Saint Brigid's Bones

by Philip Freeman

  Sleep in peace, my darling,

  Sleep in peace, my love.

  With a final kiss to the warm ground beneath me, I gathered myself together, and walked back to the monastery.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Christmas was only three weeks away and the wind was colder than ever. The monastery was still feeding all the widows and needy who came to us, but the porridge was getting thin. We had bread only twice a week now and meat was just a pleasant memory. I knew we couldn’t go on like this. If pilgrims didn’t return to Kildare soon with their gifts of food, we might not even make it to holy Brigid’s day at the beginning of February. We were hungry now—soon we would be starving.

  So I made a decision. I had found no witnesses to the theft of the bones in my search of the farms around Kildare. Nobody had seen anything. It seemed pointless to go to Armagh and confront the abbot, at least not until I had better proof that he was responsible. That left only one possibility open to me.

  I had heard nothing more from Cormac about his attempts to contact Lorcan. If the pirate leader had the bones on his island, the only way I was going to get them back was to go there myself and ask for them.

  I admit, the prospect terrified me. I had never heard of anyone actually seeking Lorcan out before. Indeed, most people avoided him like the plague—and for good reason. Unlike the lovable scoundrels of Irish legend, real outlaws were ruthless men who didn’t take kindly to people knocking on their doors. I knew visiting his camp would be dangerous, but I had confidence that my status as a bard and a nun would protect me.

  I didn’t tell anyone what I was planning. I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to my grandmother or Father Ailbe for fear I would burst into tears. I didn’t even tell Dari where I was going. As far as they would know, I would still be searching the farms around Kildare.

  I thought about wearing my best robes embroidered in gold to impress Lorcan and remind him that I was a poet of the highest rank, a member of a noble, untouchable family of druids. But I finally decided to take a more subtle approach and bring only my harp as a sign of my office. I chose my most tattered nun’s robe and no ornament other than my plain wooden cross. I hoped Lorcan might respect me as a Christian sister of holy Brigid, though I had my doubts. Outlaws worshipped Crom Crúach and other dark gods and cared little for the beliefs of others.

  At sunrise with my harp and satchel, I headed east, trusting in God. Towards evening I passed a remote lake with a small island in it that I had seen several times before but had never visited. Old stories said that no one on that island could ever die. In ages past, it was said desperate souls would journey from across Ireland to the place. People burdened with age and illness would spend the last of their treasure and strength to travel there and lie down on its cold rocks. But although no one would perish on that island, no one was ever healed either. The sick and diseased continued as they were, in pain and misery, day after endless day. All of them in time begged the ferryman to take them back across the water so they could die in peace and end their suffering.

  That night, as I sat by my fire under a moonless sky, I wondered what kind of reception I would receive from Lorcan and his pirates. As I thought about it, I realized I had never met an outlaw before, though I had once seen three of them beheaded by King Dúnlaing for cattle theft.

  Outlaws were renegades from Irish society who rejected everything the tribal system stood for. They lived by hunting, plundering, and hiring themselves out to the highest bidder. People called them ambue or cowless men since they cared nothing for the traditional measure of wealth and status. Sometimes they were known as the cú glas or grey dogs of Ireland since they were more animal than human. Some people said they could even turn themselves into wolves. They had broken all ties with families and tribe to set out on their own. Often they formed into groups for protection from the outside world and to better carry out their work. For an outlaw band, there were no rules except the survival of the strongest. They had no loyalty to anyone, even their own leaders, and were kept in line only through cruelty and intimidation.

  And I was on my way to see the most vicious outlaw of all.

  On the morning of my third day from Kildare, I climbed to the top of a hill near the eastern coast. In the distance was Lambay, a small island a little over a mile offshore. It had cliffs on three sides where sea birds nested in the spring. Before the pirates came, local farmers had collected eggs there and left their ewes on the island to give birth away from mainland predators. But that was many years ago.

  What had started as a clear morning quickly turned cold and grey as I walked down the overgrown trail. Fog rolled in from the sea and a light rain began to fall. I pulled my cloak over my head and prayed as I walked, calling on all the saints in heaven, especially Brigid, to watch over me that day.

  The sea was calm as I came to the rocky shore. The water was a beautiful shade of greenish-blue. There were no homes on the coast that I could see. I wasn’t surprised that no one wanted to live so close to pirates, but I needed to find someone to take me across to the island. At last I came upon a small hut above a narrow cove with a path leading down to the sea. At the bottom of the path was an old man sitting on a rock mending a currach. Another like it was pulled up onto the beach near him.

  I had seen currachs before when I visited my uncle on the Aran Islands. They are small boats made from cowhides stretched over a wicker framework and tightly sewn together. They can leak terribly if they aren’t tended properly and are devilishly hard to steer since they lack a keel. The currach this man had was old, made for no more than two people with loops of rope on the sides to hold the oars in place.

  “Blessings upon you, Grandfather,” I called out in the traditional greeting for elders as I approached him.

  He stared at me with hard, narrow eyes. He had only a horrid scar where his nose had once been.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I am a bard and a sister of the order of holy Brigid at Kildare. I come on business of my monastery seeking passage to the island so that I might speak with Lorcan.”

