Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1)

by Cindy Thomson

  “That’s what I intended to do. But they’ve all left.” Could it be true? “Explain, lad.”

  “The king of Munster and all his attendants. They’re gone to the place of kings in the east. The guards will not speak to me, so I have no way of finding the Brehons.”

  Ardan would have danced a jig had he been alone. “I will speak to King Dunlaing on yer behalf. He’ll not punish ye. He convenes the Brehons at my request. If I ask him to delay until we reach Leinster, he will, especially since the king of Munster cannot be entertained at the gathering here.”

  Ardan sent the lad off and hurried to speak to Dunlaing. He found him pacing the room. “Ah, Ardan. Have ye heard? King Aenghus of Munster, satisfied with our truce, has journeyed… ”

  Dunlaing seemed to be struggling with whether or not to tell Ardan the whereabouts of the king. He must not trust Ardan with that confidence. But Ardan already knew. The boy had told him. “To Tara.”

  Dunlaing’s jewel-like eyes flashed. “That’s right. My druid knows these things.”

  Ardan smiled. “Shall we convene the Brehons in Leinster, then?”

  “’Tis too late. My boy has… unless he has failed me again.” “He has, king. The Brehons have not yet been summoned.

  But do not blame him. This has worked out for the best.”

  Dunlaing rubbed his fingers through his coarse hair and sighed. “I grant him mercy because he’s young and still learning. We will leave for Leinster at the dawning of the new morn. I tire of this place, and it will be good to be home. Bring along the women, and my naive new servant. I will speak to the women after we arrive. If you also summon Troya, perhaps we will not need the Brehons after all.”

  Ardan made a polite exit from the king’s presence and praised the gods all the way to his sleeping chamber. Now all he had to do was to convince Dunlaing that his plan was best for the kingdom, and Troya would take care of the rest.

  Ardan disliked traveling with the women, but he dared not trust their care to anyone. When they arrived at Dunlaing’s castle, he secured them in a cell and then steered the bishop’s horse to the woodland home of his student Troya.

  She welcomed him into her hovel.

  The old woman cocked her matted head toward Ardan as he sat at her cooking fire. “She’s here? In Leinster?”

  Ardan wiped his weary eyes. “Aye, she is.” He glanced around the woman’s pit of a home. There was but one sleeping mat, but she had coated the floor with rushes in an attempt to make her dwelling comfortable. The walls were made of stone, an extravagance. Perhaps the home had been nice once, but no longer. The place lacked the amenities Ardan required in his own abode.

  Ardan stared at his pathetic apprentice. “Did Brigid’s friends give ye any trouble?”

  Troya’s toothless mouth gaped open. “Hah. No trouble at all. Cook and her young lad – Brian, is it?”

  Ardan stirred the fire with a birch twig. “That’s right. I’ve not seen them. Ye did well keeping them away.”

  Troya scrambled to a worm-eaten wooden cupboard and retrieved a stone canister filled with tea leaves. “They did come by. Cook ranted and shook her fist at me.” Troya tilted her head back and cackled like a happy seabird. “I said nothing, though they thought they’d scared me stiffer than a crow on an ice-topped lough.”

  She sprinkled the dried tea into a cooking pot and stirred the concoction with a long-handed wooden spoon. She winked at him. “I knew ye’d take care of Brigid. That’s why I let them think I was weak. And have ye done it, then?”

  “Aye, King Dunlaing will hear yer request for an honor price in the morning.”

  Troya stroked a long fingernail across her crumpled chin. “This girl, does she own any property? Does her mother?”

  “They say they own a cow, but ’tis in the hands of Brocca’s former master. There’s no proof they are anything but poor freewomen.”

  Troya stared at him with red-streaked eyes. “They are freewomen? How did this happen?” She stirred her pot of porridge and disregarded her own question. “’Tis better they are, aye? Their master cannot pay the honor price for them. They own nothing. So Brigid will pay with her life.”

  Doves from the rafters hummed approval.

