Saint Brigid's Bones

by Philip Freeman

  “Not really, Deirdre. I admit I didn’t give you all the background, but I didn’t think it was relevant. Eithne had wanted to start a new monastery independent of Kildare with herself in charge. As I said, I had a similar idea in the back of my mind for years, though not with Eithne ruling over things. I was talking to you about a shrine to Brigid with you overseeing it, though that was only if I had her bones. My offer to marry you wasn’t dependent on any of that. Monastery or not, bones or not, I would very much like you to be my wife.”

  I had unfolded my arms a bit by this point and moved closer to the table.

  “But,” he said, “this does raise an issue I would like to discuss with you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I haven’t been able to learn anything about the bones. I did, however, hear about what happened to you on Lorcan’s island.”

  “How did you learn about that?” I asked.

  “There are no secrets among thieves, especially when a few gold coins change hands. My contacts told me everything that happened and what Lorcan said to you about the abbot and Dúnlaing’s sons. Deirdre, am I mistaken or did I not explicitly warn you not to go to Lorcan’s island?”

  “Yes, you did. But I was out of options.”

  “Maybe sometime we can have a little chat sometime about how crazy that was,” he said, “though for now I’d like to focus on the future.”

  “Alright,” I said. “Tell me about the future.”

  “I’m going to guess your next move is to visit the abbot in Armagh and try to threaten, intimidate, or satirize the bones out of him. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish you well, but let’s assume for a moment that doesn’t work. The food I brought here will last two or three months at best. My own people are hungry, so I can’t afford to give you any more. By early summer at best, Kildare will have to shut down. The students will go home, the brothers and sisters will disperse, and the widows will likely starve to death. Is the picture I paint unfairly bleak?”

  I sighed. “No, Cormac, I’m afraid it isn’t.”

  “Then let me propose an alternative, first to you and then, if you approve, to Sister Anna and Father Ailbe—move the monastery of holy Brigid to Glendalough.”

  Glendalough. The valley of the two lakes. A beautiful place not so far away.

  “Cormac, that’s a kind offer.”

  “It’s a sincere offer. I know Kildare is a special place chosen by Brigid herself, but Glendalough is an ancient holy site as well. Bring all the monks and nuns. Bring the widows and students. I’ll even send men to take apart the church here so we can rebuild it plank by blank at a perfect site I know by the lower lake. I’ll grant the monastery the land for the church and the surrounding fields, not as a lease, but as a gift in perpetuity so that it can never be taken away. I will use all my resources as king to support you.”

  I thought for a minute before I spoke.

  “Cormac, that sounds like a perfect solution to our problems, if I can’t recover the bones. But let me be blunt—what’s in it for you?”

  He smiled.

  “Ah, Deirdre, do you see why I like you so much? Yes, my offer isn’t totally altruistic. I do feel a genuine affection and gratitude to the monastery for all it did for me in my youth, but there’s more to it than that. Like I said to you in my feasting hall, I have big plans. Having the monastery of holy Brigid in my kingdom would be very useful to my ambitions, much more so than a simple shrine. It could become the home church for dozens of others in time—first in Leinster, then Munster and Connacht, and finally in Ulster. I dream of seeing the abbot and his Uí Néill kin kneeling before the altar in the church of holy Brigid at Armagh. I plan to be standing there in my royal robes when it happens.”

  “And I suppose your offer is contingent on having me there beside you as your queen?”

  He took my hand.

  “I would love that, Deirdre. But, no, my offer does not depend on whether or not you marry me. I will gladly move the church to Glendalough and do everything I said in any case, if Sister Anna and Father Ailbe approve. You can come with them and spend the rest of your life as a nun in the new monastery. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll build you a little stone hut high above the lake where you can live out your years in chaste solitude.”

  I punched him on the arm.

  “Very funny, Cormac. But I do appreciate it.”

  “So, what do you think?” he asked. “Should I talk with Sister Anna and Father Ailbe?”

  “I think they would consider the offer. It may be the only way to continue our ministry.”

  “And should I tell my servants to prepare for a royal wedding?”

  It was a fair question. He had given me time to think about it. If I put him off too long, I knew he would have to find someone else. One of the primary duties of a king was to marry and produce sons.

  “Cormac, I’m not trying to delay things, but I have a job to finish first. May I give you my answer when I return from Armagh?”

  He rose and bowed to me as if I were already a queen. Then he took my hand and helped me up from the table.

  “Of course, my dear. But don’t tarry too long in Ulster. And please don’t underestimate the abbot. He’s not a man who will surrender graciously. If you back him into a corner, he will fight.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Father Ailbe preached a special mass on Christmas morning before Dari and I left for Armagh. Most of the snow had melted, so I hoped the journey wouldn’t be too hard. Armagh was far away and most of the trip would be through the territory of the Uí Néill, the sworn enemies of Leinster. As a bard I could safely pass through their lands, as could Dari, as long as she stayed with me. Still, we were two women travelling alone. We both would carry daggers on our belts when we left the monastery and strap knives to our thighs beneath our robes. Within easy reach in my satchel was a short but very sharp sword which I knew how to use. I was not the daughter of a famous Leinster warrior for nothing.

