Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  Liam, the master of the house, was a Christian. He had offered prayers before dinner. Liam’s family was large. Brigid’s spot to sleep was the only one left, near the door, but she didn’t mind. He was kind and truly worried about his brother. His eyes pleaded like the starving people she was accustomed to helping. “My brother is a good man, Miz Brigid. Why this king comes, we do not know. There was a bloody battle one moon ago and my brother fought for our king. We thought peace had returned to our land. Now a messenger brings news of another king’s approach.” Liam paused, looking toward his brother who was busy ripping meat from a drumstick with his teeth. “He may be a simple man, but he knows right from wrong. He would never have taken revenge on someone’s pet.” Brigid lifted a tin pitcher engraved with frolicking deer and poured cider for herself. “We’ll make Dunlaing understand. How did your brother encounter Dunlaing when he has not yet arrived?”

  Liam gulped his own cider then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “My brother was hunting yesterday a half day’s horse ride from here. The king, Dunlaing, had his fox traveling with his band. No one could have known he had such a pet. I’m praising God that king allowed my brother to return to his family to make arrangements. He ordered my brother to appear at Cashel in two days. It was no use to hide in the hills. We’d be found, I’m sure. We’ll see the king, but I’m fearing what he’ll ask. There will be an honor price, and for a king that will be most all my cattle. With the size of my family, I can scarce afford it.” His face paled. “If I do not pay it, the king can ask for my brother’s life instead.”

  Brigid leaned her elbows on the table. “He seems to be a fair king. I’m sure he won’t… ”

  “I’d feel better having ye there to speak on our behalf, Miz Brigid.”

  What could she say?

  She held her hand to her forehead. A half day’s ride away. Of course. Dunlaing had set up camp at a respectable distance to allow for the announcement of his arrival. She turned to the accused man. “I must ask, does this king have a resident druid?”

  Liam’s brother shrugged his shoulders.

  Liam rubbed his thumbs along his pale whiskers. “I heard no mention of one, not from my brother or from the other hunters there.” He turned toward his wife. “Have you, darlin’?” The mistress of the house paused from her task of covering children sleeping on the floor. She whispered, “I’ve heard of no druid present, though I have heard tale he employs a wicked one. The man’s traveling apart from the king, as druids do. He’s not around at the moment, so I hear.”

  Liam grinned. “The wife knows all. The way the ladies talk.” Brigid gathered up her dishes and prepared to take them outside for washing. She nodded at her host. “I appreciate the information. It will make my task much easier.”

  The next day Brigid boarded a wagon driven by Liam and filled with his family, including the unfortunate brother. Chilling winds kicked in clouds from the southern sky. She snuggled up with three children under a woolen blanket. Their little faces gazed at her until they could contain their curiosity no longer.

  “Where are ye from?” “Do ye have a husband?”

  She told them she was just passing through, and they questioned her on that too. She changed the subject. “Can anyone tell me something about this pet King Dunlaing had?”

  “Aye.” A boy about ten years old stood up. “I was with my uncle when I saw him first.”

  Liam’s wife pointed her finger at him. “Sit down, child.”

  The lad plopped to the wagon bed. “The fox could do tricks, run to and fro, leap in the air and twist itself full circle before landing on the ground.”

  “Aye, aye!” the children chorused, clapping their hands together as though they could envision the performance.

  Brigid held up her hand, and they quieted. “Suppose we could find another fox. I wonder if we could satisfy the king with a replacement.”

  The simple man nodded his head and motioned for his brother to stop the rig.

  Liam retrieved a spear from the wagon’s side. “Catching a fox is no easy task, but my brother always amazes me. Seems God replaced what he’s lacking in words with his hunting skills.”

  “Don’t kill it!” Brigid wiggled free of the children and joined the men outside the wagon.

  Liam wagged his head. “We should be able to corner it. These woods right here hide a fox den. Seamus, come with us.” He stopped short and tapped his fingers on his temples. “What are ye going to do, Miz Brigid? Teach a wild fox to do tricks in one day?”

