Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  “May I see Codex A, Father Casaceli?” Declan asked.

  “Not finding anything of interest in the Liber diurnus?” Father Casaceli answered.

  “It’s extremely interesting, Father. I’d love to dig into the sacred rites for electing popes, but I haven’t the time, you see? Maybe Codex A will point me in the right direction.”

  Father Casaceli withdrew the Liber diurnus and replaced it in the poplar cabinet. As he laid Codex A before them, he said, with an ill-suited casualness, “Father Lipari tells me you are trying to verify a fifth-or sixth-century manuscript. Perhaps if you tell me a bit about it, I might be able to guide you.”

  Alex’s stomach lurched, but Declan just smiled and turned to Codex A, saying, “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll just muddle through on my own.” As he flipped through the pages, he asked the priest, “So Father Casaceli, do you get many requests for the Gelasian Decree these days? You know, after The Da Vinci Code?”

  Declan had switched the subject to one near to their hearts—banned Gospels—but also one undoubtedly reviled by Father Casaceli. It was a gamble, but it worked. The priest winced at Declan’s deft topic change and abandoned his own line of questioning. “Fortunately, we are a scholarly institution and not a tourist destination. That seems to weed out much of the riffraff seeking imagined church conspiracies and banned Gospels.”

  “Glad to hear it.” They listened to the priest rant on about the conspiracy seekers while Declan turned the pages for another hour. Finally, he paused at a particular page in Codex A, and said, “You’ll be glad to hear that we’re nearly done taking up your time. I think I’ve found what we need. Would we be able to get a copy of this page?”

  The priest quickly stood up and looked over Declan’s shoulder. “You are certain that this is the page you require?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I should be able to get you a facsimile of that single page within an hour.” He picked up Codex A and walked off to speak with one of the librarians on duty.

  “What was on that page?” Alex whispered to Declan.

  “A late-fifth-century papal formulary of an apostolic exemption for a monastery.”

  “Fascinating,” Alex said sarcastically. “What does it have to do with Decius?”

  “It seems our scribe returned to Rome after his time in Ireland and took up his old role as papal scribe. The codex formulary is signed—‘so scribed by Decius.’ We have our proof.”

  xxxv

  GAEL

  A.D. 471

  Brother,

  Imbolc came to Cill Dara. The word “Imbolc” means nothing to you, brother, for how could you know of this festival celebrated by a backward people who teeter on the very edge of the world? And how could you, or anyone else, ever imagine that this common fair hailing spring, no doubt grafted onto a Druidic ritual, would so change me? Yet I am transformed.

  The winter-darkened Cill Dara enlivened in the days approaching this holiday. The religious and common folk of the abbey grew more animated than I had witnessed over the holy days of the birth of our Lord. Brigid invited me to participate in the ceremonies and revelry along with the rest of the community, and I tried to view it as a fresh chance to assess the unorthodox customs of the Gaels rather than another prospect to be with her. I found it nigh impossible to maintain this perspective.

  You see, brother, anmchara, my desire for Brigid has not lessened over the days. If anything, watching her power in the grove only enhanced my feelings. Nor has my loathing of Valens abated. Though I redoubled my efforts at resistance nightly, my feelings returned by daylight.

  As to Imbolc, I knew not what to expect. Thus when the day’s work of ended and we entered the refectory, which was aglitter with candles and resplendent with Cill Dara’s finest food and ale, I was astonished at the splendor. After this repast, the merriment swept me up and out into the church, where Brigid conducted a particularly beautiful service before the sun set. Brother, I love to watch her preside over the Mass, staring at her to my heart’s content, though I know I should not.

  The celebrants began to file out of the church, and I presumed the festivities had concluded. I’d started to walk in the direction of my hut when I heard a call.

  “Decius, where are you going?”

  I turned to see the leviathan Aidan lumbering toward me. “Come with us to the hilltop, Decius, or you will miss the finest part of the festival,” he said. “You must watch the sunrise ceremony with us.”

