Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  “What ye search for is not on that stone.”

  The voice behind her made her scream out. She spun around and gaped at a pair of frosty blue eyes peering out from under a rain-soaked dove-white hood. She let herself breathe again. Those were not Ardan’s dark eyes.

  “Whoa, now. Ye’ll scare yer horse, ye will. Didn’t mean to startle ye. My name’s Bram.”

  She backed away to have a better look at him. “A druid?”

  “Who else would ye expect to see at a druid’s stone?” “A what?”

  “Druid’s stone. See those marks there?”

  The rain pelted the surface of the rock, making it difficult to see anything. Brigid rubbed her thumbs across scratches in the stone. Along the edges of the rock there were several carved marks, lines really. They varied in length and seemed to be gathered in groups. At unpredictable intervals the marks seemed to break free from the others like dandelion seeds bouncing away from a stem.

  She shook her head. “’Tis not Latin.” The druid agreed.

  “’Tis not Irish either.”

  “What an intelligent lass to discern so. Come, I’ll give ye shelter from the rain.”

  “Wait. Are ye associated with a druid named Ardan or his druidess assistant?”

  “Certainly not. I am not any king’s druid either. I am Bram, druid of the island Ennis Dun.”

  The druid led Geall past the strange stone and into a grove of trees. The branches above helped sieve the rain a bit, but Brigid was still damp and uncomfortable. They stopped just outside a shelter of sticks and animal skins.

  “This is a camp I just built, but it’s dry enough. Please.” He motioned for her to enter while he tied up the horse.

  Inside, a tiny fire was smoking within a ring of stones. Brigid had to duck, but when she sat down the shelter seemed large enough. She noticed a bag of rolled-up parchment tucked at the back of the hut.

  “So ye know how to read, do ye?” The druid entered behind her and stoked the fire with logs. He sat across from her with his back to the bundle of parchments.

  “A bit. A monk named Cillian of Aghade taught me.”

  The firelight made the druid’s face glow, a face that was anciently wrinkled. His pale hands barely showed themselves under the thick white cloak he wore.

  He motioned to the fire. “Warm up a bit. Then drape yer cloak over the twigs near the smoke.”

  He had rigged a clothesline in the tiny space. The man seemed quite comfortable living in the woods. Where was Ennis Dun and why had he left there? More disturbing was what he’d said to her when they first met, that she wouldn’t find what she looked for on that stone. “I do know how to read, Druid, even if the meaning of your stone writing has eluded me for the moment.”

  “Well, like I said, that stone is for druids.”

  She rung the water from her cloak and draped it over the clothes rope. “A secret language?”

  “Suppose ye could say that, aye.”

  She glared at him. Was he part of a scheme to turn her over to Troya? “Why did ye say what I’m looking for is not on the stone? How do ye know what I’m looking for?”

  “’Tis a druid’s business to know such things.” Such druid talk was maddening.

  “And druids are brothers? Of one mind?”

  Bram shook the rain from his cloak, flinging drops of water over the flames that sizzled in complaint. He hung his garment next to hers. “There is a code we live by. But nay, lass, I would certainly not say one mind.”

  “This makes no sense. Cook says druids speak in riddles. I wish ye’d just tell it plain.”

  He waved his hands over the fire, crossing them several times. “I am very old. I have time no more for riddles. This Cook who says this ’bout druids, who is she?”

  “Cook of Glasgleann. She raised me ever since I was separated from my mother.”

  The druid’s eyes grew round like a cornered badger’s. “Glasgleann? Up in Leinster?”

  “Aye. Dubthach is master there.” Why was she telling him so much? She couldn’t stop. She’d had no one to talk to all day but Geall the horse.

  The druid’s face brightened. His lips turned into a grin. “’Tis you! I thought it might be, I did.”

  More puzzling words. “Do ye know me?”

  “Aye, I’ll say I do. I snatched ye up from the ground the day ye were born. Yer mother, Brocca, birthed ye right on my doorstep. Yer all grown up now, but I can see in yer eyes it is you, Brigid.”