  “I’m not exactly knowing what I’ll do.” Brigid often didn’t have a plan when she decided to help someone. Matters always had a way of working out. “I just trust the Lord.”

  The boy sprang up from his corner of the rig and trotted off with his father and uncle, snickering as he went. The hunters hustled toward a wooded area. Seeing that Brigid hesitated, the children started in again.

  “What’s yer name?” “How old are ye?”

  “Do ye know how to spin? My mamai’s got a new loom.”

  She smiled at them. “I’ll tell ye later.” Brigid hoisted her tunic above her ankles and hurried after the men.

  The hunters seemed to know just where to go and were soon standing around a fix earth, just like they said.

  Brigid snuck close to Liam. “I don’t think it’s necessary to frighten the animals.”

  Seamus spoke. “Shush. What do women know ’bout hunting?”

  His father pulled him aside. “Seamus, ye don’t know anything ’bout this lass. If yer smart, ye’ll keep quiet till ye do.” Liam turned to Brigid with his finger over his lips. “Think ye can nab one?”

  “Let me try.” She scooted close to the opening in the rock.

  She muttered not words, but soft sounds.

  A red paw emerged, then disappeared. She continued. Seamus sighed loudly. Moments later a full-grown fox poked his head out and blinked in the filtered sunlight. He curled up in Brigid’s cloak and she drew him to her heart. He was warm and reminded her of Puddin.

  The hunting party traipsed back to the wagon in silence. Seamus had to be tugged along by his uncle. The boy’s jaw hung open like the mouth of a slain boar.

  The Eoghanachtan king’s castle was under construction. A guard stopped them just short of the stone ring encasing it.

  The fox trailed Brigid as she approached the gangling man who gazed down at her.

  “What’s yer business?”

  “A fox for King Dunlaing. Has he arrived?”

  The guarded snapped his chin upward. “He has. If ye have a gift, ye can leave it with me.”

  “Oh, nay. ’Tis important I speak to him myself.” “Ye have business with him?”

  Brigid sighed. Had she not said so? She bowed her head slightly. “Most certainly. Tell him Brigid of Glasgleann brings the fox he lacks.” Dunlaing knew she didn’t live at Glasgleann any longer, but he’d recognize the name.

  Before long, Brigid, Liam, Liam’s brother, and the fox were granted audience. They stepped round masons hammering loose blocks of limestone as they followed the guard.

  The visiting ruler entered the makeshift hall in the same manner he had approached Brigid many years before, with purple robes flowing and his scepter stretched out before him. He pointed it at her and she touched it.

  “Ah, Brigid. I do remember ye. Yer father sought to put ye in my service some time back.”

  “Aye, King Dunlaing, and ye gave me my freedom instead.

  I am forever grateful.” She bowed, expressing sincerity.

  He seated himself on an armchair, too ordinary for a king. “What brings ye to Cashel?”

  “I could ask ye the same.”

  He laughed so hard Brigid thought he’d split the laces on his royal robes. “War is not a matter to be discussing with a lass like you. Unless ye’ve become a warrior, and I see no weapons.” He bobbed his head as though looking for a shield and spear that he knew didn’t exist.

  It was enough of a distraction
to keep Brigid from explaining her presence in Munster.

  She opened her arms wide then folded them at her waist. “I’ve brought the king’s fox.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  The animal peeked from behind her skirts. She held her breath and prayed, believing God wouldn’t let the poor simple man be punished.

  Dunlaing squinted. “Aye, looks like him. Mine did tricks. If this is an acceptable replacement for my pet, it will fetch like a dog.”

  A servant produced a yarn ball, and Dunlaing threw it under the red curtain cloaking the doorway. The fox dashed after it and squeezed under the fabric. The animal returned shortly with the ball between its pearly teeth and then dropped it at the ruler’s feet.

  “Amazing. What else can it do?”

  Brigid forced a smile. “’Tis a pet fit for a king. I have yet to be entertained by its games, but if it pleases ye, I beg ye to hold nothing against this poor man who killed the fox that ran through yer camp earlier.”

