And I do not regret my dishonesty, though I was frank with Brigid in almost all other respects. For we had so many happy hours in each other’s company in those last three months. We were free to roam the countryside under the pretext of abbey business and our project—though none knew of its nature. Measure by measure, Brigid revealed to me the hidden treasures in the mild rolling hills near Cill Dara’s plains, and I described to her the searing beauty of our family’s lands in the summertime, born of a heat unfathomable to her.
Though we could not join our words or our bodies in an expression of our emotions, we could join our minds and secret hearts. And so we did. Those twelve weeks were the happiest of my life. Yet no matter my efforts at delay, the end came sooner than I could have ever supposed.
After evening Mass on a particularly stormy evening, I returned to my hut. I’d lowered myself to the floor, ready to assume my prayerful position to help cast out the temptations of the day, when I heard a rapping noise. One of Cill Dara’s few rules, albeit unwritten, forbids the interruption of the religious once they retire to their hut, thus I attributed the tapping to a wayward branch blown against my hut’s outer walls by the fierce wind. Yet I heard the noise again, more purposeful this time, and I knew it was someone knocking.
I rose and opened the door. A man dressed in monk’s garb, thoroughly drenched from the downpour, stood outside. Though he was unfamiliar to me and his appearance at my door most unusual, I motioned for him to enter; such hospitality is the Cill Dara way. I handed him a cloth with which to dry his face, and asked in Gaelic, “May I help you, Brother?”
He pulled back his cloak and wiped his face clean of rain. He then answered in Latin: “You may indeed, Brother Decius.”
He spoke with such familiar address that I grew confused. Had I met this monk before? Given my distracted state and the constant influx of religious to the abbey, it was possible I had forgotten the introduction. “How may I assist you, Brother? I am at your disposal.”
“Please join me in a short journey to the coast, Brother Decius. Gallienus diverted a ship destined for Britannia to Gael—to secure your homecoming to Rome.”
Brother, I was shocked. Only three months had passed since Valens’s departure, and I’d never anticipated that a return voyage could be secured so readily. I’d believed I had at least three months left in Gael, three joyous months left with Brigid. But my joy was of no matter. Our Lord called me to His mission—different from the one upon which I’d embarked—and I must follow when He calls.
The monk grew impatient with my silence. “Are you ready?”
I wanted to say no, to cry out that I needed more time with my Brigid. But I knew that our work demanded that I give my accord. “Yes, Brother. I am ready.”
“Good. Gather your belongings, and let us go. The ship awaits us, and the seas are rough.”
“I will need but an hour.”
“An hour? We have little time.”
“For safety, I have not kept all the necessary documents here in my hut. I must collect the remainder.” I spoke in generalities, as I knew not what information Gallienus—or Valens, for that matter—had made him privy to. He seemed to understand, and nodded his acquiescence.
“One hour. Let us meet near the large oak in the curve of the hill to the east of the abbey walls. Do you know the one?”
I did indeed. It was a tree much beloved by Brigid. “Yes. I will be there in one hour.”
The monk, if he was in fact a monk, let the wind slam the door to the hut behind him as he entered the night. I waited until enough time had elapsed to be certain of his departure, then assembled my few possessions, including my carefully crafted “evidence” for Gallienus, and ran from my hut. To Brigid.
One thought coursed through my mind over and over again as I hastened to her. How can I leave her? She has become more than just my world; she has become my true anmchara. Yet I knew I must. I knew I must marshal my limited skills at artifice, infiltrate the world of Gallienus, and make him believe. Believe that, though mildly heretical, the Abbey of Cill Dara posed no threat to Rome’s Catholicism. Believe that Gael did not make a useful tool in the church’s machinations to secure power, whatever the forthcoming political landscape. And believe that the church must embrace Brigid’s and my own image of the Virgin Mary.
I knew all this. And I knew I would never commit the sin of choosing myself and Brigid over God. Yet those desires restrained me at Brigid’s door, as if an actual physical presence. Only against my will did I manage to overcome the resistance and knock.
The door opened and revealed a disheveled Brigid lit by a single candle. To me, she looked more beautiful than ever for her tousled state. She ushered me in and whispered, “Whatever is wrong, Decius?”
“The time is at hand, Brigid.” I did not need to say more. She knew what had befallen me.
“No, Decius. Not so soon.”
“Yes.”
“I thought we had longer.”
“As did I. Oh, Brigid, I pray I can make this heartless Gallienus embrace our Mary.”
“Convince Gallienus thus. Convince him that, in time, his people will clamor for a woman to worship, and that our image of the Virgin Mary alone will satisfy his Roman believers. Convince him that it would be better to control the object of their devotion, lest they venerate an unpredictable living woman such as myself rather than worship a virtuous dead one.”
“Indeed I shall.” I nodded, then whispered, “I have come for the painting.”
“Of course. Let me gather your things.” She hurried to her cabinet.
“Might I have a minute with your scribe’s instruments?”
She gazed at me, with that lovely hint of a smile curling on her lips. “You need not ask, Decius. All that I have is yours.”
