Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  Ardan bolted from the castle’s lookout tower and flew down the stone steps to the interior hallway. He snatched a guard from the king’s doorway and pulled the man’s ear toward his lips. “’Tis urgent to tell King Dunlaing that the poet has returned.”

  The guard’s face drained of color, and he vanished inside the king’s chamber.

  If only they feared me like they do a poet of satire.

  Moments later the man returned. “Fetch the other druids immediately,” Ardan told him, thinking a council would be more persuasive.

  Receiving the expected summons to the king’s chambers, Ardan was followed by a cluster of men he’d hand-selected. Superior in spiritual insight, the group would speak the truth of what the gods were revealing, if Ardan asked them to, and the king would be impressed. The poet, a man who rarely spoke but rather sang most of his message, trailed behind. Rebellious at times, the man who would only be called “poet” chose a bard’s green attire rather than the snowy robes of a priest. The poet was important, however. Ardan sensed the gods were with him.

  Dunlaing hovered over a game board. The druid council was introduced, and the king dropped a game piece to the floor where it rattled around until coming to rest near the table leg. “Whatever Brigid is doing must be of utmost importance to disrupt me.”

  Ardan wished he had interrupted the king at some other activity. The man delighted in his amusement and would be distracted. Flattery might help. “King Dunlaing, I see yer intelligence has been too much of a challenge for yer opponent – once again.”

  The king turned toward the servant sitting at the game board. “’Tis true?”

  The servant bowed his head.

  Dunlaing grinned and flicked his hand at the servant who scampered off like a frightened mouse. “Well, Ardan, I suppose I can hear the poet now. It would not please the gods to ignore a poet, would it?”

  Ardan sucked in air. “Nay, it would not.”

  The poet was announced and strolled into the king’s presence carrying his harp.

  The king extended his scepter. “What say ye, poet?”

  The man bowed his dark head and then turned to Ardan. “I have followed the woman Brigid for many days.”

  Ardan could stand the suspense no longer. This young bard spoke so slowly, dishing out each word as though they were precious jewels. “Well, do the people follow her, poet? Do they bow to her King?”

  Dunlaing jumped to his feet. “What king?”

  The poet hummed and sang out, “They call him the King of the Jews, but he’s King of the people everywhere.”

  “What is this?” Dunlaing’s face grew red. He clenched his fingers into tight fists.

  Ardan hurried to his side. “King, ’tis only what they call their god.”

  “Their god is their king?” Dunlaing glanced at Ardan and then the poet, his eyes searching first one and then the other. He seemed to be collecting all the messages the druids had delivered and setting them in place like game pieces.

  Ardan drew his expression as stern as he could. “Aye. They will soon follow no other, I fear.”

  The poet sang of Brigid’s exploits, of the healing of her eye, of a flame of fire that appeared over her head during the blessing of a bishop. He told of naked cattle rustlers whom she helped catch. “And then,” he sang, “I saw another miracle she did not see.”

  All of the druids had been mute during the meeting, but now one spoke. “Nonsense. No one does miracles they are not aware of.”

  The poet laid down his harp. “Oh, yer mistaken. On the way we stopped to see Old Conleth.”

  Ardan rolled his eyes. “What has this to do with Brigid?” “Much. And I will tell ye.” He spun around like a seanachaidh weaving a tale, engaging every listener. It was his gift, and he performed well. The poet pointed to his face. “I saw these things with my own eyes.”

  Dunlaing tipped his head to the poet. “Go on, then.”

  The poet paced the room, his earthy cloak swinging behind him with each step. “Brigid spotted robes given to Conleth by the Romans. He’d piled them in a corner. She thought they could be sewn into clothes for the poor, and he allowed her to take them. Thing is, poor Old Conleth had no other clothes, and no maids to sew him any either.”

  Dunlaing stroked his stiff beard. “Sounds just like that woman. Always taking to give to the poor. And here she has left a poor aging man without covering for his own cold body.” The poet retrieved his harp. “Ah, on the way back I returned to Old Conleth alone. As I reclined by his cooking fire, a wagon approached filled with robes identical to the ones Brigid had taken. They were given to Old Conleth, and what he’d donated to Brigid’s cause was restored to him in full. And Brigid never knew this.”

