Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  “Aye. I’ll see to it.”

  After the first day, Brigid found her return to the settlement not nearly as awkward as she’d imaged. As long as she kept to her tasks of copying scrolls loaned by Cillian and supervising the dairy work, she could avoid thinking about her higher mission, that of converting the pagans of Ireland. Her plan worked for days, until she was unable to avoid the pleading eyes and empty hands of children who pulled at her skirts.

  Usually Fiona and the others tended to them, leaving Brigid to the solitude they assumed she sought. She could never tell them the details of her promise to Ardan. How could she defend what she’d done?

  But one steamy summer morning, when Brigid left the dairy barn, a youngster emerged from the trees and called her name. Two others followed the young lass.

  “Fiona!” Brigid called toward the barn. No one answered. When Brigid had left the dairy, all hands were busy tending the cattle. No one could hear her.

  With little hands pulling on her cloak, Brigid glanced about the settlement. Where were the men? Of course. They were on the hills with the sheep. Cook? Surely she could feed these children. Brigid slapped her hand to her forehead. She was panicking and must have forgotten where she was. She was at the Cell of the Oak and Cook wasn’t there. She had gone back to Glasgleann. Fiona and the other sisters cooked the meals. Brigid’s head whirled like a sinkhole. She was trapped. Brigid knelt down. The children’s faces were dark and muddy with eyes shining with hope, as only children’s can. “Come, young ones, I’ll find something for ye in the kitchen.” Brigid gathered the group like a mother hen with her chicks and nestled them in a corner of the kitchen. She pulled a chunk of cheese from the pantry. “Ye’ll not be feasting in here with hands so black,” she told them.

  A servant girl entered with two buckets from the morning’s milking.

  Brigid stopped her. “Would ye be fetching some water from the spring for the children?”

  The girl soon returned with a bucket of cool water. The young ones sneered.

  “Has yer mother not taught ye to wash before eating?” Surely even poor pagans knew better than to blacken their cheese with dirty hands.

  The tiniest, a lass no more than two summers old, began to weep. Her brother, a lad of about ten, spoke. “Our mother’s dead, Sister Brigid. That’s why we come here for food.”

  Her heart melted. Why had she been so distant? Feeding the starving had not required a miracle. Filling their tummies would not require a discourse on faith. Though she could not tell these children to believe in the One True God, she could feed them.

  And feed them she did. When they were scrubbed, she requested the servant girl to prepare a roasted bird while she sliced cheese and fed the children hard pieces of yesterday’s brown bread. The children said they lived with a foster father nearby, so when they had their fill, she sent them on their way with a basket of brown eggs for supper.

  Brigid returned to her work in a round hut with a large smoke hole that let in plenty of light for writing during the day. Winter would require warmer lodging, but for now, she loved the small quiet space for its simplicity. Having no distraction meant she could focus on reading and writing the Lord’s Word. That work brought her peace. One day she’d teach the others to write and illuminate the parchments as she did. But for now, while her mother was still separated from her, she’d dwell in the solitude and enjoy God’s Word alone.

  Brigid retrieved a rolled parchment from a basket under her work table and unfurled it. Cillian had sent it to her just yesterday. She was eager to see what it contained. The words were Latin, though the brown writing was difficult to read. Settling herself on a stool, she studied the script and began to formulate a plan for how the words would appear on her own paper.

  “Sister Brigid?” a voice called into the hut.

  Brigid squeezed her eyes tight. Why now? Could she not enjoy one moment alone with her work?

  “Sister Brigid, a man has come to see ye.” Fiona stooped to gaze into the room.

  Brigid rose from her stool. “I told ye to avoid strangers asking for me, Fiona. What did ye tell him?”

  “Only that yer here. He’s waiting in the big house.”

  Brigid cleared her throat and rolled up the Latin text. “His name, darlin’. Did ye ask him his name?”

