Alana recited a verse from the Psalms, one of many she had memorized. Cook’s granddaughter had a mind as sharp as needles. Her recollection of verses recited by travelers was a blessing to their little group.
“One day I’ll learn to read and write,” Brigid promised. “I’ll bring the Word of God here to all of ye and teach ye to read it for yerselves.”
Brian chuckled. “Lairds, gentry – they’re the ones who learn to read. Not slaves.”
They didn’t understand. Everything they had learned came from listening to stories. Brigid longed for more, ever since she had seen a page of manuscript shown to her by a traveling Christian monk. Dubthach knew how to read. Wasn’t she his daughter? Why then shouldn’t she learn?
That night Brigid lay awake, unable to capture the peace of sleep. She thought about the miracles God had allowed her to perform. She also wondered about her mother.
Puddin, Brigid’s pet cat, lay on Brigid’s chest, purring loud enough to wake the chickens had they been nearby. Brigid nudged the cat away and rolled to one side. The moon outside her window cast a faint glow on her face.
Why had God given her the ability to perform miracles? Brigid was thankful she could help people – that was her heart’s desire. But she was no more special than anyone else. Was she?
Brigid pondered her conversation with the master. Why had she said that about the poor always being with us?
The room filled with the soft sighs of sleeping slave women. They’d worked hard and they welcomed sleep. She had labored also, but her dreams were held back by unanswered questions.
Brigid pulled her linen sheet over her face and turned away from the moonlight. Squeezing her eyes tight did nothing to calm her unsettled heart.
Where was her mother?
Brigid awoke the next morning and knew she hadn’t slept long.
“Get up, lass!” Cook called. “Brian and the master have already left.”
Brigid had nearly forgotten. Dubthach and Brian were riding to the shore that day to meet a merchant ship. Dubthach insisted on doing his own bartering. He didn’t trust anyone.
His absence meant she was free to ask Cook about her mother. “Coming!” Brigid yelled out the window to Cook who was working in her herb garden.
She pulled a fresh tunic over her undergarment and splashed water from the room’s basin on her face. She was dragging a comb made of bone through her tangled tresses when Cook appeared in the room.
“Think it’s time to be lazy when the master is away, do ye now?”
Brigid was stunned. “Why, nay. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Suppose being the master’s daughter gives ye some privilege.” Cook snapped a laundered apron off the wall of hooks and tied it about her waist. She took two steps toward the door.
Brigid blocked the doorway, hands on hips. “I’m a servant, same as ye.”
Alana pushed in under Brigid’s arm, followed by three golden-haired siblings. “Maimeo, are we making the honey bread now?”
“Aye, off with ye!” Cook shooed her clan out of the sleeping room and turned to Brigid. “If ye think yer the same as me, yer mistaken. And remember what I told ye yesterday. Mind me, Brigid. The master’s wife has ears all over Glasgleann.”
Cook shut the oak door and Brigid felt the vibration run right through her. Cook was right. They weren’t the same. The master’s eldest servant was privileged enough to have her family near.
“Where’s my mother?” Brigid whispered to the mice she heard running inside the walls. Her legs felt like day-old porridge. Throwing herself down on her mat, Brigid wept into her hands.
Brigid found Alana hovering over a mixing bowl when she arrived in the kitchen. The lass greeted her with concern. “Are ye ill, Brigid?”
“Nay, I’m just… well, tired is all. I came to fetch my milking buckets.”
“Mamai’s already done the milking, Brigid. Come, help us bake.”
Alana’s brothers and sisters scurried about the room, pulling at Cook’s skirts. Hearing Alana speak about her mother and call Cook, her grandmother, “maimeo”, was more than Brigid could bear. “I have some mending to do. And I have to check on Puddin. She’s due to have kits any time now.” Brigid’s excuse satisfied Alana and she returned to kneading dough. Brigid paused a moment to watch Alana and the others. Cook pulled back the shutters, letting streaks of sunlight fill the dank kitchen. Without the master to spoil the mood, the kitchen servants were relaxed and cheery.
