She was the girl from the plains. And she recognized me, for she stared directly at me with the ghost of a smile upon her lips.
Brother, I hope you understand the import of this account. It is heresy enough that a woman performed the sacrament of the High Mass, turning wine to blood and bread to flesh. This profanation I will report to Gallienus when I am able, and the news will surely assist him in his directives. But there is more. Brigid’s challenging gaze unnerved me, setting me to wonder whether she guesses at the reasons for my presence in Cill Dara.
So I leave you to your undoubted laughter at my missteps, my amiable brother. For myself, I am left to my prayers that my gaffes today with this girl from the plains—this Brigid—do not cost me the work God calls me to undertake.
Pray for me brother, as I will for you.
Decius
xv
GAEL
A.D. 457
BRIGID: A LIFE
A shake wakes Brigid from a deep slumber. She sits bolt upright but cannot will her eyes to focus. She rubs the sleep from them with her fists; when her pupils finally adjust, she stares into the face of her mother’s maid, Muireen.
“The queen wishes your presence in her quarters.”
“At this hour? What cannot wait until morning?”
“I know not the nature of the summons, Mistress Brigid, only its urgency.”
Brigid throws a cloak over her bedclothes. She walks to her parents’ quarters as her mother’s maid holds a candle aloft to light the way. Muireen steps aside so Brigid may push open the door to her mother’s bedchamber. She finds Broicsech fully dressed in her queenly finest, necklaces, armlets, crown, and all.
“Mother, what is going on?”
Broicsech gestures to the chair before her. “Please sit, Brigid.”
She lowers herself with trepidation. She guesses at the worst: the death of her father or the overthrow of his kingdom. Dubtach has been undertaking the dangerous business of assessing his cattle for many long days, so either end is possible.
“Your father has returned to the cashel with wonderful news,” Broicsech announces, though Brigid hears little delight in her voice. “Eaghan’s son Cullen has made a most generous offer for your hand in marriage. A union with a son of your father’s favorite chieftain would be blessing enough, but it carries even more gifts. Cullen was foster son to Cormac, king of the Connaught province. Cormac just passed on, leaving Cullen as his heir. Cullen has agreed that his marriage to you will allow your father to join our lands and cattle with that of the late king Cormac—making your father high king of two of the five provinces of Gael and you and Cullen queen and king beholden to him. Dubtach will have unprecedented strength to fend off any invaders. We must act with haste, to ensure no revocation of the offer.”
Brigid is unable to speak. She has feared news of a marital union for some days and, in fact, has fashioned a plan to stave off its seeming inevitability. Yet this announcement carries such deep implications for her father’s rule—indeed, Gael’s rule—that she finds herself oddly immobilized, as if in a terrible dream.
“Brigid, did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mother.” The two words are all Brigid can manage, though her heart speaks silent volumes.
“I have already sent my serving girls to assist your maids in the packing of your goods. All you need do is to allow Muireen to dress your hair and help you into this gown.” Her mother points to an ornately embroidered robe, one of Broicsech’s finest, rarely worn except for high ceremonies.
“Ah, my beloved Brigitta,” her father bellows as he bursts into the room. Dubtach has not called Brigid by her childhood nickname for some years, and it further unsettles her. He lifts her from the chair and swings her about the room, making her feel like a cloth doll stuffed with hay.
“You have brought your father unbridled happiness on this day. Cullen desires your hand so fervently, he is willing to cede high rule of his new province to me. Gael will be well suited for the fight, should it come.”
Dubtach lowers Brigid to the ground with a gentleness not seen since her milk-tooth days. She still finds herself unable to speak, so he talks for both of them. “I am well pleased with you, Brigid. But not a mention of your recent baptism, do you understand? Eaghan’s people hold to the old gods, and I do not want your faith to put Cullen off the marriage.”
He leaves the women to their ministrations, calling over his shoulder, “We will leave at first light.”
The odd malaise that settled upon Brigid during Broicsech’s announcement does not lift during the long ride to Eaghan’s lands. Her mind whirls with the conundrum in which this union has placed her, but her body does not reel in accordance. She knows not what course to take; even constant prayer yields no solution to her puzzle.
The regal procession of king and queen, followed by Brigid and a trail of warriors with banners flying and horns sounding, arrives in the borderlands between Dubtach’s original lands and Eaghan’s. Two large tents, one crimson and one amethyst, stand in a flat field adjoining a grove. The warriors dismount at Dubtach’s signal and escort Brigid and Broicsech toward the tent woven of rich purple cloth.
Before she passes over the threshold, Brigid turns around. She watches as her father nears the other tent. Eaghan himself pushes back the tent’s opening and stretches out his hands in welcome to Dubtach, his imminent kinsman.
Brigid steps into the darkness of the tent’s interior, so black it matches her despair. Her mother has taken a place on the rich carpet covering the forest floor and motions for Brigid to join her. Brigid declines the invitation, preferring to remain closer to the fresher air outside.
“You are unnaturally quiet, Brigid.”
“I thought that is what you wished, Mother.”
