One morning Brigid headed to the bog. She had volunteered to cut peat since the monks wouldn’t step foot near the place and she longed for something new to occupy her. She was also curious and knew that one day she’d venture farther than the bog.
She had been given a donkey, a tool for the cutting, and a large basket woven from the strongest rushes. “The bricks have to dry, of course,” Cillian had said. “But bring back whatever ye can, and we’ll set them up here. Ye don’t want to linger there long.”
She passed a lovely grove where a young lass labored among the fruit trees.
“Are ye Brigid?” the girl called from within the branches. “The one who lives with the monks?”
“Aye, that I am.” Brigid left the donkey on the road and joined her among the trees. They both stood there admiring the glorious harvest. “God has blessed ye with such bountiful land.”
“Well, the gods are appeased, I suppose. One never knows what may happen tomorrow.”
Brigid noticed the girl was dressed in new garments – no holes. Her honey-colored tresses were neatly combed and her complexion as clear as a baby’s. “Who owns this beautiful patch of land?”
“’Tis all mine.” The lass spread her arms and twirled around. Her tunic and apron floated out to form a cloud around her. “I’ve a cow too, but shush. Don’t be telling anyone.”
“Why not?”
“I am grateful the gods have blessed me, Miz Brigid, truly I am. I’ve heard ’bout yer god. How different he is. The druids speak ’bout the spirits in the woods, the god of the sun and the sea – but I’m wondering if that’s not how it is at all.”
She pulled a piece of fruit off a branch and handed it to Brigid. It tasted sweet and sour at the same time. Juice dripped down her fingers. The lass took an apple for herself and they ate together.
After they finished, the lass wiped her hands on her apron and headed back to picking her harvest. “But I’ve got to look out for myself till I figure out what your god wants of me. I’ve got to hide what I’ve got till then, just in case I need it. That’s why I asked ye not to tell anyone.”
The lass seemed unsure. Perhaps she was ready to convert to Brigid’s faith. Cillian had tried to be a light for many years, but it was a light that glimmered softly. Brigid thought perhaps her example, along with Cillian’s, was taking hold among the people of the woods after all. She went to the lass and touched her arm. “Well, then, do ye know what the One True God wants ye to do?”
The girl dropped to her knees and twisted Brigid’s skirts between her hands. “Oh, I want to know! Please tell me.”
“’Tis simple. He wants ye to share yer apples with the starving ones in the woods. Ye have plenty for yerself.”
The girl pulled her hands back. “They’ll take it all, then come after the cow. I’ll be starving then. Can’t ye see that? I’ll have nothing to offer any god.” She began to pace. “I’ll get guards to protect the apples. I’m sure the king will send them. He doesn’t want to anger the gods.”
“Have ye not heard me, lass? There are no gods to appease in the woods. There is only one God. And he wants ye to … ”
The girl left Brigid standing there talking to herself. She didn’t understand. Brigid kicked at a fallen apple and squeezed her fists tight. “Oh, God, these people must learn. Curse this orchard so it produces no more fruit.”
The girl turned toward her, eyes wide, and then disappeared inside a whitewashed house.
Disgusted, Brigid returned to the donkey and resumed her march to the bog. Late in the day she set off home, mumbling about the wet, nasty job, and how her shoes were forever ruined by it. She pulled and shoved the stubborn beast. He disliked the heavy load. At the sunlight’s last glimmer she entered the settlement. The monks were waiting for her, lined up in a row like a king’s order of guardsmen.
Philib stepped toward her. “We heard what ye did to Miz Deirdre’s trees.” He frowned.
“Who?” Brigid dropped her turf bundles near the base of the dining hall hut. Then she remembered – the lass with the apple orchard.
Cillian suggested the men return to their chores.
Why are they so angry? I’ve returned with fuel from a place they will not go. And I’m miserably wet from it, too. Brigid noticed Aine in Cillian’s shadow. “Hello, lassie. How was yer day?”
“Go on, now.” Cillian pushed the girl toward the dairy. “I need to speak to Miz Brigid alone.”