  Ardan knew at that moment, as if someone whispered in his ear, that ridding himself of the women would be much easier than convincing them to use their influence to advance his cause. He had to make sure the outcome was in his control. “Aye, so it would seem. But then… my sticks seem to say something different.” He held out his druid fortune sticks for her to examine.

  “Ardan! It cannot be. Is that truly how they fell?” She reached for them with fingers that had been burned and healed over and over – the hands of a woman who had stirred many cooking pots.

  He jerked the wands away before she could look too closely and stuffed them inside his cloak. “I’m afraid so. Perhaps the gods are angry with ye.” He knew she believed him.

  Troya’s chin quivered. “They’re always angry.” She held her arms over her head and leaned toward the floor. “No matter how much I sacrifice, no matter how many sprigs of mistletoe I cut from the oak with my golden sickle. Only human blood will end my suffering.” She crept to her bed and lay down.

  Ardan retrieved a bear pelt from a log seat by the fire. Troya was in the winter season of her life, and she had taken to carrying the bone-warming cover wherever she went, saying her scrawny limbs could no longer produce their own heat. In her misery, she had forgotten to bring the cover to her bed.

  He draped it over her the way he’d seen mothers tuck in children at night. His gentleness would help her trust him. “There, there. ’Tis possible Dunlaing will not consent to the honor price, but do ye really need him, Troya? Do ye need me? Ye know where Brigid sleeps. If I should leave the key to her cell in yer cabin by mistake, no one would know.”

  She rolled over and wrinkled her pointed nose at him. “Ardan, ye would do that for me?”

  “I hate to see ye tormented by angry gods, old one. ’Tis time ye had relief. Yer days on the grassy plains of Ireland have been overflowing with torment. I cannot bear to know ye’d have the same when ye pass below.”

  Tears streaked down her pasty face. “Nay. I want to live in peace. They speak to me day and night, like a banshee who never comes.” She held her hands over her ears. “I cannot bear it.”

  He pulled Troya’s arm away and pressed the key into her palm. “Below the king’s great hall lies the cell where Brigid sleeps with her mother. If ye do away with them both, won’t the gods be doubly pleased? Tomorrow night, after the sun sets. The castle will be feasting and no one will pay ye heed. Come before the moon rises. Come and take vengeance to please the gods and relieve yerself of their eternal punishment.”

  Ardan rode into the night on the bishop’s horse he now called his own. Troya would kill both women. He would wait in the shadows until the act was completed and then call for the guards. But first, he would prophecy the event to Dunlaing at a banquet attended by all of Leinster’s landowners who would be assembled to welcome the king home. When they saw how powerful he was, and noted the inability of Brigid’s god to come to her aid, Ardan would grow in favor. It would not be long before Dunlaing was ousted and the great Ardan exalted. Ardan returned to the castle serenaded by crickets.

  Candlelight glowed under the waxed wooden door of the king’s chamber. He tapped his knuckles lightly on one panel. “King? ’Tis I, Ardan. If yer awake I have news.”

  The bolt slid back from the inside and the door swung wide. The king stood before him in a linen undergarment. The sudden clinking of metal meant guards were approaching from down the hall, their weapons clattering in their haste.

  Dunlaing shouted toward the noise, “Go back! ’Tis only my druid.” He welcomed Ardan into the room, which smelled of spice. “They want to watch over me in my chamber, but there’s no need in my own castle. What news have ye?”

  “The gods have spoken to me on the wind.”

  Dunl
aing touched Ardan’s white woolen cloak and rubbed his fingers on his walking stick. “Yer cold. Ye’ve been out long.”

  “Aye, king. I have walked among the oaks tonight and I bring ye the message.”

  “Speak it, then. The hour grows late.” “Tomorrow there shall be a large feast.”

  Dunlaing’s face brightened. He had desired such a celebration back in Munster.

  Ardan continued. “The gods want offerings in appreciation for yer alliance with the king of Munster. They do not blame ye for joining forces with a Christian king.”

  Dunlaing scratched his coarse graying beard. “Blame me?” “Aye. They understand that ye did this for the good of yer people, King Dunlaing.”

  “That I did, and we will celebrate. ’Tis time all the lairds came to hear of my journey.”