Brigid hastened outside. Behind the barn. Puddin, if she had given birth, would probably be there. The sunlight gave way to clouds and a mist began to fall, coating Brigid’s clothing with moist beads that would soon dampen more than her spirits.
“Puddin, are ye there?” She inspected the birches behind the barn and found no trace of her cat. Just as she was about to head into the barn, a likely place for a mother cat to give birth on a rainy day, someone grabbed her arm.
“Ouch! Let go!” She recognized the fellow. He was a common slave who worked for her father. A shepherd.
“Want to know about the master’s old woman?” He grinned at her with a full mouth of white teeth, very unusual for shepherds.
She has ears all over Glasgleann. Brigid knew she had to heed Cook’s warning. “I don’t believe I do.” Brigid flung his hand away and moved toward the barn door.
He blocked her path. His boots were covered in sheep dung, and a blade of grass hung from his lips. He pulled it loose and pointed it at her. “I hear ye’ve been asking why yer mother was sent away.”
The man’s black eyes bore into Brigid’s soul. Hearing someone speak about her mother brought her to tears.
She looked away. “Where’d ye hear that?”
“Oh, I heard, that’s all. Was that old woman that did it. Course, the master allowed it. Sent yer mother away, he did.”
“I know that. ’Tis no concern of yers. Leave me be.”
“Suit yerself, lassie. But Cook won’t tell ye everything.” He slipped off into the forest like a brown snake.
Why would that man leave his sheep to come tell Brigid what she already knew? No, Cook wouldn’t tell her about that old wife, but what did it matter? Odd, he was. She knew others like him, always spreading gossip to feel important. Was that what was happening? Were all the servants talking about her now?
Brigid’s head throbbed. She didn’t care about some old wife her father had once had. Dubthach wasn’t capable of loving anyone but himself, and he’d probably cast his wife away, just like Brigid’s mother. No, that woman, whoever she was, was not to blame. It was Brigid’s deceitful father who had separated her from her mother.
Brigid glanced around the dairy. Hungry people would visit soon. Surely there was more to give away than just extra milk and eggs. She rushed back to the main house, birds clucking at her heels.
Cook’s family was busy chatting in the kitchen. Dubthach’s dishes were just out of their sight in a large cupboard that towered over Brigid’s head. Because the cupboard door was slightly ajar, she wouldn’t have to risk having the door creak and draw attention. Brigid’s heart pounded as she fingered the serving pieces. She kept an ear to the happy conversation in the next room as she tried to be as invisible as possible.
“Why is Brigid sad, Maimeo?” a child asked. “She misses her mother.”
“She has a mother?”
A boy chided his sister. “Yer lame. Everyone has a mother.”
“Do not.”
“Aye, they do.”
Cook scolded them. “Hush now. She does. Can’t remember her much and that’s what makes her sad.”
They went back to their baking, as though Brigid’s plight was not worth wasting too much time worrying over. They’d never know what it was like to be motherless. None of them.
Brigid examined the cabinet’s contents. Several pieces of silver intermingled with the everyday tin dishes and wooden utensils. Why shouldn’t the beggars have the best? She slipped a bowl, two mugs, and
a delicate vase from a shelf and tiptoed outside, not bothering to close the cupboard.
She curled the dishes under her apron and glanced around. If someone saw her, she’d think of something, say she was polishing them.
The people were there, next to the dairy barn, as always. Two lads and a bent old woman. Brigid ducked inside the dairy, promising to return. No one would miss the silver. Dubthach had plenty.
Brigid gathered what she could. The animals were always generous. Outside, she found the poor folks glancing around as though a wolf might pounce on them any moment.
“What’s this?” The old woman patted Brigid’s outstretched bundle.
“No less than what ye deserve. Take it.”
Toothless grins spread across their faces as she handed them the silver serving pieces filled with the farm’s bounty. She had placed a daisy in the vase and presented it to the woman.
“Master must be away,” she heard the old woman say as the threesome shuffled back into the forest.
