Saint Brigid's Bones

by Philip Freeman

  She shook her head. “I wish I could help. I really do. I would love to take the abbot down a few notches, and I don’t care if he knows it’s me who did it. But they don’t usually leave any parchment lying around. I did get some scrap pieces from the clerk’s waste bin a few weeks ago, but they just have names and numbers, I think. I’ve been using them to try to teach myself to read.”

  “May I see them,?”

  “Sure, they’re under my bed.”

  She pulled up the straw-filled mattress and handed me some small pieces of rough calf-skin parchment from underneath. They weren’t the carefully prepared sort scribes make for illustrated manuscripts, but leftover pieces quickly done. We used the same kind at Kildare to practice writing in the schools or for our account books. These listed the names of what I assumed were tenants of the monastery and their rents. The final piece also had landholding records written on it, but the material was different. The piece itself was poorly prepared, like something a farmer had cut from a hide and trimmed himself.

  “Dari, will you bring me that candle?”

  She placed the light on the table next to Macha’s bed. I held the parchment up to the candle. There was something odd about it. I turned it onto its side.

  “It’s a palimpsest,” I said.

  “A what?” asked Macha.

  “A piece of parchment that’s been used before and had the ink letters scraped off with a sharp knife so it could be reused. It saves the time and trouble of making a new writing surface. Macha, can you bring some more candles?”

  When five candles had been lit next to each other, I held the parchment just a few inches away. I could barely make out the remains of the old letters crossways to the newer ones on top of them. What lay underneath were not names and numbers but some sort of message. The older letters were hard to read, but fortunately the clerk hadn’t been thorough when he scraped them away. The words were crudely written in the Roman alphabet with atrocious spelling:

  ABOT—I WENT TO CHIRCH LIK YU TOLD ME—BUT THE BONES WER GONE—DONT NOW HU TOOK THEM—WAT ABOOT MY MONEY?

  “What does it say, Deirdre?” asked Dari.

  I threw the parchment on the table.

  “That no good, lying, pathetic, son of a—“

  “Who, Deirdre? What does it say? Who are you talking about?”

  “Look for yourself,” I said. “It’s from Fergus. I’d recognize his terrible handwriting anywhere.””

  Dari held the parchment up to the light and read the words slowly.

  “You forgot to add he’s a conniving, low-life, stinking piece of—“

  “Who are you two talking about?” Macha asked.

  “My former husband.” I read the words for her. “The abbot must have contacted him to steal the bones when Lorcan refused.”

  “But Deirdre, when Fergus got there the bones were already gone.”

  “I know, Dari. The abbot must have realized his mistake in trusting that worm and found another thief who beat him to the bones. But it doesn’t matter. Now we have written proof that the abbot hired someone to steal the bones of Brigid. He must have them hidden somewhere in his hut. I’m going to march into his office tomorrow and demand he give them back or I’ll haul him before the synod of bishops with this letter as evidence.”

  “You want me to go with you, Deirdre?” asked Macha. “I’m stronger than I look and I know how to use a knife if he causes trouble.”

  “I’ll come too,” said Dari.

  “Thank you both, but no. Don’t worry about me. The abbot and I are just going to have a friendly little chat. But I’m coming out of that hut with either the bones or the abbot’s privates in my hands.”

  I took the parchment letter from the table and put it safely in my pack.

  “And when we get back to Kildare, I’m going to have a talk with Fergus.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next morning one of the sisters brought word that the abbot would see me at noon.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes, Dari. It’s the only way to get the bones. I’ll be fine. But I think you and Macha should take our bags and wait for me by the stream in the woods south of the monastery. I’ll meet you there when I’m done. We may need to get out of here quickly.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” laughed Macha. “I’m fast as a horse.”

  I helped them pack, then went to the abbot’s hut just as the sun was reaching its mid-point. I knocked and one of the brothers, the same clerk I had seen at Kildare, opened the door. He told me brusquely that I would have to wait, then went back inside and shut the door tightly. He looked like he was afraid I’d give him some disease.