  Ardan stood at the highest point of the castle and lifted his face eastward. Troya was approaching in the night – he could feel it. The guards would not detect her presence because he had instructed her on the fine points of moving about unnoticed. She was old, but still as crafty as a crow, and she was a crazy old witch. When Ardan had first discovered her living alone in the forest, he knew she would be of value to him someday.

  He searched the sky for the first evening star. The heavens were orderly. Everything was unfolding as it should. He chanted toward the hills. The Others living there would hear his plea, take notice of his outstretched arms, and endow him with power. He closed his eyes and inhaled the night scent, breathing in the spiritual essence. His eyes popped open. Troya was nearly at the rear entrance.

  Ardan threw off his white cloak and lept down the steps leading to the dining hall. There was little time to waste. He slid into his place beside the king just as Dunlaing was finishing his tale of successful talks with the king of Munster.

  Dunlaing pointed his cup toward Ardan. “Have ye a story to tell, druid?”

  Perfect. “I do, king.” Ardan rose and straightened his torque, which had shifted off-center in his haste to join the banquet. “There will be a murder tonight.”

  The feasters gasped and murmured among themselves.

  The king hollered over the din. “Tell us! Who should be concerned for his life?”

  Soldiers whisked out their dirks and pointed their spears at Ardan.

  He held up his hand. “Not the king.”

  Relief washed over the crowd like a breeze on a hot day. The king’s cheeks flushed. “Who then, Ardan?”

  Ardan enjoyed the anxious looks on the faces in the crowd. He prolonged the moment by staring back at as many as he could. When he deemed they’d suffered enough, he broke the silence. “’Tis no one here.”

  Another wave of sighs washed over the hall. Ardan closed his eyes for effect. “’Tis a young woman. Someone whose birth had been prophesied. I feel the time has come. I must go and find the murderer. Do not follow me if ye fear the banshee.”

  Ardan had never seen the fairies called banshees, the ones heralding death, though he thought he’d heard them at times. The mention of the spirit would be enough to keep anyone from trailing him.

  He arrived at the women’s cell just in time to see Troya enter ahead of him. She lifted her golden druid’s sickle over Brigid’s head. Ardan ducked away from Brigid’s sight. He didn’t want her haunting him from the other side, proclaiming that he had broken his druid code. He’d done nothing of the sort, of course. Still, one had to be careful with spirits.

  A scream. Troya.

  The sound thundered in his ears. Good. The people would believe the banshee had come. “Guards, come quick!” he shouted.

  A voice rang out behind him. “I’m here.”

  The young lad, the king’s incompetent, stood behind him. Ardan peered into the cell. Brigid and her mother clung to each other sobbing. Troya lay in the middle of the room with a spear protruding from the back of her head. Her white cloak was soaked crimson.

  She was dead.

  While Ardan had been congratulated for his keen senses, the young lad was lauded even more. The Christians had survived, and they praised their god for delivering them. As Ardan had imagined, many people believed Troya was the embodiment of the banshee. Unfortunately, they also believed Brigid’s god had destroyed the evil fairy and delivered Brigid and her mother from harm.

  Ardan was forced to resort to an alternative plan, although he wasn’t precisely sure how to enact it. He escaped to his outdoor altar to ponder and seek inspiration.

  The wind howled through leafless trees. Ardan flung the cowl of his cloak off his head and lit a candle with his torch. He was protected from the weather in his hollowed-out shelter beneath the roots of an ancient oak. He sought solitude and had ordered the other druids to stay away. He alone would seek help from the gods.

  Ardan rubbed his hands over the earth. Speak to me.

  Lightning flashed. A storm gathered. Ardan raised his arms to the heavens. “Come into me, powers, be ye dark or light. Any who help me obtain my rightful place in Ireland are welcome.”

  A tingle crept over him. Not from the cold, he told himself. The gods were present, and in that holy place they would hear him. They’d have to.

  All night and most of the next day he took no food or water. He emerged from the tree shelter with a fresh idea.

  The king was ready when Ardan entered the castle. Dunlaing extended his ring, as always, and Ardan kissed it – for the last time, he inwardly vowed.