Brigid went about her chores as usual and at the end of the day Brian and the master returned. By the following morning Dubthach had discovered what she had done, and his roar of rage set the crows to cawing. He bellowed her name.
Brigid wiped cream from her fingertips as she hurried from the barn. What would he do? Beat her? Or something worse? She found her father standing planted in the main hall, arms folded, spittle on his lips.
“We’re going to see King Dunlaing.” She hadn’t expected that. Dubthach’s cheeks were crimson. His eyebrows bent into a point above his nose.
Brigid’s hands quivered. “Now?” He spit his words. “Aye, now.” “Are ye having me jailed?”
Dubthach laughed. Brigid couldn’t imagine what was funny.
“Suppose I could, though how would that benefit me?” It was always about him.
“I can’t be having ye give everything I own away. Would surely gain me more to put ye in his service.”
“But I beg yer pardon, sir. I didn’t give all our food away.
The chickens still gave enough eggs for us, and the cow provided more than enough milk.” Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the other things she had taken.
Dubthach gritted his grimy teeth. “’Tis not the milk and eggs I’m talking about. ’Twas not enough for ye, was it? We’re going. I’ll have no more talk about it.” He pointed to the wagon outside. Brian was absent, making her feel even more nervous.
Brigid hung her head. What had she done? She gazed at her mud-caked skirts, forming a plan that would stall for time. “If I’m to go to the king, sir, I must look my best.” She hoped Cook would be in the servants’ quarters. Maybe she’d tell her what to do.
Dubthach paced, rubbing his gray whiskers. “I suppose I don’t want the king thinking he’s getting inferior goods.”
Goods? If she hadn’t known before, she did now. Her father had never loved her.
“Go on, lass. Hurry up, now. Every minute yer with me ye cost me something.”
Brigid ran from the house. The morning mist wet her face, mixing with tears she couldn’t control. If he didn’t want her, why didn’t he sell her back to her mother’s owner? Why must they go to the king?
“Cook? Brian? Is anyone out here?”
Only the swallows answered. Where was everyone?
Brigid entered the maidens’ room just as a thought sent a shiver of terror from her head to her feet. Is he going to have me killed?
Chapter 4
“Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due when it is in the power of your hand to do so.”
Proverbs 3:27
While Brigid was pulling on fresh woolen stockings, she heard a voice. She whirled to face the door. No one was there.
She called into the barren hall. “Who’s there? Cook?” No answer.
“Yer his servant, Brigid.”
Her mother’s voice. How could it be?
Brigid peeked through the wooden shutters covering the small window in the slave maidens’ quarters. Just beyond Cook’s herbs stood her father’s rig. There was no one there. Dubthach was waiting elsewhere. The voice was either in her head or God himself spoke to her.
Brigid dropped down onto a straw mat. Until now she had long forgotten the words her mother had whispered into her ear the day they separated.
Brigid blinked back tears and inhaled. The musty smell of the damp room made her nose itch.
She tapped her fingers on her head. She had been so young when they separated, but she wanted to remember everything. Now what else?
Her mother’s voice rang so clear that if Brigid hadn’t known better, she would have thought Brocca was in the room. “Ye must remember yer a servant, darlin’. Patrick says the Lord expects us to obey our earthly masters. We’ll be getting our reward when our life on earth is over. The only father ye must concern yerself with is yer heavenly Father.”
There was something else. She curled a strand of hair around her finger as she tried to remember. Patrick! Mother had mentioned him. When had she met him?
Brigid chewed at her fingers. She and Cook had seen Patrick just a few months ago. Could it be there was another time Brigid had met the holy man? Could she and her mother have gone together to meet Patrick, and she was too young at the time to remember it now?
Brigid changed quickly into a fresh linen tunic. She tied a new bodice around her middle and smoothed back her hair with her hands. She had not done wrong by caring for the Lord’s people. God was really in control, not Dubthach. She’d hold her head high when she met the king.
Brigid joined her father at the reins. He whipped the horses more fiercely than Brian ever did. The old man was silent. Brigid considered jumping out of the wagon and making a run for the woods, but what good would that do? She could never go back to Glasgleann.
