Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  She nodded and pulled the blanket up to her eyes.

  An old woman, probably his wife, stepped in front of the man and held up a finger. “Before we leave, since we’ve come all this way just to check on yer wellbeing, might ye find some food for some hungry travelers?”

  “Of course.” Brigid snapped her hand to her mouth. What had she said? She had nothing. She cleared her throat. “God always provides, does he not?”

  The old couple murmured, and elbowed each other. The man mumbled, “God provides for Miz Brigid always.”

  “Give me a moment.” Brigid searched the leather bag still attached to Geall’s saddle. Nothing. She felt her pockets. Nothing. “Well, we’ll have to look in the forest. I’ve no dairy here.”

  “Certainly.” The couple followed her like baby chicks waddling after their mother.

  Two pheasants were roosting beneath an elm. They would make more than a meal’s worth of meat. Brigid felt she should pray, but no words came. Her heart refused. She hoped the pheasants would come willingly, but they did not, and she had no spear. She stood there, feeling the stares of the man and his wife on her back. The birds took flight.

  She spun around and held her arms out to her side. “I’m sorry. I have nothing for ye, and nothing for myself either.”

  The couple was speechless, gazing at her as though they’d seen fairies in the trees.

  She called toward their backs as they descended the cliff. “Please understand! I just can’t help ye.”

  Never had she turned anyone away before. She should have felt grief over it, but she didn’t. She had a hole in her heart that only her mother could fill. Without Brocca, Brigid felt unloved. And one who is unloved has no love to give. She was empty.

  At night the cave was unbelievably dark. No firelight, no illumination from the moon, no distant torchlight from a settlement. The blackness was oddly comforting – until one night.

  Brigid lay under her plaid blanket, dozing through unsettled dreams, when she felt a presence. She listened, hoping she could identify the sound. The object’s shuffling through the leaves at the cave’s opening gave the impression of mass. The thing, whatever it was, was large.

  Brigid scooted back and leaned against the wall of the cave. Although she squinted, she saw nothing in front of her eyes. She remembered what Brocca had told her about being blind. Use yer other senses. But she was afraid. She couldn’t see the thing. Where was it? Was it coming for her? Would she have time to react?

  Brigid clutched the blanket’s hem in her fists, willing herself to be calm.

  Smell. What was that smell? A grunt told her – a wild boar. She listened again. A short snort-snort came from the other edge of the cave. The animal hadn’t detected her yet. She crept slowly, painfully, toward the direction where she’d heard the leaves shuffle – the cave’s opening. She held her breath, then exhaled as silently as she could, blowing puffs of air through her teeth.

  She hadn’t meant to, but she let a cry escape. The thing heard and trotted directly at her. There was no choice now. Whether or not she trusted her senses, she’d have to take a chance and hope that she ran for the opening and not the depths of the cave.

  Brigid flipped her arms from side to side and ran. Her feet hit the leaf carpet of the forest floor. She breathed in the forest smell. Still the boar pursued her.

  Wailing, she changed directions, hoping to climb the cliff and thwart the beast. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the night, and she pulled on saplings, climbing higher and higher. Her legs ached and her voice grew hoarse. Brigid suddenly realized the boar was no longer near. She wept tears more bitter than tansy.

  She scuttled under a bush and stayed till morning.

  The sun’s light brought little warmth. Shivering, she rose and returned to the cave to fetch her blanket. Fortunately, the boar had not returned and not left any excrement.

  Brigid wandered farther from the cave, hoping to find some berries or roots. Today, this moment, was all she could manage to think about.

  A figure in a dark cloak wandered near the river. Another beggar? She couldn’t bear having nothing to give. She was as hollow as a badger’s log home – and without meaning. The animals no longer obeyed her. She was worthless without her mother from whom she had gained strength.

  A fast would be appropriate. She’d eaten little anyway, but if she avoided all food, perhaps then God would show up and aid her. And if she returned to the cave swiftly, the stranger would not find her.

  She was only a few paces away from the cave when the man called out, “Hello, there! Might it be Brigid I’m seeing?”