  “Aye. Said he was Ardan from King Dunlaing’s castle.” Brigid quickly joined the lass outside the hut. She probably should have given Fiona more information. The girl was naive about the danger this druid could bring. “Has no one told ye who was responsible for my mother’s kidnapping?”

  Fiona backed away. “Nay, Sister. Should I have sent him away?” Fiona’s eyes were wide and her mouth hung open.

  Brigid had failed her again. Learning to be a mentor as wise as old Bram would take practice. Like he’d always said, there was much she did not know. “Nay, child. Ye did fine. We’ll talk later. But now, tell me, did he ask questions? Did he ask about miracles? Anything?”

  Fiona stuttered. “Why… nay, Sister. He asked only to speak with ye. I wish I had known what to say. I would have sent him away, Sister, if ye did not want him here.”

  Brigid touched the young girl’s arm as they made their way toward the Cell of the Oak’s largest shelter. “Forgive me, child. Ye did nothing wrong.”

  They ducked their heads under the arched doorway. Ardan’s white-cloaked figure was seated at a long table, the gathering place for the Cell of the Oak’s inhabitants. No one else was about. The faithful were hard-working men and women and would not be found lounging about at the midday hour.

  Brigid’s voice echoed off the house’s wood and stone walls. “Leave us to our business, Fiona.”

  The girl whispered into Brigid’s hair, “Are ye sure, Sister?

  Ye seem bothered by this man’s presence.”

  “Aye.” Brigid raised her voice. “I fear only the One True God.”

  Ardan laughed at the statement as he rose from the table bench. Fiona hesitated.

  “Go on,” Brigid told her.

  When they were alone, Ardan stepped toward Brigid, tapping his long fingers together and holding his walking stick under his arm. “There is something else ye fear, Brigid.”

  “There is not.” A lumped formed in her throat.

  “Let’s not squabble.” Ardan walked in a circle around her. “Fine white garments ye wear, lass. Much more regal than the rags I found ye wearing in that cave.”

  “State yer business.” She wished he’d leave and not return until he brought her mother.

  “I plan to depart tomorrow to fetch Brocca. I’ve only come to see if ye kept our bargain.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Ye know I have.”

  Ardan huffed. “Ye think I’ve been everywhere watching?” “Ye haven’t?”

  “Perhaps I have, through the eyes of others. And now I came to see for myself.”

  “And what do ye see, druid?”

  “I see ye keeping your god’s words to yerself in that small hut. That pleases me.”

  She forced words out through her teeth. “Then send my mother.”

  He reached his hand toward her, but she backed away. He tucked his arm under his white cloak. “Ah, Brigid. I will return Brocca, but I’d much prefer ye’d use yer skills to join me in my work. What good can ye do alone?”

  “And what good can be done if I work with you, Ardan?” He raised his hand to heart as though wounded. “Brigid, ye speak as though I want to harm people. I only want to help them, like you do.”

  “True bread comes from heaven, from my Father. That’s what will truly help the people.”

  He swung his head like a cow’s tail. “Such nonsense. Foolish talk does not give the people what they need.”

  Brigid bravely took one step toward the large man. “And you know what they need?”

  Ardan closed the space between them and towered over her. “I am the great druid of King Dunlaing’s castle. I commune with the spirits. The common people cannot do that. They ne
ed me.”

  “They need Christ.”

  He returned to the table and sat down. “Perhaps yer right. But whatever spirit they need, one thing is certain, Brigid of Ireland. They do not need you.”

  Ardan’s words echoed in the depths of Brigid’s mind. They didn’t need her. That was true. God didn’t need her either. But Brigid needed her mother. Because of that, she was at this man’s mercy.

  “Yer business. What do ye want?”

  “Ah.” He sat up straight. “My golden sickle. I would like it back, please.”

  “I have no such thing.”

  “I warn ye, Brigid, I’ll not feel compelled to keep our bargain if ye have stolen it from me.”

  “I have stolen from no one.”

