Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  As the chiefs took their leave, Brigid acted. She walked slowly to Caichan’s side. Then I saw a flash of silver as she reached into the sleeve of her cloak and pulled out a knife. She pressed it against Caichan’s throat and disarmed him of a blade hidden in his own sleeve. Lochru and Daig did the same to the other chiefs.

  “You think us harmless because Christ teaches us to turn the other cheek, do you? Because Patrick schooled us to abandon our swords? Never forget that, unlike Patrick, I am also the daughter of Dubtach and Broicsech, thus a warrior just like you. When you battle, you wound God’s Abbey of Cill Dara and His people. Through my hand, He will punish you if you persist.”

  Brother, I know not what more I should add to this account. I could tell you of the humble apologies and fealty offered to Brigid after her show of force, or I could tell you the manner in which the three chiefs proceeded with the river Liffey project. Yet what I must divulge is that Brigid proved me wrong, and I pray forgiveness from Him for my doubts. She is indeed a warrior.

  Pray for me.

  Brother,

  I am in need of confession, yet cannot secure it here. The Gaels have a curious practice for confession. They do not stand in church and proclaim their sins publicly, as we do. For they do not view sin as a public matter, a crime against the church. Instead the Gaels see sin as the penitent’s private business with God and, as such, deserving of a private confession between the sinner and his or her confessor, whom they call anmchara, or soul friend.

  Curious, is it not? I do not think it quite rises to heresy of the sort Gallienus seeks, but it is an oddity nonetheless. Inexplicably, I have grown quite fond of this anmchara confessional concept, and since I cannot make a soul friend of anyone here, may I make you my anmchara for a particular sin?

  A new monk, called Valens, arrived in Cill Dara several days ago. Though from a central region we would deem provincial, he is indeed Roman. He is learned in scribing, illumination, sacred texts, and languages. He and I share many similarities, and one would think we might incline toward a natural friendship, however artificial and guarded, given my situation.

  Outcast monks, priests, and nuns arrive in Cill Dara with regularity, so this particular addition would not typically merit mention. Why then, brother, you ask, do I write of this Valens to you? And why, pray tell, do I convey this information to you in the context of an anmchara confession?

  Because I revile him. My stomach churns as I watch him walk from the refectory into the scriptorium. My fingers clutch as I observe him settling into his seat at the scriptorium and dipping his quill into the ink for that first brushstroke of the morn. My eyes narrow as I witness his careful application of pigment to the vellum. I loathe the very sight of this black-haired, charcoal-eyed Valens.

  I can imagine you readying your arms to defend me for whatever offense this Valens has inflicted upon me. For surely, I can hear you proclaim, any man who has so incited your pious brother deserves to be punished for his transgressions. As you have so punished wrongdoers before, real and perceived, though we need not speak of these past matters.

  Here lies my sin, brother: Valens has done me no wrong. He goes about his business as a monk-scribe with regularity and piety. He appears kindly and soft-spoken. He seems to pay me no heed out of the ordinary.

  I hate him because Brigid favors Valens.

  No, brother, I do not mean that she bestows her favors upon him, as you would insinuate. I mean that, Brigid assigns small illustrations to him that I am guessing are designated for her Gospel book, though he could not possibly know this, and, as she does, she nears Valens, and I watch in agony as her white gown and loose hair brush against him as they once did to me.

  Brother, in watching this display and gauging my reactions, I realize how deep my attraction to her has grown. I must purge my feelings and this jealousy from my soul or surely it will corrupt me from the inside out, and taint me not only for Gallienus’s mission but for my own eternity. And all the measures I have taken to bolster my heart and soul against her glamour and her heresy will be for naught.

  This venomous resentment of Valens spreads through me and begins to poison my dealings with Brigid. At midday, we set out for a trek across the plains. We stopped at a nearby farm that supplies the abbey with milk and butter, run by what I thought was a Christian family. As is the Gaelic way, they welcomed us into their home and offered us their best foodstuffs—hearty bread and ripe cheese. I stared as Brigid interacted with the family. I noted the kind compliments she paid the wife for her tidy home, as well as the linking of Brigid’s hand with the farmer’s as we prayed before eating.

