Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  The waitress appeared. “Your food will be ready in another fifteen minutes. May I refresh your Earl Grey?” she asked Alex.

  “Please.”

  The waitress had begun pouring the steaming water into Alex’s freshly filled tea strainer when Declan interrupted: “Give us a pint, luv?”

  “A pint?” Alex blurted out, then wanted to take it back. Although she’d specifically chosen teatime to avoid Declan’s notorious Saturday afternoons in the pub—she needed him present and sharp—she hated to sound like a prim schoolmarm.

  “You’re right—what am I thinking, Alex? We’ll have the champagne.”

  Alex groaned in protest, but in truth, she enjoyed the champagne. Three years had passed since they’d worked together on a cache of inscribed liturgical vessels found in the ruins of a Derry church basement, and the drinks softened the edge between them. She was more at ease asking about his “decision” to leave a coveted posting as assistant keeper of the treasury at the National Museum of Ireland after his hasty departure from a professorship at Trinity College. And he felt more comfortable answering with a bullish proclamation that he wanted to start his own business—though she suspected that the real explanation lurked in too much time on the rugby pitch and in the pubs mixed with his own dislike of playing academic games. The latter Alex could relate to.

  Alex skirted the reason for their meeting as long as she could. She needed his renowned translating skills desperately, but she didn’t trust him entirely. He always played the rogue, and she wasn’t sure if it was an act or the truth. Still, she had no one else.

  “Dec, I need you to be serious for a minute.”

  “Don’t tease me, Alex. You know I’d love to get serious with you.” He was only half-kidding; she knew he’d happily pass through any door she opened. He’d made that clear enough in the past.

  “I mean it.” She allowed her voice to become raw and solemn.

  “Okay.” The haze evaporated from his eyes, and she saw the serious scholar behind them emerge.

  “I need you to translate an insular majuscule Old Latin manuscript for me.”

  “That’s my stock-in-trade. If that’s all you need, there’s no cause for concern.”

  “You can tell no one about the manuscript, Declan. No one.”

  “All right then. It’ll be our little secret.” The somber moment over, he took a swig of champagne and allowed his natural joviality to escape. He teased, “What’d you do, Alex? Steal it?”

  She’d gone this far—what was a little farther? “Something like that.”

  xx

  DUBLIN, IRELAND

  PRESENT DAY

  They left the Shelbourne and walked through Saint Stephen’s Green on one of its manicured serpentine pathways. Declan told her that they were headed to his office, but it seemed a meandering route until he took a quick left out of the park. The exit deposited them in front of a row of Georgian town houses, and Declan strode directly to an attractive four-story brick building covered with ivy on the verge of turning green after a long brown winter.

  He pulled his keys from the pocket of his tweed jacket and unlocked the front door. Alex was astonished that Declan could afford an office of this caliber. Saint Stephen’s Green sat in the heart of Dublin, and its real estate had become exorbitant in recent years; even basic flats and office suites had cost in the millions of euros. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in the long-circulated rumors that he came from money, or maybe he dabbled in the black market side of their business. As long as he did his work and kept his mouth shut, she didn’t much care.

  She followed his lead up two steep flights of stairs that seemed increasingly residential in feel. Then he unlocked a nondescript oak door and ushered her into a handsomely decorated foyer. After she refused his offers to take her coat and bag or get her a cup of tea, he guided her into a large rectangular room with park views that obviously had once been the parlor but now served as a combination office, sterile laboratory, and reference library. She barely recognized this professional Declan.

  He sat down at a long white worktable, completely devoid of any objects other than the necessary tools of his trade, and put on sterile gloves, handing her a pair as well. Gesturing for her to sit in one of the two ergonomic chairs pulled up to the table, he stretched out his hand. “Shall we have a look?”

  Her heart quickened as she reached into her black bag for the manuscript. Intentionally, she had held back mentioning the other two books she’d found in the convent archives. She didn’t want to reveal too much too soon, particularly if Declan’s initial assessment of the manuscript did not match her expectations.