Brother, I took the last few minutes before my departure to make this record of my last days in Gael and finish Brigid’s life as best I can, the life I cobbled together from her abbey history. For I realize now that I can never bring these letters back to Rome with me. It would endanger not only my safety but yours. I pray that a day will come when I may recount my story to you in person, rendering these letters obsolete. But, until then, I have left them in Brigid’s care for her perusal and safekeeping. As I have left my masterwork of the bound four Gospels and the image of our Mary—my Book of Cill Dara—as well as Brigid’s life. I take only Gallienus’s evidence and my original painting of the Virgin Mary. For I will serve as its disseminator and its keeper.
Let us pray.
Decius
xiiii
GAEL
A.D. 472
BRIGID: A LIFE
The spring rain whips the outer walls of Brigid’s quarters. Brigid stands at the open door to her beehive, letting the downpour lash her. She welcomes its sting. It penetrates the numbness that has enveloped her since Decius’s departure.
She returns to the grueling work of the abbess of Cill Dara, pretending that Decius’s disappearance does not merit mention. Other religious folk, ill-suited to the monastic life, have drifted away from the abbey before, and she behaves as if he were one of their ilk. She tends to her work ministering to the sick and needy, securing the protection of her people’s bodies and souls, and glorifying His name—as if her heart had not broken.
All the while, she thinks of little else but Decius and their Virgin Mary. She tries to keep her focus on the image. Reflecting on the morning when Decius created their Mary, she consoles herself with the knowledge that together they have become His instrument. Their spiritual union has been His design from the very beginning, perhaps from the moment Gallienus selected Decius for this mission and the time Brigid resolved to take the veil. For only together did they stand a chance at creating a woman—the Virgin Mary—the Roman Church might adopt as its own and foster through the ages.
Yet her mind always returns to Decius himself. She replays their last moment together in her quarters before Gallienus’s latest envoy whisked him away to Rome.
Imagining his journey by sea to Britannia or Gaul and through the dangerous barbarian lands, she prays for his safety. Closing her eyes to kindle the images, she envisions his hero’s welcome in Rome and Gallienus’s disappointment at the paucity of evidence against her and Gael. She guesses at the ways in which Decius will ingratiate himself with Gallienus once again and begin his subtle campaign of introducing the Virgin Mary.
She constantly wonders where he is—where they are—and longs for him. Prayers for consolation as to Decius’s well-being and relief from her hunger for him go unanswered. She supposes that she deserves His punishment for even considering the abandonment of her vows, and determines to forgo all entreaties except those protecting Decius and their Mary.
In her prayers’ stead, Decius’s Gospel book provides her with solace. Most days, she needs only to delight in the artistry of his Gospels and caress his fine brushwork and imaginative figures to feel the touch of his hand. But on the dark days, she requires more. She turns to the life of Brigid that Decius fashioned from her abbey history—and she finished in her own hand—and then unrolls the packet of letters that Decius has left in her care and rereads the private words that tell her over and over of his love for her. And for Him.
Brigid smiles. Perhaps there is a way she can honor Decius as he honored her. She will summon her artisans to fashion a sumptuous reliquary to house his masterpiece, and she will be its keeper.
xiiv
DUBLIN, IRELAND
PRESENT DAY
Adam’s auction house positively buzzed in the minutes before the Book of Kildare went on the stand. Sister Mary had selected the premier Irish art auctioneer to oversee the bidding, even though she’d had interest from Christie’s, which had garnered a record sale of over $30 million for Leonardo da Vinci’s Codex Leicester and over $13 million for a rare sixteenth-century illuminated manuscript. Sister Mary had chosen Adam’s because it was Irish and, after all, the Book of Kildare was the quintessential Irish masterwork.
Because of its relative inexperience with ancient illuminated manuscripts, Adam’s needed Alex to help prepare for the auction. With her boss’s blessing, she contacted potential buyers, an unusual mix of private collectors and institutions; finalized the catalog; dealt with the media flurry; and, in particular, worked on the estimates. The latter was a tricky business because no true comparables for the Book of Kildare and the first Virgin Mary image existed, and she had to factor in variables such as the future income stream from reproductions.
But when the lights dimmed and the Book of Kildare took the stage, Alex was pleased with her efforts and her decision to proceed. Sister Mary reached over and squeezed her hand as the auctioneer began announcing the book. Until the bidding commenced.
The first bid matched the $10 million reserve. The second doubled it. And the third bid took it from there. Paddles flashed and numbers were called out in the most frenzied auction Alex had ever attended. In disbelief, Alex watched as the gavel finally slammed at $52 million, the highest amount paid at auction for any book or manuscript, including da Vinci’s famous Codex Leicester.
The crowd erupted when the auctioneer announced the buyer as Trinity College Dublin, the keeper of the Book of Kells and the perfect owner for the Book of Kildare, the Life of Brigid, and the Scribe Letters. Reporters converged on Sister Mary. The media was just beginning to understand that the Book of Kildare reflected the moment of creation of one of the world’s most beloved and revered devotional images, that of the Virgin Mary. And journalists hungered for more details on how the Life of Brigid and the Scribe Letters proved that the iconography of the first Virgin Mary had secretly derived from an apocryphal Gospel banned by the early Catholic Church.
