Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  The lad stared at them. “Did ye hear me?”

  “Oh, aye. The king. We’re to be set free, I suppose.” Saying the words out loud helped Brigid realize there was much to do for the people outside Dunlaing’s castle.

  The guard brought hot water and cloths, and Brigid and her mother managed to scrub the grime from their bodies. They were given soft linen gowns and cloaks woven in many colors. Brigid placed one of the fine garments over her mother’s shoulders and thought she stood straighter because of it. She pinned a silver brooch at one corner. “How does it feel, maither?”

  Brocca patted the ornament and then ran her fingers down the cloak’s gold-embroidered edges. “I much prefer this to the druidess costume.”

  “It suits ye far better.” Brigid asked for her own cloak back. She preferred its thick black material to what the servants offered.

  The young man reappeared when they were dressed. “’Tis time to accept the offering of the golden scepter.”

  This time Brigid knew what to do almost without thinking. She had appeared in front of the king before.

  Dunlaing’s brilliant blue eyes greeted her with no animosity. “I believe ye have been treated unfairly, Brigid.”

  Brigid touched the scepter and glanced at the floor. “I have. Troya’s honor price should have come directly from the source of her pain. Not me, but my father, Dubthach of Glasgleann.”

  Brocca made a grunting sound in her throat and pulled at the back of Brigid’s cloak.

  Dunlaing waved his bejeweled right hand in the air. “I rid myself of this matter. I seek only to right the wrong that has been done to ye by keeping ye locked in my castle where ye were nearly killed with no means of escape. Please, tell me what ye want.”

  Brigid turned to her mother. “What shall I ask for, maither? What besides our freedom?”

  “Only a place to lie our heads, darlin’.”

  She turned back to the king. “I ask but two things, sir.” He touched his fingers together and nodded.

  “I ask that the freedom which Bram of Ennis Dun has granted my mother and me be made official.”

  “I shall order it into the Brehon records.” “Thank ye, sir.”

  She glanced around the hall, but saw no signs of Ardan.

  She turned to Brocca. “Maither, pray hard and do it now.” Brocca made the sign of the cross with her fingers.

  Brigid bowed before the king. “I ask only for some land – for my mother and myself.”

  The king raised his eyebrows. “I see. And how much land do ye require?”

  “Only as much as my cloak will cover.”

  He laughed. “And I suppose yer god will make yer cloak grow?”

  Brigid narrowed her eyes. “Do ye mock the One True God, King Dunlaing?”

  He stood. “I do not wish to look out my window every morning and gaze out on your small patch of land. Therefore, we’ll ride a short distance where ye’ll cast yer cloak.”

  Brigid led her mother by the hand as they left the hall. The chill of winter blasted from the north. Brigid did not relish removing her warm cloak. People poured out of the castle, soldiers, maids, blacksmiths, and a handful of druids in white cloaks. They followed on horseback and in carts. Brigid didn’t see Ardan, but she felt him watching her, from one of the wagons perhaps. They were driven a short distance until the castle could only be seen on the horizon.

  Brocca sighed the entire way. “Brigid, was this wise? To put God to a test?”

  Brigid circled her arms around her mother. “Maybe not. But God increased the butter I made. He blessed Dubthach’s livestock so that they produced enough food for me to feed the woodsfolk. Who’s to say he cannot do this? Dunlaing’s pride will cause his fall.”

  A servant blew on an ox horn. The blast beckoned curious people from the woods. The horn blower took a deep breath and announced, “Brigid, formerly of Glasgleann, will perform an act in honor of her god.”

  Brocca whispered into her hair, “What have ye done, daughter?”

  Brigid ignored her and focused on her cloak. The garment was generous in size, but if no miracle were performed, her territory would barely house a cow. Even so, a small still voice whispered, Trust me.

  Brigid closed her eyes and held her cloak to the wind. The crowd grew silent. She prayed. After a few moments, she felt a tug and immediately opened her eyes. Her cloak was attached to another, and that one to another, and to another, as far as she could see. The wind held them aloft, making them appear as one large cloak. The woodsfolk had joined their meager clothing to hers.

