Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  The bishop hoisted two stools from the corner and they all sat, the bishop on the chair, and the visitors on stools.

  Brigid’s weary legs and empty stomach overruled her reservations and loosened her tongue. “’Tis so cold up here. Why do ye live on this rock, sir?”

  He handed them tin mugs. The smell of lamb stew caused her to further abandon her manners. She gulped the whole thing down and he refilled it. She realized what she had done and her cheeks turned hot. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to give thanks to God.”

  The bishop turned his ruby bulbous nose toward Bram. “Have ye brought me a Christian?”

  Bram shifted and crossed his knees beneath his tunic. “Not meaning to. Found her on the road here and she needed help.”

  Brigid set her mug on the bishop’s polished table. “’Twas not exactly that way. He found me, aye. I was traveling along and… ”

  The bishop rubbed his large nose with his finger. “No matter. I’m glad yer here. And what brings you, Bram? Just stopping off on your way somewhere?”

  Bram finished his broth and rosy color returned to his pasty cheeks. “This is my destination, bishop. I came to speak with ye.”

  Now that he’d warmed up, and she had too, Brigid took their cloaks and hung them on the wall hooks.

  The holy man waved a thick hand at the druid. “Speak, then.”

  Bram smiled and studied his palms before coming up with a simple inquiry. “Why did ye come here?”

  The bishop sucked in a long breath. “I told you before. The church in Rome sent me. Must we go over this again, Bram? I’m to bring Christianity to this part of Ireland. We have spoken of this many times.”

  Bram leaned forward, one elbow on his knee. “The gods whisper to me, Bishop. I hear their words in the breeze, I do. ’Tis dangerous for ye. Ye should sail back over the sea. No one here will listen to ye anyway, and I’m warning ye to save yer life.”

  The bishop held a hand over his gut and laughed the way someone does when nothing is funny. Although Brigid didn’t believe in Bram’s gods, she felt insulted for him. He was trying his best to save this man from the blood-hungry men they’d encountered earlier on the road. As far she could tell, the bishop was alone up on the crag.

  She had an idea. “Why don’t ye join the monks? Yer all Christian brothers.”

  Again the bishop snorted. “The monks are isolationists. I am an official church representative. This is how it’s done in Christendom. I come, ordain priests; they set up churches.”

  Brigid scooted her stool closer to the holy man. “But pardon me, bishop. Cillian the monk has been to Rome. He has brought back… ”

  “I know, I know.” The bishop’s face was red-hot. “They’re Irish monks all the same. I have been sent here… ”

  This time Bram did the interrupting. “Aye, by the church. We’ve heard that.” He licked his lips. “I do not understand it, I don’t. We are Irish. We welcomed ye when ye first set yer sandal on our shores. Why do ye seek to disrupt our connection with our gods?”

  Brigid tried to grab his arm, but it was too late. The druid was standing, intending to leave.

  The bishop stood also. “I have been sent here to convert… ” He stopped and wagged his head, giving up.

  Bram glared at the plump man. “Dear bishop, would ye be granting us some supplies before we leave? We’ve a long trip back.”

  Brigid remained between them like a cornered hedgehog.

  The bishop grunted. “I’ll walk you out. That’s all.” He grabbed his cloak from the back of the door.

  Brigid glanced quickly at Bram. He had been insulted yet again. She retrieved their own outer garments.

  Bram fingered the sleeve of his cloak. “In Ireland, sir, we consider it the gravest insult to be refused hospitality.”

  The bishop thrust his shoulders like a rooster. “I’ve shown it. I gave you broth, and I’m escorting you out. Please, dear druid, don’t waste my time by coming back.”

  Bram gazed at the floor a moment then lifted his eyes toward the bishop. “I would not ask this of a poor man.”

  Brigid wondered at what Bram said. She hadn’t seen any riches, but then the druid was acquainted with the bishop and she wasn’t.

  Bram held out his hand to the holy man, but the bishop did not offer to assist him. Bram pointed at the wall cross. “I do not wish to see yer blood shed, sir. Not the way that god of yours was.”