  During the sermon, Father Ailbe talked about the problem of suffering and how a loving God could allow such terrible pain in our lives. He said there were no easy answers, but perhaps the problem lay in our perspective. Mortal beings, he said, are trapped in time like insects in amber. But for God, all of time is an eternal present. He said it must be something like the way a parent views a child. A father at his daughter’s wedding sees a beautiful, grown woman standing before him, but he sees her just as clearly in his mind’s eye as a young child holding his hand as they walk through a field and as a newborn baby in his arms. He said he hoped that someday we would all have that kind of vision so that the trials of this life would make sense at last.

  When the homily was finished, Father Ailbe invited all those seeking healing to come forward to the altar. On Christmas the church was normally full of people who were either sick themselves or who had brought loved ones to the tomb of Brigid, but this day there were only a handful present since the bones of Brigid were gone. Father Ailbe reminded us that it is God who provides healing, not the relics themselves.

  Two of our elderly widows went forward, helped by some younger nuns. They had been sick for years with pain in their joints and both were almost blind. Father Ailbe laid his hands on their heads and blessed them. An old man named Odrán was next. He was a devout Christian who lived near the monastery and had been at every service I could remember since I was a little girl. He asked Father Ailbe for a blessing not for himself but for his wife who was gravely ill and couldn’t make the short journey to the church. Odrán had brought her shawl to the altar, so Father Ailbe placed his hands on the cloth and prayed for her healing.

  The last to come forward that day was the family of young Caitlin, the sick girl I had visited with Father Ailbe weeks earlier. Her condition was plainly worse now. She was pale and drawn, with the light almost gone from her beautiful eyes. Her father carried her to the altar in his arms and laid her before the empty chest that had once held Bri
gid’s bones. The rest of the family gathered around him, including Caitlin’s mother who held her daughter’s hand.

  Father Ailbe dipped his finger into the holy water and made the sign of the cross on Caitlin’s forehead. She managed a faint smile when she saw him.

  “Abba, will the water help me?”

  “I hope so, my child, I hope so.”

  He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek and kissed her. Then the family carried Caitlin back among the rest of the small congregation. Father Ailbe concluded the mass with a blessing for all.

  I stayed behind to help Father Ailbe put away the candles and other items used in the service. When everyone else had left, he sat down by the empty chest of Brigid, put his head in his hands, and wept. I put my arms around him. He was always composed around others and I felt honored that he would show such emotion with me. He had seen many children die, but there was something about young Caitlin that was wearing deeply at his soul.

  “Abba, is there anything I can do to help?”

  He shook his head without speaking. At last he composed himself.

  “I’m sorry, Deirdre. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I’ve just seen too many young ones die, children I couldn’t help.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Abba. You can’t save everyone.”

  He managed a faint smile and stood up.

  “Please forgive an old man his self-pity, my dear. Now let’s get you some breakfast before you start your trip to Armagh. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

  Dari and I came to the valley of Armagh a week later, having crossed more rivers and streams than I care to remember. Along the way I had told her about Cormac’s offer to move the monastery to Glendalough. She was skeptical, just as Sister Anna had been, but neither dismissed the idea outright. Father Ailbe was oddly silent when Cormac talked with him about his plan. When Cormac left the next day, he waved goodbye to all of us from his new mare and promised he would be back for the celebration of holy Brigid’s day.

  The monastic compound of Armagh looked very much like Kildare except that it was larger and the church at its center was made of stone instead of wood. We found the nuns’ quarters at the edge of the complex near the pig pen and sought out one of the sisters, a woman about our age named Macha that Dari had known as a girl. She welcomed us and showed us to the sleeping hut. She was from a farm family near where Dari’s parents had lived. The two of them spent some time catching up while I had a fresh cup of buttermilk Macha brought me from the kitchen. She said she would send word to the abbot for us requesting a meeting, but she couldn’t promise anything.

  Macha took us to the nuns’ dining hall for dinner, then to evening prayers at their small chapel. The sisters at Armagh were not allowed to use the church where the monks worshipped. We talked with her that night back in our quarters, hoping to find out something about the bones. I was also curious to learn more about the life of a nun at Armagh. I asked her why the sisters and brothers attended separate services.

  “The priests,” she laughed, “say it’s because we might be a distraction to the weaker monks, though in these outfits I don’t see how we could offer many temptations of the flesh.”

  The nuns of Armagh wore tunics similar to ours at Kildare, but they were bulky and woven from coarse, scratchy wool. The outfits must have been unbearable in summer. The nuns wore Armagh crosses like the monks, but those of the sisters were made from bronze and roughly worked. Instead of leather lanyards like ours, their crosses hung from their necks by small iron links, like miniature slave chains.

  “The abbot,” Macha continued, “says it’s our task to serve God by serving the men of this monastery.”

  She stood, cleared her throat, and did a hilarious imitation of the abbot giving a homily, complete with gestures.