  I joined his little assemblage of monk-scribes, and we headed toward the flat hill that presided over the plains of Cill Dara. As we rounded the near side of the hill and drew closer to the even crest of the mound, the sky grew bright. To my amazement, dozens of bonfires raged, and hundreds of people were already sitting in an enormous circle.

  Brigid sat in the circle. She gestured for me to join her. While Aidan and the others found openings elsewhere, I lowered myself to the narrow space she’d indicated, to her left. Turning to the right, I saw Valens in the other space flanking Brigid. I thanked God for the darkness of night, for my face would have betrayed me.

  Just then, Brigid rose, and the crowd rose along with her. She walked to the center of the circle as everyone joined hands. She raised her arms as if performing the rite of transubstantiation on the altar. In the setting, I expected sacrifices and rituals worthy of the pagan ceremonies of lore. Instead, Brigid invoked the Lord’s Prayer and then asked the participants to pray along with her.

  “Glory to you, word. Glory to you, grace,” she began.

  The assembly responded, “Amen.”

  “Glory to you, spirit. Glory to you, holy one. Glory to your glory.”

  “Amen.”

  “We praise you, Father. We thank you, light, in whom no darkness lives.”

  “Amen.”

  The supplications and praise continued on. The words grew more and more familiar, though I could not place them until Brigid said, “I am a lamp to you who see me.”

  “Amen.”

  “I am a mirror to you who recognize me.”

  “Amen.”

  “I am a door to you who knock on me.”

  “Amen.”

  “I am a way to you, passerby.”

  “Amen.”

  I identified the phrases then. Brigid was incanting the words from one of the Gospels I’d found hidden in the scriptorium, one that purported to be a song Jesus taught His disciples just before He was crucified—the Round Dance of the Cross. Irenaeus, of course, had banned it centuries ago, but the verses were alive and well in Gael.

  As we entered the blackest hours of the night, Brigid stopped speaking and settled next to me. Deep drums reverberated through the frigid air, and melancholy stringed instruments joined them in a song yearning for renewal. While Brigid swayed, her eyes closed in private prayer, I noticed that other celebrants had begun trailing off in pairs toward dark nooks in the plains where the light of the bonfires could not reach. I did not need to guess at their pursuits.

  I closed my own eyes and surrendered to the drums’ low, sonorous rhythm. I began to experience that sense of submersion I’d felt on my arrival on Gael’s shores. This time, however, my vision wavered as if I rushed headlong into the conflagrations, and I felt born of fire, not water. I entered into a pure, elemental state so near God that I comprehended Brigid’s blend of the Gaels’ ancient rites and the church’s new teachings; together, they carried the power to transcend.

  Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Startled out of my meditative mind-set, I needed a moment to regain my sense of time and place. Finally, I opened my eyes to see Brigid looking into them.

  She gestured for me to follow her, and I wondered where—and to what—she would lead. No words passed between us as I tracked her from the fires and the circle. She descended down the far side of the hill, onto the plains, with seeming purpose in her stride.

  She arrived at a tiny crescent tucked into the hill. The niche was covered with low bushes, em
ptied of their leaves by winter’s chill. Even so, the recess felt snug and protected against the night. I recognized the place.

  Brigid turned to me. “This site holds special meaning for me, Decius.”

  Brother, I knew not what to say. The spot bore significance for me as well—I often visited it on solitary walks and relived those first few moments with Brigid—but I feared the admission. I feared that it held different importance for her than for me. “It does?”

  “Yes. I first spied you from this place.”

  “I remember well.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I saw small movements in the heather, and I thought you were a hare. And then you appeared before me.”

  She laughed. “So that is why you grew pale when I stood before you. You had expected a rabbit, not a woman. Well, I certainly had not expected a tall Roman to materialize from our Gaelic mist.”

  I laughed with her, and then grew silent, thinking about the conversation that had followed. “I offended you that day.”

  She seemed surprised. “You could never offend me, Decius.”