  I made myself at home on the bench outside the hut and tried to enjoy the sunny day. The monastery was bustling with the same familiar activity as at Kildare—people scurrying about, the sounds of farm animals, the smells of food cooking—but the striking difference was the look on the faces of the people. At Kildare, we would talk, laugh, argue, even sing as we went about our daily business, but here they all looked miserable. The heads of the monks were bent in prayer or fear, I couldn’t tell which. The only woman I could see was a sullen old nun carrying a heavy bag of turnips to the cooking hut. There were also many slaves, all male, who looked like they hadn’t had a decent meal in months. They were distinguished by their tattered clothes and shaved heads. A group of them were loading sacks of grain into the storehouse next to monks’ quarters.

  The monastery had a stable across from the abbot’s hut. Sister Macha told me the abbot rode out regularly to survey the monastery holdings and make sure all the tenant farmers were working hard. Those who couldn’t pay their rent were thrown off their land. As I waited I saw a monk with a crowd of young boys behind him walk to the stable and stop in front of a standing stone. I assumed it was just a post to tie horses, but as I looked carefully I could see it was a carved figure from the waist up holding his severed left arm in his right hand. The priest was telling the boys this was one of the idols of the foolish Irish heathens who worshipped stones instead of the living God, the creator of heaven and earth. The priest explained to his class that the monastery kept the idol there as an object lesson. When he was done speaking, he urged the boys to throw horse manure at the stone to show their love for the true God.

  I was disgusted at the ignorance of this priest and the behavior he was encouraging among his students. At Kildare, we taught our students to respect the old ways even if we disagreed with them. Father Ailbe himself had an ancient, three-faced carved stone he had picked up somewhere on his travels around the island. He used it to teach our students that the idea of the Trinity was not unique to Christianity, but was common among the people of the world for expressing the multiple aspects of divinity. He told us that no one—Greek, Roman, or Irish—ever worshipped a stone, but instead honored the god it represented, much as we honor the cross. When the teacher and students had moved on, I walked over to the stable and used an old rag to wipe away the dung on the figure.

  After I had sat on the bench for at least an hour, the same monk as before came out of the hut and motioned for me to enter. He stood as far away from me as possible as he held the door open. I was tempted to give him a big kiss just to see his reaction, but thought the better of it.

  The abbot’s hut was large and lit with many tallow lamps and candles. There was a wall dividing it in half, behind which I presumed were his bed and personal items. The front section where I found myself had a tall shelf lined with books. There was also a writing desk with a stool, which I presumed belonged to the clerk. Across from it was the locked chest Macha had described, big enough to hold a large treasure—or a small woman’s bones. Next to the chest was a massive oak table, behind which sat the abbot. In his lap was a cat, white and fat, that the abbot was slowly stroking.

  “Sister Deirdre, it’s so good to see you again. Welcome to our humble monastery. I hope your journey from Kildare was pleasant.”

  �
��Yes, thank you.”

  “And I hope the sisters have taken good care of you during your stay. They are such dear ladies.”

  “They have been most hospitable.”

  “Excellent, excellent. Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable. Brother, you may go.”

  The clerk bowed to the abbot and left.

  “You must forgive me for making you wait so long. This has been such a busy week for us.”

  “I’m grateful that you could make the time to see me today, Abbot. I know you have many things to do.”

  “Of course, of course. I believe it’s important for the churches of Ireland to work together. After all, Patrick would have wanted all his children to labor as one in the vineyards of the Lord.”

  “Yes. I’m sure God himself smiles when the churches of Ireland work together in one spirit.”

  “Indeed, indeed. Well, Sister Deirdre, I don’t want to delay you any longer. How may I help you?”

  “Abbot, I’m sure you have heard that we haven’t yet been able to find the bones of holy Brigid.”