  Dunlaing glared at Liam and his brother. “We shall have a test. If the animal fails, the man who drove his spear through the heart of my pet will meet a similar fate. However, if this fox does everything I expect, then I accept that it truly was a mistake, and I’ll not hold him responsible.” He snapped his fingers and the fox jumped into the air, twisting itself into a ring so that its snout and tail nearly touched. Before it reached the ground, the animal straightened out and landed on its feet.

  The king gathered the fox onto his lap. “’Tis him, ’tis him!

  He’s been restored from the dead. Go now!”

  Liam didn’t want to take chances. He whisked them away from Cashel quickly. During the journey the children had more questions, blurting them out at once like jabbering seabirds fighting over bait.

  Brigid patted the head of Liam’s eldest. “Seamus, why don’t ye tell them what happened.”

  The effusive lad happily obliged while she gazed at the woods they trotted past.

  She thought she spied a red fox near the area where they’d captured the one they brought the king. Had the fox escaped the king?

  “Aye, I’ve seen her, that Brigid of Glasgleann.” Dunlaing slammed his fist on the arm of his ill-carved chair.

  Ardan stood in front of the king, hoping not to reveal too much delight in the news. His assistant, Troya, stood in his shadow. “Do ye know where she’s staying?” Ardan tried desperately to motion Troya away, but she wouldn’t oblige.

  Troya pulled on Ardan’s walking stick. “We’ve got to find her.”

  Dunlaing groaned. “Did ye have to bring yer apprentice with ye, Ardan? I’ve plenty to worry about without that woman causing a ruckus and disturbing the ruling king.” He motioned to Troya and she stepped hesitantly forward, dropping her mangy ash-colored head toward the ground. Dunlaing pointed to the door. “Make sure he doesn’t spot ye on yer way out.”

  Ardan knew the king’s remark would throw the old woman into a rage.

  Troya popped her head up and pointed a crooked finger at the king. “I am a druidess and a poet of satire. Kings should fear me. Listen to me.”

  Ardan pushed her away again and whispered, “Wait for me outside.”

  A guard helped with the request.

  After she was behind the red curtains and rock walls, Dunlaing muttered, “Why do ye keep her, Ardan? She’s no poet, and no one fears her satire. She’s a sham.”

  “She still learns, king.”

  “She’s as old as my seanmhathair. Take up a younger apprentice.”

  Ardan said nothing.

  King Dunlaing accepted a cup from a servant, sniffed at it, then threw it to the dirt floor, slinging golden liquid across one stone wall. He rocked on the flimsy chair. “I have to live in these conditions while this king’s house is rebuilt. And if that were not enough, that Brigid woman comes to insult me.”

  Ardan could not believe his luck. “She was here?”

  A servant retrieved the cup and backed out of the room. “She visited with the intent of returning my pet fox. Or so

  I thought. She deceived me, that one. The fox left my presence almost as soon as she did.”

  The complaint was petty, but the king had information Ardan needed. “How long ago was that, king?”

  “Yesterday. Enough of that. What news have ye?”

  Ardan sped through tales of warring clans as rapidly as possible and returned to Troya.

  The old woman paced beside their horses. “I’ve read it in the stones, Master Ardan. I know the time has come. Once the honor price of blood is paid, the gods will be pleased and I’ll have trouble no longer.”

  This pleased Ardan. Long ago he’d found an unsuspecting companion who held a grudge against Brigid. He had allowed her to think he would restore her honor, though he never expressly said so, and she had no idea what he was really going to do.

  Ardan circled Troya, meditating on his schemes. If his original plan had worked, Troya would have found the lass at her daughter’s home and plunged a dagger into Brigid then. But it hadn’t worked and as a high druid, he could not do it himself. The gods expected druids to obey a strict code of behavior. He needed someone else to commit necessary but unseemly deeds. He’d done it before when he hired beggars to dress in white robes and terrify the monks. And successful, that was. Those men had done little to advance Christianity since.

  Troya shifted from one foot to the other and hissed, “Why do ye do that marching around? Makes my head spin.”

