Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  Decius

  xxii

  GAEL

  A.D. 467

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  The gold and silver chalice gleams in the candlelight as Brigid utters the secret words of transubstantiation. She admires its complex renderings as they spring to life in the light, and thoughts of Patrick fill her mind. For without his consecration and his instruction in the sacrosanct rituals known only to priests, deacons, and bishops, she could never have built her abbey or fulfilled the true role of abbess. She says a private prayer for his soul.

  Though she has performed Mass in her church hundreds of times, nay thousands, the rite moves her still. She realizes the blessing of her position and the magnitude of her vocation. Ever grateful, she imparts the final prayer to her growing congregation with tears welling in her eyes. She is careful not to let them drop; goddesses do not cry.

  As she returns the chalice and paten to its ornamental bowl, she watches the worshippers file out of the church, into the dying light of day. In the emergent shadows cast by the stone roof, barreled vault, and linteled doorway, she discerns Adnach. She is well pleased to see that the tough chieftain has attended her service, and with his brood, no less. For where the chief leads, his people will follow. She smiles with pleasure as she tallies the souls she has fished from the waters of the old Gaelic gods, but then stops herself. To calculate the number for purposes of impressing the Roman Church with Gael’s growing orthodoxy is acceptable; to reckon that number for her own satisfaction serves only the devilish sin of pride.

  Brigid hoists the ornamental bowl containing the chalice and paten midway to the ceiling, so it may serve as sublime decoration and constant reminder of His sacrifice. She looks up from the altar, expecting to see an empty church. Yet one parishioner remains. The worshipper sits at the very back of the room, almost entirely engulfed in shadow.

  She squints into the darkness. The figure, seemingly aware of Brigid’s gaze, rises and begins walking down the long nave toward the altar. As it nears, its shape grows familiar. The graceful carriage, the deliberate step, the elongated neck, and the resolute jaw can belong to no one but her mother.

  Staring as Broicsech grows more distinct, she sees that her mother has aged. Her glossy black hair is shot through with dull gray streaks, and lines fan out from the outer corners of her eyes. Her jawline has softened, and her posture no longer bears the erectness of youth. Broicsech is still beautiful, but she is now old. Brigid wonders how time has treated her own face, as it has been years since she looked into a mirror.

  “You conducted a beautiful service, Brigid,” Broicsech says, her strong voice unchanged by time.

  “You mean God conducted a beautiful service, Mother. For I am but His mouthpiece.”

  “Nicely spoken, Brigid. You have attained the veneer of piety and grace I sought to instill in you for many years.”

  “It is no veneer, Mother. Any piety and grace you observe in me is a gift from our Lord.”

  “I stand corrected and chastised, Abbess. Regardless, it is good to see you, daughter.”

  “It is a blessing to see you, Mother.” Brigid steps down from the altar and reaches out to embrace Broicsech. Always the queen, she stiffens a bit at the human touch. Brigid continues to hold her close until Broicsech relents and surrenders into her arms.

  Stepping back, Brigid examines her mother closely and whispers, “I have a confession, Mother.”

  “A devout soul such as yourself has a sin to confess?”

  “Ah, it is not that sort of confession,” Brigid retorts with a little laugh. “No, I confess that I have longed these many years to see you and Father. I dare not tread on his land uninvited, but I thought perhaps you and he might pay the Abbey of Cill Dara a visit during the royal progress.”

  “Do not think that because you have not seen us we do not yearn for a glimpse of you. We have had to satisfy ourselves with reports of your good deeds and conversions, and your magnificent abbey. You understand, of course, that Dubtach cannot both keep his honor and publicly acknowledge his daughter.”

  “I am saddened but not surprised, Mother. Still, I am content—nay, delighted—that you have decided to cast aside convention to meet with me.”

  “I wish I could claim such boldness, daughter. No, I came today—with Dubtach’s secret sanction—because I must.”

  “What do you mean, Mother?” Brigid asks, but she cannot help noting that her fearsome mother did not defy Dubtach even once to see her over the ten long years of separation.