The girl obeyed. She was now more under his authority than Brigid’s.
“’Tis not that they aren’t grateful for yer gift. But Miz Deirdre came to us wailing about a curse ye put upon her apples. The trees have all withered and her apples are full of worms.”
Brigid started to giggle, then stopped at Cillian’s expression. “If ye be cursing people’s well-being, then yer no different from the white-cloaked devils. Don’t ye know? Have ye been sheltered from the world? The pagans believe apples are connected to fertility. With her crop destroyed, she believes she’ll never marry. Never mind what she could have gotten for those apples.”
“What she could get? Why those apples could feed… ” “Brigid, those apples can buy cows, goats, sheep. Ye had no idea, did ye? Ye never had to buy beasts.” He shook his head like a rebellious horse. “The starving would not have eaten the fruit. ’Tis too valuable. With apples ye can buy livestock. With livestock yer rich.”
“I do know ’bout dairy animals, sir.”
“Oh, woman! There’s so much ye don’t know. And ye’ve got power from God without wisdom. That’s a dangerous thing.”
“Oh, I assure ye, sir, that if the trees died, God had a reason for it. He likely sent a plague that caused the crop to fail. Growing fruit is difficult. Has that not happened before?”
“Aye, but not right after a woman has ordered someone to appease God with gifts of fruit.”
“Appease? I used no such word. I only told her that God expects us to share what we have.”
“Like you do?”
A frigid breeze from the direction of the river slapped her cheeks. “Aye, like I do.”
After that, every time Brigid attempted to help someone or give a bit of advice, the monks questioned her. When she tried to convince a young woman who came to her complaining of ill treatment by her husband that true beauty comes only from God, the monks accused her of trying to keep all women unmarried.
“But yer not married!” she barked back to Cillian.
“I am God’s servant. I’ve dedicated my life to spreading God’s Word. Have ye not learned that, Brigid?”
The bulge around his ankle from his hidden dirk loomed large. Brigid feared his anger would turn to rage against her. She clasped her fingers together to keep from shaking. “Aye. Ye do wonderful work for the Lord. And ye’ve been more than kind to take me in.”
“Then ye’ll heed my words. Ye may not favor a husband for yerself, but ye’ll not be telling other women to disobey their husbands. The Lord sanctions marriage.” His words sounded like a mortar full of grain grinding underneath the pressure of a pestle.
“I meant no such thing. I just wanted to tell her the Lord thinks she’s beautiful.”
He stomped off, leaving her to wonder what the change in the wind was really bringing.
Moments later a streak of white caught her eye. Standing at the edge of the woods with a gnarled walking stick stood a man, clothed in a white cloak. He smiled at her, and she heard the faint whispers of the monks who had gathered at the dining shelter’s one window. “Ardan.”
Chapter 8
“There’s no need to fear the wind if your haystacks are tied down.”
Old Irish saying
Cook made more noise than was necessary. She slammed down every pan she could find, making the table rattle against the stone floor. She sighed as loudly as she could. Dubthach was in the room.
“By the gods, woman, what are ye doing? Trying to make my head feel like there’s chickens fighting in there?”
�
��If yer head feels that way, ’tis yer own doing. The whiskey barrel’s nearly empty again.”
“What?” He glanced toward the door. “Brian? Where is that man?”
“I already told him. He said no more will be ready for a week.”
“Suppose I’ll be going to the merchant ships, then. Tell him to be ready tomorrow.”
Cook was in no mood to discuss the master’s growing need for intoxication. Ever since Brigid was sent away, she had tried to talk sense to the man. He had made a deal – now he was reneging.
Cook felt trapped. She would have run after the lass herself, but she couldn’t leave her kin behind in Glasgleann. Her grandbabies were too young for her to abandon them, and her knees were too old for wandering the rocky hillsides. Still, she had promised Brocca she’d watch over Brigid. That’s why she sent Brian weekly to check on the lass. But Cook’s conscience poked at her. She had not done enough.