  I watched the slow stroke of Brigid’s hand on the sleeping baby’s pink cheek. She said, “We will need to baptize this babe soon.”

  The mother said, “Ah, surely there is no rush. A sweet babe such as this is born pure; she has not chosen to sin as yet.”

  Brigid did not pause in her caresses, just simply answered, “Let us make the arrangements.”

  Instead of admiring her gentle, caring way, I grew angry. Inwardly, I raged at Brigid’s indiscriminate squandering of her affections. As we left the family’s warm hearth and faced the blowing winds of our return walk, I lashed out at Brigid by seizing upon the mother’s remark.

  “Did you hear the mother’s pronouncement about the baby’s purity?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Does this comment not trouble you? It sounds as though the mother believes that there is no such thing as original sin. ”

  Brother, this query drew dangerously close to accusing Brigid of harboring Pelagianism in her midst. I did not need to speak the name of the heretical faith aloud for her to understand my meaning, for the essence of that doctrine is the absence of original sin and the presence of free will. Yet I could not stop myself.

  Brigid did not take offense, though she had cause. She did not unsheathe her deadly warrior’s tongue, as I have seen her do when she is challenged. Instead, she placed her hand on my shoulder and asked, “What ails you today, Decius? I have never known you to harshly judge your fellow Christians.”

  Her kindness acted like kindling for my fury. “Christian—you call them Christian? A true Christian would baptize her child at the first opportunity, to wash clean the sin with which the child was born.”

  “Decius, I know these Gaelic beliefs and practices seem archaic, even profane, to your Roman sensibilities, but remember, my people are new Christians. They surrender their old ways slowly, and I take care to heed their pace to ensure their steadfastness to my flock.”

  “So they may baptize their babes whenever they wish and reject the notion of original sin if it does not suit their fancy?”

  Her eyes flashed at me in anger, but she tempered her tongue. “Decius, you speak as though you stand on the floor of the Roman Senate, deliberating politics and theological nuances. I care not for such a debate. It does not render souls unto Christ, as He commands me to do and as I have so done. But I understand it.”

  “How so?”

  “Forget not that I am the daughter of warriors. Even men who are not soldiers need their wars.”

  With this, she silenced me. For, brother, if I close my eyes to the theological unorthodoxy of the Gaels and their lingering Druidic customs, Brigid’s logic holds and her people’s practices seem close to the earthly goodness Christ espoused. But I have not the luxury of such beliefs. My duty to Gallienus and my vows to our Lord require that I care for this mission. My feelings endanger both.

  Anmchara, brother, let my confession serve as the means by which my covetousness of Brigid and hatred of Valens are purged from my soul, and pray God forgive me for it. Pray for me, brother, as I pray for you. I am much in need.

  Decius

  xxix

  GAEL

  A.D. 470

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  Brigid collects information on this new arrival. Sidelong glances at Mass tell her of the monk’s piety. Surreptitious observations in the refectory divulg
e his quiet way with his peers. Reports from her senior scribes on the progress of their illuminated works reveal his unusual skills with the brush and the Word. Yet a single encounter uncovers the purpose and true nature of this monk, this Decius.

  Brigid awakens from her sleep in the darkest hour of a cold night. She rises and kneels before her private altar, seeking the solace only the Lord provides her. Though her head lowers as she silently mouths her prayers, a tiny light dancing in the corner of her vision distracts her. She walks to her window and sees that the light comes from the scriptorium. On the verge of calling for the guards, she realizes that a single candle emits the light and that a lone figure bears it.

  Brigid watches as the light passes from one aperture to the next—on the scriptorium’s upper level. The figure moves through the higher floor with purpose. Without hesitation and without assistance, she dons her cloak and steps into the night.

