the wisdom of the offer she’d made. The royal druids from Leinster might come to Munster, might even be with Dunlaing at that very moment. But was it right to worry about her own safety when someone was in danger and she had the power to help him?