  Brigid made the sign of the cross on her chest, as did the bishop. Apparently her mother’s master knew something of the Savior.

  Bram turned back to the door where the bishop was waiting. “That’s why I came, it is. To warn ye.”

  The bishop held onto his large gut again. “I need no warning, druid.”

  Bram nodded. “Brigid, hang his cloak back up for him. We do not require escort.”

  Brigid took the thick black garment, slung it on a hook near the window and hurried out the door ahead of the druid. What the exchange meant, she wasn’t sure. She was still hungry and chilled, but she would not require the druid to remain with such an inhospitable host and she was eager to reunite with her mother.

  Bram and the bishop hustled after her. “How’d ye do that?” Bram asked.

  She turned to face the men. “What?”

  The bishop rushed to her. “I’ll get you a wagon and some bread and cheese. Will that do for your journey?”

  She was stunned. “Aye, that would be excellent.”

  He scampered off toward an outbuilding and Bram stared at her. “Ye hung his cloak on a sunbeam.”

  “Yer daft. Of course not. I hung it on a hook.” “A sunbeam, I tell ye.”

  Even after they were back on the road, Bram kept insisting she’d performed some kind of miracle and that the bishop had been so amazed he bundled up more than what he’d offered and sent them off with warm blessings. Brigid didn’t understand. She was sure there had been a hook near the window, although the sun streaking through had blinded her a bit.

  Bram clapped his fingers together. “I think I need to learn a bit more ’bout yer god.”

  Chapter 12

  “...let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.”

  Matthew 5:16

  Ardan soon learned that Cook and Brian sought him, so he convinced Troya to return to Leinster to distract them.

  “I’ll take care of that young one,” he’d assured his elderly apprentice.

  Tracking down the lass had taken some time. Finally, he rooted out some wanderers who told him the girl and an ancient druid had headed up the crag to see a bishop. Ardan threatened one of them with a curse. The fool became Ardan’s hostage and led him up the path to the bishop’s dwelling.

  They arrived too late. Brigid and the druid had already left.

  Overpowering the holy man hadn’t been difficult. The pitiful bishop was shaking against the Roman-fashioned chair Ardan had tied him to. “I’ve told you everything, druid. All I know is they headed to Ennis Dun. That’s where Bram lives.”

  Ardan’s guide, a weak man with a weak mind, cowered in the corner. When Ardan approached the man, he shrieked.

  Ardan smiled. “I’m not going to harm ye. Not so long as ye do what I command.”

  The chicken-hearted man bobbed his head. How perfect. Ardan had chosen his collaborator well. He returned to the bishop and lifted the bound man’s chin with his walking stick until he met Ardan’s gaze, his eyes still watering from the beating he’d received. Ardan lowered the stick and demanded information.

  “Why were they here?” Ardan suspected Brigid had converted a fellow druid, this Bram, to her god. If that were the case, he’d need to know before the bishop met his end.

  “He came to ask me to leave.” “Brigid. A Christian, is she not?” “I believe so, why?”

  Ardan slammed his stick to the floor. “I’ll ask the questions.

  This druid… was he in agreement with Brigid’s religion?”

  The bishop
swallowed hard. “No. He asked me to leave. He said no one would listen to me in Ireland.”

  Ardan smiled. Ah, the druid was his brother. Soon Brigid would be trapped like a fox in its lair. He’d bring her back to Troya who would kill the girl in King Dunlaing’s territory. Ardan would make sure all the clans knew that Brigid had been a Christian preaching false beliefs. Then he’d proclaim Troya a nefarious witch driven by the Tuatha De Danann and he, the king’s high druid, would be acclaimed as the one who had defeated her and brought her to justice under the king. Even King Dunlaing would bow to his authority over the spirits then.

  Ardan picked up his stick and prodded the man’s belly. “Living alone here, are ye?”

  The bishop swayed back and forth in the chair, attempting to avoid Ardan’s teasing. “Yes.”

  Foolish foreigner to cloister himself like this.

  Ardan backed away. He tossed a chunk of peat on top of the fire to ensure it was smoldering properly. “Why was the lass with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The fire was hot enough to boil water. Satisfied, Ardan spun to face the prisoner.

