Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  He grumbled some more from overhead. She heard the sound of rock grinding against dirt and then more soil fell on her head.

  He grunted. “Clever bunch, them that built this. Seems the trap door swings from either side.”

  She sneezed and coughed, and he offered her water from a sheepskin flask.

  She swallowed and then turned to him. “Who’s to say the raiders aren’t of the same clan who built this place?”

  Erc sat beside her and stomped out the torch. “Can’t say. But ’tis our only chance.”

  Brocca prayed. “For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle and set me high upon a rock.”

  Erc made his own plea for deliverance. “Whatever god yer praying to, may he hear us and not Ardan.”

  Brocca reached for his hand. “Why do ye say that?”

  He didn’t answer, but sobbed softly, as though trying to hold back.

  “Erc, what are ye talking ’bout?”

  He sniffed. “It’s not the time to talk.”

  She listened instead, into the darkness, remembering how long it had taken them to get there, imagining where the intruders might be at that moment. The smell of burning whale blubber was stronger. When they made port, they kept the fires burning. Or was it torches she smelled, bobbing up the hill in the hands of violent marauders?

  Brocca was acutely aware of her breathing, and of Erc’s. She tried to match his rhythm, thinking they’d be less likely to be heard that way. But the young man’s breaths were shallower than hers.

  Godless people have no hope. She longed to tell him of her faith, but like he said, they could not talk now. Reaching out her hand, she met his touch and he latched on. She felt his fear, his trembling.

  She tried not to let it feed her fear. All she could think about at that moment was her daughter. If death found them in their hiding place, would she have done enough for Brigid? Their time together had been so brief. Please, God, don’t let it end this way.

  Men’s voices, faint but growing louder, drifted from downhill. The raiders had not yet ascended to the refuge where Brocca and her captor huddled, afraid to breathe.

  Surprisingly, Erc spoke. “I must guard yer safety above all else. If they come down here, I’ll fight them, and ye must escape.”

  “But how?”

  “In front of ye there’s a tunnel. I know not where it leads, but it must be a way out. Directly in front of ye. Hear me?”

  “Aye.” She wished there were another way. Please, God, don’t let them come down here.

  The voices were near now. Brocca couldn’t make them out – a strange dialect she’d never heard before. Shouts rang out. The men had found the cabin.

  Just above their heads feet pattered back and forth. The furniture she’d bumped into earlier was thrown about, some of it shattering against the cabin walls and clattering to the floor in bits. Another sound, quite unexpected, rose above the din. A harp, and then someone singing in Latin. Were they planning on staying? Setting up there for the night? Brocca put her hand over her mouth, muffling her gasps.

  A sickening sound came next. The stone covering the hidden door slid across the dirt-packed floor. Brocca’s heart nearly pounded free from her chest. Erc urged her forward toward the tunnel. She heard his knife sliding out from its sheath.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she reached out her arms, feeling for the tunnel opening. Erc gave her a push and she landed inside what felt like a burial chamber. She froze, not wanting to continue scurrying down the tunnel like a frightened badger. Erc was in mortal danger.

  The trap door flew open and a voice called down, first in Latin, then in Irish. “’Tis safe to come out! The others have left. I won’t hurt ye.”

  Then Erc’s voice. “Ye’ll have to come get me.”

  “Come now, man. I’ve said I won’t hurt ye. I’m a bard, a royal poet, and a Christian.”

  Brocca crawled back out and bumped into Erc, hitting her head on his hard knee.

  “Get back!” he barked.

  She called up, “I’m Brocca. A follower of Christ.”

  The man answered back. “Brocca? Mother of Brigid?” Somehow she managed to push past her guard and clamber up the ladder. “Aye, that I am. Who are ye?”

  A gentle hand reached down and pulled Brocca up into the cabin. “I am a royal poet, as I said. My name is not important because it does not say who I am. Poet, that’s what people call me.”

  Erc joined them. “I am her protector, servant of Master Druid Ardan.”

  The bard strummed his harp. “I’ve sent the others off. They seek treasure not murder. I assume ye harbor no gold.”