  Another druid, this one sporting an old gray beard that curled on the ends, piped up. “A miracle? Nay. The church heard of his need and sent the clothes.”

  The poet wandered the room, speaking directly to each listener. “Call it what ye like, but the church’s weavers had no time to replace such finely woven fabric, let alone sew new garments, in the few days between when she gave the robes away and when Old Conleth received them back.”

  Ardan addressed everyone. “’Tis nothing that any druid could not do. ’Tis of no importance.”

  The poet sang, “Building the Cell of Oak, they are, where all will come to learn of her Lord.”

  Dunlaing grabbed Ardan’s robe and pulled him to his face. “And an army? Will these men form Brigid an army?”

  Ardan flinched. The king’s anger was good for his purposes, but he was uncomfortable being so close to the man’s fury. “I do not know, king. But we must act right away.”

  Dunlaing released him and ordered the druids to join him at a table. A long silence passed before he spoke. Dunlaing shoved his chair away from the table and stood. “Wise men, we must crush the threat to my kingdom. Is there anyone among ye who thinks Brigid’s god will not grow stronger in the hearts and minds of the people in the days to come?”

  No one raised an objection.

  The king continued. “Then, Ardan, I will hear yer plan.” Ardan resisted the urge to smile, though he was pleased.

  “Poet, does this woman value objects of gold or silver?” He shook his black locks.

  “Then cattle?”

  Again the poet denied it.

  “Is there anything man can buy that this woman cherishes more than her god?”

  The poet stood. “Nay, Ardan. There is nothing, bought or no.

  Ardan stood to look the young man in the eye. “Ah, but yer wrong. There is something she cares for dearly. Something, someone, she has worked all her life to have at her side – her mother, Brocca.”

  The poet reached for his harp. Ardan raised his palm to him. “Stop, brother. There is no satire, no curse ye can compose that will change the truth.”

  Dunlaing turned to the young man. “Do ye agree?”

  The poet sat. “I agree that the truth can never be changed. However, if Ardan seeks to turn good into something sinister, I’ll not take part.”

  The other men mumbled to each other.

  “Break the druid code of brotherhood?” Ardan was surprised the poet had suggested such a thing, and in front of the king.

  The young poet turned toward the king. “Nay, to stand against what’s wrong, ’tis no assault against the code.”

  Again the brothers whispered.

  “Silence!” Dunlaing slammed his fists on the table. “If our kingdom is threatened, war is always an option. I will hear Ardan out.”

  It was the first time someone had mentioned war. The king was truly shaken by the mention of another king and Brigid’s followers. Ardan would have to steer his ruler back to the topic at hand. “As I was saying, King, Brigid cares most about her mother. She draws her strength from Brocca. I am not suggesting a war against such a mouse-like woman, King.” He glared at the poet, who stared innocently back. “We just take Brocca as a hostage. Hide her away. Then Brigid will lose all desire to b
uild her kingdom. The threat will disappear like spring snow in the midday.”

  The brothers agreed and the poet was outvoted.

  “’Tis meant as no offense,” one druid told the poet. “What has been decided was fair.”

  The poet turned to leave. “None taken.”

  A sigh lifted throughout the room. No one wanted the poet to send dire curses their way. It would have been his right had he felt affronted.

  After the others left, Dunlaing nodded to Ardan, pleased with his druid. “This very night I will send my men for Brocca.”

  Ardan retreated to his room in the castle after volunteering to lead the raiding party.

  Darkness fell before Brigid returned to the Cell of the Oak. A flicker of light in the distance became bright as a beacon as she rode closer, leading her home. In sight of the dwelling place, she saw that the frame of the great building had been completed in her absence.

  She looped the leather horse reins to an elm near the house. Animal skins had been stretched over the doors, makeshift shutters covered the windows, and the roof was in place, awaiting sod. People inside were singing and laughing.

  Brigid cupped her hands to her mouth. “Maither, I’m here!”