  An expression crossed his face as though he realized his error. “Very well. I’ll be on my way and return to ye in six sunsets.”

  Brigid was running low on patience. “See that ye do or our bargain will be void.”

  He was silent for a moment. “A druid always keeps his word.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Dunlaing called once more for his spy Galvin. He ordered all his attendants away so they could speak privately. He put his hand on Galvin’s shoulder. “Come walk with me in the rose garden.”

  The morning dew had laid a blanket on the flowers, but now the sun peeked through clouds and the moisture would soon evaporate. Midsummer was Dunlaing’s favorite time of year, a season of fairs and traveling musicians and good times. At least it had been in the past. This summer he was haunted by his order to silence Brigid and no amount of food or tunes would calm him. He must find the bard and discover the truth.

  “Galvin, I desire to speak to the royal poet whom Ardan brought to me earlier. He has returned to the woods, but I must speak with him. Find him and there will be silver for ye.”

  Galvin bowed low and departed, worming his way through bushes of pink and red roses.

  Chapter 29

  “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

  – John 8:32, King James Version

  Hiding Erc and his family away had taken many days, days that might be crucial to finding her daughter. But Brocca couldn’t take the chance that Ardan’s threats against Erc’s loved ones were shallow. He might not be able to call down curses from nonexistent gods, but he had evil intentions and was crafty enough to enact them in other ways.

  The young family had trusted her, and when she and the poet found a distant clan willing to take them in, she was relieved. They would now not starve. To be sure they’d accept Erc’s family, the poet had given the clan the treasure trunk from the hidden room on the island.

  Now they were finally headed in Brigid’s direction. Rumor among the woodsfolk was that kind Brigid had left her friends and hidden herself away. When they got closer, Brocca was sure the woodsfolk would be talking about Brigid, the one who did miracles in the Lord’s name. Someone would know how to find her.

  Brocca reached for the poet’s hand. “Is it far?”

  “At least three days’ journey. Praise God we were able to obtain a horse and wagon.”

  Brocca was amazed at the young man’s ability to speak the truth of God and get people to listen. A royal bard always drew a crowd of listeners, of course. But this man lured people with songs of hope and truth. So hungry were these people for encouragement that they provided for every need she and the poet had.

  On the third day, they traveled until the sun was high and then stopped for a meal of oatcakes and cheese. They were eating in the wagon bed when a man approached. Brocca was startled. She always heard people approaching, even those trying to hide, but this one had escaped her notice.

  The man whispered, “I hear ye look for Brigid.”

  Brocca heard the sound of the poet’s drinking gourd hitting the wagon floor. His voice was tight. “And who, sir, are you?”

  “I hear ye look for her. Maybe I can help.”

  The poet jumped from the wagon. “I cannot answer, sir, if I do not know who ye are or who sent ye. Can ye answer at least one of my queries?”

  Brocca scooted to the side of the wagon to hear the response.

  “I can tell ye that I believe the one who seeks Brigid could be the one I seek.”

  “Oh, and who might that be?”

  “The royal poet. The one who uses no name. The one brought to King Dunlaing by the druid Ardan.”

  Brocca coughed – a piece of cake had stuck in her throat. She scrambled around the wagon bed until she laid hands on the sheepskin water bag. She drank and dislodged the crumbs in her throat and then struggled to hear the rest of the conversation.

  “And what if I can tell ye where that poet is? Can ye then help me find Brigid? Word is, she’s isolated herself somewhere.”

  “I can help ye.”

  The poet grunted. “Well, then. First tell me what business ye have with the poet.”

  The other man lowered his voice so much that Brocca had to lean far over the wagon to hear. She might have been obvious in her eavesdropping, but they seemed to ignore her.

  The stranger’s voice was as light as wind. “I must take the poet to see King Dunlaing at once.”

  The poet cleared his throat. “The king requests his presence?”

  “He does.”

  “Why?”

