She caught her foot on one tree root after another, sending shards of pain up her legs.
Maither, where are ye?
A rising moon shed a bit of light on the spring that glimmered down a trail of watery rocks. She scooted carefully along the water’s edge. The stream spread wide, growing as it neared the river. She held on, tree to tree, until she heard the rushing sound of river water. In the distance, a light twinkled – the torches of the tormentors, devils – too far away to shout at.
Brigid’s hands trembled. “Maither?”
She could no longer grasp the width of the birch she clung to, and she slid to the ground. Her fingers detected something metal and cold. She whisked away tree litter until her hands located the object, some sort of jewelry. She held it up to the moonlight. Brocca’s brooch. Her mother had been kidnapped.
Brigid clasped the adornment so tightly that her palms bled.
“Child? Where are ye? Brocca?” Cook had found her. “Maither… ” Brigid held her fist, with the brooch locked inside, up to her mouth. She resisted Cook’s attempt to move her.
Her mother was gone, snatched away from her like a fox’s prey.
Cook summoned some men who half-carried Brigid back to the camp.
The others were pleased that they had extinguished the fire and that the building would be repairable. Brigid didn’t care. Her heart was heavy, her head cloudy. Her mouth tasted like sour cabbage.
She stared into the distance, realizing that her actions appeared odd to the others, but knowing she was helpless to do anything else. Her mother, the one who loved her most, was ripped away, taking Brigid’s very soul with her.
Days later – Brigid didn’t know how many days – Cook managed to convince her to take some broth. The old woman whisked around the camp, assigning tasks and taking the situation under control. Brigid was thankful. Her sorrow shrouded everything, rendering her numb.
“Bear up, child. We’ll find Brocca.” Cook’s dark eyes pierced Brigid’s fog, bringing a fleeting moment of comfort.
“Do we know where to look?”
“Maybe. The men went to the king’s castle to inquire. A fellow said he recognized one of the intruders as being the king’s druid.”
Brigid opened her bandaged hand and gazed at her mother’s silver brooch. “Ardan.” The name was flecks of burning embers, and she spewed it off her tongue. “Do ye think Dunlaing is holding her then?”
“We can hope so, child. Dunlaing will hear of this injustice and order her returned.”
“If she’s there, I’ve got to go to her.” Brigid sprang to her feet and called for Geall. Night had fallen, but she felt an urgency to hurry to the castle. Too much time had already been wasted.
Cook motioned for Brigid’s attendant to ignore the order. “There’s no sense in rushing out. The men will take care of things.”
Brigid scowled at the young man. “Ye heard me, man. Get my horse! ’Tis my duty. I’ll take care of it.”
Cook appeared hurt or worried, but Brigid could not tend to her. Brocca was a hostage. That had to come first. She marched outside to wait.
The servant delivered Geall and a torch for traveling. Brigid stroked the horse’s nose. “Yer a good and faithful servant.” She smiled at the attendant. “Thank ye for taking such good care of my horse. Although we’ve only just returned from a journey, he’s been well groomed. Should harm come to me at the castle, this horse will be yours – for all yer good service.”
“Glory, child.” Cook emerged from the house. She pinched Brigid’s arm. “Stop talking like that. If ye think ye could be in danger, don’t go. I told the men… ”
Brigid shooed her away. “Ye’ll not order me as if I were still a child. If my mother is in danger, my safety means nothing. I am nothing.”
“Oh, nay, child. Ye don’t believe that. Yer God’s servant.
That’s not nothing.”
Cook’s objections did not dissuade her. She rode away as swiftly as Geall could carry her.
Brigid arrived at Dunlaing’s fortress and noted the stillness. A calm permeated the area. She steered Geall close to the stone walls where torches blazed and huffed. Where was the watch? Asleep?
Still atop her horse, she rapped her knuckles on the thick oak door, the only portal in the fortress’s outer wall. Her cold hands stung.
A voice called from the dark interior. “Who’s there?” “Brigid of the Cell of the Oak. I must speak to the king immediately.”
