Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  “Are ye sick, dearie? Should I have Brian hold up?” Brigid didn’t want her discomfort to end the conversation. “Nay, please, tell me more.”

  “We should talk about something else. The dairy. Ye’ve been doing a fine job, Brigid.”

  The miracles. They could talk about that later. “Did she look like me?”

  Cook slumped crossly against the wagon’s side. “Stubborn child. Ye always were.” Her words were sharp as spear points. Why was she trying to deny Brigid the only connection she had to the one person who truly loved her? Cook had many family members. She couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be alone.

  Cook blew a puff of air, sending a gray curl bouncing on her forehead. “I believe she did look like ye, some. Though her hair was more auburn.” Cook’s face brightened. “Her eyes were pools of sea water, like yer own. Yer both beautiful lasses.” Cook squeezed Brigid’s hand, but not too tightly. That was her signal that their conversation was finished. They’d had many talks in the ten years since Brigid had been motherless. It was Cook who had first taught Brigid about Christ. Together they had traveled to hear a man named Patrick speak to the masses. Brigid always wondered how they’d been able to get away that day. Why had her father allowed the trip? That journey six months ago had been life-changing.

  Brigid still remembered Patrick’s face, one she’d never forget – kind, warm, friendly. And his message. He spoke of a love that was available to all. Brigid desired such a thing – Dubthach certainly didn’t love her – and so she had embraced the Christian faith that day. Cook and Brigid, and a few others at Glasgleann, nurtured their beliefs by discussing Patrick’s teachings in the evenings. Sometimes the other servants mocked them; sometimes they listened.

  “My mother? Did she know the One True God?”

  Cook kept her eyes on the road. “Hush, now. We can’t be speaking of her any longer. ’Twill make yer father angry, it will.” Cook blinked her dark eyes. One corner of her mouth turned into a grin. “Aye, child. She does. She truly does.” Cook’s eyes watered as she turned away, pretending to survey the countryside.

  Streams of tears stung Brigid’s sun-scorched cheeks. She brushed them away with her rough linen apron. Brocca did not follow the pagan beliefs of most people. The thought was comforting. Brigid longed to discuss Christ’s teachings with her mother. She imagined them sitting around an evening fire, hand-in-hand, chatting happily. Brigid could almost feel her cheek against her mother’s auburn hair.

  After they returned to Glasgleann and unloaded their catch, Brigid continued her daydreaming. She told the cows that her mother loved the Lord God. She whispered a story to the chickens, telling them how she and her mother would one day recite the twenty-third Psalm to each other. She returned to her butter churn in the main house and barely noticed Cook’s steaming pots of food. Her heart was full of hope.

  Then she heard her father’s voice.

  “Oh, Cook! Boiled eel, roasted clams! What a delight ye’ve prepared. Like a feast for a king.” Dubthach clapped his hands and then proceeded to tear into the meal like a wild wolf. He was seated at the kitchen’s planked table with a feast spread before him. His lone chair was centrally positioned, allowing easy access to all the platters.

  Brigid eyed him from her corner of the keeping room. Whatever he didn’t eat would be split among the servants, but that was not what concerned her. The man who had torn her from her mother’s grasp was chomping away as though nothing had happened. He was ancient, nearly as old as Cook. He professed no belief in any god. He was heartless and greedy.

  Dubthach slopped ale down his short beard, but he didn’t seem to notice. His blackish teeth ripped flesh from the clamshells. “Well done, Cook. I must send ye to the shore more often.” He glanced up at Brigid. Though she was his own daughter, he treated her like a common servant. “I hear ye’ve been making a great deal of butter, lass. And the chickens under yer care produce twice as much as anyone else’s. Tell me, just how do ye do the things ye do?”

  Brigid looked at him, and a wave of disgust washed over her. How could he possibly be her father? How could this man have touched her sweet mother? She shrugged her shoulders. He wasn’t worth wasting breath for.

  Chapter 2

  “Always remember to forget the troubles that passed away. But never forget to remember the blessings that come each day.”