Alex stepped aside to let the star take center stage. She and Sister Mary had worked through the night to prepare sound bites for this precise moment. As Alex expected, Sister Mary delivered them perfectly—with her signature mix of humble religiosity and feisty Irish common sense.
One of Adam’s principals called over to Alex, offering congratulations. She headed across the auditorium to thank him for all his hard work and bumped right into Declan.
“What are you doing here?” She couldn’t believe his audacity.
“You forget, Sister Mary invited me.”
“She did it out of thanks for your initial translation and research work—and only because I didn’t tell her about your real intentions for the books. I never thought you’d dare come.”
“You never gave me a chance to explain.” Declan had phoned Alex repeatedly since she’d slammed his apartment door nearly three months ago. She had not returned one call.
“What’s there to explain? That you didn’t really mean that I should keep the Book of Kildare from Sister Mary? I don’t think your ‘suggestion’ was open to any other interpretation. And I don’t think your overtures toward me were open to any other interpretation either.”
“Alex, I’m not going to lie about what I proposed. But did you ever consider that my motivations might have been other than financial gain? That maybe I didn’t want the Book of Kildare to go underground forever in some morass of Catholic theology and bureaucracy? I would never have guessed that the church would permit the auction of the book with such publicity. And did you ever think I might have had—still have—real feelings for you?”
Alex’s head spun. Was Declan speaking the truth? “I can’t talk about this today.”
“Does that mean you’ll talk about it another day?” He grabbed her hand. “Please, Alex?”
She thought about Brigid and Decius, and the second chances they’d freely granted each other despite all the deceptions. Although she felt like she couldn’t breathe, she whispered, “Yes.”
Freeing her hand from Declan’s grip, she pushed past him to gulp the fresh air of early summer outside Adam’s walls. Just before she reached the door, another hand grasped for her. She turned around, ready to shake Declan off again, but it was Father Giuseppe, the representative from the Vatican. Father Benedetti wouldn’t lower himself to attend the auction.
“We wish to thank you for your assistance with the sale of the Book of Kildare,” he began.
Alex just wanted to move past him and get outside as quickly as possible. “It was my pleasure, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
The priest reached for her again. “You’ve done the church a great favor. We will be happy to repay that favor one day.” He passed her his business card.
“What do you mean?”
“For some time, we’ve struggled with the reality that our Virgin Mary—the unassuming mother of God and protector of mankind that we have fostered in the minds of Catholics—has become insignificant to and far removed from our modern faithful. And yet we had no female figure with which to replace her in their minds and hearts. Your discovery and your hand in selling the Book of Kildare with the special condition requested by Father Benedetti allows us to resurrect the Virgin Mary, if you will, and bring more believers to God.”
Alex couldn’t listen to any more. Stumbling out of Adam’s and into Saint Stephen’s Green, she threw herself onto the first empty park bench she could find. Given her ambivalence about organized religion, she felt unsettled by the thought that all her efforts had gone to reinvigorating the Virgin Mary for the church’s private aim—even if that reinvigoration was based on the Mary formed by Brigid and Decius rather than the church’s created Mary. Perhaps she should have quieted her ears to the tale the Book of Kildare Virgin Mary had to tell and let her recede into respectful obscurity.
But then a curious peace descended upon Alex. Maybe He—whoever He was, if He even existed—meant for the image of the Virgin Mary to be a helix, bending and twisting and morphing to fit the needs of the times. Perhaps He intended Alex to use her gift of listening to the secrets of sacred images to save the Virgin Mary, not for the benefit of the church but for the people. Just like Brigid, its first keeper.
epilogue
KILDARE, IRELAND
/> A.D. 1185
They led Giraldus blindfolded through the dark forest. He did not know why or how they had taken him from the guarded campground he shared with Prince John, the new vice regent of Ireland. Stumbling over the dense undergrowth, Giraldus nearly fell, and would have but for the saving hands of his captors.
Those same hands directed him to a clearing and then removed his blindfold. Before him waited a young woman dressed in the white garb of a nun. They stood several feet apart in a grove of oak trees.
“You are Giraldus Cambrensis, Welsh clergyman and adviser to Prince John, heir to Henry, king of England?” she asked in perfect Latin.
“I am.”
“You have fought for the independence of the Welsh Church from the control of the English Church?”
“I have, though never from English political rule.”
“It is enough that you sought freedom for your church. We have something to show you.”
She raised her hand almost imperceptibly. From the oak trees emerged a man wearing the brown robes of a monk, with a sword strapped to his belt. He carried a large rectangular box that gleamed gold and silver in the moonlight. She motioned for the monk to bring it to her.
Before she opened it, she said, “You see before you the greatest treasure of Ireland. It was crafted by the early Irish Church, long before it became shackled to England and Rome.”
She reached deep within the box and withdrew a large manuscript. “This Gospel book was written at the time of Saint Brigid. We are told that an angel furnished the designs, while Saint Brigid prayed and the scribe copied. You may approach.”
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