“Yer servants have been here and left.” “Even so, I must speak to the king.”
She waited. The surrounding woods were tranquil with only an occasional owl call.
Finally, someone cracked the door. “The king is sleeping. Come back tomorrow.”
The door was let go to close on its own, but it didn’t. Brigid dismounted, tied Geall to a post, extinguished her torch, and leaned close to the door. After she was sure the guard had disappeared back to his post, or to his ale possibly, she slipped inside.
She’d been in the castle before but didn’t know where the king’s sleeping chamber was. Removing her shoes would make her footsteps inaudible, so she slipped them off and tucked them inside the waistband of her tunic. Tiny pebbles encircled the path between the outer wall and the castle. She’d have to tiptoe through them, and then steal inside whatever door was unlocked.
Just like on the outer ring, torches hung along the wall, lighting her path. Brigid hugged the shadows underneath them, darting out to try the latch on several doors. Just as she was about to give up, one door nudged open a crack. She leaned all her weight against it until it finally pulled open, kicking up clouds of dirt underneath. The door obviously hadn’t been used for some time and would be the perfect place to enter unnoticed.
She was wrong. It was nothing but a storage room with no inside door. Dusty, rusted spears and buckets made her sneeze. She scooted the door closed behind her in time to hide from soldiers padding by. She listened through a small crack in the panes of the door.
“See anybody?” a man’s voice asked.
Another answered. “Nay, not me. Probably a cat. They’re always roaming ’round at night.”
“There was a lass by earlier. I sent her on her way though.”
Geall! He was still tied up outside. What had she been thinking?
A squeal like a hungry babe took her breath away. “Here’s yer sneezer, Rogan. Take care of this cat outside.”
Outside? Nay, dear Lord. Do not let them go out and see the horse.
The soldiers kept talking. “Don’t be a half-wit. This here has become the king’s favorite. I’ll shoo her back to his chamber.” Brigid waited until she could no longer hear footsteps and then counted to ten before emerging from her hiding place. Down the darkened passage, the faint glimmer of the torch bounced. If she followed it, the soldier would lead her to Dunlaing.
Brigid again moved within the shadows of the outer wall. She encountered no one else. Once the torch light stayed constant, she quickened her pace. An unarmed guard with red curly locks tumbling down his head unlatched a door and slipped inside. She followed and found herself in an interior hall. The guard marched along then stopped at a door. He shoved it open and pushed a cat inside. Brigid made herself as flat as possible against the wall and prayed he wouldn’t look in her direction.
The guard retrieved a silver flask from his belt, laughed silently by pumping his shoulders up and down, and continued down the passageway, gulping as he went.
Brigid approached the door. He’d left it ajar. She entered. One lone candle flickered on the opposite wall. An enormous box bed stood in the center.
The cat curled itself around her legs and she instinctively picked the animal up and stroked it.
A figure sat up in the bed. Not Dunlaing, but someone smaller. A wife? A mistress?
The small shadowy figured stretched out her arms. “Here, lass. Bring the cat to me.”
Brigid crept around the platform and leaned in toward the woman, allowing
the cat to lunge from her arms.
The shadowy figure pointed to the door. “What are ye waiting for? Go now.”
“I must speak to the king.”
“What? Do ye know the hour? Go.” She cuddled the cat and drifted back under the blankets.
Brigid sighed, too loudly. The larger lump under the blanket grunted. “Who’s there?”
The woman in the bed groaned. “Just a servant bringing in the cat, love.”
“Humph.” Dunlaing rolled over. His black and silver hair floated down on his pillow like disturbed feathers.
Brigid tiptoed to his side. “Dunlaing, I must speak to ye. ’Tis urgent.”
“What?” He boosted himself onto his elbows. “Who must speak?”
“Brigid of the Cell of the Oak.”
He tossed his blanket over the head of his companion. “How did ye get in here? How many are with ye?”
“No one but me. Please, king, my mother has been kidnapped.”
“Guard, guard!”
The door burst open and Brigid was yanked away. “Please, ye must help Brocca!”