  “There’s more, aye? There’s something ’bout her ye haven’t told me.” Ardan didn’t know if the bishop had more to reveal, but he often used the tactic to squeeze information from timid folks. The questioning had always been remarkably successful.

  The bishop hung his head. “She performed a miracle.” He glanced back at Ardan. His voice shifted in tone. “She hung my robe on a sunbeam. I don’t know why it would matter to you.” It mattered. Brigid was becoming powerful enough to sway minds. When she ran from Troya, she’d somehow linked up with a druid. But the lass could not hide from someone like Ardan. He would not lose the battle. He needed to hear no more. “Come over here.” He gestured to the weakling in the corner.

  Ardan stuck a torch into the fire pit coals until it burned yellow-hot. A druid could cause no harm, and he wouldn’t. He turned to leave, handing the torch to his accomplice.

  “It couldn’t be helped if an accident occurred.” He glared into the meek man’s eyes until he was certain the fellow understood. “Tragedies happen all the time, especially in Ireland. The bishop should have understood that before he settled on our isle.”

  The bishop wailed from his chair. Portly as he was, his efforts to hobble the chair across the floor were useless. Despite a struggle, he couldn’t free himself. Ardan knew how to tie knots. His father was a fisherman.

  Ardan paused for a moment, watching a spark drop from the torch and fall to the rush-covered floor. Then he marched out the door. Soon, the murderer followed, his hands shaking and his face pale as ashes. Smoke started to emerge from the open door as the fire took hold.

  “Off with ye!” Ardan squeezed a piece of Roman silver he’d rescued from the bishop’s pocket into the man’s palm.

  As Ardan picked his way down the rocky slope on one of the bishop’s horses, a stronger animal than his own, he heard a dull thud come from inside the house, followed by mounting screams. Once the bishop toppled himself, he’d never rise again. Well, one less Christian to worry about.

  Wagon tracks were easy to spot on the muddy road. Ardan quickly determined which direction the druid and the lass were headed, and then he turned to a higher road. It was rocky and more difficult to navigate, but soon he’d be able to peer down on them and observe Brigid’s actions from a distance.

  He’d wait until the druid reached his home before claiming the lass. If Ardan managed things well, he could gain the allegiance of all of western Ireland. Yes, patience was in order. The brother who now had Brigid would surely help Ardan with some provisions for the return trip and perhaps even recommend a new apprentice to replace Troya. The plan was good.

  “How surprising that the bishop was so generous. Bram, do ye know what’s back here in the wagon?”

  The druid was busy directing Geall, who was not accustomed to pulling a wagon. Brigid was glad to let Bram drive since she had no idea where they were headed.

  Bram spurted words between commands to the horse. “Why don’t ye tell me what’s back there?”

  “Apples, cheese, chunks of brown bread. There’s even salted meat. And look here.” She produced a gold chalice and held it up for him to see.

  Bram huffed. “Wealth from the church, I suppose.”

  “The church?” Brigid thought only kings possessed such things.

  “Aye. That church over the sea that sent Patrick here.

  Christians, I’m talking ’bout.”

  “Well, I’m hungry. Would ye have a bite?”

  Brigid toted the food to the front of the wagon. She offered a prayer of thanksgiving and then shared the meal with her new friend. “How far to Ennis Dun?”

  “Two days, likely. Would be much longer without the wagon. That is, if we don’t get waylaid by beggars.”

  “Beggars? We’ve plenty of food. I’ll feed them. Tell me, will the road take us all the way?” She munched on an apple much more tart than the one she had tasted in that foolish woman’s doomed orchard, the one she’d visited while living with the monks. She handed Bram a chunk of cheese.

  The food crumbled in his beard as he ate, and he flicked the mess away. “Oh my, we cannot get to an island on a dirt road, we can’t.”

  She giggled.

  “The journey will be difficult. There are many rocks to cross before we reach my raft.”

  “Ye’ve a raft? For the horse also?”

  “Aye, but the wagon will have to stay on this side.” “I’ve never been to Ennis Dun. Do ye like it there?”