Her mother stands. “I did not raise you to docility and meekness, Brigid. I raised you to strength. Strength, however, does not mean that we always get to pursue our will. Strength means that we must follow our destined path with fortitude and grace.”
“And strength sometimes means that we must act as our conscience and our God dictate—even if that course does not accord with the designs of our family or our land,” Brigid says in a near whisper. With her words comes the insight she seeks.
The warriors’ horns call for them. Broicsech leaves the tent with Brigid and a bevy of maids in her wake. The women make a colorful stream as they weave across the field to the ceremonial mound where the men await.
Dubtach and Eaghan stand at the flattened top of the mound. Their crowns and jewel-encrusted swords gleam in the dying light of day. A place awaits Broicsech next to Eaghan’s queen in the semicircular terrace just below Dubtach and Eaghan on the mound. With a warrior at each elbow, Broicsech climbs to her position.
And at the mound’s base stands Cullen, waiting for Brigid. He is handsome, with his black hair, green eyes, and crooked nose. As she stares at him, Cullen smiles at her with gentleness and curiosity. She thinks that he looks a kindly man, and in another life he might have made her a good husband. Yet she knows with certainty that this union is not the path to which she is called.
Custom requires the exchange of commitments between Dubtach and Eaghan before Brigid takes her position at Cullen’s side. Disregarding the ritualistic order, she approaches Cullen directly. She hears her mother gasp and her father call out to her, but she continues her advance.
Standing before Cullen, Brigid says, “I am so sorry, Cullen. You seem a good man, and I wish I could honor my father’s vows. But I cannot.”
“What—what do you mean?” he stammers in shock, making Brigid like him all the more. No false warrior’s bravado for him. “If you act out of doubts as to my feelings toward you, I promise you that they are true.” His pledge of affection makes her task more difficult, for only a gentle man would reassure her rather than lash out at the insult to his honor.
Ignoring the protests of her parents, she reaches for his hands. She squeezes them and says, “I do not doubt your feelin
gs, Cullen. And your words make me wish even more that I could enter into this marriage. I am fortunate that a man such as yourself wants me for his wife.” She smiles at him, and a tiny, hopeful grin appears at the corners of his lips.
“Then be my wife,” he says.
Tears form in Brigid’s eyes at his sincere plea. They course down her cheeks as she says, “Cullen, I would like nothing more than to be called to a traditional life. But the decision is not in my hands. I am newly baptized in the Christian faith, Cullen. And my God summons me to a different existence, an existence that requires my total commitment. It will be a life where I will pledge to follow the original calling of Mary, the Mother of God, and take no husband.”
“No husband?” He seems shocked and relieved at once.
“No husband.” Brigid touches his cheek with her finger. “ Goodbye, Cullen.”
Before her parents or her emotions can overtake her, Brigid runs from the ceremonial mound, across the field. She spies her horse, hitched along with the others. Without even bothering to secure her belongings other than the small bag still strapped to the horse, she mounts her steed and rides away. To where, she does not know.
xvi
GAEL
A.D. 457
BRIGID: A LIFE
Brigid rides aimlessly for days through forests and plains. She eats what little she can forage and stops only when exhaustion demands. Prayer alone sustains her through the hunger and fatigue, and the distress over her family’s certain displeasure, but it does not provide her with a path.
She never wavers in her decision to reject Cullen’s hand, but as the days pass, she begins to despair. She longs for a clear way to her new existence as a servant of God. The dream of following in Mary’s initial footsteps—taking the veil and serving only the Lord—begins to seem rash and foolhardy. And she does not feel that she can turn to Patrick, the only Christian leader she knows, to shine a light on her path: he is too strongly allied with Broicsech. She falls to her knees beneath a bright half-moon and entreats God to show her the way to serve Him.
Hours later, Brigid awakens in a landscape somehow familiar. She recognizes the distinctive shape of an oak tree overhead and the unique roll of the hill at her feet. She does not remember coming to rest in this place.
After all these days of riding, she has unwittingly returned home. Her fatigue and anguish had blinded her to the recognizable features of her familial terrain.
It is not yet dawn. Gauging the time remaining before day’s light breaks and her father’s vassals rise, she dashes down to the riverside. She stoops and drinks of the cold water, slaking her thirst. Dipping her hands in one last time, she rubs her wet fingers over her weary eyes.
Her eyes open to see Broicsech staring into them. Brigid starts to run, but her mother is quicker than her regal manner would suggest. Broicsech catches the wide fold of Brigid’s sleeve and pulls her to the ground. Mother and daughter tumble down the knoll and land in a heap.
Panting from her exertions, Broicsech says, “Brigid, you have no need to fear me. I am not like one of your father’s raiding parties, ready to cart you off to a life of enslavement.”
“Mother, I did not intend to pass so close to the cashel. I beg you to let me leave before Father finds me on his lands.”
“He knows you are here.”
“And he permits me to stay? Without being taken into his custody?” Brigid is astonished. She would have guessed that if he discovered her trespass, her father would have ordered his warriors to return her to the cashel for punishment or another try at marriage to Cullen.
“For the moment—”
“I would have thought him furious beyond measure.”
“He is indeed. The injury done to his honor exceeds any from the battlefield, I can assure you. But he remains your father.”