  The wind howled and blew her hair into her eyes, sounding like a thousand frantic boars trouncing down the hillside.

  Dunlaing wailed. “Stop, stop! Put down yer cloak and I’ll grant ye that much land. Please, stop now.”

  Brigid dropped her cloak. The wind ceased, and the tail of black material floated down to earth. The poor folks shivered, shirtless. Had God snatched the clothes from them and added them to her cloak? Or had they willingly given their clothes to her? She was grateful, however it happened, and turned to face the king. Would he accept the elongated cloak or would he claim trickery?

  Before she could ask, Dunlaing and his royal wagon were already disappearing down the path toward the castle walls.

  Brigid dropped to her knees, feeling the wool of her cloak scratch her shivering skin. “A home, maither. We’ve a home now.”

  After winter had dropped its frosty hold on Leinster, Ardan left his druid shelter in the woods to visit King Dunlaing. He dared not go any sooner. He had assured the ruler that Brigid would not embarrass him any further. Ardan wished to give the king’s anger time to abate.

  “So, the great druid finally graces me with his presence.” Dunlaing scowled at him from his scrolled chair. “I will ask that ye read yer news and leave me at once.”

  Ardan expected as much, so he had gathered men, fellow druids, to help him be reconciled with the king. Now, more than ever, he needed to be rid of Brigid. He wished he had bent the druid code, just a bit, and finished Troya’s work for her that night at the castle.

  “Today, dear king, I have brought a council of wise druids for the king’s service.” Ardan bowed and turned to the men. They each possessed talents in extreme measure – each different from the other. “I have convened a master of satire, a prophet, and a student of the stars. With such wisdom of the gods at yer hands, king, ye shall be rid of Brigid and her followers within one cycle of the moon.”

  The men dropped their white hoods and bowed deeply. The corners of Dunlaing’s mouth spread and his cheeks glowed apple red. “A wise king always confers with advisors. I shall see what they have to say. But Ardan, I’m holding ye to what ye declared months ago. ’Twas seen in the druid sticks, nay?”

  Ardan was pleased Dunlaing wanted to proceed. “Of course, king. In time, in time. When all the signs are right.”

  Brigid sat beneath an ancient oak tree, the spot where her trail of cloaks had come to rest when Dunlaing had challenged her God. The woodsfolk had insisted on building a shelter beside the tree, and it was nearly finished. How things had changed. Only one season ago she was homeless and facing death. Now a large wooden building was being constructed. She would live there forever with her mother.

  The pagans chose the site, although the Christians felled the trees for it. The ill-advised declared her some kind of druidess and thus in need of a home beside an oak. Some even thought she was a goddess because of the power she displayed. She had much work to do explaining that her works were from God and that he used her to display his power.

  “It was much the same for me,” her mother had told her. “I tried to show the people God’s Way, tried to show his love. But they called me a druidess. God found favor in me and allowed me to speak with them, just like he did with Patrick, though I, a slave, never reached as many people as he did.”

  Brigid had wanted to hear more about the gatherings with Patrick. She still didn’t understand why Dubthach had allowed C
ook to take her to the seashore. And why had her mother not come to her before she became blind? But the questions were unimportant really. She wanted to let go of the past, never again ask her mother what happened before they were reunited. They had a new life.

  The poor starving folks living at the border of Dunlaing’s castle needed much care. Brigid put aside her questions and kept busy blessing babies and producing large quantities of cheese and butter from small beginnings – God’s doings.

  Brigid gazed up at the spring green leaves above her head. God’s hand had reached down to touch the tiny oak seed with life. Only the Master of all living things could turn a minuscule cold dark seed into a great immense tree, a vessel full of life. Pagans believed the tree was the god or that a god somehow inhabited the oak. She began to design a plan for presenting the Creator to the people. She wanted to persuade them to abandon the belief in a god who did not exist.

  She’d need her paper, manuscripts. What was Cillian doing now? Maybe she could send for him, invite the monks to share the large shelter. They might refuse, choosing to stay secluded, but they could still assist her with manuscripts and she could send some of the faithful to Cillian for training. And, of course, Cook should come live with them. Brigid would see to that as soon as possible.