  “I am just a messenger, sir.”

  “Tell me, man. Would this have anything to do with the druid Ardan?”

  There was a pause. Finally the stranger spoke. “I can only speak of this matter with the poet. But… ”

  Brocca wondered if the man had guessed the truth.

  The stranger continued. “I can assure the poet’s safety, under the king’s protection.”

  “Well, then. Here I am. Take me to him.”

  Brocca discovered that the stranger was in the wagon bed with her and the poet was already driving toward the north winds, so she scurried up to the reins and joined him. “Why are we going to see the king? Will he lead us to Brigid?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And just why do ye believe so? Have ye not considered that Ardan may have found us out? That this could be some sort of trap?”

  The poet laughed and tapped her hand. “Brocca, I have done nothing wrong to merit punishment from the king. Do not forget that pagans fear my words. While I do not desire to use their fear to my advantage, I do use it for the Lord’s advantage. And there’s something ye missed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A wink. Clever man knew who he was speaking to.”

  Brocca turned her face to the stiff breezes and prayed silently that God would protect her daughter.

  At nightfall they arrived at the castle. They were escorted to the king’s large dining room where a meal awaited. The smells of roasted venison, smoked salmon, and honey-sweetened porridge awakened a hunger in Brocca she hadn’t realized existed.

  A servant pulled chairs back from the table, scraping the legs against the limestone floor. “Please, sit and eat.”

  Brocca found one and the poet helped scoot her close to the food.

  “We will give thanks to God first.” He put such emphasis on the word “first” that Brocca reasoned the stranger must have been helping himself to the meal.

  The poet strummed his harp and sang a song of praise. His music brought people into the room, laughing and talking. When he finished, Brocca savored the food but was anxious for the king’s appearance. Would he know where Brigid was? Should she ask or trust the poet?

  While she thought on those things, a servant blew a horn, signaling the entry of the king. Brocca accepted the poet’s hand and they stood until they were instructed to sit and resume eating.

  It didn’t take Brocca long to get her fill, but the others continued feasting for a long while. Much later a servant whisked them away to a quiet room.

  “Touch the scepter,” the poet whispered.

  With all the noise and movement, Brocca had gotten confused.
She hadn’t realized they were finally in the king’s presence. She reached out her hand and touched the cold surface of the king’s scepter.

  “We have met before, woman. Have we not?”

  She recognized the king’s voice. “Aye, King Dunlaing. My daughter and I were guests in your castle some months ago.” Prisoners was more like it, but she didn’t want to sound disgruntled.

  “Aye, Brigid. I’m surprised my servant found ye in the poet’s company. I’m told ye were taken hostage in a raid.”

  “That’s true. The poet rescued me.”

  “Well, I shall like to hear that story sometime. But first, I have other matters to discuss with the poet. Would ye mind if I confer with him first? Then I will address yer concern.”

  The poet whispered into her hair. “I told the servant ye wanted to ask about the whereabouts of yer daughter.”

  She nodded without speaking and was led to a chair.

  The king’s voice was emotionless. “My man Galvin has done well. I told him I must speak to ye.”

  The poet answered. “Aye, king. I am at yer service.”

  “I would like to know about this god, this new one the Christians speak of. Do ye know of him?”

  “I do indeed, king.”

  The poet reached for his harp and sang a song about God’s deliverance. Brocca had never heard such a beautiful melody and wondered if King David had sung similar tunes. The Scriptures revealed the ancient king’s lyrics, but the tunes were left to the imagination.

  The poet finished and the king wept. “I have betrayed Brigid and this God. Is there no salvation for my kingdom?”

  “Aye, king. There is.”

  Brocca gasped. Had he caused her daughter harm?

  The poet carefully explained the Way of Christ to King Dunlaing, and Brocca heard it all from her chair. Tears streamed down her face as she realized the significance of yet another Irish king turning to Christianity. But her joy was tempered by a fear of what it might be that the king repented from.