  She could hardly breathe. She held her hand to her chest and gasped. The druid

  drew her into his arms. “A blessing. Tell me ye’ve become a blessing. Ah, dear child.”

  She wiggled free. “Yer my mother’s master? The druid who purchased her from Dubthach?”

  “Aye, that I am.”

  “Praise be to God!” Brigid jumped to her feet, bumping her head on the roof of the shelter. Her hair stuck in the branches and she squirmed.

  “Let me help ye.”

  “Nay. Just tell me. Where’s my mother?”

  He helped anyway, gently freeing strands of hair from the grip of the twigs. “I told ye I’m the druid of Ennis Dun. Moved out there a few summers ago. Too many people near Cashel now. A druid needs peaceful retreat. That’s where she is, Ennis Dun.” After the last hair was free, he returned to the fire.

  “Then she lives?” “Oh, aye, indeed.”

  “Why don’t ye free her?” Brigid resisted the urge to grab the old man by his tunic laces and make him confess to the sin of keeping mother and daughter apart.

  “She would be worse off without me. It would be shameful to set her off alone.”

  Tears flowed without warning down Brigid’s face. “She wouldn’t be alone! She knew where I was. She would come and get me. Why would that be shameful?”

  A wolf howled not far away.

  “Quiet down now, lass. Ye’ll be calling all the wild animals to us now that the sun has set. There’s more to tell ye.”

  “Then tell me.”

  The druid Bram stroked his bony fingers over his chin. “She’s better off staying put because she’s blind.”

  Brigid held onto her chest again as if she’d have to hold in her pounding heart. “Ye said she was fine.”

  He smiled again. “Being sightless doesn’t mean one is not well, my dear. My eyes are old. They don’t see as well as they used to. But I get along fine. I have traveled for so many years that I scarcely need them anymore to make my way. Yer mother’s that way in the dairy. She functions well there, she does.”

  “I must go see her. Does she ask about me?” “She does, and I tell her yer well.”

  “Ye make up stories.”

  The druid’s lips pressed into a thin line under his whiskers. He grabbed a stick and flung it into the fire – revealing for the first time an emotion other than gentleness.

  “I’ll forgive ye for that insult, young Brigid. Ye know nothing of druids.”

  She gritted her teeth and then let her anger go. “Ye mean druids don’t make up stories?”

  “I told ye druids lived by a code, nay?”

  Her cheeks grew as hot as sun-baked stones. “Ye didn’t tell me what that means.”

  He drew his withered fingers through his long mane of snowy hair. He might be impatient with her, but no more than she was with his ambiguous talk.

  “One thing it means is that druids are truthful. They do not make up stories.”

  The only other druid she’d met was Ardan. While he had failed to tell her everything, what he did tell her about the pregnant mother being alone and needing help had been factual.

  “Why a code? What does it matter?”

  Bram’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he tried to smother a yawn. She would get little more information from him that night.

  The old man rubbed his weathered cheeks. “I will tell ye this: druids understand the spiritual world. They train for many years and learn from elder druids. They read the ogham writing like ye saw on the stone. They travel
over many roads and talk with many people. If they were to make up stories or cause physical harm to those they meet, the gods would take revenge because the druids are… ” He paused and closed his eyes. “They are spiritually tuned.”

  Brigid wanted to tell him that the One True God already knew what druids did, and what any man or woman did for that matter. But Bram was very old and his fortitude for the day was spent. Tomorrow she could ask him about curses and other druid activities, but right now there was one thing she had to know. “Will ye take me to see my mother?”

  He lay down and pulled a woolen blanket up to his shoulders. “Ah, young Brigid. I was wondering when ye’d ask.” With his eyes closed, his breathing took on a rhythm.

  “Bram? Ye’ll promise me, please? Will ye show me where she is?”

  He grunted and bent one eyebrow over a squinted eye. “Ah, child. I will take ye, but I have to drop in on a bishop first. Ye’ll go with me, aye?”

  “I’ll go, just so long as ye take me to see her right after.”