  Brocca called to her from the building site. “Daughter? Come feast with us! A spring lamb has been slaughtered, and the earth’s first fruits of the season have been picked.”

  Brocca was thriving. Whatever sickness she had suffered from left almost as soon as they took up residence on the land granted to them by the king. Her copper tresses were only streaks in her gray head, her illness had faded the color, but her skin was like milk and her smile as broad as the great river. Brigid and her mother sat with the builders inside the roofless framed structure. Most of the men who worked there had converted to Christianity. Followers of Ireland’s new faith seemed to cluster together now more than ever before. Smells of honey-sweetened bread and creamy cheese made the room seem that much more festive.

  Pagans would be celebrating the new season that night with massive fires, but their activities could be no more joyous than Brigid’s current gathering of friends in the Lord.

  “How are the flock of sheep faring?” one fellow asked another.

  “This one met a sad fate,” another quipped, taking a bite out of a greasy drumstick.

  Brigid enjoyed those people, even the unconverted ones. They were lighthearted, full of vigor and fun. Truly this was God’s calling on her life.

  Brigid’s mother murmured into her hair, “Daughter, have ye thought of marrying?”

  Brigid nearly choked on her creamed turnips. “Maither, why… ?” The food burned as it slid down her throat. Brigid waved her hand in front of her mouth and blew puffs of air.

  One of the men jumped to her aid, offering a tin cup of cool spring water. She accepted it, but didn’t look him in the eye. Perhaps someone had a love interest in her, and she had never noticed. Having a husband would impede her work.

  Brocca tugged at Brigid’s sleeve. “I understand, Brigid, that ye labor for the Lord. That does not mean ye cannot… ” She shielded her mouth with her hand to keep her words private. “Marry.”

  “Maither, shall we speak of this later?” Brigid cleared her dishes and headed for the solitude of the oak.

  “Wait for me.” Brocca followed, her bread still cradled in her hand. “We’ll feed the birds together.”

  Brigid laughed. She longed to feed all of Ireland and her mother threw crumbs to the birds. Brocca didn’t seem as driven as Brigid to touch everyone possible. Brocca was content in the space that she could cover with one swirl of her cloak. They were different in that way.

  Brigid and her mother sat quietly, sometimes nibbling on the bread, sometimes tossing pieces to waiting sparrows. Perhaps they had run out of things to talk about.

  When the time felt right, Brigid told her mother what was on her heart. “I’m praying that God will make me ugly, maither. So that no man will want me before I visit the bishop and devote my life to the Lord.”

  “Oh, nay, Brigid. Yer beautiful, even to one with no sight. And ye have given yer life to the Lord. Everyone knows that.”

  “’Tis not enough. I want to build a school of learning and place of worship here at the Cell of the Oak. That’s what we’ll call the place, maither.”

  Tears streamed down Brocca’s face.

  Brigid brushed them away with the back of her palm. “What’s wrong? Why do ye cry?”

  Brocca held Brigid’s hand against her cheek. “For all these seasons I have never understood. Not until now.”

  “Understood what? Why I must become part of the church Patrick served and bring their teachings to the Cell of the Oak?”

  “Dear one, I never understood the prophecy at yer birth. Do ye know ’bout it?”

  Brigid patted her mother’s hand. “We do not have to speak of this. We can just look to the future.”

  More tears spilled from the corners of Brocca’s sightless eyes. “’Tis about the future.”

  “Very well. Tell me, then.” Brigid lay down with her head in her mother’s lap and stared up into the branches of the massive tree. Sparrows lingered, hoping for more bread.

  “The day ye were born was much like this day, damp but sunny. It was a glorious day and I was so happy.”

  Brigid smiled as she watched the tiny birds hop back and forth on the branches like children at play.

  “But the night before filled me with terror.” Brigid sat up. “Why?”