  She lifted her eyes to the ice-blue sky. Why?

  He hollered again. “’Tis I, Brian of Glasgleann.”

  “Brian? What are ye doing here?” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears – scratchy and weak.

  “Cook sent me. She’s worried, she is. I’m come to find out if yer well. May I come up?”

  Brigid should have known Cook would send someone looking for her. She scooted to the edge of the cave’s shelf and shouted down to him, “If ye’d please, Brian, tell Cook I’m fine! Tell her to return to Glasgleann. I must be alone, like Christ in the wilderness, to pray and meditate. Please understand.”

  Brian removed his hood. The morning sun shone on his copper-colored head. He raised one hand to his forehead. “How long?”

  She bit her lip. What could she say to convince him to leave? She drew in the mossy air, collecting her composure. “Tell Cook that I’ll return just as soon as the Lord gives me direction. I am safe. I just seek counsel with the Lord.”

  “I will tell her.” He drew his cloak back over his head and mounted his horse.

  She watched him ride toward the Cell of the Oak, and she wondered if she should have asked for supplies. No, she was fasting. She had wanted him to leave, but now she felt more alone than ever. No God, no God-fearing friends, no mother. Her fast would be of more than food.

  The next morning someone or something stirred outside the cave. Brigid’s sanctuary was not as secluded as she had first thought. Had Brian returned? She scooted to the opening and called out, “Brian, I told ye not to come back.”

  “Who’s Brian?” Ardan, clothed in his snowy druid garb stood before her, smiling.

  She was too weak to resist. “You? Where’s my mother?” She pulled hopelessly on the edges of his robes. He stood stoic, more powerful and confident than she. Brigid flung herself back to her blanket bed.

  “We will talk about Brocca shortly. First we have to do something about you.”

  She moved to the cave wall. “Would ye finally kill me, then?”

  Ardan shook his head and his druid adornments clinked around his neck. “I would never cause harm, Brigid. I am a great druid.”

  “Not cause harm? What do ye call what ye did to my mother?”

  “What is it ye think I’ve done, child?” He stooped at the cave’s entrance and looked her in the eye.

  “Ye’ve taken my mother hostage.”

  “Perhaps, but she’s in no danger.” He pulled the leather sack he carried from his back to his chest. He extracted a bundle of white linen and held it out to her. “Bread?”

  Brigid snatched the food and consumed the soft oatcake before she realized what she was doing. The bread satisfied her stomach and seemed to clear her mind.

  “Like I said, we have to take care of ye first, then we’ll discuss Brocca.” He glanced around. “No fire ring?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Lie down and rest. Ye look like a banshee, yer hair tangled and yer eyes sunken. I’ll ready a fire.”

  Brigid woke. A ribbon of smoke tickled her nose. Ardan had started a fire. He was throwing bits of grass and twigs into it and hadn’t noticed she was awake. Brigid watched him move. His torque of gold glowed brighter as the fire grew. His carved walking stick waited near his bulging sack at the cave entrance. On the ground next to his feet sat two sticks with the mysterious ogham writing – druid devices fo
r supposedly foretelling the future. He fingered them the way a mother touches her child, or a husband teases a wife by stroking her curls. Those sticks were special to him. Pity he didn’t understand how futile they really were.

  The smoke stung Brigid’s throat, and she couldn’t muffle a cough.

  “Ah, awake now.” Ardan threw her a smile.

  She pushed herself up on her elbows. “Now, what about my mother?”

  He ignored the question. “Tell me, Brigid. Have ye cursed any more apple orchards? Tamed any more foxes?”

  She turned away, but he continued badgering. “Miracles. Is that not what the woodsfolk call yer displays of authority?” “Why do ye ask this?” She could not bear to look into his spiteful eyes.

  “I see. Ye have not worked yer magic of late. Is that not true?”

  “What does it matter? I demand ye return my mother. She is a freewoman.”

  “Demand?” Ardan’s voice was louder than before. “Who are ye to demand anything? Look at ye, the mighty Brigid. Ye lie in a cave with no food, dirty, smelling like swine, living like them too. Yer nothing without Brocca, is that not so? Who will hear yer petition? Where is yer grand god now?”