  The druid sighed. “Of course ye’ve not been there. Not many have. It pleases me to live there because I’m not bothered. The place is my refuge after traveling among the poor and the privileged. Giving spiritual counsel, ah, ’tis hard work.”

  “Aye.” She pretended to understand. Funny how this druid reminded her of Cillian’s monks.

  “But ye should know,” he continued, “the weather’s not always favorable.” He reached behind her and snagged a slab of dried meat from a rush basket. “Is there anything besides food back there? Any more church gold? We should be prepared for bandits.”

  Brigid scrambled to the back and lifted blankets. “’Tis as though he used this rig for storage. There’s pots and pans, fleece blankets, a barrel of ale, more gold cups… ”

  “More gold, ye say? How many pieces?”

  “I don’t know. Seems there’s a bag of them.”

  “Praise the gods. We can purchase our safe travel if need be, Brigid.”

  “There’s only one God needs praising, Bram. He provides all our needs.”

  “Aye, praise yer god. And hope that the god of the sun keeps shining on us. ’Tis rain we’ll be headed into tomorrow.”

  Ardan’s vantage point was perfect. He could watch the old man and Brigid travel along the road and still be unobtrusive high on the cliff. The trees swallowed his shadow. He shed his white cloak, bundling it into his saddlebag.

  He studied Brigid’s small figure scrambling around in the rear of the wagon, uncovering items. In the sun’s glint, he determined that the stash included several cooking pots. Wait. What was that? Something incredibly brilliant nearly blinded him when the sun bounced off the object.

  Ardan strained to determine what it was. His eyes stung with flashes of white light that he hoped would soon abate. He rubbed his face, but by the time he was able to focus, the lass had covered the bed’s contents with blankets and joined the druid at the reins.

  Ardan would be patient. He’d waited nearly all his forty-two summers to achieve his place among the druids. His father had been wise to send him for training at a young age. Now he’d gained the privilege that comes with experience. The right to lead.

  He allowed the wagon and its occupants to leave his sight. They were headed toward a druid stone. He’d examine it after they left and determine what the order of druids in this region had to promise him.

  Brigid gazed at the clo
uds while they traveled. The day was fair. She couldn’t imagine rain moving in anytime soon. Her thoughts wandered to the day she, Cook, and Brian had gathered at the seashore. She had examined clouds like those she saw now, trying to see shapes in them that would remind her of her mother. Today she had no clearer picture of what Brocca looked like, but it didn’t matter. Her heart’s longing would soon be fulfilled. She would be in her mother’s arms soon.

  “Has my mother been a good servant for ye?”

  Bram’s wrinkled lips curled up. “She’s a milkmaid. Takes good care of what I need, she does. I think I told ye that.”

  “Humph. Well, can ye tell me what she looks like then?”

  Brigid kept questioning the druid until he pleaded with her for rest. She took over driving while he dozed in the bed behind. He hadn’t told her much. Brocca was thin with dark red hair. And she was blind.

  Brigid was so overwhelmed by thoughts of her mother that she almost overlooked a huddle of beggars at the edge of the road. She stopped the wagon. The druid didn’t wake.

  “Take some cheese.” She handed out all the food the peasants could stuff in their aprons and carry under their arms.

  Her voice woke Bram. “What are ye doing, lass? Did they threaten us?”

  She filled the last beggar’s hands with dried meat and then returned to the reins before answering. She whispered so the poor people would not overhear the druid’s insults. “Of course not. They’re hungry, that’s all. I stopped to feed them.” “Ye did what?” As fast as his old legs could carry him, Bram returned to the front. “We need that food! Ye only stop if someone points weapons at ye. Have ye the sense of a stone?”

  “I’m doing my Lord’s work by feeding the hungry.”

  Bram snatched the reins and maneuvered the wagon at a quick clip. “We’ll be at the end of the road soon. The rest of the trip will be on foot. We’ll have to make do on what we already filled our bellies with and tote the gold cups along with us. Ye didn’t give those away, did ye?”

  “Nay, just food.”