Heather and grass scented the open meadow as the wagon lurched upward. They climbed the rolling hills leading to Glasgleann. She thought about Cook, longed to wrap her arms around her.
“Almost there, Miz Brocca! I can see smoke from the chimney,” the driver called out.
Sounds of laughter drifted on the wind. There were children at Glasgleann, and they were happy. She used the blanket to wipe the travel dust from her face. “Stop at the kitchen, please.”
The driver led her to the door. She held out her hands until she touched the smooth oak portal, weathered by years of northern exposure. It disappeared from under her palms when the driver swung it open.
A voice from inside greeted her. “Oh, dear me. Tell me that cannot be Brocca.”
Cook’s voice was harp music to Brocca’s ears. She found herself smothered in Cook’s hugs. Small children grabbed her legs.
Cook’s voice rose among the others. “Blessed Lord, this is quite a surprise. I was just on my way out. Thought I’d see ye at the seashore and hoped ye’d know where Brigid… ” Cook led Brocca to a wooden chair. The door creaked shut and the breeze it caused rippled the hem of Brocca’s tunic.
Cook whispered in her ear,“’Tis true what Brian says? Yer master told him yer eyes no longer see.”
Brocca whispered back. “Aye. Do not grieve for me. My life is good. And aye, I do know where my daughter is.” Brocca reached for the woman’s arm. “Cook. I am so sorry I have not come before now. Brigid is safe but fears a druid named Ardan. She did not want him to follow her here.”
Pots and pans rattled nearby and chunks of turf thumped onto a fire, sending ripples of smoke to her nose.
Cook squeezed Brocca’s hands so tightly they throbbed. “Oh, how my old bones have ached ever since I heard that druid had joined with Troya. Brian and I went to see her. Crazy old woman. She told us to stop looking for Brigid or… ”
“What?” Brocca’s question snapped like an iron trap.
Cook smoothed Brocca’s hair from her forehead. “Oh, I was so frightened, though I pretended I was not. I put the fear of God into that one, I did. She seemed content leaving Brigid be so long as we never brought her back to Glasgleann.”
“I understand. Let’s sit and talk.” Brocca reached for her silver brooch and unlatched it. The driver pulled her cloak from her shoulders.
Cook had been baking cakes and stewing fruit. Brocca turned toward the old woman’s apple-scented breath. “What did ye know ’bout Troya?”
Cook’s voice choked. “I knew she and Ardan were out to harm our sweet Brigid.” Her voice choked. “Oh, dear Brocca, I failed to protect her! ’Twas all I ever aimed to do, but I could not, Lord forgive me. I had to return here, don’t ye see?” Tears dropped onto their hands, intertwined on Cook’s lap. “My daughter and my grandchildren, they greeted ye when ye came in. They live and work at Glasgleann. I couldn’t run off and leave them, Brocca. I didn’t know what to do. If my dear husband were still alive, he’d have gone after her.”
Brocca embraced her old friend. “God cared for her, Cook. I’ll explain later, but ye should not harbor any guilt. I know ye raised her fine. She has grown to be a God-fearing woman and has her own land where Christian brothers and sisters are building her a home.”
Cook pulled back. “Glory! Could such a thing be?”
“’Tis so. She sent me here to fetch ye. She has named her place the Cell of the Oak and it is not far, just at the north end of the plains.”
Cook sighed and moved toward the fire. “I am pleased. Ye’ll never know, child, how much. So, you and Brigid are not going to the seashore? Dubthach, as always, has allowed me to travel there.”
“I am not. But Brigid is there now. I would be pleased if ye’d come stay with me until she returns. Where is the old man? Will he not allow that after all the pain he has caused?” The murmur of children’s voices drifted out the door.
Cook had apparently ushered them out. She returned to Brocca’s side. “I will go, but I must return soon.”
Brocca patted Cook’s hand. “He is still a hateful master. I am so sorry, Cook. God will reward ye for what ye’ve done for my daughter.”