  When he spoke again I could see that most of his teeth were gone.

  “No one goes to that island. Only a fool would sail the seas around here.”

  “But you sail here.”

  “Then I must be a fool.” He looked quickly out at the sea. The fog had covered the strait between the mainland and the island.

  “Listen to me, young lady. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you value your life you will turn around right now and go back to where you came from. You’re lucky the fog rolled in, otherwise those damn pirates might have spotted you by now and be on their way to take you. They do nasty things to trespassers, especially women.”

  “Then why do they allow you to fish here?”

  “Because I’m old and poor. I’ve got nobody left to care whether I live or not. I don’t much care myself. Those pirates destroyed everything I ever cared about.”

  It took him a long time before he could continue.

  “My daughter—she was twelve, only twelve years old. She wasn’t even pledged to a man yet. Those animals took her when they first came here years ago and made her a slave on the island. I tried to ransom her, but they laughed when they saw all I had was a basket of fish. They wouldn’t even let me see her. I tried to sneak over there a few nights later and rescue her, but they caught me and did this.” He pointed to his nose.

  “Then they tied me to a pole and brought out my little girl. She screamed when she saw what they had done and tried to reach me, but they knocked her down in the mud. They raped her there in front of me, four or five of the beasts, while I tore at my ropes and cursed them. When they were done, they slit her throat.”

  He sat down on a rock.

  “They let me go so I could tell others what they did. When my wife saw me and heard the story, she was in my boat before I could stop her and was rowing across to the island with a kitchen knife. They kill
ed her too.”

  He turned to look at me.

  “That was over thirty years ago. I’ve lived here alone ever since and have never been back to the island. So listen to me and get away from here now. They won’t care that you’re a bard. You think your harp or that cross around your neck will protect you? They won’t.”

  I sat with him for a long time on that rock.

  Did I really want to risk speaking with Lorcan? Even if he had the bones, were they worth my life? But I knew in my heart that without the bones, everything Brigid had dreamed of, all we had worked for, would come to an end. People were depending on me. Didn’t I believe God would protect and watch over me—or were those just empty words I prayed?

  “I know you’re trying to keep me safe from harm, but I must get to that island.”

  He shook his head again.

  “I won’t take you there.”

  “But that’s where I must go and you have the only boat on this coast.”

  I stood up.

  “I am a bard from an ancient line of bards. I come from a family of powerful druids and noble warriors. I command you by the authority of King Dúnlaing to take me to that island.”

  He looked amused.

  “I don’t care if the queen of the fairy people sent you, I’m not taking you.”

  “Alright then, loan me one of your boats. I’ll row myself.”

  He gave a snort. “Child, have you ever rowed a currach before? You’ll end up going in circles or getting swept out to sea—which would be a better fate than what waits for you on that island.”

  “Yes, I’ve rowed boats like yours many times.” Well, at least a few times. Maybe twice. “I can handle myself. Just give me the oars.”

  At last he shrugged and got up. He retrieved two oars from behind a rock and brought them to me, then helped me launch the boat into the water. I climbed in and fixed the oars.

  “Grandfather, I thank you for your kindness. I’ll bring the boat back soon. Please don’t worry about me.”

  He shook his head one last time. “I wish I could change your mind, but I can see you’re a stubborn one. My wife was stubborn too.”

  With that he pushed me out to sea.

  I had trouble steering the boat at first, but soon fell into the rhythm of rowing. A bigger problem was keeping my course in the fog that soon enveloped me. My only guide was the dim glow of the sun to the south, but I knew if I kept that to my left I would reach the island.

  I must have been halfway there when a strange sight appeared off the bow of the boat. It was a small flock of puffins floating on the water, all watching me in silence. It was odd to see puffins that time of year. By then they were usually well out to sea where they wintered. I was always amazed they could fly with their dumpy black and white bodies, but they nested on high cliffs along the coast.

  The fog grew even thicker after an hour of rowing. I knew I must be drawing near the island, but it wasn’t until I felt the boat scrape bottom that I knew I had reached the beach. I had been expecting watchmen, but there were none. The boats of the pirates lay empty nearby. I pulled the currach up onto the shore and took out my satchel. The silence was unnerving and I began to wonder if the outlaws were lying in wait for me behind a rock. With a final prayer and my heart pounding like a drum, I walked up the path towards what I hoped was the hut of Lorcan.

  I remembered the story of the Roman hero Aeneas sneaking into an enemy city surrounded by a divine mist. Like him I passed unseen through the fog into the heart of the pirate camp.

  Suddenly there was a wooden post in front of me and I could barely stifle a scream. There was the body of a man tied to it. His hands had been chopped off. He hadn’t been dead long, but the crows had already picked out his eyes. I kept walking.

  At last I came to a large circular hut made of the usual wattle and daub with a thick thatch roof. I could smell peat burning inside and hear the gruff voices of men. There were skulls attached to the outside of the doorpost and no bench for visitors, as was the custom in Irish homes. I took a deep breath and tried to stop my hands from shaking. I decided that if I was going to make a proper impression I had better do this right. I took out my harp and held it to my chest. Without knocking I threw open the door and marched inside.