  The manuscript slipped out easily due to the protective sheeting she’d wrapped around it that morning. She hesitated before handing over her precious discovery, but Declan’s surprising seriousness calmed her nerves. “Here it is.”

  Laying the manuscript on the table, he slowly turned through the folio pages. Alex could feel her palms sweating and her stomach churning as she awaited his initial reaction. But the minutes stretched on, and soon she lost herself in the beauty of the manuscript. So much so that she jumped when he spoke.

  “Where on earth did you get this?”

  “I’d rather not say just yet. Is that important?”

  “Not for my translation. But it will become important. Very, very important.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Alex, you’ve just handed me the most artistically proficient, ancient illuminated manuscript I’ve ever seen outside the Book of Kells—maybe even including the Book of Kells. I wouldn’t swear to an origin date until I’ve translated it and done some tests on the vellum and ink, but I’m a gambling man. I’d place good odds on a date near the ninth-century creation of the Book of Kells.”

  “You’re putting me on, Declan.”

  “Do I look like I’m taking the piss, Alex?”

  She stared at him. He looked as somber—and sober—as she’d ever seen him. “No.”

  “Alex, you’ve just rocked the world of illuminated manuscripts.” He grinned. “My world too.”

  A few drinks later, Alex set the ground rules. She must be present when he worked on the manuscript: She would take it with her whenever she left his apartment. Declan must share with her each translated page immediately upon completion. If he began to draw firm conclusions about the date or nature of the manuscript, he must tell her straightaway. And, most importantly, no one else must be consulted.

  Alex didn’t need to tell him why they needed secrecy. But to his credit, Declan didn’t probe, and he readily agreed to all her conditions.

  The next day, she sat in one of the upholstered chairs near the bay windows while Declan worked. After she read through the books she’d bought at Trinity College the day before, she decided it might prove helpful to digest Declan’s collection of scholarly texts on the great seventh-to ninth-century illuminated manuscripts containing the four Gospels. Supplementing her rudimentary grad school understanding, she learned that the Irish had led the way in creating the golden age of illuminated texts, utilizing the same intricate Hiberno-Saxon style and iconography she’d come across in Sister Mary’s liturgical vessels. Although the early-ninth-century Book of Kells was the most famous and, arguably, the quintessential manuscript, earlier books—the Cathach, the Book of Dimma, the Lindisfarne Gospels, and the Book of Durrow among them—contained exquisite imagery as well. Some scholars argued that the Irish proliferation of those manuscripts—and their copies—helped re-Christianize the European continent in the Dark Ages after the fall of Rome.

  Intermittently, Declan interrupted her reading with a handwritten sheet. The page invariably contained the words of a New Testament Gospel decoded from insular majuscule Old Latin into modern English. Alex had begun to wonder how the translation would help them date the manuscript when Declan suddenly asked, “Alex, did you find this book in Kildare?”

  She panicked inwardly but tried to stay cool on the surface. “Why do yo
u ask?” she said casually, without looking up.

  Pushing back from his worktable, Declan stood and walked to his bookshelves. He reached to the highest shelf, which, Alex had noted, contained the oldest-looking reference books, and pulled out a slim volume. The book fell open to a dog-eared page, and he said, “I’m going to read you an excerpt from The Topography of Ireland, a late-twelfth-century historical treatise and travel narrative. The author was Giraldus Cambrensis, a Welsh clergyman and historian accompanying Prince John, the heir to English King Henry II, on his subjugating tour of Ireland in the 1180s.