  Old Irish proverb

  “Brigid, how did ye get away without a beating?” Cook grabbed Brigid by the arm as the two marched toward the dairy.

  “He can’t hurt me, Cook. Not any more than he already has.” Brigid wiggled free and ran ahead, her feet digging into the damp dirt path. The wind whistled past her ears, but all she heard was the sound of her mother’s voice, clearer than she’d ever heard it before. “Bear up, Brigid. Take heart. Bear yer lot.” What could her mother have meant?

  Brigid threw the barn door wide and flung herself onto a pile of hay. The animals’ smell soothed her. They asked nothing from her, gave all they had to give, and would never take anything back. If only people were the same.

  Cook marched in after her, nearly hysterical. “Why didn’t you answer the master? Don’t ye know, lass, we’ll all suffer for it? Could ye not think about us?”

  Brigid sat up, pieces of hay sticking in her hair and between her fingers. “Think of others? Is that not what I have been doing? I make sure the hungry get what they need from our dairy. I get up at dawn and return to my bed long after the chickens roost. I work for the master, not myself. How can ye say that?” Brigid trailed off into a long sob that reached the depths of her soul.

  If she had expected sympathy, she didn’t get it from Cook. “’Tis time ye learned yer place, Brigid. Ye do what yer supposed to because yer a slave. ’Tis a far better lot than joining the starving masses wandering the woods with the wolves.” She stomped out of the dairy and shoved the door closed, leaving Brigid alone in the dark.

  “She doesn’t understand,” Brigid said to the cattle, the doves in the rafters, the chickens, and to God, if he was listening.

  Brigid longed to stay there, with her face buried in the hay, but she felt a strange urging to return to the house and seek Dubthach’s forgiveness. She hated the thought, but at the same time, she knew she had no choice. Cook was right. She was a slave, and slaves have their place. If she continued to act with disrespect, Dubthach would exact a punishment on them all, fearing some sort of rebellion. Brigid couldn’t bear being the cause of it. She had to go back.

  Evening had cast its black cloak. Brigid couldn’t see her feet so she concentrated on making her way toward the dimly lit turf-topped house. She rammed her toe into a tree root, causing a shard of pain to shoot up her leg, but thankfully she didn’t fall. When she reached the house and cracked the door open, all was quiet.

  Brigid’s father had wanted an explanation. She sighed, tapping her fingers on the rock wall of the kitchen. He was still sitting at the table, examining parchment record books by candlelight. He looked up at her. His jaw was set. The old man dropped his writing instrument and curled his fists into balls. “Dare to come back, did ye?” He shoved his round gut away from the table. “I’ll not have such disrespect from ye,

  Brigid. The others will think I favor ye simply because ye were born to me.”

  Brigid gulped hard. Her own hands tightened under her apron. He never favored her. Never. “I’m sorry.” She hung her head to keep the repulsive man from reading her true thoughts.

  Dubthach looked at her for a moment, then slammed his fist on the table. “Very well. I’ll accept yer apology. For yer penitence, ye’ll have extra chores all week.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “But ye’ll have to do something for me first. I want an answer to the question, lass. How is it ye produce so much in my dairy when others do not?”

  She linked her fingers together and squeezed, bringing her hands up to her lips. “The poor will always be with us.” What she said surprised her more than it did her f
ather.

  “Aye. That’s what I always say.” Dubthach narrowed his eyes and stared. Brigid was uncertain whether he wanted to hear the explanation or whether he just liked the calming rhythm of her voice. No matter whether it was midmorning or suppertime, the slothful man could nod off quicker than a dragonfly darts.

  She began. “Well, ye do have fine animals in yer barn. God has blessed ye with that. The cows are healthy indeed.” Noting that he was being lulled to sleep, she kept up her rambling. “I hear the sheep are fine specimens also. And bearing young every spring. Just yesterday, Brian said… ” She continued her banal observations for several minutes more until Dubthach’s head folded down to his chest and great breaths of air pushed through his wrinkled lips. He was asleep.

  Brigid lowered herself onto a tree stump chair. Her father took pride in his possessions. For an Irishman, healthy chickens and livestock meant wealth. When things went well he was bearable, she had to admit. But life was uncertain, something a slave knew well and a laird only remotely understood.