  “Your father just returned from one of his slave raids on Britannia’s coast. Unknowingly, he brought back with him a messenger from the bishop of Rome, who—”

  “One of the pope’s own representatives?”

  “Yes,” Broicsech answers, irritated at the interruption. “Just listen. This messenger carried on his person a letter to the bishops of Britannia from one of the pope’s closest advisers. This letter bore the papal seal, which your father slit open with a flick of his knife, of course.”

  “Of course. What did it say?”

  “Allow me to read it to you.”

  “If you wish, Mother.”

  Broicsech pulls the letter out from a pouch she has tucked into the front of her dress.

  “Bishops of Britannia—

  “You have among your midst a most unorthodox practitioner of our faith. This individual professes adherence to our Roman Church but baptizes in rivers and streams, like a Pelagian or a Druid, rather than in consecrated waters and churches, as mandated by our rule. This person does not separate women and men in church, as is seemly, but permits intermingling throughout. This alleged Christian celebrates Easter when it suits the whims of the congregation, instead of when Rome dictates. This individual openly defies Rome by encouraging religious monks and priests to adopt the Gaelic tonsure and rejecting the Roman tonsure of a shaved crown.

  “These offensive infractions would hardly merit mention but for this practitioner’s most abominable practice, a description of which I save for the last. This individual celebrates the divine sacrifice of the Mass sanctions with the assistance—or direction—of women called conhospitae. These women distribute the Eucharist, take the chalice, administer the blood of Christ—and even utter the sacred words of transubstantiation. This is unprecedented superstition.

  “These practices should come as no surprise, however. For the person of which I speak is a Gael proclaiming the title of bishop, though but one set of hands lay upon this individual during the rite of consecration, instead of the mandated three. And this person is a woman. She is called Brigid of Cill Dara.

  “His Holiness is concerned that her profane practices will spread from Gael to Britannia to the Continent like a Pelagian wildfire. Yet the uncertain times do not provide His Holiness with the independent military might to stamp it—or any other—out before it fully ignites. Thus, we charge you with seeking out opportunities to eradicate any evidence of these heretical practices that might seep into your own churches and congregants and to route out Brigid herself, should the opportunity arise.

  Yours in Christ,

  Gallineus”

  Brigid is silent, but her mind screams. Has she undertaken all this work to court Rome on behalf of the Gaels only to be undone by her sex? She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, imploring the Lord for direction. A peace descends upon her. She reminds herself that she has labored not solely for Rome and the preservation of the Gaels alone, but for the Lord and the safeguarding of her people’s souls.

  When her mother speaks next, her voice is soft and caring. “Brigid, you have accomplished much here in Cill Dara. You have built an abbey worthy of Roman notice. You have converted thousands of Gaels to the church. You have accomplished all that your father and I asked of you when we released you to God. The Roman Church should be persuaded to Gael’s cause.”

  “I appreciate your kind compliments, Mother, but Rome obviously does not agree. I set out to woo the Roman Church and my own people at
once. And in so doing, in allowing the people to keep their own traditions as they revered their new God, I angered Rome. Particularly because I am a woman.”

  “True enough. Yet the leaders of Gael—your father and I among them—believe you have important work ahead of you still in proving Gael’s Christian mettle to the Roman Church.”

  “Certainly more work is needed, but perhaps you should invest your confidence in another contender.”

  “There is no other we would consider for the role—assuming you soften some of your edges to satisfy the Romans, of course,” Broicsech says with a smile. She then claps her hands and a parade of servants proceed down the nave of the church with chests in hand. “I have brought you inspiration for another way to entice the Roman Church into embracing the Gaels.”

  xxiiii

  GAEL

  A.D. 467–70

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  Brigid tempers her ways. She refuses to answer to the title “bishop,” insisting that her congregants and religious call her “abbess” if they find “Brigid” too informal. The abbey celebrates Easter on the day Rome selects, and from the altar, she publicly encourages her religious men to adopt the Roman tonsure, though she does not punish those who adhere to the old style. She commissions a baptismal font out of an enormous stone slab and performs all baptisms within its blessed waters, as prescribed by Rome. Brigid even installs her newly converted foster brother, Oengus, as an abbot to oversee the religious men, though he ranks below her, and she segregates the male and female religious quarters. Although it bristles, she follows Broicsech’s guidance almost in its entirety, believing she has led her well thus far.