  Deerskins parted and Brocca rushed out. “Daughter, I have Cook inside. Come join us for some refreshment. Haven’t the men done wonderful work in your absence?”

  Inside, barrels and logs served as chairs, and a peat fire smoked in the center of the room. Near it, cradling one of the worker’s children in her lap, Cook sang with the merry crowd.

  Brocca called to her. “Cook, Brigid has come home.”

  The old woman whispered something to the youngster, who sprang from her lap. Cook pulled herself up from the floor. She had grown feeble in the years they were apart. Brigid hurried to her side. “Cook, how fine to see ye!”

  The old woman stroked Brigid’s face with her dry hands. “They told me ye were terribly disfigured, but I see it is not so.” She grasped Brigid to her bosom.

  How magnificent it was that she was with Cook again, yet how sad that the woman had aged a great deal. “Cook, I’ve missed ye so.”

  “Ah, dear child. Ye’ve found yer mother and that’s what ye always wanted. It pleases me, it does, to see yer safe and to hear ye’ve dedicated yer life to yer Lord down at the seashore.” Brocca tugged at Brigid’s sleeve. “Let me see.” She ran her smooth fingers over Brigid’s face and then touched her eyelid.

  “Ah, ’tis true. Ye’ve healed.”

  Brigid gripped both women’s hands. “I’ll tell ye everything that happened. Let’s sit.”

  They laughed, cried, prayed, until all the others sought the refuge of their beds. After the excited chatter slowed, Brigid asked about her father – not to see if he was well, but to find out if he’d caused Cook any harm. “Tell me, Cook, how did Dubthach allow ye to come?”

  “Suppose he thinks I’m at the seashore.”

  Brigid examined the freshly hewn beams in the ceiling. “Well, that evil old man does not deserve the labor of such a fine Christian woman.” She squeezed Cook’s hand. “Ye’ll stay on here, with us.”

  Cook placed a withered hand against her cheek. “I have family at Glasgleann. Ye have yer mother now. Ye don’t need me, Brigid.”

  “Don’t need ye? I want ye near me, Cook. Bring the others here. I’ll buy them from Dubthach.”

  Brocca put her arm around Brigid. “She wants to go back there, darlin’. Ye must let her be. People don’t like change much when they’re old. She’ll visit.”

  Brigid whispered into her mother’s ear, “Like ye said, maither, she’s old. She’ll not have many visits left. Dubthach owes us this for what he has put us through.” She spat the words out like poison. “I’ll convince him myself.”

  Cook grabbed Brigid’s arm, pinching with more force than Brigid imagined the woman could muster. “Nay. Ye’ll not go see him. He’ll let me come when I wish.”

  Long ago Cook had grabbed her like that. Back when Brigid had mentioned Dubthach’s old wife. “Oh, Cook, don’t ye know? Troya is no more.”

  Cook pulled her close. “Why do ye speak that woman’s name?”

  “She’s dead. Did my mother not tell ye?”

  Brocca reached for her. “Not yet. I did not yet tell her.” Cook let go and plopped back to her animal pelt cushion.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t know. ’Tis just that I protected ye for so long from her.” Cook’s lower lip trembled and she tightened her mouth to keep from crying.

  Brigid reached for Cook’s hands. “And I thank ye, Cook. I thank ye.”

  Brocca patted the air. “I’ll let ye two talk some more without me. I will see ye in the morn.” She slipped back into a corner where the women slept together behind a curtain of ox hides suspended from the ceiling beams. The men occupied the opposite corner.

  Cook smiled, her teeth still mostly white. “I have always known ye’d be a blessing. Despite what Brocca’s druid feared.” “He feared I’d be a curse?” Brigid couldn’t imagine kind old Bram thinking that way.

  “He wasn’t sure, child. That’s why he was so cautious when arranging the seashore meetings. Pagans imagine all kinds of things. He said he felt powers unlike any others the day ye born.”

  “Brocca thinks he will accept Christ.”

  “He’d better hurry. Like me, time for him upon the earth grows short.”

  “Don’t speak that way, Cook.”

  “’Tis not a bad thing, child. Death, ’tis part of life, not the end of it. If our Lord awaits us when we gasp our last breath, what shall we fear?”