“Dubthach has been greedy, there’s no denying. But hateful? Nay, no longer. He’s not even residing at Glasgleann anymore.”
“Not here? Where, then?”
Cook blew her nose. “My daughter and I manage Glasgleann now. Her family and the other servants still run things like always. Dubthach is still the owner, but he lives alone, sick and in despair.”
“What a shame. Where?”
“Not certain. Somewhere in the woods. Shows up on the edge of the meadow from time to time. Brian meets him and carries out his bidding. The lad said the old man had grown thin, if ye can believe that. And his hair has nearly fallen out.”
Brocca shook her head. “I do not understand. What brought about this change?”
Cook clicked her tongue. “He believes he received yer master’s curse, and he hides from the gods so they will not take his cattle. He has believed so almost since he released Brigid.”
Brocca relaxed her shoulders. She would not have to face the man after all. She prayed God’s mercy on his soul. “Do ye think it best we tell him that Bram’s curse was a farce?”
Cook handed Brocca a bowl of hot porridge and pressed a wooden spoon into her fingers. “I have tried, darlin’. He will not believe it. He clings to the old ways.”
Cook’s porridge warmed Brocca as much as her hug had.
She mourned for those like Dubthach who didn’t know such comfort.
Brocca spent the rest of the day being introduced to Cook’s family. She met Brigid’s trusted friend Brian and his new wife and promised to bring back greetings to Brigid. In the morning, Cook joined Brocca for the ride back to the Cell of the Oak. The showery day did not bother Brocca. She had her beloved friend next to her and she was on her way to her daughter again. God rewards those who wait patiently. She had waited, and now she had everything she had ever hoped for. “Cook, why must ye worry ’bout getting back to Glasgleann if Dubthach’s not there?”
Cook leaned her face in close. “I am old, but not too old to understand my place.”
“What do ye mean?”
“As sure as I’ll be missing my grandchildren, I’ll miss that old coot.”
“Dubthach?” Brocca bolted back into the wagon’s side as though a slingshot had struck her.
Cook sighed. “Aye. He’s misguided, lonely, but not as cruel as Brigid thinks. At least not anymore. There was a time… ” Her voice trailed off and Brocca allowed her friend time to collect her memories.
Cook swallowed. “There was a time we’d all be lashed with hazel branches. I wanted to wrap my hands around that man’s throat, God forgive me. And for what he did to ye… ”
Brocca held her fingers to Cook’s lips. “Please, let’s not… ” Cook pushed her hand away. “God is his judge.”
They whispered quiet prayers. Without their faith to lean on, neither one of them would have endured what they had. Minutes passed like drops of water from a nearly dry spring.
Finally, Cook spoke. “Things changed when Brigid left. At first he drank himself into a useless state. Then one morning I saw him pour his ale into the bog. Barrel after barrel of it. Brian asked him why and he said he had not built his fortune by being a fool, and he’d not lose it because he’d become one.”
Brocca struggled against the wind to tuck strands of loose hair back under her scarf. “Dubthach said that?”
“Aye. Could hardly believe it myself. We thought that perhaps that was the time to teach him ’bout Christ, but he wasn’t all changed. Was still as greedy and protective over his wealth as ever. Never whipped anyone again, but was far grouchier after he gave up his drink than before, if ye could believe such a thing so.”
The wagon wobbled downhill. They would be at the Cell of the Oak shortly. Brocca didn’t know when Brigid would return, but she wanted to understand what Cook wa
s telling her before her daughter heard the confusing story. “What drove him to believe in the curse?”
Cook took a deep breath, seeming to prepare a long story. “One night, not long after the man disposed of all his drink, raiders struck Glasgleann.”
“Oh, dear.” Brocca knew that was what a cattle owner feared most. Dubthach did not employ enough men to rally a revenge raid. “Did he lose many?”
“Half a dozen, if I remember correctly. Then that very next night wolves ravished the barn, killing two more and a calf.”
“I see why he thought the curse had come, but why would he move away?”