  Brocca thought about the locked chest in the chamber below. “None that we’ve seen, poet.” It was true. The chest could be full of mouse droppings for all they knew.

  “Then they’ll not harm ye. I’ll join up with them tomorrow and tell them that yer my kinsmen and I’m now traveling with ye. ’Tis not a lie.” He touched Brocca’s hand. “We’re brother and sister in Christ.”

  She patted his hand and then he withdrew it. “How do ye know my daughter Brigid?”

  “We’ve much to talk about. Let’s get settled in here and then we’ll get acquainted.”

  Erc cleared his throat. “They’ll not wonder where we hid?”

  The poet strummed his harp again. “Not that smart, that bunch.”

  That night in the cabin as the bard spoke, Brocca realized how he knew Brigid. He’d accompanied her when she traveled to the seashore to seek the bishop and speak her vows.

  Brocca lowered her voice toward the ground. “Poet, ’tis no coincidence, ye finding us?”

  He squirmed on a rickety chair. “I am a friend to yer daughter, bard to King Dunlaing. I knew Ardan was after ye. I alone had this knowledge and planned to warn ye. I suppose Ardan knew the trail to the Cell of the Oak better than I.”

  Brocca slumped back on her wooden chair. “I don’t understand.”

  The poet leaned close to her. “Ardan got there before me with men and weapons. At first I was going to help the others douse the flames. Then I spotted him dragging ye off. I followed to the river where I saw him take ye into a boat. I followed on foot as best I could. Each day the distance between us grew, but I dared not stop and loose the trail.”

  No one but Brigid had ever cared so much for her. Brocca’s eyes stung with tears. “Why, man? Why would ye do this?”

  His voice choked. “There was no one else. No one saw what I did. Ardan is the king’s head druid. I’d get no help from the castle. God chose me for the task.” He swallowed hard. “I knew he’d make it possible.”

  She reached out until her hands met his clean-shaven face. “And he did, man. God is good.”

  Erc shuffled nearby and cleared his throat. They’d left him out of the conversation.

  “Dear man,” the poet said to Erc, “if ye guard this Christian woman for the druid named Ardan, then ye do not protect her as ye claim to do.”

  “Ye do not understand.” Erc’s strained voice shook. “If I do not return her to Ardan, he’ll visit my family with horrific curses.”

  That was the truth he’d kept from her. Brocca turned toward him and cupped his hands in hers. “He has no power to do that which he threatens, Erc.”

  He pulled away from Brocca and stood. “He’s a great druid. Surely, poet, being in the king’s service, ye know this.”

  Brocca reached for his legs, and when she located him, she got to her feet. “Nay, Ardan’s power is useless.”

  The bard plucked his instrument and sang, “Ardan follows darkness, the poet follows the Light. He who knows the poet’s God will overcome this night.”

  “Listen.” Brocca reached for Erc’s face. “Ardan seeks to control people for his own purpose, not to appease any god. And even when he sacrifices to his gods, it’s futile. They command no authority over what the One True God created.”

  “No authority?” Erc pulle
d away and trudged to the door. “Someone must control the forces of nature. May the gods have mercy on me, I cannot let my family be harmed.”

  Brocca pleaded. “Ardan can cause no harm with curses. Do ye not hear the bard? Do ye not believe, as all the pagans do, that the bard’s songs are true?”

  “’Tis not my wish to contradict a bard.”

  A boulder-size weight lifted from her shoulders and she breathed deeply. The smell of whale grease torches was faint in the distance. “Good. Poet, shall we collect Erc’s family before returning to the Cell of the Oak?” She whispered, “Or do ye think we must hurry back? Will Ardan threaten my daughter?” The poet strummed his harp one last time before she heard him tuck it away in a bag. “He’ll not harm Brigid. He seeks to control her powers by holding you, the one she cares most for in this world, hostage.”

  “He cannot do that. Brigid’s powers are not hers. They are given to her by God.”

  The poet snapped his fingers. “Aye. We’ve time to help this man.”

  Chapter 26

  “Truth stands the test of time; lies are soon exposed.”