  Yet Brigid resists her mother’s advice in one respect: Broicsech’s insistence that she relinquish the Mass. She reminds her mother of the powerful female figure embodied in the Gospel of Mary the Mother and Broicsech’s own charge that she preserve the Gaels’ ways in the face of coming change—and that includes the traditions of Gaels’ strong women. She withstands Broicsech’s doggedness because she is called to follow Mary’s commanding lead, even if it angers Rome. Otherwise, her sacrifices will be too great.

  Rather than simmer over the grounds she has lost, she rejoices over her gains. For Broicsech has brought with her not only ill news and strictures; she has also transported a great gift: her library. Manuscript by manuscript, scroll by scroll, Brigid unpacks her old friends from her mother’s trunks. She fills the scriptorium’s empty cupboards and hanging shelves, thinking that they have been waiting long for their companions, but is careful to keep to the secluded second floor private texts Bishop Irenaeus banned long ago.

  Her religious folk disseminate a message among the traveling merchants they encounter: the Abbey of Cill Dara contains an impressive library awaiting scholars and scribes. The message reaches desperate ears. Learned Christians persecuted by pagan barbarians tromping through Rome’s former dominions begin to trickle into Cill Dara. Over time, they surge into a deluge.

  The abbey becomes the center for religious study and reflection of which Brigid had only dreamed. She thrills to the sounds of different languages wafting through the abbey’s air and the crackle of brittle manuscript pages turning. She delights in the heated debates among scholars about the meanings of certain words uncovered in her mother’s ancient texts. The cupboards and shelves become so full of sacred books carried to Cill Dara on the backs on her refugees that she commissions more storage space for the crowded scriptorium.

  Brigid trains the scholarly monks in the art of illumination. She instructs them not simply in the practical means of copying the sacred manuscripts—preparing the vellum, quills, and ink; forming the folios; and accurately replicating the Words—but also in how to bring His Words alive on the page.

  She begins with the iconography of the text. Clarifying the symbols associated with His Words, she shows the monks how to depict aspects of Christ’s life and message through interlaced drawing of spirals, swirls, braids, trumpets, and figures—be they beast, man, or spirit. With silversmiths and goldsmiths at her side, she provides the monks with metalwork and jewelry examples of this uniquely Gaelic style. Brigid explains that the scribes must enliven every corner of the sacrosanct page, because this honors His Word and sways the uninitiated and the illiterate who view the pages. Each stroke of the quill, each application of pigment, may bring a soul to God.

  Brigid hopes, by these works, to build an unprecedented scriptorium. She aspires to create a place where the Word is studied, where religious erudition is encouraged, and where new manuscripts capable of converting ever more souls are formed. She believes that the scriptorium of the Abbey of Cill Dara will become that place. And she prays that the Roman Church believes it as well.

  “Please come in, Cathan,” Brigid says without looking up from her altar. She knows Cathan by her knock.

  “My apologies. I hesitate to interrupt your prayers with abbey matters.”

  “The work of an abbess is prayer unto itself, is it not?”

  “If so, I suppose I am adding to your prayers. Am I not?”

  “Indeed,” Brigid says with a laugh and looks up at her loyal friend. With her interesting blend of pure piety and plain-speaking boldness, Cathan never fails to gratify. She makes Brigid feel human, not like some living emblem of the divine.

  “I intrude only because a recently arrived monk from Gaul bears interesting news. When Ciaran interviewed him upon his arrival, this monk claimed that he fled Gaul not because the barbarians pursued him but because the Roman Christians did. Apparently, he preached a brand of Christianity that contained elements likened to Pelagianism.” Cathan pauses.