  “Yes, I was grieved, deeply grieved, to hear that you haven’t been successful.”

  “I was hoping, Father, that you might have heard something in the last few weeks that could help us. I thought that Armagh, with its great influence and many daughter churches, might by now have had some word.”

  I studied his face looking for some change or clue, but could see nothing. He never glanced at the chest beneath his shelf.

  “You know, Sister Deirdre,” said the abbot, “such a theft could never have happened here at Armagh. We maintain a constant vigil of prayer before our altar. There are always at least two members of our community in the church kneeling before the relics of Patrick day and night, not counting the women praying in their own chapel.”

  He continued to stroke the cat.

  “But to answer your question, alas, I must report that I have heard nothing. It is most unusual that I haven’t since we have so many friends and supporters, even in Leinster. And it goes without saying that we at Armagh would never be involved in such a nefarious deed.”

  “Yes, of course, Abbot.”

  I reached into my cloak and withdrew the golden cross I had found at Sleaty and handed it to the abbot.

  “Father, I found this cross when I returned to the ruins of our church at Sleaty. I was wondering if one of your men might have lost it?”

  “Sister Deirdre, you found my cross! Oh, I’ve been wondering where I lost it. Our smith here has never been good at making proper chains. This is the second cross I’ve lost since becoming abbot. But now, like a lost sheep, it’s found its way home.”

  “I’m glad I could help, Abbot. Do you think you misplaced it when you passed through Sleaty on the way to visit the king at Cashel?”

  “No, Sister Deirdre, I still had it then. We passed through Sleaty again briefly on our return trip. I got off my horse to answer nature’s call and must have lost it then.”

  “Was that before the church had burned down?”

  “Yes, it was still standing. It looked like it had just been completed.”

  I wanted to press him about the fire, but I had to remember why I was here. The church was gone. What mattered was the bones.

  The abbot continued to look at me with the same placid smile on his face.

  I took the letter Cormac had given me and placed it on the abbot’s desk. He looked at the seal and opened the letter. His face once again betrayed nothing.

  “And what might this be, Sister Deirdre?”

  “Abbot, this was found near a ford on the upper Liffey. I was wondering if the seal on the front might be from the church at Armagh?”

  He pretended to study it.

  “I confess it does resemble ours, but I think it’s a poor facsimile. Perhaps one of your pagan priests was inspired, however imperfectly, to imitate the emblem of our Lord in his own seal.”

  “Perhaps, Abbot. But I’m troubled by the contents in any case. The Ogam writing inside the letter contains the words Armagh, Michaelmas, Lorcan.”

  The abbot shook his head slowly.

  “I can read the words, Sister Deirdre, but I’m afraid someone is playing you for a fool. This is obviously a forgery composed by some misguided soul who wants to implicate the monastery of Armagh in the theft of the bones—as if we would be involved in such a wicked scheme! I would suggest you look instead to your own people in Leinster. It’s well known that the sons of King Dúnlaing have long resented their father’s donation of tribal lands to your monastery.”

  “The letter was found on a trail to the house of the king’s eldest son.”

  “Really? Well, there you go. May I ask who found it?”

  “Border guards of King Cormac.”

  “Ah yes, the ambitious new ruler of Glendalough. But doesn’t that seem a bit too convenient? A young king seeking to expand his realm discovers a letter that could stir up discord in Dúnlaing’s kingdom and turn your king against his sons. That would leave him vulnerable to outside forces. And if Cormac could raise suspicions against Armagh in the lands of the Uí Néill, well, that could be useful to him as well.”

  “Abbot, King Cormac swore an oath that it was genuine.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m sure he did. A thousand oaths! And I’m sure they were convincing, especially to a woman who was once so close to him.”

  I wasn’t surprised the abbot knew about Cormac and me. He collected information he could use against his enemies like a squirrel hoards nuts for winter.

  “Be that as it may, Abbot, I heard something else during my investigation that has troubled me.”