  Proverbs 12:19, New Living Translation

  Dunlaing paced the length of his chamber. Even as the candles burned to stubs, he could not sleep. He hadn’t told Ardan all that the old druid named Bram had told him. How could he? Ardan had been a trusted advisor for many years and he could not reveal any doubt he might have about the druid’s integrity lest he turn against him.

  The king turned to his disheveled bed. Silk wraps and pillows stuffed with swan feathers were scattered across his mattress. He hadn’t been able to sleep. He had not allowed company. He was troubled.

  Next to his bed sat a carved wooden box. He lifted the lid and gazed at the signet ring nestled in purple velvet lining. Had it been impetuous to give the order constraining Brigid? He snapped the box shut. A king’s decree could not be revoked save in the most extreme circumstances. Otherwise his words would be as gnats, something better left ignored.

  Dunlaing knew the old druid’s name, though. He had pretended he could not recall it. Bram had brought troubling news. Even Ardan seemed to think so and insisted that the gods named Brigid’s god the one who would lead the people away from Dunlaing. When Bram had spoken of a false god, Dunlaing at first believed he referred to the one called Christ. He was no longer sure.

  Dunlaing threw himself onto the pile of silk linens. Perhaps he had let jealousy obstruct his judgment. Bram had not mentioned Brigid. He had not said the false god bore the name Christ. He’d only stated that false gods would threaten to destroy the reign of Dunlaing, king of Leinster.

  Which gods were false?

  He closed his eyes and pictured the old druid who had visited. He was an old sage, and had studied spiritual matters for more seasons than Dunlaing had lived.

  “I speak with my heart,” the one called Bram had said. “And from the heart of my spiritual brothers who passed the truth on to me.”

  Dunlaing had thought at the time that the old man was speaking about tradition, beliefs that Ardan proclaimed. But after the old man left, saying that he had more wisdom to pass on before his bones became dust and melded back to the earth, Dunlaing thought the old man might have been speaking of a new way, one which Ardan would never accept. That was why Dunlaing had decided to be vague about what the old visitor had revealed.

  Then Dunlaing had gotten befuddled, slipped back to a comfortable place. He trusted Ardan because no affliction had come into the kingdom since Ardan claimed to protect it with his sacrifices and spiritual communion with the gods. Dunlaing had believed that Ardan’s prayers and chants had helped the negotiations with the king of Munster succeed.

  A soft knock at the door stirred Dunlaing from his thoughts.

  “Do ye require anything, king?” a small voice whispered through the lock.

  “Nay, nothing.”

  He watched the light fade away from the bottom of the door until he was satisfied that the servant was gone, taking his torch with him. Then the king tossed all his blankets on the floor and lay exposed on his platform bed, watching the candles flicker until they had no more life in them.

  The next day Dunlaing urged his servants to dress him as quickly as possible. There was much to be done. “Bring me my most trusted spy,” he ordered.

  When his shoes were the last piece of clothing awaiting him, a willow of a man entered.

  Dunlaing ordered the others out of his chambers with one clap of his hands. “Galvin, I’ve got a special task for ye.”

  Galvin bowed low. “I am at yer service, king.”

  Dunlaing wondered if he left the spy kneeling on one knee, how long it would be before the man tumbled over. Galvin was reed-thin but healthy, with ruddy cheeks and milky skin. Some men are bred by the gods to perform certain tasks. This man was naturally light on his feet and as invisible as a deer in the woods while gathering sensitive information about Dunlaing’s enemies.

  Dunlaing held out his ring for the man to kiss. “C’mon. Up, man. We’ve matters to discuss.”

  They wandered to a table and chairs positioned at the south end of Dunlaing’s chamber – a spot where they could soak up the best light from the windows. Dunlaing seated himself and pointed to the other chair. Galvin sat, crossed his legs at the knees, and bowed his head again.

  “This is not a military mission, Galvin. But it does concern the future of my reign as yer king.”

  Galvin glanced up at Dunlaing, barely lifting his head. “I assure ye, king, I will consider the mission critical and will perform whatever ye ask to the best of my abilities.”

  Dunlaing stared out the window. “I want ye to follow my druid Ardan. Report what he does in the woods. Ye know, who he visits, what he talks about to those he meets. And tell this to no one but me.”