  Creeping across the abbey grounds, Brigid pushes open the scriptorium door soundlessly. She scans the room, a space she knows so intimately she has no need of a light herself. Spying the candle on the second floor, and a deeply shadowed figure seated alongside it, she settles into a chair in a far corner of the main room and waits.

  Listening to the brittle pages of an ancient manuscript turn, Brigid wonders which text entrances the reader. Only the rarest or most controversial tomes are stored upstairs, so perhaps a racy work of Greek mythology has captured the wandering imagination of a wayward nun. Or maybe one of her more unconventional priests seeks out a Gospel variant of challenged origins. Either way, the errant religious must be set upon the righteous path.

  Daylight begins to replace the scriptorium’s shadows, and still the figure remains fixed in place. Brigid does not want Niall to stumble upon the scene. So she rustles her cloak a bit, hoping to rouse the individual, who, as if alerted, scuttles across the floor and down the ladder—but, instead of leaving, inexplicably sits at one of the scribe’s tables and begins to write.

  The anonymity of the religious garb and the clinging shadows necessitate that she draw closer to identify the trespasser. She rises and treads quietly up behind the person, who is still engaged in writing. She recognizes the profile. It is Decius.

  “Cannot wait until morning to labor for our Lord, Brother Decius?” Brigid says, breaking the silence.

  Decius jumps up from his seat. He offers apologies, and from the sincere expression on his face, she understands that he is abjectly sorry. She knows that this occasion provides her the finest opportunity to assess the man.

  She is never overt in her questions, and he is never plain in his answers. When she nears the topic of the reason for his nocturnal visit, his repentant, guilty expression resurfaces. And when she inquires as to his thoughts on Cill Dara, he replies in earnest, “I find Cill Dara and its people to be a wondrous gift. To be so welcomed when I was so outcast is a miracle unto itself. To have the further opportunity to work here in the scriptorium is a double blessing. Cill Dara is so much more than I expected or deserve.”

  By the time Niall bursts into the scriptorium, Brigid is convinced that Rome has indeed sent Decius to Gael to scrutinize the rogue abbess Brigid—but it unwittingly sent a conflicted spy. One of which she will make good use.

  Brigid spends the next weeks praying for His guidance on how best to use His gift. A rough strategy emerges from the swirling mass of her dreams, but she is not certain of its power. She makes a rare, clandestine visit to her mother and explains this idea of creating a portable Gospel book for the pope’s own hands—one of such breathtaking beauty that His Holiness will surely be swayed by the talent and loyalty of the Gaels. Broicsech deems the tactic worthy of her and Dubtach’s prayers.

  Though she settles on a plan, Brigid leaves Decius alone to stew for several days. She is certain that the long wait will make him anxious as he wonders what she suspects. She predicts that his apprehension will encourage him to overcompensate and become a willing conscript for her designs.

  Finally, Brigid calls for Decius. She watches from the corner of her eye as he enters her hut warily. As she presents him with the mission to create a magnificent Gospel book for His Holiness Pope Simplicius and a history of the abbey, one she has no intention of sharing with anyone but him and, even then, only to sway him to her and the Gaelic people, she studies Decius’s eyes. She sees a flash of excitement in them as she explains that the book will demonstrate Gael’s breathtaking artistry and undeniable piety, and then notes the shadow of guilt that passes across them. Decius’s conflicted response proves her suspicions correct. He embraces her plan and will undoubtedly work diligently upon it, but he is also a spy for Rome. Albeit an inconstant one.

  xxx

  GAEL

  A.D. 470–71

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  Brigid delights in the collaboration. Decius is indeed the scribe and illuminator of her wishes. With ease, he captures the unusual Gaelic style and imbues it with his own artistic Roman vision, fashioning a Gospel book of unprecedented beauty, meaning, and structure. He encapsulates the abbey’s history so skillfully and persuasively, she often forgets it is her own as he reads bits of it aloud to her. She comes to believe that the Roman Church will be convinced of Gael’s deserved worth when Pope Simplicius is presented with a Gospel book so powerful.

