Somehow my clumsy rendition of Gallienus’s fabrication passed muster, for I learned much of the other exiled monks on board. The bone-thin ascetics Rabbula and Shenoute, from Syria and Egypt, took flight from unsympathetic political regimes. Francoveus and Gaudiosos hailed from former Roman regions beset by Visigoths and Burgundians intolerant of Catholic Christians. Only Alanus remained silent. Initially, I attributed this to a reticent nature not unlike my own, until I heard him recite a somewhat unusual Lord’s Prayer. I began to wonder if he kept close counsel because he sought refuge not from barbarians but from Rome. I longed to ask questions and tease out his story, but knew that uncovering the biography of one lone monk—no matter how unorthodox and no matter which monastery welcomed him—was not Gallienus’s intention for me.
Occasionally awkward silences reigned, and stories of Bishop Patrick’s life leaped to fill the void. Adoration for this Briton enslaved by Gaels who—by the grace of God—upon his escape embraced and converted his captors shone through in each word. Though Patrick died years ago, the men spoke of him as though his mission and zeal were alive. I learned details lost to Rome in the vast landscape of Patrick’s success in converting great numbers of Gaels to Christianity: his fearlessness in confronting chieftains, his determined eradication of slavery in a society bent on slave raids, his use of a local plant—the shamrock—to explain the Trinity. I heard their lamentations that no Christian leader has arisen from the landscape, or has been sent by Rome, to replace him. Of course, I did not share with them the gentle derision with which he is discussed in Rome, for his poor Latin and interrupted education. It would only offend.
When tales of Patrick waned, the monks enthusiastically discussed the speed with which Patrick’s conversions had yielded Gaelic monasteries and abbeys—with the exception of Alanus, who kept his tongue still. Though all extolled the surging growth of these Christian communities, they debated their diverse approaches, as each monk embraced a different path and, thus a different community. Rabbula and Shenoute held fast to the hermetic lifestyle of the nearly inaccessible island settlements, where the monks worshipped in the most extreme conditions of isolation and hardship imaginable; Francoveus and Gaudiosos praised the newly emerging monastic city-states, like Patrick’s own Armagh, where a few bishops and abbesses ruled over religious and layfolk alike in small unified village-like communities. When they learned that I traveled to Kildare, however, they set aside their disputes to agree that Brigid’s abbey—known for its assiduous tolerance and generosity—indeed held a special place. For Brigid was sanctioned by Patrick himself.
At dawn on the fifth day, the ship lurched forward and then halted its relentless rocking. The impatient crew yelled for us to appear on deck, and we were unceremoniously dumped close to—but not on—the rocky Gaelic shore. On unsteady sea legs, we waded through shallow yet surprisingly violent surf, holding our precious packs high over our heads. I had no doubt that manuscripts crammed the monks’ packs, though no one had mentioned texts on board. We stumbled onto the rough beach and knelt in prayers of thanksgiving.
We dried and reassembled our belongings, foraged for a shared meal, and then gained our bearings by exchanging maps and directions. Then we took our leave of one another. In truth, brother, I was sad to part with them, even though it relieved me from playing a role for a short while. For I know not what I face as I begin the long trek inland toward Kildare.
Rome seems ever more distant with each passing day, and I cannot imagine encountering a Roman soul traveling homeward to whom I can entrust these letters. Particularly since Lucius gave me to understand that so few Romans other than us refugee monks, who cannot return home, walk on these shores. Still, I will continue to write you, brother, to keep our connection in spirit, if not in person.
Pray for me, brother, as I head into the heart of my mission, as I pray for you.
Decius
vii
GAEL
A.D. 456
BRIGID: A LIFE
The Words encircle Brigid. Beautifully bound leather manuscripts, tightly wound elongated scrolls, and heavy folios ring around her in a divine dance for her attention. Brigid longs to select from them, but she does not have the liberty to single one out. Her mother directs the order of her review.