  “Yes?” Brigid encourages her to continue. The monk’s story is neither novel for Cill Dara nor disconcerting to Brigid. The abbey occasionally attracts religious folk with nonconformist leanings. After long reflection and consultation with her fellow religious, Brigid has determined to grant them admittance as long as their faith is true and their deviation not extreme—particularly if they are gifted scholars.

  “This monk says he came to believe that he would be welcome at Cill Dara because rumors abound that you yourself practice unorthodoxy. He heard this from his own bishop. Who heard it from Rome.”

  Brigid says nothing, for what can she add to Cathan’s report other than her own distress? She has sacrificed much to appease Rome and has failed. Her sex is seemingly insurmountable. Feeling caged by her very walls, she begins pacing around her quarters. The urge to flee is strong. She grabs her cloak and pushes open her door to gulp in the fresh outdoor air.

  “Brigid, are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes.” She waves away Cathan, who bows in respect and leaves her. Without looking back at the abbey, Brigid walks through the rath’s gate and onto the plains, alone.

  xxiv

  GAEL

  A.D. 470

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  She rambles across the plains, prayers and plans running through her mind and then drifting off, like the clouds floating across the horizon. For the first time since her visit from Broicsech, Brigid feels unmoored.

  Unconsciously, she makes her way to a favorite niche near the base of a rolling hill. The heather covering provides a shelter of sorts, and Brigid settles in behind its welcome shield. She lies down in the inviting embrace of the soft, damp grass. Shedding the façade of the goddess, she allows herself to cry. It is her first succumbing to weakness in many years.

  Her sobs subside as she feels footsteps approaching. Brigid presses her ear more closely to the soil and determines that the growing noise is man, not animal. She stills herself and waits to learn whether the source will divert its course or come even nearer. The footsteps do not quiet as if passing into the distance but, without warning, cease altogether. Fearing that her presence has been detected and an ambush planned, Brigid places her hand on the blade she always carries and rises from the heather.

  A man kneels some distance off, his bow readied. At the very sight of her, he reels to st
anding and awkwardly drops it. His stark brown robes reveal him to be a religious man. Poor monk, she thinks; he believes he has stumbled across one of Gael’s rumored warriors and is attempting a feeble defense.

  From his proximity to Cill Dara, she assumes he journeys to the abbey, seeking sanctuary. Brigid draws back her hood and smiles, wanting to assure him that she bears no threat. Approaching him slowly, she is on the verge of introducing herself as the abbess of Cill Dara when he suddenly stammers in nigh incomprehensible Gaelic, “Do you know the way to the Abbey of Kildare?”

  She understands him well enough to answer—in Gaelic, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, or whatever tongue is native to him, for that matter—but some aspect of his person causes her to stop and take stock. He seems different from the typical Cill Dara refugee, who hails from former Roman lands overtaken by barbarians, not from Rome itself, and he bears none of the downtrodden aspect of the persecuted. This monk gives her pause. Placing her hands on her hips, she stares the unusually tall monk up and down. His hair and eyes are black, his skin olive not from sun but from birth, and his nose aquiline—an unmistakable Roman from the Western capital itself.

  She answers in her native tongue, “Cill Dara?” As if she corrects his pronunciation to better grasp his meaning.

  He seizes upon the phrase: “Yes, Cill Dara.”

  Keeping to Gaelic, Brigid explains that she indeed knows the way and beckons him to follow. Panting as he tries to keep her pace, he asks a few inept questions about Cill Dara and its abbess, the absurdity of which nearly make her laugh. The monk clearly believes her to be a peasant woman and not an educated religious, and she enjoys playing the role.

  They climb a precipitous mound near Cill Dara, and she points down at the breathtaking abbey. The monk’s face reveals his astonishment. At first, Brigid feels pride at his stunned reaction, but then he ruins the compliment by saying, in Latin, “It looks near to a Roman village.”