She heard Dunlaing’s voice before the chamber door crashed shut. “She’s not here.”
The guards dragged Brigid along the pebble path. Her knees ached as bits of stone cut into her flesh. “Help me, someone!” She glanced at the guard. “’Tis true that ye’ve no prisoner named Brocca?”
The red-haired one spoke. “We’ve no prisoner at all. No Brocca even visits.”
They tossed her outside where Geall was obediently waiting. She reluctantly threw herself on his back. If Brocca was not there, then where was she?
The hostage had slept the entire trip. Ardan couldn’t be more pleased. Soon they would approach Blackwater and head for the open sea. A tiny island at the southern tip of Ireland would be the perfect place to keep Brocca hidden away. He wouldn’t allow her to be killed, of course. Having the lass know her mother lived would keep her under Ardan’s authority.
The first leg of the journey, on land, had not been easy, but Ardan had employed the best guides. “How much longer?”
The driver turned to look at him. “Half a day, I expect.” “Could anyone have followed?” Ardan couldn’t take any chances. There had been moments along the way when he had felt someone watching, but he’d seen no one.
“Nay, no one.”
Ardan relaxed in the bed of the rig, using the sleeping woman’s shoulder as a pillow. He called to the driver. “I’ll pay for ye to stay and keep watch over my hostage.”
The man behind the reins almost lost his grip and the wagon swayed recklessly. “Stay, ye say?”
“Watch yerself, man!” The wagon steadied.
Ardan shouted to the front. “Aye. Guard her. But no harm shall come to her. I’ll leave ye complete instructions.”
The driver glanced over his shoulder. He was about Ardan’s age and wore a red scarf tied over his head. “Where, Master Ardan, are we going? And for how long?”
“Keep going until I say to stop. I must return to Leinster, to the king. I have some matters to attend. Things ye wouldn’t understand. Then I’ll be back. Half a moon’s cycle likely.”
“She’s blind?”
Ardan didn’t like the sound of the question. “Aye, but like I said, no harm shall come to her. Ye know who I am?”
The driver stared straight ahead. “Aye, King Dunlaing’s druid.”
Ardan reached up and grasped the back of the man’s neck. “I do not answer even to the king, man. I commune with the Others. They help me. They will know if ye harm her or if ye do anything whatsoever that does not honor what I ask.” The wagon tilted, but Ardan continued. “Do ye know, man, what manner of curses I can call down upon ye and yer household for generations? The spirits will bring worms to eat yer eyes out while ye still live. And if that were not enough,” he paused to chuckle, “on the next Samhain, I’ll bring them to yer house. Where I picked ye up, where yer wife and children wait for ye. Only ye won’t be there to protect them, will ye now? And the spirits will visit yer house – and do what they will.” Ardan shook his walking stick at the man. “First yer wife will suffer while yer children watch. Then they’ll have their turn. One by one. Do ye understand?”
The man’s shoulders shook. “Aye, Master Ardan. No curses, please! I’ll be yer most trusted servant.”
Ardan released his grasp on the man and returned to his reclining position. “Good. We understand each other.”
Chapter 23
“Do not hide yourself from me. Do not reject your servant in anger. You have always been my helper. Don’t leave me now; don’t abandon me, O God of my salvation!”
Psalm 27:9, New Living Translation
Brigid sped toward the spring where she’d found her mother’s brooch. She looked for clues, a sign of where they’d taken her. The night air merged into early morning dew, wetting her hair and face. Somewhere, in some nearby home, someone was stewing cabbage. Why now? Where? She sniffed the sickening smell and her stomach turned.
Dubthach. After all these years, had he returned to take revenge? The arm of her cloak did little to wipe the moisture from her face. Dew had seeped into every fiber of her clothing. Brigid reached the spring and pulled Brocca’s brooch from a leather pouch fastened at her waist. She realized then that she still had her shoes stuffed inside her tunic belt. In her haste and worry she had not realized that her feet were naked, freezing, and sore. She dropped down from Geall’s back and led him to the spring to drink his fill. The stones surrounding the spring felt like ice when she sat on them. She sucked in her breath and tied on her shoes.