“Ah, that’s the thing of it. He believed he’d wronged his daughter and the gods were angry with him. He thought he’d save his herd if he stayed away. When the gods came for him, they’d not find his cattle. In his small mind, Dubthach believed spirits would flee from him if they found him to be a poor man.”
The lumpy ground under the wagon wheels caused Brocca’s head to bob up and down against the latticework sides. They would be home soon. “And have ye suffered any more raids, Cook?”
“Not a one.”
“So, why do ye care if Dubthach finds ye’ve been away?” “Because ’tis likely he thinks my God protects the cattle. Long as he thinks that, there may be a chance the entire house of Dubthach will someday follow our Lord.”
Brocca clapped her hands. “Oh, how wondrous our God is! I wonder what he has in mind for us next?”
Chapter 21
“The future is not ours to know, and it may never be. So let us live and give our best, and give it lavishly.”
Old Irish saying
“Ye’ve been here before.” Brigid’s statement sounded more like a question.
“Many times.”
Brigid and the poet fell in line with other small crafts and waited to disembark. Crowds of people bunched together on the riverbank like wild berries. Brigid and her escort clambered out of their leather boat.
The poet chatted with some men and then fell in step with her. “The bishops from Patrick’s church have traveled in large boats down the coast. We’ve arrived late. The boatman tells me the church leaders will depart tomorrow.”
Brigid adjusted her outer garment on her shoulders. “Well, then, we’ll have to find Bishop Mel right away.”
A boy toting rolls of parchments pointed them toward a large tent. Its white sail-like covering flapped endlessly in the salty air. Inside, several men stood examining a scroll and speaking softly to each other. The men in long robes paused, looked at the newcomers, and acknowledged the poet.
The poet dipped low, brushing his green cloak on the tent’s sandy floor. He spread out his arm toward her. “Here is Brigid of Ireland. She has no clan, no allegiance to any place. She seeks to do her work all over our green isle.”
He was right, although she hadn’t thought of the difference her mission would make in her title.
The men waved them closer. The oldest and tallest stood in the center of the gathering. His robes were similar to Conleth’s but graced with more embroidery. She wondered what the holy men would think if they saw little children at play wearing patches of cloth matching the bishop’s robes.
The head bishop spoke. “I am Bishop Mel of Ardagh, but I too travel all of Ireland. I have heard of the wondrous faith of this woman.” He smiled at her. “What is it that you seek?”
The room was as snug as any cabin. The cloth walls were anchored and did not give way when a squall from the sea struck them. Brigid plunged to her knees in front of the men. “I wish the church’s blessing on my work. I devote my life to Jesus and become his bride only.”
In the midst of the quietness, a low roar built, growing in intensity until Brigid cupped her hands over her ears. She huddled on the ground and never glanced up because the noise was in her head.
Gradually the rushing clamor ceased. The men’s footsteps rustled and Bishop Mel spoke in Latin. He consecrated her as a bishop and asked her to rise. As soon as the poet extended his hand toward her, the men began bickering.
“She is a woman, Bishop Mel.”
The bishop smiled at his counterpart. “I am well aware of that. What has happened, the Lord intended. Did ye not see the flame of the Holy Spirit rest on her head?”
The discussion continued. Brigid didn’t know what to say or do. Did she have the church’s blessing, and their aid, or not? Finally, Bishop Mel held up his hands. “It is done.” He studied her and cocked his head. “Sister Brigid, your eye is healed.”
She touched her face. It was no longer swollen. She turned to the poet and pulled away the linen covering the wound. He laughed and smiled. It was true. Now that she had given her life wholly to the Lord in front of these men, God had restored her.
The bishop tapped her shoulder. “Where will you do the Lord’s work? When you do not travel, that is.”
“At the Cell of the Oak. Brothers and sisters in the Lord are busy building a house.”
Bishop Mel’s countenance beamed and her memory of Patrick’s kind face seemed to merge into his, like shape-shifting. Pagans believed gods could merge from one being into another, from a man to a bird or some such thing. Brigid rubbed her eyes. There was a plausible explanation. Perhaps she had seen Patrick in him. They were related, she’d heard. There would be clan similarities.