Glasgleann. Cook. Brian. Alana. She’d never see them again, and they might never learn why. Would they blame her for taking the silver? She wanted to explain, but she couldn’t. Ever.
A raven cawed overhead. Brigid cupped her hand against the sky just in time to see the bird’s wing tips. The birds had no fears, no concerns. God provided for them. Didn’t the Scriptures say so?
Lately everything she’d learned seemed as snarled as the ball of yarn that Puddin played with. Would God provide for that cat in Brigid’s absence? Or would he punish Brigid forever for stealing from a greedy man? Brigid’s mind wavered from fearing the man who’d hurt her the most to trying to understand her father’s reasons for getting rid of her.
They’d never been hungry. God had even provided a surplus when she handed out food to the starving. She was doing the Lord’s work. Couldn’t her father see that?
The wagon wheels labored along the lumpy road. Brigid clasped her hands around the small railing surrounding her seat. Father was in a hurry to be rid of her.
The smell of moist heather filled her head. On any other day she would have enjoyed a ride in the country. In the distance, gray spots speckled the edges of the road. As they drew closer, those specks took shape and she saw they were people. Common folks, hoards of them, stepped aside as they jolted down the road. Their sad eyes and outstretched hands spoke to her, silently saying, “Help me. I am no different from you. God made me too.”
Brigid’s eyes puddled with tears. She scolded herself for being selfish while people suffered. She was far healthier than those poor souls. Being a slave was the next best thing to being a laird. Slaves had food to eat, clothes to wear, and a place to rest their heads at night. She prayed God would forgive her disobedience. She had not been thankful for what she had.
Her thoughts drifted to Brocca. What about her? Was she still a slave? Was she even alive? Could she be among the discarded people, reaching skeletal arms toward the rich and privileged? Brigid searched their faces. Was there one resembling her own? Dull eyes stared at her above shadowed cheeks. The people seemed to float together, an island of grief, a collection of bones.
Brigid covered her mouth and gasped agai
nst her sweaty palm. Cook, Brian, and Alana had not been able fill the void in Brigid’s heart. Just like the unfortunates, she longed for a parent who loved her.
“I must share what I have with them,” she vowed under her breath.
The morning’s vapor gave way to warming sunshine. They drew near to the hilltop castle, and the beggars dispersed. The king’s army kept them at bay, she was sure. The muddy roads gave way to grassy splendor, and streaks of sun burst through the alabaster clouds. Despite the inevitable discipline she was sure to receive after they gained audience with the ruler of Leinster, Brigid calmed as her tears dried in the sunlight.
They traveled on in silence through the rolling plains. Dun Ailinne appeared on the horizon. The ruler could look down from his castle, so near that hill fort, and gaze upon the common people in the distance.
The wagon lurched forward and the little mound in the distance grew larger. Brigid soon made out the regal dwelling against a sky that was as blue as royal robes.
At the limestone pillars of the entrance, her father barked orders. “Wait here! Don’t ye move.”
Brigid sat still, exhausted from her thoughts. She closed her eyes to rest. Moments later she was jolted by a voice. A man in tattered clothing approached.
“Excuse me, miss? Have ye a wee bit of food for a starving man?” The man’s face and hands were terribly disfigured with swollen lumps – leprosy. He shifted back and forth on painful feet.
Brigid’s throat was dry. What could she give the wretched man to ease his misery? She was miles away from her dairy. Slipping her hands beneath her cloak to check her apron pockets, she found them empty. She searched every corner of the wagon. An object under a green woolen blanket seemed to beckon her as it gleamed in the bright light. She scurried to the rear of the wagon as the hungry man eyed her, his delicate eyebrows arched.
There was something cold and hard beneath the blanket – her father’s sword. When she pulled out the blade, the sword’s gem-encrusted handle reflected sunbeams, casting colorful specks on the wooden-planked wagon floor. The weight of the thing surprised her. She had never held a weapon before. She lost her balance and had to drop the sword to the wagon floor to keep from tumbling over the side.
Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) Page 3