  I took in the room at a glance. There was a hearth fire in the middle with some kind of large animal roasting over it on a spit. Around the fire were about twenty of the most despicable-looking men I had ever seen. Most of them looked like they could casually rip the head off a horse. Some had scars on their faces and several were missing ears. They all wore gold torques and jeweled necklaces. If they weren’t drunk already they were well on their way.

  All of them fell silent and turned to stare at me as I entered. There were two or three slave women with disheveled hair carrying food and wine to the men. On the walls were what seemed to be trophies—decorated iron swords, golden torques, silver plates. At the front of the room in a chair covered with a lion’s skin was an older man with a goblet in his hand. He was looking at me with great curiosity.

  “My name is Deirdre,” I said loudly. “I am a one of the sisters of holy Brigid from the monastery at Kildare. I am also a bard and a member of the Order. I wish to speak to Lorcan.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Then the man sitting on the lion-skin chair spoke.

  “Welcome, Deirdre. I am Lorcan, leader of this group of gentlemen. Please come closer so I can see you better.”

  I moved to the open space between his chair and the fire. This close to Lorcan I could see he was a man of average height, about fifty years old with long grey hair woven into braids. His beard was braided as well. He wore a simple brown tunic and woolen pants with short leather boots. He wore no jewelry. I noticed that one of his eyes was blue and the other green. He was smiling and seemed almost pleased to see me.

  “Would you like some wine, Deirdre? Perhaps something to eat?” he asked.

  “Thank you, my lord. A cup of wine would be most welcome after my journey.” I decided it was best to be polite. I was expecting a coarse ruffian. It was unnerving to have him act so courteously.

  He snapped his fingers and one of the women brought wine for me in a golden goblet and a stool for me to sit on.

  “You’ve traveled a long way from Kildare to see me. What can I do for you?”

  My mouth had suddenly gone dry, so I drained the cup.

  “My lord, perhaps you’ve heard that the bones of holy Brigid were stolen from the church at Kildare. These bones are worthless in themselves, but they draw many pilgrims to our monastery in search of hope and healing. We would very much like to get them back. You are a powerful man in Ireland. I was hoping that perhaps you could help me.”

  He then gave me the most charming smile.

  “My dear, I have indeed heard about the theft of the bones. I make it my business to know about such things throughout the four provinces.”

  “Then, my lord, you should know that the sisters of holy Brigid would be willing to negotiate for their return. I’m certain we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  He signaled the slave woman to refill my wine glass.

  “There are many thieves in Ireland, Sister Deirdre, but I do insist on being involved in such activities. I can be rather severe when someone tries to cut me out. Perhaps you saw the unfortunate man tied to the post as you came in? That was my favorite nephew, a misguided youth who stole a hoard of silver coins from a merchant. He tried to hide the theft and not give me my accustomed share. I had him brought back here for punishment. A pity, really. He was such a nice boy.”

  I felt a chill run down my spine, but I pressed on, carefully.

  “My lord, I had heard that perhaps the abbot of the monastery at Armagh and the two sons of King Dúnlaing might have approached you about acquiring the bones for them.”

  “Sister Deirdre, I don’t usually discuss business with parties not involved, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”
r />   He took a long draft of wine from his cup.

  “The abbot and Dúnlaing’s sons did indeed approach me about hiring my services to steal the bones from your monastery.”

  I knew it! I knew I was right about the letter and about the bones. Now I could get them back. If Lorcan didn’t have them there on the island, then he must have given them to the abbot. I could go to Armagh and demand their return. The synod of bishops would strip him of his office and send him into exile. Or maybe they would let him stay at Armagh tending pigs.

  “The representative from the abbot and the king’s sons came to me over two months ago,” he continued. “But I declined their request.”

  No. Lorcan had to have taken the bones. Why was he telling me this? Was he trying to mislead me?

  “It’s not that I have any reservations about stealing from holy places, Christian or druid,” he said, “but I had an encounter with Brigid when I was a young man that gave me pause.

  “I was working as a sheep thief near Kildare in those days, always on the lookout for an easy target. I had heard Brigid often tended her own flocks, so I crept up on her pasture one spring day. I counted fifty sheep on the hillside, most of them ewes but a good number of castrated males as well. I spirited away a fat wether before she even knew I was there. I led it to a pen I had built about half a mile away and then came back for another. I thought at first she must have been blind not to see me, but then a strange feeling came over me, as if perhaps she knew exactly what I was doing and was deliberately ignoring me. But I kept on all day and by evening I had seven animals in my pen. I snuck back to Brigid’s flock that evening and followed her to her fold just to watch her surprise when the foolish woman found seven of her sheep missing. She counted them loudly as each one entered the gate. When the last one came through, she tapped it with her staff and turned to look at the bushes where I was hiding and shouted, “fifty.” I couldn’t believe it. I counted them myself three times and found she was right. Not a single sheep was missing. I was so struck by this magic I left my hiding place and retrieved the sheep I had stolen from her. I returned them to her and begged her forgiveness. She smiled and told me to count the sheep again, including those I had brought back. I did and to my amazement there were still fifty in all.