  She wrapped her blanket around her waist, freeing her hands so that she might gesture. No answer for God’s whereabouts came to her. She tucked her hands back inside the wrap. It would be best to ignore the druid’s accusations. “I’m sure King Dunlaing will listen… ”

  “The king?” Ardan laughed and tossed a thick branch on the fire. He worked to whittle a spit from another stick and spewed his words as though expelling flies. “The king has no power in this case, Brigid. I alone hold Brocca’s fate.”

  “What do ye want from me?” She was afraid of the answer. “I have seen yer powers. Heard tales of the wonders ye perform. I’d like ye to do these things for me, whenever I ask. In exchange, I’ll reunite ye with yer mother.”

  His eyes were bloodshot and his pointed chin and thin nose made him look like a predatory bird. But he did have Brocca. Brigid felt she should at least hear him out.

  She grunted the sleep from her throat. “Ye should know that my powers, as ye call them, are granted by God, and now he has seen fit to revoke them.”

  “Ah, a temporary occurrence.” Ardan impaled a bird carcass on the spit and sent it sizzling into the flames. “I am sure that when yer in yer mother’s arms, the spirits will be pleased to return your powers.”

  Something about his words rang true. The smell of smoke and mead filled her head. “I must think.”

  Ardan stood. “Yer leaving?”

  “I leave now, but will return in two days for yer answer, Brigid.”

  “But ye will return?” The thought of losing her only connection to her mother seemed unbearable.

  “Aye, in two days.” He wandered over to his belongings and retrieved his walking stick. He came back to her and tapped her head with it. “Ye have the gift of communing with the spirits, Brigid. ’Twas foretold before yer birth. Yer mother is a druidess with the respect of many people, but I see that yer much greater. Many more will follow you, Brigid of Ireland.”

  She flipped her head up to look at him. “Why did ye call me that?”

  “What?”

  “Brigid of Ireland. Why would ye say that and not Brigid of the Cell of the Oak?”

  Ardan’s broad smile made his eyes narrow. “Because, Brigid, if ye join me, ye’ll have a following much greater than the little cell ye’ve built. Together we will command enough power to influence all of this great isle. Is that not true?” He winked at her. “Ye know it is. Think on this, Brigid.”

  He departed in a white swirl, leaving her to contemplate the coincidence that he’d named her exactly the way Bishop Mel had. Could it be true? Was it her destiny to become Ardan’s apprentice?

  Ardan found his horse where he’d left it, a fair distance from Brigid’s cave. He hadn’t wanted her to hear him approaching and run off, so he’d tied up his mount and tiptoed through the forest to where she was.

  The gods truly were pleased with him. Although he’d learned from some wanderers that a woman named Brigid had concealed herself in a cave, sorrowing over the kidnapping of her mother, he might never have found her if he hadn’t heard her wailing into the wind one night. The gods had seen fit to bring Brigid’s sad song to his ears, and just like he’d hoped, she was alone in the cave.

  His approach with her had worked. Fragile women had to be treated gently. He’d done so before with Troya. Now, by caring for Brigid’s hunger, building a fire with the help of his special stone, he’d been able to win her trust. Once that was done, all he had to do was promise her the one thing her heart longed for.

  Ardan laughed out loud, sending flocks of rooks streaming from the tops of the beeches. “Ah, gods, yer surely with me, and I will not disappoint.”

  He kicked his heels into the horse’s haunches and headed for Dunlaing’s castle. A royal order would be needed. He’d have no trouble convincing the pathetic king of Leinster.

  The forest gave way to rounded hills and in the distance Ardan spotted the stone pillars of the castle with its blue and white flag whipping in the wind like a lady’s apron hung out to dry. The gusts brought the salty smell of the ocean to his nose. The sky grew purple. A spring storm was brewing.

  “Faster!” He kicked the horse, one of Dunlaing’s finest, and slapped him with his druid sticks. At least they were good for something. “I’ve no mind to be out here in the rain.”