  She grabbed a blanket for herself from underneath the parchment rolls.

  He whispered. “By the druid’s code, I will.”

  A stick, the druid’s walking stick, prodded her side, awakening Brigid. He spoke like a scolding mother. “Hurry along. One must not tarry in this territory.”

  Brigid rolled over onto her back. There were trees above her head. How had he taken down the camp without her noticing? She must have been exhausted from her travel. Knowing that she’d soon see her mother prompted her to rise. She popped out of her covers and rolled them up.

  The old man had everything packed on his back.

  “Let my horse carry that for ye. Do ye not have a beast yerself?”

  Bram let the bag drop from his shoulders, and she carried it over to Geall.

  “Once, long ago, I did. I’m so used to traveling without one now. Don’t suppose I could even mount a horse anymore.”

  Bram was old indeed, and his legs were short but strong from much walking. His gait was straight and confident.

  Brigid shook her finger at him. “Nonsense. Ye can do it, and I’ll help. We’ll travel much faster that way. I’ll help ye up first, then I’ll get on.”

  What sounded simple took many attempts. Bram’s legs were hearty, but his arms weren’t. He was not able to pull himself up far enough to reach the horse’s back.

  “Maybe if I get on first. Then I can lend ye an arm.” Brigid mounted and gripped the horse’s mane with one arm and held out the other to the druid.

  His eyes grew round. “I don’t think this will work.” She was sure it would. “Let’s try.”

  He grabbed on to her arm, hiked one leg and then slid down to the ground with a thud.

  “Oh, dear, are ye hurt?”

  He twisted his head back and forth. “Nay, but I told ye it would not work. Yer as weak as I am, ye are. I’d better walk.” He rose with the help of his walking stick. The fall had shaken him. He moved about like a tethered ox and seemed to carry as much weight.

  She glanced around. Was there something he could stand on? “What about that druid stone? Could ye put a foot on it and walk yer way up?”

  He peered at the upright stone, then back at her. He winked. “Let’s try.”

  Brigid led Geall over to the rock and the druid hobbled behind. She got as close to the stone as she could. Bram gritted his teeth and pushed one leg up the rock. When he was high enough to reach her, she lunged with all her might and he bounced up onto the horse’s back. How they kept from falling headfirst back on the rock, she didn’t know.

  “Yer quite clever, lass.” Bram secured his walking stick by weaving it through his bag’s laces and then they were ready.

  Day was just arriving, bringing golden hues to the dark sky. Bram instructed her to travel through the forest but to keep close to a well-traveled path leading north. “There’s thieves on the road. We may still meet them, but this way we won’t be seen from a distance.”

  “I never saw any thieves on my way here, just beggars.” “That may be, but yer in the wilds of Munster now. And on

  this particular road, they’re one and the same.”

  “They’re just hungry, then.” Why was she the only one with compassion for the people?

  Steering the horse through the underbrush was laborious.

  The road would be much easier. Why hide?

  The druid grunted behind her. “Hungry? Perhaps they are. But they do not work for their food, nay. They choose to steal it from others, sometimes killing them in their effort.

  Ye’ve much to learn that Dubthach has not taught ye, young one.”

  Someone was out to kill her. Ardan and Troya were more of a threat than any beggars they might meet.

  “Tell me about this secret druid code, Bram. Does it pertain to curses?”

  He was quiet for a long time. His silence worried her. She pulled the horse to a stop and dismounted. “I’ll go no further until ye speak the truth of it.”

  He smiled down at her. “I cannot lie, but neither can I reveal any sworn secrets. If ye will not travel on with me, I’ll go alone.”

  She smiled back. He was old and feeble. She was young and strong. “As ye wish. But ye’ll have to get down first.”

  “Ye’ll help me.” “I’ll not.”

  He sat there a moment, staring at her. Then he cocked his head to one side. He lifted his robed arm and placed his finger to his lips. He whispered, “Quiet. Get back on the horse. They’re coming.”

  “Who… ” “Now!”