“I am surprised he would still call himself such.”
“Brigid, he loves you, though he would not confess it aloud right now to anyone but me. Once you were spotted last evening, he and I discussed the situation. He knows that I have come to speak with you.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He is in full accord with the message I bear.”
“Pray do share it, Mother.”
“We understand that you have chosen a Christian path, one that contemplates singular devotion and dedication to our Lord, without familial distractions. We will not force you into an unwanted marriage, though it would serve the Gaels’ greater goals of continued independence.” Broicsech raises her eyebrows. “We are not Romans, after all.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Brigid grasps her mother’s hands and kisses them in appreciation.
“Do not be so hasty in your gratitude. We ask something of you in return. Something that may assist us in reaching the same end your marriage might have.”
Brigid winces at the mention of her failed union to Cullen. “Anything you wish.”
“We request that, as you serve our Lord, you also serve your people. We believe that Christianity will be the foremost power and religion in the coming days—whether the land remains under Gaelic rule or is overcome by Roman or barbarian. Thus, we want you to prove that Gael—through its Christian piety and prowess—is a land entitled to preservation and self-rule.”
Before Brigid can curb her tongue, she blurts out, “Is not Bishop Patrick God’s chosen vehicle for the Christian conversion of our people?”
“Patrick is Roman Briton, not a Gael. He may convert our people, but he will never convince Rome or the coming tide that Christian Gael deserves its autonomy. And he will never convert the sheer number of people that a Christian Gael can. The people will always harbor suspicions of a Roman and a Briton; we need a Gael to prove our mettle and bring our people round.”
Brigid does not respond at first, judging Broicsech’s request to be nigh impossible. After some deliberation, she says, “Mother, you and Father deserve nothing less. You have bestowed upon me the greatest gift, the gift of choosing my own path. Yet how can I—a woman alone—achieve a goal that an army would be better suited to seek?”
“Do not trouble yourself with that; Dubtach will tend to the warriors, as he always does. In any event, an army, by itself, could never meet our objective.”
“I cannot fathom how I can succeed where an army would fail.”
As if privy to a secret, Broicsech smiles curiously and says, “You must begin by making our people believe in Jesus Christ. And then you must inspire them to manifest that belief in magnificent accomplishments that will make Christian Rome and Arian Christian barbarians take heed of the Gaels.”
“How shall I begin?”
“Let us choose your cloak well, for it is a mantle you will wear for all eternity in the minds of our people. If you are to inspire our people to embrace God and render magnificent testimony to Him, your Christian persona must build on what the people already know and love.”
“What do you mean?”
Broicsech has an answer so fully formed that Brigid becomes certain that her mother has long considered this alternative to her marriage. “You are called Brigid. Our people worship the goddess Brigid, the source of all healing, the creator of all decorative arts and poetry, and the protector of women. So become the goddess Brigid, but a Christian one. Honor the rituals of the Gaels’ Brigid and deliver our Lord’s message to them through her voice and her customs. If you do so, the people will listen to you as you bear the saving Word of the new God—and then honor Him in ways our conquerors may heed.”
xvii
GAEL
A.D. 457–61
BRIGID: A LIFE
Her robes fly behind her like a flag as she gallops through the forest. Astride a white mare and garbed entirely in pure linen, Brigid seems more a spirit than a human. This otherworldliness is her intention, for it eases her way into each village she enters.
She finds that the people accept a ghostly, yet oddly familiar goddess creature into their perimeters more readily than they would a lone w
oman—though she quickly shows them that her earthly ministry is anything but ethereal. As soon as she enters their enclaves, Brigid rolls up the sleeves of her white robes and offers her healing services to the sick. The people typically ignore her at first. Inevitably, a maimed, desperate villager finally accepts her assistance and the wary people see their crippled friend walk without a cane. Then they descend on her in droves. She sets injuries gotten in the fields; stitches gaping strife wounds; applies poultices to festering sores; and helps women birth their children. And always she refuses the people’s efforts at payment.
Instead, she waits. Never preaching, never sermonizing, she quietly prays and observes the basic rituals of the goddess Brigid, the perpetual fire keeping and the holidays. She anticipates the questions that inevitably come. The people muster their courage to gather at her feet and ask about the source of her healing power or her unusual appearance or the nature of her gods.
“Who are your gods?” a bold villager, pushed forward by neighbors, predictably asks.
“I have but one God.”
“One God? One God to rule over the rivers and seas and mountains and plains? One God to govern all the tribes and the cattle over which they war?” The person invariably taunts her with a voice full of disbelief. For a society that cannot agree upon one king, the concept of one God seems inconceivable.
“Yes. My God is the God of all people, the God of heaven and earth, of the sea and the rivers, the God of the sun, moon, and stars, the God of the high mountains and deep valleys. His life is in all things. He sparks the light of the sun, and sets the stars in place. He makes wells in arid lands and dry islands in the seas. He has a Son who is eternal with Him and of His nature. The Son is not younger than the Father nor the Father than the Son, and the Holy Spirit breathes in them. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are not separate. I pray that you will come to believe in my one God.”
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