Dubthach had to answer for sending that girl away. Cook slapped down her cooking utensils and gave her master her full attention. “Ye made a deal.”
“Is this ’bout Brigid again?”
“Ye know it is.” She shoved the lid down so hard on the iron pot hanging over the fire that a pain shot up to her elbow.
Dubthach huffed. “Ye know Brian speaks to the monks every week. Brigid is doing exceptionally well.”
“But the deal ye made with the druid was that I’d be with her.”
“How was I to know that she’d turn out to be a thief – and ye would turn out a magnificent cook? ’Tis better that I’m rid of her and still have ye to feed me. And don’t be thinking of running off. Not at yer age. I’ll have ye whipped, and ye might not survive it.”
Cook glared at him, the bag of hot air. “Ever since my dear husband died ye’ve threatened me with that. Have I ever tried to leave?”
“Nay. But there’s that blasted trip to the seashore. I could take that away if ye don’t stop yer nagging. Hmm, ’tis getting close to time for that again, nay?”
“Take it away? After what the druid said?” It was wicked of her to bring up that harmless curse. But Dubthach feared such things and because he did, she had been able to see darling Brocca over the years. Sometimes only at a distance, to protect Brigid from the agony of parting with her mother again, but even so it did Cook’s heart good to see that Dubthach’s former slave was thriving. “Ye should remember, man. The druid expects Brigid to go on that trip.”
“’Tis no concern of mine now.”
“It is not, now? Well, I hear that the druid himself will be at the seashore this year. I’ll just have to send him to Glasgleann to visit ye.”
Dubthach’s face drained of color. “Ye can’t if yer not there to see him.”
“Whether I’m there or nay, he’ll find out and come looking for ye.”
The master exhaled and chuckled. “That druid was aged when I first sent Brocca away. He’s surely dead by now.”
A voice bellowed from the doorway. “I saw him yesterday.” They turned to see Brian standing at the door, a blade of grass stuck between his teeth. He whistled to break the silence.
Dubthach marched over to the door. He was a head shorter than Brian, but he tried to stare him down nonetheless. “How can ye be sure it was him?”
“He told me he was Brocca’s master. Asked me to give ye this.” He opened his fist to reveal a small leather cross. The one Brocca had always worn around her neck. “He said she couldn’t come this year and he was there in her stead.”
Dubthach snatched the cross away. “I’ll not be dictated to by my slaves, hear me? Troya will have something to say about this.”
Cook nearly collapsed onto the floor. Her legs felt like a newborn calf’s, and the room was suddenly hot.
“No need to tell yer old wife.” Brian eyes pleaded.
“Well, if the druid is going to curse me, I’ve no other choice.”
Cook knew she was wailing, but she couldn’t stop. “Nay! That darlin’ child! Think about her for once. Troya will kill her!”
“Ye listen to me.” Dubthach shook the cross in Cook’s face.
“I have tried all these years to provide for that child. She returned my goodwill by stealing from me. She’s a curse, that one. Just like the prophet said at her birth. Ye know what the druid said ’bout that.”
“Nay, nay,” Cook wailed on. “She’s a blessing. A blessing.” “A curse, she is. If that druid comes ’round, I’ll have no
choice but to inform Troya that Brigid still lives.”
Cook didn’t hear Dubthach leave. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Brian tried to console her, but his voice trembled in unison with her hands. “We’ll think of something. Something will come to us, ye’ll see.”
She pulled herself to her feet. “Brian, ye’ve got to go back to Brocca’s druid. Talk to him. I’ve failed my mission. May God have mercy on me.”
“Not yet.” Brian’s ruddy face drew up into a thousand wrinkles of worry. “I’d best be getting over to talk to that monk Philib. If Troya finds out where Brigid is, the monks will need to protect her.”
He swung the door open to leave and four of Cook’s grandchildren sailed in. “Maimeo, what shall we do today? Is it time to make butter?”