  If a wolf would happen to steal into the barn and kill some of the herd, Dubthach would erupt into a rage lasting longer than a December night. Wolves hunt. They eat chickens; they devour calves. Didn’t the old man know that? Why should he be surprised? Did he think he could invoke some magical power to hold the forces of nature at bay?

  Brigid rose and stepped away from the fire. The old man would likely doze there until dawn. She lit a twist of straw from the candle dripping on the table. She’d need a wee bit of flame to light her path to the maidens’ quarters.

  Outside, there were no shadows, no moonlight. She heard movement near the house, but assumed the noise she heard was from the birds roosting in the oaks for the night. Brigid tiptoed, as if she feared she’d wake the fairies. Of course she didn’t believe in such things, but in Ireland you had to be ready for anything. Patrick had said that, having come from a land across the Irish Sea, although Brigid didn’t fully understand what he meant.

  A voice from behind startled her. “Excuse me, miss. Might ye have a wee bit of food for a poor lad?”

  She crouched low to the ground, as if she could hide herself. A fairy? Couldn’t be. She managed to turn on squatted legs to see the form of a thin boy staring down at her. He came into the glow of her torch, and she saw that he was wearing tattered clothes. Wisps of raven hair stuck out beneath his gray felt cap, too large for the lad’s wee head, but he was a boy just the same. Not a fairy at all.

  Despite Patrick’s warning, she hadn’t been ready. The unexpected encounter made her search for words, stuttering in the process. She’d helped beggars before. That’s what had started Dubthach’s interest in how she was feeding the poor. But they had never come around in the dark of night before.

  The lad’s dejected, deep-sunken eyes convinced her she’d have to think of something. Whispering a quick prayer beneath her breath, Brigid ordered him to wait outside the barn door while she went searching, praying all the while.The moon finally made an appearance, just as her torch was dying. A beam of light pushed its way in through the cracked door, illuminating the cow’s mud-colored face.

  “I know ’tis not time for yer milking, but supposing ye’d give me just a wee bit for the poor lad outside?”

  Was that a nod from the cow or was she seeing things? Brigid ran for the wooden bucket she’d placed by the feed sacks when she milked earlier. To her delight, the cow did indeed have more to give.

  “Now what about ye chickens?” Brigid eyed the red-feathered birds who’d also been disturbed by her presence. They clucked about the barn floor as if trying to avoid her suggestion.

  “Come on, now. Have ye no compassion for a starving lad?”

  The chickens lighted on their nests and clucked their earshattering agreement. “Oh, God, don’t let them wake Dubthach, or worse, the foxes.” Brigid retrieved two brown eggs and a white one with yellow speckles.

  “Thank ye kindly, God’s creatures.” She put the treasures into the pocket of her apron and poured the milk into a tin dish. Then she headed carefully for the barn door, ever mindful of the gifts she held.

  After squeezing through the opening, Brigid greeted the lad with the best smile she could muster. She’d better warn him. “Do not be coming here again at this hour. If the master does not chase ye away, the wolves will.”

  The door to the main house crashed open. “Brigid, are ye there?”

  “Hurry! Don’t come back!” She shooed the boy away into the woods and shuffled over to the house.

  “Ye fell asleep… I mean ye were tired and all… and I thought I’d leave ye alone.”

  “Enough of yer rambling. Was that another beggar I saw?”

  No use to pretend otherwise. “Aye.”

  “Tell me how ye did that trick? How ye got milk and eggs when the animals should not have had any to give?” Dubthach could see in the dark like an owl.

  “’Tis not a trick. I just… ” Brigid stumbled for the right words. Her master thought he’d found the secret to worldly wealth. How could she ever explain the wonders of God to a man like him?

  He waved his cloaked arm toward the house. “Come back inside. Sit. There’s a trick here and ye’ll teach it to me.” The round man waddled back through the stone door, barely able to squeeze his body through the opening.