Broicsech undertakes this final stage in Brigid and her foster brother Oengus’s religious education. Available Christian tutors have been interviewed and summarily rejected as not erudite enough to guide her daughter and foster son through the sacred texts. Therefore Broicsech takes on their initiation into the Words herself, a first for the busy queen. But the sacrifice is necessary. She wants them perfectly trained for Patrick, for the pure waters of their baptism.
With careful deliberation, Broicsech reveals the blessed books to them. She has quietly amassed these singular texts over the years, procuring them from wandering Britons, outcast Romans, and the odd Copt. A deft exchange of a golden armlet here or a silver cloak pin there, and the manuscripts join her collection, one so private that none have seen it before.
In her lyrical voice, she reads the Words aloud to Brigid and Oengus, lulling them with the accounts of Matthew and Luke and the letters of Paul. Brigid is just as seduced by Mark’s realistic reports of Jesus’s daily life as she is by the dreamlike meditations on His suffering depicted in the poetic Round Dance of the Cross. Yet with every breath and every word, Brigid hears the reluctance in her mother’s voice at divulging the texts’ secrets, so long closely held.
The Jesus enfleshed by these manuscripts entrances Brigid. He is no longer a deity known only from afar. He becomes real and vulnerable, utterly different from the elemental spirits whirling around the Gaels’ rituals. She would never utter such thoughts aloud, even to Oengus, for she knows Jesus to be divine no matter how human He seems. The texts of His friends and followers assure her of this again and again. More than any other aspect of His teachings, Brigid becomes convinced by the solid logic of His virtues; they appeal to her practical and rational nature.
As Broicsech guides them through her library, scroll by scroll, folio by folio, Brigid grows unsettled. For days, she cannot put a name to her unease. She wonders whether it stems from the slight variations in the accounts of His followers or the unusual nature of His world. She considers whether His monotheism troubles her or His assertions that He is the Son of this only God.
Then, with a sudden rush, the source of her discomfort exposes itself. Brigid cannot believe she did not recognize it before. It is that the texts barely reference women.
She knows how Broicsech will react if she interrupts—and she fears her mother’s sharp tongue and sharper belt—but she cannot wait another moment to question this. “Pardon me, Mother, but where are the women in this Jesus’s world?”
“What do you mean?” Broicsech does not look up from her folio.
“We have heard tale after tale of His ministry, yet His followers seem to be exclusively men. Even stories of the towns through which He passes and the people they encounter mention few women. In the atypical instance when a woman is discussed, she is a passive female family member or a serving girl or a whore. I can understand that women do not figure in His deity as goddesses do in ours—but I cannot fathom the lack of prominent women in His earthly world.”
Broicsech marks her place in the dense text with her finger and answers: “You overstate your argument, Brigid. Certainly women other than serving girls or whores figure in His world. Still, His world is different than ours. His women cannot play the same roles they do in ours.”
Brigid shakes her head at the incomprehensibility. “How can I believe in a God who disregards the intelligence and strength of women? Who only knows women to be passive vessels for the doings of men?”
“Do not mistake the lack of reference to women as a sign of His disregard for them. His world was—is—unlike our own. Women were not permitted to serve as lawyers or priestesses or bards, as they do here in Gael. But do not let this diminish the truth or
potency of His message, just the parity of the world from whence He comes.”
Brigid watches Oengus sink back into the arms of his chair, as if it could rescue him from the rising exchange. Or render him invisible, at the very least.
“Mother, I want to embrace this Jesus, truly I do. But how can I have faith in a god who comes from a world without women leaders?”
“Brigid, you must accept my pledge that Jesus bears women no ill will and, in fact, respects them wholly. Do not forget that He included women in His ministry against the protest of many.”
“Mother, you have hired too many Druids and lawyers for my education for me to take such a blind leap of faith.”
To Brigid’s surprise, Broicsech does not raise her voice in response, but sighs. “Your misgivings wear on me, Brigid. You should listen to your mother and queen when she offers you assurances.”
Broicsech rises from her chair and begins searching through the piles of precious manuscripts. She slides out a surprisingly small text concealed within a mass of much larger folios and walks toward Brigid.