She didn’t want to worry them, but when they looked at her, their faces fell silent. She shooed them toward their mother who was weeding the herb garden, and then she hurried to catch up with Brian. Since Dubthach was likely headed to the closest neighbor for a drink, he wouldn’t notice she was gone till morning.
Chapter 9
“But you know, O LORD, all their plots to kill me. Do not forgive their crimes or blot out their sins from your sight.”
Jeremiah 18:23a
“Greetings.” The man in the white cloak approached Brigid. “My name is Ardan. I am a druid commonly working in the house of Dunlaing.”
At first Brigid was speechless. She wasn’t sure whether to fear the man because of the stories Cillian had told her or to welcome him because he was affiliated with King Dunlaing, the ruler who had granted her freedom.
“I realize the monks here do not welcome me, but I came to see Brigid. Ye must be her.”
Thinking about Cillian’s dirk hidden in his boot, she looked around for him. He wasn’t in sight. She took one step toward the druid, in hospitality. “I am Brigid.”
A shuffling sound came from the dining shelter. Brigid wondered if the brothers were taking up arms or falling to their knees to pray.
“Why have ye come to see me?”
Ardan walked toward a tree stump, his white robes trailing behind him like thin ribbons of clouds on a summer day. He held his walking stick tight in his hand, though he had no infirmity that she could see. He sat down and laid the stick across his lap. “Tales of yer works have spread among the people. At first they thought ye were a miracle worker, spreading charity. But now it seems the fox has found another burrow.” Cook had once told Brigid that druids spoke in puzzles.
Now that she’d actually met one, she knew it was true. “What do ye mean?”
Grunts came from the monks, but they were obviously not going to emerge from their hiding places. The druid didn’t seem so dreadful to her. She knew he had no real power. Even if he caused her harm, God would protect her soul from the ones Cillian called devils.
“Let’s just say that ever since ye cursed that apple orchard, people have been saying yer, hmm, less than kind… perhaps even some kind of witch. Even a druid would not do such a callous thing.”
“Outrageous! I always tell them I do the things I do in the name of the One True God.” Brigid’s voice was louder than she meant it to be, but she didn’t care. “If God chose to curse that apple orchard, then it was to be.”
Ardan stood and circled the stump – a pagan ritual, she assumed.
“Ye may be right. But… think about this: how will ye be able to help the people at all if they choose not to trust ye? If ye really want to spread th
e work of Patrick’s god… ”
“He’s my God too. And yers if ye’ll let him be.”
He chuckled and his dark eyes narrowed. “As ye say. But if that’s yer intent, ye’ll need to prove yer god’s charity and goodwill toward the woodsfolk.”
“How?”
When he stepped close to her, she heard the monks thump against the shelter’s door, likely straining to hear the rest. Cillian could not be in there with them. Not after the way he had once vowed vengeance against druids. It was probably just as well.
“There’s a woman who’s having a difficult time birthing a baby. No one will help her because the Tuatha De Danann stand outside her door, ready to snatch the baby away.”
Brigid took a step back. “Nonsense. The dead cannot take a life.”
Ardan smiled, and she was convinced he was sincere. She really did want to help the people and he seemed to want that also.
He circled her once again, tapping his long walking stick on the ground as he went. “Yer the only one who does not fear them. Yer the only one who can help.”
She reached out to touch the stick. “Take me to her.”
Night drifted in as she followed the druid. His white attire illuminated the path, but at times he traveled so fast Brigid feared she’d lose him. She shouted at him, “Why are babies always born at night?”
He didn’t answer. A fox scampered across her path, shining his yellow eyes at her before sliding back into the woody landscape. The creature was not startled by their appearance. Animals have keen senses, seem to know when things are urgent.
She pulled her cloak over her head and shivered against the sharp late-summer winds. Why at night? Would she arrive back at her barn before milking time? With babies there was no telling. She knew that, from the few times she’d assisted with births before. Some bairns were quick, and some seemed to be so reluctant to make their arrival that they reminded her of how tenaciously stubborn the human race is.
Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) Page 6