  “I will do what ye ask.” Galvin sealed his promise with another kiss to Dunlaing’s ring.

  Dunlaing didn’t say another word. Galvin rose, bowed his stick-like body, and left.

  Three nights later a small rapping at Dunlaing’s window woke him. Thinking a mouse was scurrying about, he called for a servant. Sometime later the man returned to report that the guards had checked thoroughly, but no mouse, indeed no creature at all, was found.

  But after the servant left, the noise returned. “What is that? Can’t a man sleep in his own bed without disturbance?” Dunlaing went to the window and threw back the shutters. Nothing. The night was nearly spent but dawn had not yet arrived. All was still. He attempted to close the shutters, but they stuck. He glanced down at the sill. A fist blocked the way.

  “What?” Dunlaing jumped back. “King, ’tis Galvin.”

  He looked down at the spy planted so flat against the wall he looked like he’d been run over by an ox cart. “Why are ye lurking about my window? Ye scared me to death.” Dunlaing stuck his head out the window and glanced in all directions. The guards had not spotted him. Galvin was truly a master of his occupation.

  “May I enter?” “Aye, enter.”

  Galvin slid his small frame through the window and seated himself on a chair, dusting grime from his gray and brown stripped tunic.

  “Have ye news, man?”

  “Aye, I do have a report, and since ye said this was sensitive information, I came to ye at night.”

  “Good, good. What is it?”

  Galvin tapped his branch-like fingers on his knees. If Dunlaing didn’t know better, he would have thought Galvin was a shape-shifter merging from tree back into man. “Master Ardan. I found him offering sacrifice in the woods, near a river.”

  “What of this, man?”

  Galvin grunted and blinked his eyes. “The animal he sacrificed, king, was one of yer horses.”

  Dunlaing joined Galvin at the table, sitting directly across from the spy to gaze into his eyes. “Are ye quite sure?”

  “Aye, I’m sure. ’Twas the king’s high druid dressed in his white cloak embellished with fine gold thread, a golden torque at his neck and a s
hining sickle in his hand. And ’twas one of King Dunlaing’s sable stallions.” Galvin pulled a shiny object from an ox hide sack he carried on his back. Round and glistening, with blood stains and horsehair stuck to its blade, Ardan’s sacred sickle was in the spy’s possession.

  Dunlaing’s head grew hot. “So he destroys my property for his sacrifice without my knowledge! What else?”

  Galvin laid the sickle on the table. “He waved his arms in the air and then dropped them to the ground, calling to the Others to hear him.”

  Dunlaing straightened in his chair. “The Tuatha De Danann?”

  “Aye, sire. He called to them in the sea, under the rocks, and under the rushing water. That is why he performed the sacrifice at the river, I believe.”

  “And what did he ask of them?”

  Galvin’s eyes focused on Dunlaing’s. The spy wrinkled his eyebrows until his forehead furrowed like a newly-plowed field. “He asked for their power to help sacrifice the large animal and also… ”

  “Go on.”

  “He asked for the Others to help him capture the power Brigid has for himself to use.”

  Dunlaing gripped Galvin’s bony shoulders. “For himself? He asked nothing for the kingdom of Leinster?” Galvin shook his head.

  Dunlaing squeezed his fingers into the man’s collarbone. “Be sure, man. He must have petitioned on behalf of the kingdom.”

  Galvin didn’t flinch. “Nay, king. Ardan petitioned only for Ardan.”

  Dunlaing let go and focused on the spy’s last words. Only for Ardan. A wave of regret washed over him. As ruler, he was sworn to be protector of the people. He’d once understood that well. Believing Brigid had tricked him, he felt personal insult over all else.

  Dunlaing let out a breath and glanced at the ceiling. Was Brigid’s god the false one? Were all these thoughts put into his head by devious fairies seeking to mislead him?

  He turned to his confidant. “Galvin, I do not know who to trust. Is Ardan doing what is required to protect my kingdom? Or is he not a true spiritual leader, but rather an evil self-serving deceiver, and I am the one who has been mocked?”