  “I must apologize, Brigid, for my insolence on that afternoon. I mistook you for a villager, I offended the learnedness of the Gaels with my surprise at your excellent Latin, and I—”

  She interrupted me: “Decius, I am the one to offer apologies on this of all days. On Imbolc, we Gaels ask for forgiveness and new beginnings.”

  I sensed that she wanted to continue, but I needed to speak. “Brigid, if you only knew of my sins…. You have done nothing meriting an apology.”

  “Oh, but I have.”

  I stared into her face, just able to visualize her aqueous green eyes in the growing light. “Brigid, I am guilty as well.”

  “In truth?” Her voice was earnest, raw.

  “In truth.” Without intention, my tone matched hers.

  Her eyes searched my face. “Oh, your black eyes are so hard to make out in this dim light. I need to see into them to make certain you can forgive what I confess. This work I ask of you, the Gospel book and the history for Pope Simplicius, I—”

  Before she could continue, I interjected: “Brigid, I too have a confession about this work—”

  The chant “Brigid” sounded out from the hilltop. The recitation grew louder as a single beam of sunlight shot out over the peak. It illuminated Brigid’s face like gilt on vellum.

  “We must return to Imbolc, Decius. I am needed for the final prayer of dawn. But please let us continue later, when Imbolc has ended.”

  In thoughtful silence, we climbed up the hill. Before we reached the summit, with its throngs of celebrants, I asked her one last question: “What of Valens?”

  “Valens.” She looked at me, her brow knitted in confusion. “What put Valens in your mind?”

  By her response, I knew he meant nothing to Brigid, that his place next to her in the Imbolc circle had occurred by happenstance. This was all the reassurance I needed. “It is of no consequence.”

  We reached the hilltop, and I released Brigid to her people. Brother, my future—nay, my very soul—awaits my conversation continued with Brigid. Pray for me. Please pray for me.

  Brother,

  Somehow, brother, I returned to the scriptorium and the last of my great Gospels, that of the apostle John, after I finished the words of my last entry to you. Somehow, I pushed to the recesses of my mind the long wait for Brigid. And somehow, our Lord deemed me worthy of letting the words of John overtake me.

  Brother, I have spared you the finer details of my illuminations thus far, but I must share the sublime experience of crafting this Gospel book. Gaelic tradition calls for each Gospel to be introduced by a portrait of the evangelist, which faces the opening text of the Gospel with elaborate decoration of the type I have described before. To this convention, I added my own design: I prefaced each evangelist portrait with a full-page painting containing all four evangelist symbols, the lion, the ox, the eagle, and man. By this device, I intended to unify the emblems of the Gospel book and to emphasize their cohesive message. If nothing else I undertake in my life brings Him joy, I pray that this celebration of His Word—displayed in my own melding of Roman craft and Gaelic artistry—pleases Him. I hope my delight is not sinful vanity alone.

  When the light waned, I gazed up from the page for the first time in hours. As I scanned the empty room, I appreciated that the other monks had left the scriptorium for the evening meal. In my creative fervor, their departure had gone unnoticed.

  I finished the final brushstroke of the multilayered lattice border around the evangelist symbols. As I began returning to safe storage the metalwork samples I used for inspiration, I touched the golden torc Brigid had loaned me as a guide for the delicate scrollwork I planned for John’s portrait page. I thought about the curve of her neck in which the torc rested. My mind brimmed with thoughts of Brigid, and I wondered what kept her from me that very moment. I began to imagine the unusual life we might fashion together, pairing our devotion to each other with our devotion to sharing our Lord’s message.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I jumped. I turned around with a smile, thinking that Brigid had snuck into the scriptorium before the meal began. Yet Brigid’s countenance did not greet me—Valens’s did.

  His grin wiped the smile from my own face. Though I no longer seethed at the sight of him, I did not relish a conversation with him either. “Valens, you startled me. I did not realize anyone remained in the scriptorium.”

