Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  “You do not hate me then?”

  She looked shocked at the question. “Hate you for doing the hard duty your church asked of you? Hate you for performing a dangerous task you believed would serve God? I do not hate you for the truth, Decius; I admire you for it.”

  “Admire me?”

  She smiled. “Yes, Decius, I admire you. I admire your veneer of reserve and the way it shatters when your righteousness bursts forth like a spring too long underground. I admire your keen, curious mind and your talent with the brush. And I—” She stopped abruptly, but looked deeply into my eyes with a mixture of longing and regret. I saw that she loved me as I did her.

  Yet if I’d ever thought that Brigid and I might profess feelings for each other despite our vows, I knew then that I was wrong. I felt the possibility of a life with her drain away from me, and I realized that our feelings must be made stronger and more constant by our shared silence—and our dedication to God.

  She paused and looked away, her eyes growing unfocused and distant. “I hope you can say the same of me once you have learned my truth.”

  Brother, I could not imagine that her deeds could be worse than mine. I looked into her face. “No words that you utter can change my admiration for you.”

  “Your admiration for me …” She sighed and said, “Decius, I chose you to create the Gospel book and the history of the Abbey of Cill Dara because I knew the truth of your presence here among us. Though I may have intended your Gospel book to leave Gael as an honorarium for Pope Simplicius, I never intended the history to leave Gael at all. The history was for you alone.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. I only hoped that hearing our story—the story of my people and our God—would sway you to return to Rome and persuade your church leaders.”

  “Persuade them of what?”

  “Persuade them that, though different, our brand of Christianity is true. Persuade them that we Gaels should continue on our own path, be it religion or rule. With Valens’s arrival and his words, I see now that they will never be so persuaded.”

  “You do not know that for certain, Brigid.”

  “One need not be a prophetess to see that change is coming.” Her head dropped down. “I am sorry for my duplicity.”

  This time I was silent. She had deceived me. Yet I could not be angry with her, not when I looked into her eyes and saw that she had lied to me out of love for God and her people. I could not rage at her for her dishonesty when I knew her to be just in her motives.

  “You have no reason to be sorry.”

  “You do not hate me then?” she asked me, as I had asked her.

  I responded in kind. “Hate you for performing a dangerous task you believed would serve God? I do not hate you for the truth, Brigid; I admire you for it.”

  We smiled at each other in relief. As our smiles subsided, however, so went our mirth; the immediacy of our circumstances forced our happy reprieve to be short-lived.

  Brother, I needed to speak the unspoken. “I will not go with Valens,” I told Brigid. “I will not give him that which Gallienus seeks.”

  She searched my eyes. “Are you certain, Decius? I would not want you to act against your conscience because of your feelings for me alone. Forget not that life is short but our Lord’s eternity is long.”

  “Brigid, I believe the religion of your people to be nearer His purpose than Rome’s creed. Pardon my bluntness, but I act for my conscience, not for you.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “I am well pleased, Decius. Nothing brings me greater joy than your shared conviction, not even my lost hopes that Rome would grant us Gaels leave to continue as we go.”

  “Lose not your hopes, Brigid. Perhaps we can fashion a way to reclaim some shred of them.”

  “You would jeopardize all to help me? To help us?”

  “Yes, I believe it is why He sent me here. And furthermore, I need to hear the end of the history, do I not?” I said with a grin. We had come close to completing the abbey history in recent days.

  She smiled back. “You do indeed.”

  “Before we return to our roles as abbess and scribe, I must address Valens.”

  “Yes, you must. What will you do?”

  “I think it best if you leave that to us two Romans.” With the greatest of difficulty, brother, I left her and reentered the night.

  Brother, I cannot imagine your reaction to the seeming rashness—perhaps the apparent foolhardiness—of your normally cautious younger brother. Please know this, for whatever small comfort it might offer: I feel in my soul that this is His course. Pray for me, brother, please.

  Brother,

  I waited in my hut for Valens. I assumed the penitential position of prayer, hoping that it would bring me much-needed strength for my dealings with Gallienus’s messenger. For His strength I would need in abundance.

  Deluging myself with our Lord’s prayer, I let the words of Jesus Christ still my racing heart and mind. Silently chanting the sustaining “Give us this day our daily bread,” I entered a state of tranquillity so deep that I barely heard the creak of my door or the footsteps of Valens. I became aware of his presence only when he spoke.

  “Bolstering yourself for the vagaries and hardships of the long journey, I see.” Valens’s voice revealed a disdain toward my prayers that I did not like.

  I struggled up from the floor with difficulty. Maintaining the rigid position of the cross had seared my limbs, a small reminder of all Christ had suffered for us and the least I could endure for all I asked of Him. “I could see no better way to prepare for our meeting.”

  “Indeed. Let us make haste. Ready yourself.”

  “I am ready.”

  Valens scanned the small space. “I do not see your bags.”

  “No.”

  “No matter. I can understand why you desire to bring little of this godforsaken place back to Rome.”

  “I imagine you would think that.” Brother, I could not resist the small gibe, though Valens was too arrogant to recognize it.