She muttered a prayer. Lord, have mercy.
He waved his hand, and his silky robe brushing against her hair sent a tingle down to her toes. He remained a bishop, no change. Lord, help me to think only of you and not of ridiculous superstitions.
Bishop Mel sent his sleeve sailing over her head a second time. “Then you shall have the authority of bishop over the Cell of the Oak. It’s God’s will for you, Brigid of Ireland.”
The poet plucked his harp and sang. They were escorted to another tent and supplied with food, quills, pestles for grinding ink, rolls of parchment, and a two-wheeled cart to pull it all home. The poet stored the bounty in his own shelter while Brigid found lodging with a family living along the banks of the river.
Once they were settled, Brigid’s hostess, a kind woman bearing thirty summers, asked about her companion. “Dear Brigid, bring yer escort to sup with us. He must be very hungry.” The poet joined them at a long plank table for oats and stew made with lamb’s meat. Not long after they began to feast, the walls rattled and tin mugs danced on the table. The thundering hoofs of dozens of horses rang in their ears.
“Raid!” The host’s son bolted from the table.
The residents scrambled to free themselves from the confines of the small room, sending ale and tea splashing across wooden plates of bread and broth. By the time Brigid joined them outside, the intruders had left. She heard them whooping amid the calls of the cattle they drove away.
“We’ll be ruined!” the woman of the house wailed. “We’ve nothing left but the food on our table and our mounts,” another complained.
Brigid whispered to the poet. “We can catch up to them if we borrow horses.”
Her companion didn’t question her, though she wouldn’t have blamed him. How could one man and a wisp of a woman call back those cattle rustlers? She held onto a thought: With God, all things are possible.
They caught up to the men as they were crossing the river. The cattle protested as they were driven into the water. Brigid, the poet, and her host who had ridden alongside them, watched. A small contingent of servants waited nearby.
One by one the men stripped their clothing and tied their garments and their shoes to the beasts’ backs.
The poet chuckled. “Think that will keep them dry? Might as well see them all drown and then collect the cattle. The animals are smarter than the thieves who took them.”
The raiding party managed to drive the cattle midway into the river when the beasts halted. The cows turned their heads in Brigid’s direction and swam back. Once they climbed ashore, they stampeded in the direction of their owner’s home, the naked cattle rustlers scrambling after
them, trying to snatch back their clothes in vain.
The owner’s workers held the men at spear point. Brigid intervened. “These men should do penitence for their crime. Send them to the Cell of the Oak. There is much work to be done there.”
The owner’s head servant agreed to send for a wagon and drive them there as soon as they dried out.
Brigid and the poet continued their journey, this time employing the service of a large craft to carry all their supplies. After they crossed the river and collected their horses, the poet broke his usual silence. “’Twas wise, what ye did back there.”
Brigid smiled and used her cloak as a shield against the evening cool. “Men may think cattle are their most valuable possession, but life should be cherished the most.”
“There are some who think the punishment is not severe enough. Stealing cattle is a serious offense.”
“The laird received his cattle back. The raiders have been humiliated, poet. To stroll stark naked among the people is indeed punishment. And now they must work for me. And hard they will labor, too.”
They continued to travel along the riverbank until they reached the widest part where the poet departed from her. He called to her before she turned away. “I will report these things to Ardan, as I have promised to do. But do not fear, Brigid. Ardan has no power that is lasting.”
She remembered what her friend Brian used to say. “I fear only one Master.”
Brigid made the sign of the cross over her chest, and the poet bowed his head. He rode toward the sunset, his black mane streaming behind him.
What did Ardan have planned? Oh, God, protect yer children and give us strength for whatever we must endure.
Ardan spotted the poet approaching the castle. He had watched every night for the man, wondering if he was ever going to return from his visit with Brigid. He had begun to doubt his decision in sending the young poet, but the lad had finally returned and would now give a full report.
Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) Page 19