  She followed him inside and lit two tallow candles from the smoldering peat fire. She placed them on the table next to the candle stump left from Dubthach’s earlier reading, and a circle of light filled the center of the keeping room, leaving the outer edges in darkness. Like Patrick’s message in Ireland, she thought.

  Dubthach blinked his eyes. He stood and motioned toward the cupboard. “Bring me some tea.”

  Brigid winced as she lifted the kettle off the iron hooks hanging over the fire. How did Cook manage? Brigid was efficient in the dairy, but the kitchen was unknown territory. She carried the hot pot over to the cupboard just as Cook bustled in the door.

  “Ye’ll burn yerself, darlin’. What are ye doing?” “Getting tea for the master.”

  “Och! Why did ye not carry the mug over to the fire instead of the other way ’round?” She snatched the kettle from Brigid and plopped it down on the dirt floor. Then she marched to the cupboard and fetched a mug. Cook poured steaming liquid into the mug and returned the pot to the fire, refusing Brigid’s offer to help.

  Brigid put her hands on her hips. “I’m not a child.”Cook ignored her, served Dubthach his tea, and turned to leave. She stopped short at the door and motioned for Brigid to come near. “I’ll be in the field first thing in the morning with Alana. Meet us there after yer done milking. Brian needs help with the plow.”

  “But what can I… ?”

  “Needs lot of hands, he does.” Cook winked at her. “Fine, then.”

  “Now, on with it!” Dubthach raised his mug to his bristled face. “Tell me the secret.”

  Brigid lowered herself onto the stump seat. “Once again I coaxed extra milk and eggs from the animals in the barn, but this time there was more than enough for three.”

  “What? There were others with that lad? Tell me about that. How… ?”

  “Standing near the forest’s edge. I saw them when he ran away. Those pleading brown eyes and miry little faces melted my heart. They’re starving, they are.”

  “As ye said earlier, the poor will always be around.” Why had she said that?

  “Yer too soft, Brigid. Thought ye’d be more like… ” “Like you? Turn them away?”

  He raised his hand to her. She cowered back, expecting a blow. He had never hit her, but he was an angry man and she feared him nonetheless.

  He lowered his hand to his lap. His full lips turned into a grin. “Ye’ll tell me the secret and I’ll be patient until ye do.”

  “We feed the barnyard animals well. Shouldn’t we also share with the poor?”

  “A woman has no mind for business.”

  I’ve a mind for the Lord’s business.

&nbs
p; Brigid was tired. Her bed, and hopefully sleep, awaited her. She grabbed her cloak from a peg near the door. “Here’s what I did. Here’s the answer to yer question.”

  Dubthach wrinkled his forehead and flicked his fingers back. “Go on. Tell it now.”

  “I prayed. That’s what I did. Here’s what I said: ‘Lord, what will all those hungry children eat?’ ” She was shouting, but she couldn’t help herself. “ ‘Can the woods bring forth enough wild berries to quiet their hungry cries? If they do have parents to feed them, I know their folks likely don’t have work and will provide no more than hard biscuits. Give me a way, Lord, to help them.’ ”

  “All those words?” Dubthach ticked off his fingers as if trying to remember exactly what she had said. “Which ones are the magic ones? Which ones make the chickens produce, the cows give more milk, make the butter sweeter and more plentiful?”

  Brigid rolled her eyes and pulled the door open. “That’s what I said. I’m off to my bed.”

  Chapter 3

  “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?”

  Matthew 7:9

  Brigid approached the others the next morning. Brian tinkered with the plow. Cook and Alana watched.

  Cook’s neck strained like a goose’s to look at her. “What was that all about last night?”

  “The miracles in the dairy.”

  Cook grabbed Brigid’s shoulders. “Did ye tell him, then?

  Did he listen?” She released her grip.

  Brigid shook her head. “Yer right. He didn’t listen. Was only concerned about his wealth. Thinks my prayers contain magic words that can be used by anyone to conjure up milk and eggs.”

  Brian shook his head and lowered his hammer. “Shall we get to it?”

  Prayer time. That’s why she had been summoned to the field. The four of them were the only Christians at Glasgleann, and they snatched moments here and there for prayer and support.