  “Come, we have not the time for leisurely conversation. Secure Gallienus’s report and let us go. The ship will wait only for this night.”

  “I do not have the evidence assembled.”

  “What do you mean? You have had nearly a year here.”

  “Gallienus did not give me to understand that my time would be so short. I have only begun my search for heresy.”

  “What have you done with these long months?”

  “As I was instructed. I integrated myself into the Cill Dara community and secured their trust, so that all sacrileges may be revealed to me. Did you think that this would occur immediately upon my landing?”

  He was incredulous. “So you have nothing for me, nothing for Gallienus.”

  “Only what you have witnessed with your own eyes.”

  “That Brigid presides over the Mass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her unorthodox transubstantiation is not enough to topple this miserable land. What am I to say to Gallienus? He will be beyond displeased with you, and you know how he manifests even his simple displeasures.”

  “Tell him the additional time will bear the necessary fruit. Haste will only deliver unto him a fraction of what he seeks.”

  “The church may not have the time you seek. I doubt the barbarians will linger patiently at Rome’s gates until you disembark from the next ship from Gael.” He seethed.

  “If the church wants Gael, it must wait.”

  Valens shook his head. I could see that only the constraining situation and his need to rush tempered his anger. “I hope she is worth the risk of delay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brigid.”

  Brother, I froze. I knew not how to respond. Did he know what had passed between us, or was he baiting me?

  Valens saw my discomfort and continued, delighting in this torment. “I see how your eyes follow her across the room and stare at her on the
altar. She is fetching. It almost makes me wish Gallienus had assigned me your mission rather than my own.”

  “You do not know of what you speak.”

  “Not to worry, Decius. I will deliver your stated message to Gallienus, not my own suspicions. I will do this not because I like you or believe you, but because I care too much for my own neck to be the bearer of such bad news. But you best board the next ship we send for you, or I will make certain we deliver another monk to do your work. Perhaps a monk like me.”

  Brother, the moment I was certain of Valens’s departure, I hastened back to Brigid to begin our true work. Though the Lord delivered to me the strength for which I prayed, He did not deliver much time.

  Pray for me, brother, and for Brigid, if you will. I will pray for you, as always.

  Decius

  xxxvi

  GAEL

  A.D. 471

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  Imbolc arrives in Cill Dara. Though Brigid has strived hard to eliminate or soften the traditional pagan rituals of her people, particularly since the arrival of Decius, she knows she cannot ask them to part with Imbolc. Forsaking the springtime festival that honors the Dagda and his daughter the goddess Brigid, above all, would alienate those on the fringes of her flock—and lessen her perceived power.

  With the Mass and the feast over, at midnight the people retire to the flat hill looming over the plains of Cill Dara. Brigid takes her place at the center of a large circle, noting with mixed emotions that Decius joins the crowd. She extends her arms as if performing the familiar rite of transubstantiation at the altar and invokes a number of traditional Christian prayers. Then she utters the banned words of the Round Dance of the Cross, words that have become familiar to her people from years of Imbolc celebrations but are inaccessible to most Christians. The mysterious words speak to her—and her followers—much as the poems of the beloved Gaelic bards do.

  Her work finished, Brigid settles into a place in the circle next to Decius. At first, his presence distracts her, but in time, she loses herself to the throaty beat of the drums and the otherworldly strum of the harps. She enters a state of prayer so deep she does not call it prayer. It feels like direct communion with God.

  Without warning, Brigid awakens from her transcendence. An epiphany has descended upon her during her deep contemplative state. Tapping Decius’s shoulder, she draws him away from the circle. She knows where she must go and what she must do.

  Talk seems sacrilegious to Brigid. They walk in silence until they reach a secluded niche tucked into a hill behind an expanse of heather: the place where she first saw Decius. Standing before him, she readies herself to admit all. She knows not why He directs her to undertake the very act that would seem to destroy her plans—yet she knows she must confess or lose everything.

  Emboldened, Brigid says, “This site holds special meaning for me, Decius.”

  His eyes widen in surprise and flicker with hope. In that moment, Brigid realizes that Decius shares her feelings. “It does?” he answers, sounding hesitant and fearful.

  They are scared to rush along the clear pathway to the truth. So they delay, laughing over that first moment. Yet deep within Brigid, an inexplicable urgency propels her onward.

  “I have not been honest,” she says.

  “I am guilty as well.”

  “In truth?”

  “In truth.”

  Yet she knows that He asks more of her—and less. “Decius, this work I ask of you, the Gospel book and the history for Pope Simplicius—”

  He interrupts: “Brigid, I too have a confession about this work—”

  Brigid knows full well the nature of his confession, for her own lies encapsulate it like a seed. She squares her shoulders, ready to cut through the dishonesties and obfuscations like a plow through thick soil. For she senses that He awaits them both on the other side.

  Satan lurks in their brief delay. The chant “Brigid” calls out from the hilltop. The people are summoning their abbess and the goddess. Brigid and Decius heed the call, putting off the moment when they will be free to heed each other, which she prays will be soon.