  “In describing the Abbey of Kildare, Giraldus says:

  ‘Among all the miracles in Kildare, none appears to me more wonderful than that marvelous book which they say was written in the time of the Virgin Saint Brigid at the dictation of an angel. It contains the Four Gospels according to Saint Jerome, and almost every page is illustrated by drawing illuminated with a variety of brilliant colors. In one page you see the countenance of the Divine Majesty supernaturally pictured; in another, the mystic forms of the evangelists, with either six, four, or two wings; here are depicted the eagle, there the calf; here the face of a man, there of a lion; with other figures in almost endless variety. If you observe them superficially, and in the usual careless manner, you would imagine them to be daubs, rather than careful compositions; expecting to find nothing exquisite, where in truth, there is nothing that is not exquisite. But if you apply yourself to a more close examination, and are able to penetrate the secrets of the art displayed in these pictures, you will find them so delicate and exquisite, so finely drawn, and the work of interlacing so elaborate, while the colors with which they are illuminated are so blended, and still so fresh, that you will be ready to assert that all this is the work of angelic, and not human skill.’

  “This description,” Declan noted, “has been applied repeatedly to the Book of Kells.”

  “I thought it sounded familiar.”

  “You can see why people think Giraldus saw the Book of Kells. The excerpt certainly describes an illuminated manuscript with a decorative scheme very similar to that of the Book of Kells. But there is a major problem with that leap of logic.”

  “What?”

  “Giraldus wrote these words in 1185, while visiting Kildare. An entry in the Annals of Ulster for A.D. 1006 shows that the Book of Kells arrived in Kells as early as the beginning of the eleventh century. If for some reason you doubted that evidence, there’s proof that Kells had possession of the book in the early twelfth century, when land charters pertaining to the Abbey of Kells were copied into some of the book’s blank pages. Either way, by 1185, when Giraldus visited Kildare, the Book of Kells was elsewhere, if it had ever been in Kildare at all. Giraldus saw a different manuscript.”

  Before Alex could interject, Declan continued. “Listen to another of Giraldus’s entries for Kildare, it purports to describe the way in which this book was created:

  “Early in the night before the morning on which the scribe was to begin the book, an angel stood before him in a dream, and showing him a picture drawn on a tablet which he had in his hand, said to him, ‘Do you think that you can draw this picture on the first page of the volume which you propose to copy?’ The scribe, who doubted his skill in such exquisite art, in which he was uninstructed and had no practice, replied that he could not. Upon this the angel said ‘On the morrow, intreat your Lady to offer prayers for you to the Lord, that He would vouchsafe to open your bodily eyes, and give you spiritual vision, which may enable you to see more clearly, and understand with more intelligence, and employ your hands in drawing with accuracy.’ The scribe having done as he commanded, the night following the angel came to him again, and presented to him the same picture, with a number of others. All these, aided by divine grace, the scribe made himself the master of, and faithfully committing them to his memory, exactly copied in his book in their proper places. In this manner, the book was composed, an angel furnishing the designs, Saint Brigid praying, and the scribe copying.’”

  “What book was Giraldus describing?” Alex asked.

  “Some believe that Giraldus is describing the lost Book of Kildare, which—who knows—you may have just found.”

  xxi

  GAEL

  A.D. 470

  Brother,

  Long days have passed since I last wrote you. I find myself busy, swept as I am into the monk’s life here in Cill Dara. My hands so ache at day’s end from the scribe’s duties I find it hard to rouse them to write—especially words that I know will lie buried in the secret hole I dug out beneath a loose stone on the floor of my hut, words that may never reach you.

  You have not left my thoughts, however. I imagine you assessing the olive groves’ health after the harsh winter. I envision your young boys tearing through our family fields as we once did in the early spring, freed from the confines of the dark, frigid months. And I pray to God that someone, somehow has provided you with some measure of comfort as to the whereabouts of your younger brother. Who would defy Gallienus’s strict command of silence about my mission in order to perform such kindness, I cannot imagine.

  Though I can picture your days in vivid detail, I doubt you can visualize mine. Shall I walk you about this unfamiliar world I now inhabit? I can almost see you nod as we set off. Although this time we will not be embarking on one of your many mad larks, as we did so often in childhood, with you leading and me protesting in tow. Instead, we will embark on my own adventure.