Broicsech hands her the text. “Here is the woman you seek. Here is a Jesus you will abide.”
Brigid looks at the palm-sized manuscript her mother has placed in her hand. She asks, “May I read from it?”
“Yes, but with great care. This text—”
A call sounds from behind the closed library doors, staying their conversation. The noise grows louder until the doors slam open with a jolt. Suddenly Dubtach stands at the entry. “Broicsech, time to ready yourself for the royal progress. The Druids say the weather will hold for the journey.”
Brigid slips the manuscript into her bag, and they enter the bustle of the cashel in Dubtach’s wake. All of its members—free and slave—scurry in a mad rush to prepare the royal entourage for the regular tour of their lands. The Fothairt people beholden to Dubtach depend on the king’s annual visit as an affirmation of their mutual obligation to one another: kingly protection against attack from other chieftains in exchange for livestock and tillage of land.
The cashel teems with charioteers, warriors, slaves, Druids, and bards, all packing for the imminent departure. Brigid and Oengus have never accompanied the kingly procession, so they are free to pursue their whims. They race to secure their swords and head toward the neglected practice fields.
Just as they reach the gate, Brigid hears Broicsech summon her. “Brigid, you have no time for warrior training. You must prepare for our departure.”
“I am to accompany you?” Brigid is surprised. Never before has she joined the royal progress.
Broicsech sighs. “Brigid, you are of an age to join me and Dubtach in the representation of our family. Besides, it will give you ample opportunity to display the Christian charity of which we have been reading.”
“As you wish, Mother,” Brigid answers with a curtsy. She smiles at Oengus, whom she assumes will come as well. But Oengus’s expression offers no confirmation, only confusion.
She dares to ask the question she sees unspoken on her foster brother’s face: “What of Oengus, Mother?”
Broicsech’s queenly arched brow lowers, and her tightly clenched jaw slackens. With unmistakable regret and an atypical softness, she says, “Oengus nears seventeen. By Samhain, he will be returning to his birth family, after nearly ten years fosterage with us. It would not be appropriate for him to join the royal progress, Brigid.”
Broicsech pivots back toward her quarters to undertake her arrangements. Brigid and Oengus both know that Broicsech’s hasty departure is born from too much emotion rather than too little, but Brigid feels that Oengus deserves actual consolation. She turns toward him to offer her apologies. Though her ever affable foster brother’s eyes brim with tears, he smiles and says, “Ah, Brigid, we all knew the time would come. It’s just that I’ve been with your family for so long, I hardly remember my birth family. You have become my true sister, you know?”
Brigid grabs Oengus and holds him close. “And you have become my true brother. We do not need blood to bind us.”
viii
GAEL
A.D. 456
BRIGID: A LIFE
Oengus’s absence taints Brigid’s excitement over her first royal progress. She knows that were Oengus at her side, she would revel in every aspect of the lengthy rides through the verdant countryside and the elaborate banquets of their hosts. Her foster brother has long filled the unoccupied hours that make up the only child’s days, and she feels oddly empty without him to share this new experience.
Her spirits are dampened for another reason as well. Her attendance on the annual tour sends a message to the Fothairt people of southern Gael: Brigid has come of age. Her long walks with the Druids memorizing verse and history will end. Her afternoons in the library challenging her mother’s latest tutor will cease. Her time with the silversmith and scribes learning their craft will stop. Her beloved warrior’s training will finish. For soon, Brigid must choose a life path.
Her mind and heart weigh heavy on their final evening at the estate of one of Dubtach’s favored chiefs, Eaghan. As Brigid has become accustomed, she stands to Broicsech’s right as the gifting ceremony begins. She ensures that the baskets of cheese, bread, and ale stand at the ready, and nods to her mother that she may start the distribution of goods to Eaghan’s people.
The horn sounds, and Brigid backs away to let her mother, the queen, commence. Instead she feels Broicsech’s hand at her elbow, pushing her forward. She resists and whispers to her mother, “What are you doing?”