Oh, God, why did this happen? What shall I do?
She examined the muddy ground near the spring and followed footprints leading to the river. She already knew Brocca’s captors had gone in that direction, but she slowly followed the path, leading her horse behind, hoping that some insight, some plan would come to her.
None did.
It was odd, those footprints still being there days later. None of her servants would have come this way. The path from the sleeping quarters to the spring was well worn, the path most took – not this way.
The river lapped in currents over small rocks, around bends of mossy turf, and off into the distant trees.
Brocca was gone.
No one knew where she was.
The thought which had come to Brigid earlier, about Dubthach stealing Brocca, was foolish, she now realized. Cook had clearly explained how physically and mentally paralyzed the man was, living alone in the wilderness.
Someone else had taken Brocca. If not random raiders, surely Ardan was to blame. He hated Brigid, though she didn’t know why. His chin, jutting out like an ocean cliff, his eyes the color of hammered iron, his lips, thin ribbons spewing distrust, all told her that the man hated her. Why he hadn’t tried to kill her when he had the chance was a mystery.
Brigid resumed leading her horse through the woods in no particular direction. Her mind was at work, trying desperately to find answers. She prayed for wisdom.
Druids. Brigid wanted to understand the pagans, but it was difficult. Especially since two she knew, Bram and Ardan, were so different. Yet, they both adhered to some kind of code. Was that why Ardan hadn’t killed her? Was that why he had stolen her mother instead? But to what end?
The new morn’s sunrays chased away the dark corners of the forest. She thought about returning to the Cell of the Oak, but could not see the purpose. She had no answers to the barrage of questions she knew would be thrown at her.
And Brocca would be notably absent. Brigid didn’t think she could bear that. She could gather a search party and scour the woods, but the raiding party was half a day ahead. And in what direction had they gone?
She was weary, sickened by the smell of cabbage that would not go away no matter which way she wandered. She decided to seek shelter, to be alone, to think and pray. A small crack in a rocky outcrop west of the river suggested the presence of a cave shelter. She worked her
way up, coaxing Geall along behind her, though he was none too cooperative.
She reached a narrow shelf near the opening and discovered she’d been right. There was a cave there, and it would be the perfect place to hide away and seek God’s direction. After all, hadn’t Jesus done that, hidden himself away in the wilderness for forty days? She should follow his example.
Inside, the dank darkness mirrored her mood. She threw herself to the ground and wept, not even bothering to tie up her horse. The stench of stewed cabbage had followed her. She held on to her stomach, willing the pang to leave, but it would not. With drops of sweat beading up on her forehead, Brigid ran out of the cave to empty her stomach. She cried and wiped her mouth with damp rhododendron leaves. Oh, God, where are ye?
She dragged herself back to the cave, embarrassed that she had allowed herself such thoughts and gotten upset enough to be sick. Geall had posted himself outside the cave entrance. She pulled a blanket out of the saddle pouch – someone had thought ahead to make sure she had sufficient protection from the weather. The wrap was thick and tightly woven. She swept it around her shoulders, imagining the warmth she felt was a hug from her mother.
Maither. She burst into tears again.
Days later, Brigid was still there, leaving the cave only occasionally to take care of necessities and to munch on a few wild herbs to settle her stomach. She prayed, when she could bring herself to, and recited Psalms that came to mind. Mostly, she wondered how God could have forgotten her.
After about a week of feeling sorry for herself, some woodsfolk discovered her.
“We’ve been looking for ye, Miz Brigid. Are ye fine?”
Brigid peered out of the cave. The sun hurt her eyes, and she imagined an owl would feel the same way when someone stirred him from his home. “I am. I must be alone to meditate and commune with God.”
A man with cheerful furrows fanning out from his eyes like a sunburst ducked his head inside the cave. “I understand. ’Tis like those monks. Especially those, I hear, who live out on the western islands.”
Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) Page 21