  “Heard from whom, Sister Deirdre?”

  “Lorcan, the pirate lord.”

  For the first time, the abbot began to look nervous. He tried to maintain his calm demeanor, but I saw a nerve twitching on his temple.

  “And how did you hear something from him?”

  “I travelled to his island, Abbot, and talked with him myself.”

  The Abbot swallowed hard. I could tell he was both impressed and scared.

  “That was either very brave or very foolish, Sister Deirdre.”

  “Undoubtedly the latter, Abbot, but what I learned was most interesting. He said an agent representing you and the sons of King Dúnlaing had approached him about stealing the bones of holy Brigid. He said he turned down the job.”

  The abbot pushed the cat off his lap and rose up from behind his desk. For a pasty little man, he managed an impressive display of wounded outrage.

  “I must say, Sister Deirdre, I don’t care for the direction this conversation has taken. You come to my monastery, receive my hospitality, and then accuse me of conspiring to steal the bones of Brigid. And what is your evidence? A forged Ogam document and the secondhand testimony of a notorious outlaw. You’ll never get Lorcan to testify to the synod of bishops. Even if you did, do you think they would believe his word against mine? You have no proof!”

  I rose up opposite him. When necessary, I could put on quite a display myself.

  “Listen to me, you sniveling little troll. I know you stole the bones. I know you’d like to turn the sisters of Kildare into the same sad creatures as the nuns here, but it will never happen! Do you think you’re better than Christ? He came to save women no less than men. He died on the cross for us just as much as you. Women faithfully stood by Christ when even Peter turned his back on him. We were the first to his tomb on the morning of his resurrection and we’ve been first to serve him ever since. You are a disgrace to God, a disgrace to Patrick, and a disgrace to the mother who bore you!”

  The abbot stood with his mouth wide open. I don’t think anyone had ever spoken to him like that before, especially not a woman. I kept going while he was off balance.

  “I saw the letter Fergus sent you describing how you solicited him to steal the bones. Your clerk tried to scrape away the writing, but I’m afraid he didn’t do a very good job. I’m going to take the letter to the
bishops and have you removed from your post. You’ll be lucky to get a job emptying the latrines here when I’m done with you.”

  “You—you have that letter? How did you get it? I want to see it,” he demanded.

  “I don’t have it with me, and if I did I wouldn’t be foolish enough to give it to you.”

  He sat down slowly and put his head in his hands.

  “Abbot, the one thing that might buy you a modicum of mercy from the bishops is to give me back the bones now. Are they in that chest?”

  “I don’t have the bones,” he cried.

  “The time for lies is over, Abbot.”

  “I don’t have the bones!” he shouted. “Yes, Dúnlaing’s sons and I tried to hire Lorcan. Yes, I tried to hire that fool Fergus when Lorcan refused me. But somebody else got to them first.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think they’re in that chest”

  “Look for yourself.”

  He took an iron key on a chain around his neck and handed it to me. I bent down, turned the lock, and opened the chest.

  Gold.

  It was full of what must have been hundreds of gold coins, rent from the sweat and blood of all the poor farmers of Armagh. I plunged my hands deep into the chest until I touched the bottom. There was nothing inside but gold.

  I had only turned my back on the abbot for a moment when I heard the sound of a sword being pulled from a scabbard. He must have had it hidden under his desk. I jumped up just as the blade came crashing down on the chest where my head had been. I tried to make it to the door, but he cut me off and held the tip of the sword against my throat.

  “You little fool,” the Abbot sneered. “Did you think I was going to let you walk out of here and ruin me? I may not look like much of a warrior, but I know how to use a sword. I trained with my brothers when I was younger. They laughed at me and thought I’d never amount to anything. They went on to be princes, heroes in battle, but I’m going to outshine them all. I’m going to rule over the churches of this land and bend the kings of Ireland to my will. And you, woman, are not going to stop me. I almost killed you at Sleaty, but you won’t get away this time.”