“Guiding you toward your duty.”
Brigid stumbles to the front of the assemblage, trying to remember the exact steps of the ritual. She kneels before the band of children at the front of the large group of commoners. After signaling to the servants to bring the food baskets to her side, one by one, she hands the children loaves of bread and immense blocks of cheese. The children giggle with delight at her modest gifts, and for long moments she forgets that she is the daughter of Dubtach undertaking her duty. She recalls only that she is a child of God, helping those in need. It is a uniquely satisfying experience.
She reaches into the last basket only to find it bare. Standing, Brigid apologizes to the few empty-handed children and then concludes the gifting ceremony with the traditional utterances of thanksgiving for the bounty of the harvest. Turning back toward her father’s retinue, she notices that a royal, one of Eaghan’s sons, stands at the edge of the commoners’ crowd. He is staring at her. His gaze does not waver when she looks into his eyes; in fact, he nods in pleasure that she has noted his interest.
They take their leave of the people and retire to the immense thatch-roofed hall at the center of Eaghan’s rath, the earthen enclosure around his royal structures. Brigid hears the strumming of fine harpists as they approach, and eloquent filid recite poems to them as they settle into their seats. Servants present gifts of finely embroidered cloth to Dubtach and his family, and parade delectable cheeses and honey cakes before them.
Brigid notes that her father seems oddly merry, a contentment that continues throughout the evening. He applauds with gusto at the performances, and shouts compliments about the meats and ales. He even asks Broicsech to dance with him, and Brigid admits to herself that her parents make a fine, lithe pair. Watching them, she understands why her mother selected him from all her many suitors.
Dubtach’s satisfaction is contagious, and Brigid finds herself enjoying the festivities—until her mother asks her to perform a piece of poetry for the gathering. She mentally reviews her memorized poems and, nervously, selects a poem by the famous bard Amhairghin. The piece demonstrates the intellectual curiosity and strength of the Gaelic people. And herself, she hopes. It is a deviation from the courtly love poems that most young women would perform.
Brigid closes her eyes and recites the words:
I am the wind which blows over the sea,
I am wave of the sea,
I am lowing of the sea,
I am the bull of seven battles,
I am the bird of prey on the cliff-face,
I am sunbeam,
I am skillful sailor,
I am a cruel boar,
I am lake in the valley,
I am word of knowledge,
I am a sharp sword threatening an army,
I am the god who gives fire to the head,
I am he who casts the light between mountains,
I am he who foretells the ages of the moon,
I am he who teaches where the sun sets.
She opens her eyes. The seated crowd is quiet, almost motionless. Brigid wonders whether she has performed poorly. Or perhaps she has offended with her choice, and they would have preferred a more traditional love poem. But she does not want to be perceived in such a manner, as some lovesick girl seeking a mate.
Brigid hesitates, uncertain whether to remain standing or take her seat. A loud clapping emanates from the crowd. She sees that two men stand to applaud her recitation: her father and Eaghan’s son. Heaving a sigh of relief, Brigid returns to her seat. She grasps her cup of ale and drains it to calm her nerves. Half-hidden by her goblet, she hears her father whisper to her mother, “Odd choice, that. But she showed herself well nonetheless. She may assist us in the unification against Rome and the barbarians yet.”
Brigid sneaks a glance at Broicsech to gauge her reaction. But her mother’s face bears its usual impenetrable regality. Brigid is left to speculate about in what way her father hopes to utilize her in his efforts to designate a single king for Gael, one capable of mustering all resources to fend off the Romans or the barbarians in the coming days. Himself, preferably. The Gaels’ notorious lack of leadership unity has served them well so far—making it hard for the Romans to defeat them without the strength of many troops—but rumors abound that Gael will need a single powerful force to maintain their ongoing independence. And most chiefs bristle at the thought of uniting under the growing power of the Christian church. Brigid arrives at a singular conclusion about her usefulness.
Brigid of Kildare Page 4