  Let us begin with my first day in the scriptorium. As promised, Ciaran arrived at my hut just after dawn that first morning at Cill Dara. I had finished my early prayers and was waiting for him. We broke our fast together in the refectory. The room buzzed with tantalizing phrases in not only Gaelic and Latin but Greek and countless local dialects. I noted this to Ciaran, whereupon he introduced me to scholarly monks and priests and nuns outcast from so many countries that it made my head spin. I tell you, brother, though this place lies on the very edge of, if not beyond, civilization, a number of its inhabitants are the very essence of it.

  We took our leave and walked the brief distance to the scriptorium. Ciaran held open the door, and I entered a vast, bright room much larger than the church itself. I could almost hear you tease that perhaps the size of the buildings was telling—that the residents of Cill Dara stressed words over God. But no matter.

  Most people had not yet begun to arrive after the morning meal, so Ciaran and I had the building nearly to ourselves. An astonishing amount of daylight flooded the work space, as the walls were cut with cunning openings designed to admit light yet shield one from the weather. Long desks, stands, and chairs stood in strategic locations around the room to best capture any hint of brightness. Each table offered ample writing materials—wax tablets, parchments, vellum, ink, brushes, rulers, and quills—so sophisticated I might have procured them from my study in Rome. Yet this cache of scribes’ instruments was not the room’s biggest surprise.

  I reserve that honor for the manuscripts. They populated the scriptorium by the hundreds, perhaps even thousands. They lay on table-tops and were stacked on the floor. They were splayed on stands and suspended from the ceiling in leather satchels. They reclined with their spines outward in cupboards with hinged doors. In all my days, I have never witnessed so many manuscripts in one location, not even in the papal library.

  As we walked about the room, I stole a glance at a page from an opened manuscript on one of the stands. I could not discern the script, but its exquisite style struck me. Elaborate scrollwork, abstract animal and human figures, and vivid patterns, all in brilliant pigments, embellished the letters and borders. The work was masterful.

  In our imagined dialogue, you interrupt me with an impatient question: But what of the decor? Does the scriptorium not have gilded moldings, fine mosaics, and marble columns, as in the papal buildings? Surely it has silken tapestries and a vast fireplace stoked by servants to keep out the bitter cold?

  No, I
answer with a laugh. The Cill Dara scriptorium bears none of the luxuries seen in the Roman papal offices, save the manuscripts. For a scribe like myself, however, it contains all that I require and more: light, instruments, and inspiration. I know this would not satisfy you, my worldly brother.

  The Abbey of Cill Dara is a working institution, however, and my day did not consist of a languorous walk about the scriptorium. Once more people arrived in the scriptorium, Ciaran began scanning the room. He took me by the arm, explaining that he needed to introduce me to the monk who would be my tutor.

  Ciaran hurried over to an enormous man with a barrel chest and a wizened face; this was Aidan, my teacher. Ciaran gestured for me to sit at the chair waiting by Aidan’s side, and left.

  I settled into the chair as instructed. I offered my greetings to Aidan in Gaelic, and he answered in tenable but brusque Latin. Then, without the pretense of polite exchange, we got to work.

  Aidan invited me to watch him add emerald-colored details to the wings of an angel. I observed as this great hulk of a man, gray-haired and with meaty fingers, painted nearly invisible brushstrokes, rendering the celestial figure even more ethereal. His skill mesmerized me for hours. I had never seen its like.

  Then I reminded myself that Gallienus had sent me to Cill Dara to learn about heresy, not to hone my techniques as a scribe. I steeled my nerves, cleared my throat, and asked Aidan, “Where did you learn your craft?”

  For a long while, he did not answer. He kept at his work. With his eyes fixed to the page, he finally said, “You are Roman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you learned your trade at a formal school, did you not?” he asked as he added the lightest touch of the green to the angel’s harp.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I was taught in a field—under a large oak tree.”

  “You learned your skills as an illuminator in a field under an oak tree?” I should not have so sputtered, but, brother, you can imagine my confusion. For how could one learn such mastery in such conditions?