  To that end, Brigid undertakes every measure possible to ensure that Decius receives a most favorable image of Cill Dara and Gael. She invites him to accompany her as she works among the people, in the secret hope that it will further convince him of Gael’s Christian fortitude and sincerity. With the Roman at her side, she ministers to the sick and the religiously unsure, encourages her people to engage in the sacred Christian rites, and gives them the unconditional love of Christ. She shows him the beauty of the Gaels and their lands and the mounting power of Christianity in her people.

  Yet she grows exhausted from the constant vigilance she must maintain to shield Decius from the dark underbelly of Cill Dara life. The abbey’s success breeds envy among neighboring tribes, and she must hide from Decius the raids on the abbey’s lush farmlands and the physical threats to her monks and nuns. She conceals the fact that, among the religious, she has trained a band of warriors to protect the abbey and its inhabitants from attack. She secretes the nature of the potential attackers: the abbey is beset not only by covetous neighbors but also by remaining Roman-trained religious who had served Bishop Patrick but, after his death, do not embrace his love of the Gaelic people—or their female bishop. Brigid must be certain that Decius carries back to Rome an idyllic picture of a unified Christian Gael. She believes that she is successful in keeping her secrets, except for one occasion when she has no choice but to grant Decius leave to accompany her on a mission to halt a battle among local chieftains over the Liffey decree.

  And Brigid faces another challenge to her plan: her emotions. During the months that she and Decius traverse the countryside, sharing thoughts neither has imparted to another soul, Brigid finds herself growing dangerously attached to the Roman monk. Unlike the rough warriors of her youth and the soft religious of her adulthood, Decius is both strong and gentle. Never shying from a confrontation, though admittedly of a more intellectual nature, he is also quick to offer empathy and consolation when needed. He is the most learned person of her acquaintance, Broicsech notwithstanding, and the most unwaveringly pious. She never forgets the real reason for his presence in Gael, but she knows that it rankles him like a painful, untended wound, and this knowledge makes her care for him all the more. For she bears a festering secret of her own.

  In another life, without the yoke of her particular vow of chastity, Brigid might have selected Decius for her husband, even for a shared religious life. She prays nightly for the strength to keep her feelings hidden from him—though she knows she cannot keep them from God. And for that offense, she constantly asks Him for forgiveness.

  xxxi

  DUBLIN, IRELAND

  PRESENT DAY

  “I t
hought we’d have a bit more time,” Alex said.

  “We may have enough time—if the letters have what we need.”

  Declan stopped his translation of the life, and they turned to the letters. There was their date, on the second page. Decius described himself as a scribe in the service of Pope Simplicius. Alex jumped up from her chair and ran over to Declan’s bookshelves. Simplicius reigned from A.D. 468 to 483.

  “That’s it, Dec. We have the name of the scribe’s pope, and we know the years of Simplicius’s papacy. The Book of Kildare was written sometime in the late fifth century.”

  Declan remained seated, with a curiously reserved expression on his face. “We’re nearly there, Alex. Nearly.”

  “Oh my God, what more do you want?”

  “I want what all the other scholars and museums and collectors will want: a secondary source verifying this Decius. Otherwise, the whole thing could be labeled a hoax, a forgery.”

  “Even with testing done on vellum and ink samples?”

  “Even with testing done on vellum and ink samples.”

  She knew he was right; their profession was rampant with forgeries, and all the players were raising the bar on proof. But she didn’t want to hear it. “You’re looking for a miracle, Dec, and these are not biblical times.”

  “What if you visited the Vatican’s secret archives?”

  “You actually think I’m going to be able to find mention of a lowly fifth-century scribe in service to Pope Simplicius in that football field of records?”

  “Those archives contain all the manuscripts concerning the exercise of papal power since the apostles’ times, acts that Decius might have recorded. And the archives aren’t secret anymore. As long as you have scholarly credentials, you can access them. Most of them, anyway.”

  “I know. I’ve been there.”

  “Then you know we might find some mention of Decius in whatever’s left of Simplicius’s pontifical records.”