  The king twisted the ring on his finger. “This Brigid bothers me, Ardan.”

  “I understand, king. She has embarrassed ye, and now the lairds have witnessed her powers.”

  Dunlaing rubbed the embroidered edge of his royal robe. “There will be no hearing for an honor price against Brigid now that her accuser’s dead.”

  “Aye, king.” Ardan stood like a tree and he could almost feel roots growing beneath him, extending underneath the earth’s surface and reaching the fringes of the Otherworld.

  The king cleared his throat. “In spite of my misgivings, I shall grant Brigid the audience she has requested. That I must do.” He stared at the floor and twisted his ring some more. “I do not wish to be made a fool. I will grant her whatever she wishes and set her free, be rid of her.”

  Ardan didn’t like the sound of that. “But, king, do ye think this wise? She will expand her following. Soon the people will turn to her and reject the king.”

  Dunlaing’s head shot up. “Do ye think it so, druid?” He slammed his fist down on the arm of his royal chair. “I brought them victory rather than bloodshed by allying myself with a neighboring king. This was not done easily.”

  Ardan bowed his head. “I understand, my king. And the gods are pleased by the treaty.”

  Dunlaing tapped his fingers on his knees. “What can be done? Exile her?”

  Ardan knelt down, bringing himself eye-to-eye with Dunlaing. “If ye want to break someone’s influence, ye have to remove what they cherish most.” Ardan snapped his fingers as though the thought had just come to him. “Brigid cares not if ye banish her to the outermost wilderness. She wants to tell everyone ’bout her god and build her kingdom. If ye send her off, people will follow, and she will gather other clans together.” He gazed into the king’s puzzled face. “Ye know what would happen, don’t ye? She’ll build up an army against ye.”

  Dunlaing’s fingers folded into fists. “What can stop her, druid? What do yer sticks tell ye?”

  Ardan took the hint and pulled his wands from the depths of his cloak. He rolled them about in his fingers and then tossed them onto the stone floor in front of the king. The ruler of Leinster had no druid training and would trust Ardan to interpret the gods’ message in the magical rods.

  Ardan pressed his lips together and eyed the placement of the sticks. They seemed to be pointing to hope and patience, but it didn’t matter. Ardan wouldn’t be lying if he told the king what he really saw – a way to break Brigid’s spirit.

  “Hear her as she requested. Let her think her god will help he
r. Offer her whatever she asks, and let her live in peace for a time. When she starts to proclaim miracles, attributing them to her god, that will be the signal that the time has come to act. She will be the one humiliated, and you, great king of Leinster, will be honored.”

  Dunlaing straightened his back. “This sounds fine. How will it happen?”

  “By taking from her what she cares most about.”

  “And that is what, man? I have little patience today for druid puzzles.”

  The time was not right to reveal his plan. He needed the king to depend on him for answers. “The magic druid sticks plead for patience, dear king. We will have the answers when the gods say the time is right.”

  Chapter 18

  “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”

  Proverbs 15:1

  Brigid woke in the middle of the night, sweating. The image of her father’s old wife, a spear running through her skull, appeared over and over again in her mind. Somewhere she was certain someone was cooking cabbage. She found a bucket in the corner of the cell and vomited.

  Brocca said nothing while running her hands over Brigid’s damp hair.

  The night continued on with the same events mercilessly following each other through her mind the way a dog chases its tail. At the first flicker of daylight entering through a slit of window high on the wall, the guard who had executed Troya came for them.

  He was beaming, as though rather than murdering a human being, he had shot a prize buck for supper. “I brought boiled eggs and cream. C’mon, eat up. The ladies will be here soon to dress ye and take ye to the king.”

  Brigid wiped her mouth on her gown. “We will see the king, ye say?”

  “Aye, just as ye asked. I suppose ye’ll no longer be held responsible for an honor price, seeing as the woman who asked for it is now dead.”

  Brigid felt sick again. Her mother didn’t look too well either. The lad had saved their lives, but why had it come to this? Ultimately, Dubthach was responsible. He was the one who had caused Troya to hate them so.