  His smile stayed in place. “You seemed rather lost in your work.”

  “When the Word moves through you, the world recedes. But surely you understand.”

  “Yes, of course. May I see the page that so fixated you?”

  Brother, I wondered at his motive, as he had never before shown the least interest in my work. Nevertheless, in my newfound munificence, I wanted to oblige. At least until Brigid summoned me.

  I turned toward my worktable. As I peeled back the protective parchment from my page celebrating the four evangelists, I heard him whisper, “Gallienus sends his regards.”

  I froze. I wanted Valens’s words to vanish into the air, desired his own disappearance.

  He said the reviled words louder: “Gallienus send his regards.”

  I had no choice but to face Valens. “Gallienus?”

  The smile was gone. “Yes, Decius. Gallienus sent me to Gael to collect your evidence.” So this was the means of conveying the fruits of my mission to Rome.

  “The evidence for Gallienus?” Brother, I stumbled over every word as if I were an infant learning to speak. He must have thought me obtuse, but I knew not what to say.

  “Yes, Decius, the evidence that the Abbey of Kildare practices a heretical form of Christianity,” he said with impatience and irritation.

  I collected myself. “So that the church might replace Gael’s religious leaders and unite the land under the true faith in tribute to the emperor?”

  “Or offer Gael to the barbarians if the emperor falls and the church needs to present an inducement to maintain its standing…. I am certain Gallienus will use Gael in whatever manner he deems most politically profitable,” Valens said with a shrug.

  I could not believe my ears. “Hand Gael over to the barbarians?”

  Brother, you have seen from my letters that doubts about the godliness of my mission have plagued me for some time. I had attributed my qualms to my allegiance to the Gaels, and to Brigid, of course. At that moment, I identified another source of my unease, and I realized I could never do Gallienus’s bidding.

  “Do you have the evidence?” Valens insisted.

  “I, I—”

  Brother, God blessed me in that moment. For with a bang, the door to the scriptorium slammed open, and in Niall lumbered. I have never wanted to embrace the prickly keeper of the scriptorium before, but I gladly would have done so then.

  “What are you two doing in here?” he bellowed.

  “Finishing up,” Valens answered for us b
oth.

  “Hurry then. Brigid has been asking for you, Decius.”

  I thanked Niall and hurried to take my leave. Valens did the same, and whispered as we walked: “I will come to your hut tonight to collect the evidence and you. A ship awaits us on the nearest coast.”

  Niall grabbed Valens’s arm. “I am not done with you, Valens. I noticed that your worktable was untidy when you retired to the refectory last evening, and I want to make sure that—”

  Brother, I seized the chance the Lord provided, and I ran into the night. To Brigid.

  Brother,

  Brigid awaited me. The moment I closed the door of her hut behind me, we were silent, though we each had much to say. Our earlier approach toward boldness had made us shy.

  Yet I knew we must begin. So I closed my eyes, let my reserve and caution slip away, and started. Brother, I told her nearly everything: the reason for my journey to Gael, the truth behind my nighttime visits to the scriptorium, the real destination and use for her Gospel book and abbey history, the details found in my report to Gallienus, the location of the stone under which I secreted my evidence against her and Gael. I even told her of Valens, and of Gael’s role in the impending power struggle between Rome and the barbarians. Holding back only my deepest feelings toward her, I laid bare my soul, and waited.

  She was quiet throughout my confession. This quiet state, so unnatural for one so forthright, unnerved me. I had expected a warrior’s rage and an angry withdrawal of her affections. Or worse, if I could conceive of worse. Instead, she smiled with such tenderness I thought perhaps she’d neither heard nor comprehended my words.

  I started to repeat my admission, but she interrupted me with a finger to her lips. “Decius, there is no need. I know who you are. I have always known.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. From the moment I saw you stride across the plains of Cill Dara with determination in your Roman eyes rather than the exhaustion of subjugation, I knew. I’d thought Rome would send you sooner. I’d waited long for you.”