  Brocca turned toward the sunrays piercing through the branches. She covered her mouth as though she was once again seeing the events she remembered. She flopped her hand back to her lap. “Bram invited a prophet from the woods to visit. I had never seen him before. He stared at me like he knew me. Like he had come specifically to see me.” She sighed. “I suppose he had. His eyes, deep like a peat bog, seemed to pierce my very soul. He declared that ye’d be born the very next day at dawn.” Her voice choked back tears. “Half inside the house, half outside. And wouldn’t ye know, that’s what happened.”

  “What’s so terrible ’bout that?” Brigid lay back down and covered herself with a plaid blanket, thinking a nap after the meal would refresh her.

  Brocca smiled down at her. “Nothing’s wrong with that. ’Twas not those words that frightened me. ’Twas the other thing he said, and also I was worried that Dubthach had sent him to snatch ye away at birth.”

  Brigid shivered and wondered why the horrible man hadn’t done exactly that. He was loathsome enough to have done it for spite.

  Brocca twirled a strand of Brigid’s hair between her fingers. “The prophet said ye’d be either a curse or a blessing to Ireland. Don’t ye see, dearie? What yer planning to do here at the Cell of the Oak will fulfill that prophesy. Ye’ll be the blessing, and ’tis much more than my small mind could have ever imagined.”

  That night, while the pagans feasted and lit huge outdoor fires, Brigid dreamed she was alone in the forest. A fox came to greet her and did tricks, just as the fox in King Dunlaing’s castle had done long ago. The creature curled up in her lap, and she stroked its silky bronze fur that smelled of spring heather. Suddenly the animal jumped up and nipped her left cheek.

  She awoke with a swollen eye.

  Brocca padded her fingers over Brigid’s face. “Ye’ve gotten a sickness in yer eye. We must make a poultice.”

  They boiled some yarrow over the cooking fire and added several sweet-smelling herbs. The eye burned and itched.

  Brocca fussed over her. “Don’t scratch.”

  Brigid dropped her hand in her lap. “How did ye know I was going to… ” She bit her lip. Brocca seemed to sense her every move.

  “We don’t want the other eye to gather the sick fluid and become swollen also.”

  One of the sisters in the Lord entered Brigid’s sleeping chamber, toting more herbs. She dropped them to her feet and gasped.

  Brigi
d hurried to scoop up the precious harvest. “What’s wrong, child?”

  “Brigid, yer face is so horribly swollen. Worse than when I saw ye this morn.” The girl turned away from Brigid and busied herself at the cooking fire.

  Later that day, even with her left eye covered with a bandage, Brigid’s bloated face drew gasps and looks of horror from everyone she encountered around the building site.

  Brocca stayed close to her side. Brigid reached for her hand. “It does not bother me much now. ’Tis good ye cannot see me or ye’d turn away like the others.”

  Brocca slipped her palm inside Brigid’s. “Never. A mother’s child is always beautiful to her.”

  Brigid’s face was still puffy when a visitor came to see her, saying he’d arrived from King Dunlaing’s castle. An odd fellow wearing a green tunic, he said he was a royal poet. In the evening people flocked to hear his stories while he strummed his harp. He spoke of battles fought long ago, of Queen Medb and her quest for a white bull, of monsters living in the lakes, of upcoming gatherings of Christians by the sea and, one night, he sang a song of Brigid.

  Brigid happened to pass by on her way to fetch water from a stream for the new morn’s washing. She’d never sat in on such entertainment, just caught bits and pieces of the stories as she went on her way. This time the poet seemed to wait for her to pass at just the right distance so she’d hear him whisper her name.

  She stopped, turned toward the assembly, and set her wooden bucket down at her feet. He never looked directly at her, but paced back and forth, looking every listener in the eye. He set the story of her unusual birth to song and told the people about her as if she were legend. How did he know about her? Had he, in his travels, visited Bram? She’d ask later.

  The man’s tone was enthralling. His words flowed in stunning waves of heart-thumping thoughts. His gift to the people was his voice and the melody of words. Such storytelling was the way of the people, Brigid knew, but she longed to write down the tales, the true ones, and teach people to read them, and God’s Scriptures, for themselves.