  Brigid leaned against her old friend and relished the security of her touch, her familiar scent of sticky bread dough and sweet apples. She gazed up into the old one’s earthy eyes. “What shall we fear? Being separated from those who are most special to us.”

  Chapter 22

  “You have not handed me over to my enemy but have set me in a safe place.”

  Psalm 31:8, New Living Translation

  The smells of the evening meal still lingered in the lodge. Brocca wished the windows could be flung open so that the grease and smoke would escape, but the night air was too chilly for that. She twisted her linen tunic back into position. The assault on her nose had caused her to wiggle in her sleep and entangle her legs in her covers.

  She no longer heard Brigid’s voice and assumed she and Cook had retired for the evening. The shelter was quiet. The hour must be late.

  Brocca rubbed her nose with her finger. The irritating smells would not go away. She should open a window, just a crack. She’d never get any sleep if she didn’t. Brocca tossed the woolen blanket off her legs and sat up on her straw mat. Rubbing her fingers along the ground, she found the corner where the floor and two walls met. The window, she knew, was not far up the wall and a wooden plank covering the opening was latched shut like a door. If she unlatched it, the resulting gap would let in just enough fresh air without waking anyone. Brocca found the latch and slid it back. The window shutter swung open too easily. She reached her fingers through the opening, frantically trying to find the shutter and close it before the night air woke everyone.

  Fingers from outside grabbed her arm. The scream that formed in her chest was mute when it reached her mouth.

  The intruder dropped her hand, and she heard the thump of his boots on the floor inside.

  Everyone was awake now, screaming. Torches… hot… crackling flames.

  Fire!

  “Maither!” Brigid’s voice came from the other side of the room. “Here, come here!”

  Follow the voice.

  People stumbled into Brocca’s path.

  A sickening crack. Metal hitting flesh. People were dying.

  Where are the walls? Bodies pushed and shoved her toward the middle of the building. Smoke clogged her nose, and she dropped to the floor, gasping for fresh air.

  Who? Why?

  A cattle raid perhaps. What should she do?

  Brocca
squeaked out some words. “The cattle are outside, the cattle are outside. Take them!”

  Someone grabbed her by the hair and pulled her along. Night air tingled on her skin. She was outside. She was saved. Her lungs filled with fresh nighttime air.

  “Ouch, you’re hurting me!” The tugging continued. “’Tis Brocca. She’s the one.” That voice. Ardan.

  She was lifted and flung over the shoulders of a muscular man who whisked her away from the heat and noise. She gasped and coughed as she bounced about, the man’s iron-like arms wrapped around her legs.

  Suddenly, she was tossed to the ground and the jolt forced air from her lungs. Her ankles and wrists were bound. Ardan again. The way he flipped the leather strips around her hands and feet, the way he tied them so quickly she couldn’t wiggle free – it was him all right. And his smell – like wet dog fur. She’d know it anywhere.

  “In the boat!” he yelled.

  She was stuffed into a vessel and felt the water give and bend around the leather-covered curragh.

  “Help!”

  A rag was stuffed into her mouth. It smelled worse than Ardan. Her head was as heavy as ten oxen. There was no mistaking it – she’d been smothered with the same herbs that had caused Brigid to sleep the night Ardan kidnapped them from the Samhain.

  Brigid had not been asleep long when she found her newly built home in flames. Cattle rustlers, thieves, the king’s men perhaps? It didn’t matter. Were her mother and Cook safe?

  A figure, dark, coughing like a sick child, came at her with arms outreached. Cook. “I can’t find her, child!”

  “Go, this way.” Brigid directed confused people toward the door while searching for the diminutive shape of her mother. Once outside, she turned each head toward her. “Brocca? Have ye seen Brocca?”

  Frightened, wheezing – they couldn’t answer. Everyone who could muster the strength ran to the spring with buckets to douse the fire. But what did it matter if the structure burnt to the ground? Her mother was missing.

  Fear rose thick in Brigid’s throat. She scurried to the spring. Was Brocca there? Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Whoever had attacked them would flee in that direction.