  “My dear sisters, we at Armagh follow the teachings of Christ and the Apostles who say that women have a unique place in the kingdom of God, a glorious, yes glorious calling that no man could possibly fill. Of course, what the scriptures mean by that is that your place is to wash our clothes, cook our meals, and keep your mouths firmly shut.”

  We all laughed, but I had no doubt there was a lot of truth in her words. Brigid once told me that the first step in oppressing women was to tell them how special they are.

  “Not all the monks here are a bad sort,” Macha said,” but the abbot has everyone under his thumb. No one dares stand up to him.”

  “Macha,” asked Dari, “what kind of work do the nuns do?”

  “Oh, they keep us very busy. We’re up before sunrise every morning cooking breakfast for the monks. Then cleaning and morning prayers, followed by work in the fields or in the laundry room. In the late afternoon we go back to the kitchen to cook again, then scrub the pots and put away the dishes when the men are finished. After evening prayers we usually sit together in our quarters and weave or mend clothing. Sometimes we make candles.”

  “But what about teaching the children?” I said. “I saw a school next the church.”

  She looked at me curiously.

  “The brothers teach the boys, Deirdre.”

  “But what about the girls?”

  “Girls? There aren’t any girls in the school. But even if there were, we couldn’t teach them. None of us can read.”

  “You can’t read?” I was astonished. “But that’s one of the first things every sister at Kildare is taught if she doesn’t know how already when she enters our monastery.”

  “That must be wonderful,” Macha sighed. “I’ve always dreamed of learning how to read. It must be magical to be able to know what the words on a parchment say. I’ve taught myself a few words from old manuscript pages I’ve hidden away, but the priests would be angry if they knew what I was doing. They say that women shouldn’t be educated, that they’ll tell us everything we need to know.”

  I had heard things were different at Armagh, but I had no idea they were this bad.

  It was Dari who asked the question that had brought us across Ireland.

  “Macha, we’re so grateful for the hospitality you’ve shown us. But I was wondering if I might ask you about something that’s been troubling us. Have you heard about the theft of the bones of holy Brigid from our monastery?”

  Macha nodded. “The priests told us several weeks ago. You can imagine what they said. They claim God allowed it to punish the sisters of Kildare for their sins.”

  “Did they?” Dari asked.

  “Yes indeed, you sisters are one of their favorite sermon topics. The priests here hold Kildare up as an example of what happens when women reject the order that God has established on earth. They honor Brigid, at least with their words, but they say she was a faithful servant of Patrick who knew her place.”

  “What?” I shouted.

  “Calm down, Deirdre. The sisters here know the truth about Brigid. The priests can’t keep us in the dark, no matter how hard they might try. Sometimes at night after the candles are out, we’ll gather in our quarters to tell stories about Brigid and pray to her. She means a great deal to us, as do all you sisters at Kildare.”

  “Macha,” Dari said, “why don’t you come back with us to Kildare? You could bring as many of the sisters with you as want. I can’t promise an easy path ahead, even with the bones, but we’ll find a way to carry on our work.”

  “Oh Dari, that’s easier said than done. You were the brave one, leaving and going south to Leinster. The nuns here are little better off than slaves, but this is still our home. You get used to a place after a while, no matter how bad it is.”

  “But you don’t have to stay here. It wasn’t easy for me to leave Ulster either, but once I did I found a place where women can make their own way in life—and make a difference. In Kildare we work with, not for, men. We’re doing something good there, for the needy, for the children and widows, and for ourselves. It’s a new kind of life and you can be a part of it.”

  “Dari’s right, Macha. Come back with us. We can’t p
romise you anything but hard work, but you can start a new life there. I’ll teach you to read myself.”

  Macha looked at me and smiled.

  “You know, I just might. I’d love to see the abbot’s face when he finds out I’m gone. He’ll probably dedicate a whole sermon to Macha, the wayward woman led astray by the evil sisters of Kildare. But who cares? Maybe others would join me in time.”

  “They would all be welcome,” I said. “But we would have a much brighter future if we could find the bones. Macha, I think the abbot stole them.”

  “Really?” she said, shocked. She considered for a moment, “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “I know he tried to get Lorcan to steal them, but that didn’t work. He must have found somebody else to do the job. Have you heard anything from the abbot’s men that could tie him to the theft of the bones?”

  She considered before answering.

  “I’m sorry, Deirdre, I don’t think so. We’re not around the monks that much except when we’re serving them meals. I usually clean the abbot’s office, but only when he and his clerk are out. None of the other sisters have said anything to me—and that not the sort of thing any of us would keep to ourselves.”

  “Is there anything unusual in his office?” Dari asked. “Maybe something he’s trying to keep out of sight, but still big enough to hold the bones.”

  “There’s a locked chest next to his desk, but it’s been there for years.”

  “What’s inside it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I thought maybe I could sneak into his office and pry open the chest that night. But there would be hell to pay if I were caught.

  “Macha, can you think of anything that might help us?” I asked. “Anything we could use as evidence against the abbot? If only we had something in writing I could bring before the synod of bishops.”