  Her prayer goes unanswered, as duties prevail for hours after the close of Imbolc. When she is finally able to summon Decius, the wait for his arrival seems unbearable. Brigid paces the floor of her quarters. Her steps are so anxious and heavy, it seems to her that her route leaves a trench in the dirt floor. She knows not what He will call her to do when Decius arrives, but she wants to follow where He leads. And she prays that He will permit Decius to join her on her course.

  A knock sounds. Brigid hesitates before opening it. Smoothing her hair and straightening her robes, she stares into the reflective surface of the silver pitcher on her table, an act of sinful vanity unpracticed for many long years. She is surprised at the peaceful countenance that stares back at her, an expression that hides the turmoil of her heart, mind, and soul. Only then does she rush to pull the door ajar.

  Decius awaits her, his face bright and eager against the pitch black of the night. She wants to fall into his arms, to surrender after so long at playing the imperturbable goddess. And she sees that he wishes the same. But she knows that her vows prevent her—prevent them.

  So they make their confessions. He reveals his true purpose, and she divulges hers. And though they keep their feelings unspoken, they are patent. Still, they share private relief that they are of like mind—and heart.

  Decius dispatches with Valens and buys them time. Though Brigid understands that the time allotted to them by the Lord and by the Roman Church may be short, she finds it hard to speed through the minutes with Decius. She wants to savor every glance, every heartfelt exchange, every shared effort on the Gospel book, every walk through the fields, and every touch. Only prayer gives her strength to keep her vows, though Brigid often wonders whether He truly begrudges their union.

  Yet it seems that He does.

  xxxvii

  DUBLIN, IRELAND

  PRESENT DAY

  Alex had doubted Declan’s motives and the wisdom of his suggestions, but he turned out to be right. Again and again.

  They returned to Dublin Wednesday evening triumphant and pleased. But Alex’s early-morning meeting with Sister Mary required that they throw themselves into work. Declan tackled the last half of his rough translation of the life, and Alex devoted herself to a preliminary appraisal of the manuscript.

  The more she wrote about it, the more convinced she became that she had indeed discovered the lost Book of Kildare and more. She now believed that the masterful late-fifth-century Book of Kildare had served not only as the model for the famous Book of Kells but also contained the first known image of the Virgin Mary.

  Alex looked at the clock. It was after three A.M. Her train to Kildare left in less than three hours, and she still had her room at the Shelbourne to pack. And Declan still wasn’t done translating.

  “I’ve got to get back to my hotel. How far have you gotten?” she asked Declan.

  “I still have about a quarter of the life left to translate. And I haven’t even touched the letters yet, except for those first few pages.”

  “What am I going to do? My appraisal seems questionable—at best—without the full translations of the life and the letters attached.”

  Declan stood up and placed his hands squarely on her shoulders. For a moment, Alex didn’t know if he was going to kiss her or shake her. “Alex, I don’t think there’s anything in the last few pages of the life or in the letters that could change your conclusions. You have found the Book of Kildare and the first icon of the Virgin Mary.” He handed her the life and the letters, and a printout of his rough partial translation. “Anyway, I’ll finish up once you’ve run all this by Sister Mary, right?”

  “Right. Assuming she forgives me.”

  Alex packed the three texts and their work carefully in her bag, and started walking toward the door. Before she reached the foyer, Declan pulled on his coat to escort her back to the hotel. He
asked, “Have you thought about the possibility that Sister Mary may not want to sell the book?”

  “Yes, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Even though she’d probably get a small fortune for it at auction, she might want to build a shrine to it herself, right in Kildare. Just like she wants to do with Saint Brigid.”

  “No, I mean have you considered that she might not want to go public with it?”

  “No.” For Alex, whose personal religion revolved around uncovering and freeing past secrets, the very notion of keeping such knowledge hidden was inconceivable.

  “Alex, Sister Mary might not like the description of the strong-willed, nearly defiant Brigid; Brigid comes across as only paying lip service to Rome but really following her own agenda. Not to mention, Sister Mary might object to her beloved Brigid’s reference to the Gospel of Mary the Mother.”

  “I cannot fathom Sister Mary making that decision. You don’t know her.”

  “But what if she does?”

  “What are you suggesting, Declan?”

  “I’m suggesting that you consider alternatives.”

  With a sudden, resounding clarity, Alex comprehended Declan’s endgame. The betrayal she’d feared—suspected—from the beginning stood before her. She guessed that he’d planned it from the start, solidifying it with their trip to Rome and his attempts at intimacy. Her internal radar had been right all along. But she wanted him to say it out loud. “Like what?”

  “Like not returning the book.”

  “And doing what with it instead?”

  “We could unveil it as our own discovery sometime down the road. Sister Mary doesn’t even know it exists, after all.”

  She baited him a bit more, to make absolutely certain of his proposal. “I see. And you’d know how to go about doing that?”

  “I know some people.”

  She couldn’t pretend a moment longer. “I told you from the beginning that I planned on returning the book to Sister Mary once I’d studied it. I would never consider keeping it.”