  Thunder rolled, and Ardan thought about his own shelter beneath the oak. He never minded drizzle, but storms chilled him to the bone, blowing in sheets of rain and sometimes ice. Why was he content to live in the woods when an ineffective king slept dry and warm in a great stone house with a multitude of servants to answer his every whim? It wasn’t right, and soon it would end. Ardan would replace that flag with one more suited to the gods, perhaps with the emblem of an oak leaf, and take up residence there. He could, he knew, with the help of a woman with spiritual connections – someone like Brigid.

  He dismounted at the castle gate. Rain skirted his cloak, so tightly woven of the finest wool that even a decent shower would not soak through it. He rapped on the oak door.

  “Let me in! ’Tis Ardan, the king’s druid.”

  The door swung open and he pushed his way past the guard. “Does the king deserve such sluggards to serve him?”

  Ardan stomped down the pebbled path, through the door to the interior hall, and continued until he reached his chamber. A servant girl stood at the archway, ready to exit into the castle’s main corridor. She lowered her head and whispered, “I’ve just finished readying yer room, sir. We did not expect ye back so soon.”

  Smart girl. She knew to revere him, respect his power. He approached her and lifted her chin with his finger. “I appreciate yer work here. The gods will honor yer service to their chief representative.”

  The girl smiled without lifting her gaze. “There was another representative here. King Dunlaing allowed him to stay in yer room. I just cleaned up after him.”

  Ardan stepped back. “Who? Another druid ye say?” “Aye, sir.” The girl backed out of the room.

  “Wait. Tell me about this person. ’Twas not an old man, was it? Tell me.”

  The girl now stood fully in the corridor. “Aye, very old. Bram, he said his name was. May I go now?”

  Ardan waved her off. Despite being chilled by the spring rain, he was perspiring. He flung his cloak off his shoulders and glanced around. “Am I not the chief druid?” he said to the walls. “Why would Dunlaing allow another to sleep in my room?” He pounded his fist on the small candle table, knocking the flame to the floor. He stomped it out, kicking mud off his shoes onto the stone floor.

  Lightning lit up the spaces under and around the window shutters. He paced, threw his druid sticks on the ground, and then snatched them up. “Nonsense! They tell me nothing.”

  He dropped to the three-legged stool near the fire ring and remo
ved his soaked shoes. The cloak had kept him dry, but he really had to find someone capable of properly greasing an animal hide so he could make a new pair of shoes.

  He tried to talk sense to himself. “Calm down. There’s no need to worry. Brocca’s druid has come looking for her, or perhaps for Brigid, but he’ll never find what he searches for. And as for King Dunlaing, he will pay for not honoring my position.” He’d have to check his temper in order to proceed with his plot. He called the servant back and told her to request audience with the king for him at the earliest convenience.

  Just before the evening meal, the servant came to Ardan’s chamber. “Yer requested to approach the king’s table.” She bowed and disappeared down the hall.

  Dunlaing had to be happy to see him to invite him to sup. Ardan dressed quickly and hastened toward the castle’s main living area.

  The dining hall was lit by dozens of flaming torches and heated by three huge fire pits. The smell of roasted lamb, sweet mead, and ale warmed Ardan and made him forget the storm raging outside. It was the way he always wanted to live. Dunlaing held one arm out toward an empty chair and used the other to stuff meat into his mouth. “Ardan, come. I want ye to sit next to me and tell of yer adventures.” With a mouthful, he ordered a servant, “Bring Ardan a full plate.”

  Ardan gulped the ale set before him. “We have much to talk about, king.”

  “Aye. I want to know, did ye capture Brigid’s mother? She seems to think ye did.”

  “She came here looking for her?” Ardan dove in as soon as the servant placed a tin platter of food before him.

  “That surprises ye, druid?”

  “Nay, suppose not.” He spat out a bone. “What did ye tell her?”

  Dunlaing threw his head back and laughed. “She came in the middle of night. Woke me when I had company in my bed. There was a price paid by the night watchman, I tell ye.” He took a long sip from his jewel-encrusted cup, and then slammed it down on the polished table. “I told her nothing, druid. Do ye think me a fool?”