  The sound of running feet filtered through the trees and Brigid threw herself back on the horse. Within moments men dressed in black hoods were visible on either side, carrying spears. Geall bolted and carried them past the bandits, who turned to pursue them.

  Brigid steered the galloping horse to the road.

  “Nay. To the left! Get to the left.” Bram’s squeaky voice was pitched high.

  “Why?” “Just do it!”

  Brigid urged the horse off the road and into a riverbank. The river wasn’t deep, but rocks in the bed caused the horse to stumble a few times, threatening to send them sailing off headfirst.

  She called over her shoulder. “Hold on!”

  “I’m holding on to ye, but it’s yer job not to get us thrown off. Steer him through that crag.”

  Up ahead she spied the rocks he spoke of. The druid knew the land better than Brigid, and those men meant to stab them and steal the horse. Given the choice of trusting a druid or facing death by impalement, she’d take a chance on Bram. When they reached the rocks, she guided the horse up a narrow path. She could barely catch her breath. “They had no

  horses. They can’t catch us now.” “Keep going.”

  The sky seemed to grow closer and the air thinner. Brigid’s chest throbbed. She could only imagine how the flight must have jarred the old man’s bones. “Let’s stop here.”

  “Nay, we’re almost there, we are.”

  The rocks gave way to a high plateau, invisible from the ground below. A cluster of stone buildings clung to one side of the cliff.

  Quick breaths did little to help Brigid regain her strength. “Please, let’s rest a moment.” It was cold at that elevation. She thought she’d be warmer on the ground and dismounted.

  “As ye wish.” Accepting her hand, the old man carefully wiggled down from the horse.

  Brigid stomped her feet on the ground, trying to warm her toes.

  “Here, take this.” Bram offered a woolen blanket from his pack.

  She thanked him. “Why are we here, Bram? A druid visiting a Christian bishop?”

  “I’m here to ask him to leave.” The old man led the horse to a frosty stream for refreshment. “I’m sure it’s warmer in his house. Shall we go?”

  “Not till I get some answers. What know ye of Ardan and his apprentice?”

  “Ah, stories people tell, that’s all. I live on a far-off island.” Brigid padded over to the stream where the horse drank
,

  his nostrils snorting warm air. She tossed the blanket over her shoulder. “Ye travel much. Ye told me.”

  “Aye, all druids do. Still, I have never met him or his student ye speak of.”

  “But ye have this secret code. Something all druids know.” The horse finished drinking and they headed to the build- ing. Brigid measured her steps, making them painstakingly sluggish.

  Bram blew air into his fist. “Ye make it sound as though I’m plotting with Ardan. Not all druids follow the code, and to those who don’t, I owe no allegiance.”

  “Are ye saying Ardan does not abide by the code?” They were getting close and she had to know.

  “I have no proof, nay, but I hear he lacks the virtue of… truth.”

  Brigid wrung her hands. “Please stop weaving mysteries.

  What do ye mean by ‘lacking truth’? He lies? ’Bout what?”

  The druid drew his white hood over his head, leaving a few pearly curls peeking out. He blended into the stark bald rocks like a wood mouse in a pile of twigs. From within the depths of his thick cloak, he spoke. “Truth doesn’t change. Ye can’t bend it to please yerself. Talk is that’s what he does. Ye can’t trust gossip, unless ye hear it from other druids, dear. I trust what I heard. If ever there were a judgment for that man, I fear… ”

  “Bram, welcome! I see ye brought a visitor.” A man half Bram’s age, but twice Brigid’s, appeared at the threshold of the stone house.

  Brigid whispered into Bram’s hood, “He already knows who ye are and yer asking him to leave?”

  He motioned her away. “Bishop, meet Brigid, formerly of Glasgleann.”

  “Welcome, welcome. Come in and eat. I’ve broth on the fire.”

  They trailed in after him. The house was cavernous and nearly bare. Pegs on the walls held utensils and clothes. One finely crafted table and matching chair shadowed the central fire ring. A lone cross, devoid of embellishment, hung on the wall opposite the door. If the bishop had any parchments of Scripture, they were housed elsewhere.