  “Silence!” His pacing habit helped him compose his words and served to unnerve those watching. He delighted in the experience, thought it more delicious than a harvest’s first fruits.

  He continued to pace around the old woman and think. This Brigid, the one a passing prophet once spoke to him about, had received the prophecy of being either a curse or a blessing. And now she had become a Christian with works and deeds, not in word only. Her power was so great that her god obeyed her command of destruction. She’d already cursed an apple orchard and seen its red fruit shrivel like beached salmon. Her displays of power had to cease. He paused and brought his fingers to his chin. If not extinguished, then perhaps such power could be used for his purposes.

  Ardan tapped the old woman’s shoulder with his walking stick. “Ye’ll have the honor ye deserve, and the gods will know. They bless those who have high standing among men.”

  Gullible woman. Her bitterness had caused her to be rejected by the master of Glasgleann, opening the door for Ardan to use her. Things were going well. Eventually, Brigid would be eliminated by Troya’s hand and King Dunlaing would have Troya executed.

  Troya grinned. Her mouth contained few teeth. She bowed in front of him. This was almost too easy.

  “Troya, at times it is a burden that I am the only one in all of southern Ireland who understands the skirmish that must take place – a conflict not resolved with swords on a battlefield, nay.”

  She cocked her head and wrinkled her thin nose. No matter. He alone understood. This struggle was for the hearts of the entire Irish race. He had to be clever and timely to assure that everyone would do as Troya did – bow to him, the leader of all the druids, and not to the god of Patrick and Brigid.

  He remembered the prophet’s words. “Brigid, the one born to Brocca, shall be Ireland’s curse or blessing. I cannot predict which path she will follow.”

  The prophet couldn’t predict. That could only mean that the woman’s actions would determine her fate. Ardan pondered the meaning and circled his apprentice once more. She stared with questioning eyes which he ignored.

  A blessing was Christianity’s way of saying that belief in their god would overtake the island, but a curse – that was something for a druid to command.

  Chapter 11

  “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.”

  Proverbs 13:12

  When Brigid returned from delivering the fox, she thought it best not to stay so close to Dunlaing, and bid an affecti
onate farewell to Liam, his brother and his family. Ardan was Dunlaing’s druid and he was after her. Besides, she wanted to head west toward her mother. All she knew was that her mother belonged to a druid in Munster, but somehow she’d find her.

  Meandering through the countryside and around rocky outcrops and clusters of forests, she kept her eyes toward the setting sun. She attempted to collect all the bits of information she had in her mind and make sense of them.

  Cook had said the druid treated her mother well. How could she know?

  Brigid slowed the horse to allow herself time to think. She remembered that strange shepherd who had surprised her at Glasgleann. He’d said Cook had not told her everything. Brigid smacked her hand on her forehead. MacFirbis’s woman had spoken of the love of her youth! They had to be one and the same.

  Brigid shook her head thinking of how impulsive she had been, running off so fast. She should have gone to see Cook before leaving. Now she’d have to manage on what little information she had.

  Her mother knew Christ as her Savior. Brigid breathed deeply in that promise. May God lead me to her.

  The air was moist, chilly, and fresh. There were no fires nearby, and thus no people. Brigid loved people but being alone with her thoughts and prayers would certainly help her decide what to do next.

  What else could she remember? She halted her horse and slipped down from the saddle. “C’mon, horse. We’ll think on this as we walk.” Perhaps traveling on foot would help shake the webs from her memory.

  She and her mother had both heard Patrick teach. Many Christians learned from Patrick’s teachings so perhaps that wasn’t so unusual after all.

  She sighed and patted the horse. “I’ll name ye Geall, which means pledge, because the first time I met ye I vowed to ride ye until I found my mother.”

  A drizzle fell, threatening a downpour. She’d have to find shelter. Brigid cupped her hands to keep the rain out of her eyes and surveyed the horizon. Something dark jutted up from the ground. Curious, she made her way toward it. When she reached the object, she was disappointed to find it was a just a rock, not the door to a shelter.