Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  “It is perfect, Decius,” Brigid whispered.

  “Truly?” I turned toward her, surprised that I had so contented her. Her green eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Truly. You can feel her human spirit and her divinity at once, as though they were one and the same. I see all the tenderness and trust and respect between the Mother and Child described in the Gospel of Mary the Mother, yet none could call it profane. It does not diminish His divinity to show her maternal feelings and His childlike love for and dependence on her. It is beautiful, and none could object to it.”

  I said, “I hope my work does justice to your vision and goal.”

  “Oh, my Decius, your Virgin Mary and Christ child achieves much more than my paltry aspirations. You have even hinted at her power by enthroning her. More than that, even. She is literally the throne upon which He sits, the source of His power just as He is the source of hers.” She smiled at me. “Though none might intuit that message but us. And those who are seeking it.”

  I looked down at my creation, and appreciated that God’s own hand must have guided that aspect of the depiction. For I had not knowingly aimed to that end.

  “Does it not bother you that it harkens to the Horus and Isis image?” I asked, nodding toward the small statue on her shelf.

  “No. The divine endeavors to course through all peoples and religions, Decius. It is only in Christianity that it has best found its home.”

  “As long as the Roman Church does not spy the likeness and reject it on that basis alone.”

  “I am not troubled. The Roman Church leaders will undoubtedly see your Mary’s throne not as the empowerment it truly represents—for the Egyptian gods’ and pharaohs’ claim to royalty flowed through their mothers’ veins—but as her virginal claim to the throne through her Son. In any event, we will endeavor to make our Mary and Child different enough to avoid seeing the similarity, will we not?”

  I smiled. Here was the Brigid I knew, charming and demanding at once. “We will indeed, Brigid.”

  “Decius, you have brought me such a gift. You have delivered unto me sweet relief that Mary might be remembered, perhaps even revered. Maybe one day, when the world is ready, she will be fully recalled and resurrected, if you will. And womankind along with her.”

  Brother, what you must think of me? I break with my beloved Rome, though secretly. I stray from the dictates of my church, in private. I even endeavor to deceive Rome and her church to meet the objectives of a woman living on the outer edge of the known world, in the utmost concealment. What have I become? you must ask.

  Of this alone, I am certain: Through my brush, I have become His instrument. Pray, pray for me brother.

  Decius

  xi

  GAEL

  A.D. 471

  BRIGID: A LIFE

  With Decius at her side, Brigid settles into the most blessed chapter of her life, and the most despairing. While they are free to revel in each other’s company without a wall of secrets separating them, a new barrier looms—Decius’s departure. And while they collaborate on the Gospel book with renewed vigor, their creative energies prove barren—for they realize that Decius cannot return to Rome as a willing ambassador to Gael’s greatness with the masterwork gospel book in hand. Gallienus will never embrace Gael, and so neither will the Roman Church. Together with God, they must find an uncommon pathway to achieve their now-shared goal to preserve at least one core aspect of her Gaelic culture, a society that may fade as Romans or barbarians descend and destroy in the coming days. Yet they cannot.

  In her anguish, Brigid rides to her father’s cashel. Strolling along the merchant stalls set up along the fortified walls, she lingers until she sees Broicsech stepping out for her daily walk around the grounds. She knows that her mother likes to bathe alone, without the attendance of her maid Muireen, so she waits until Broicsech approaches the riverbank.

  Though Muireen stands guard, her position is distant, and she is distracted. Brigid slips behind the privacy tent erected near the riverbank. When she enters, Broicsech’s back is to her. Brigid tarries until her mother turns around; she does not want to unduly alarm her.

  Their gazes meet, and Broicsech does not seem surprised at Brigid’s presence.

  “I was wondering when you’d come.”

  “Why would you expect me?”

  “I assume that you near completion of the Gospel book. You must be considering the best way to present your masterwork to Pope Simplicius.”

  “I wish that was the nature of my appeal. A papal councillor, Gallienus, sent an envoy to collect Decius and his damning evidence. From their discussion, it seems clear that the Roman Church will never stomach a positive message about Gael; Rome is determined to cast us as disobedient heathens.”

  “Undoubtedly for their own motives—”

  “Yes, it seems the Roman Church would like to use Gael to hedge its bets, and portraying us as heretics is necessary for both tactics. Should Rome prevail against the barbarians, the church will replace Gael’s ‘unorthodox’ religious leaders and present the country in tribute to the Roman emperor. If the Roman government topples, then the church will offer the cleansed Gael as a bribe to the barbarians in order to maintain its standing as the state religion.”

  “I see.”

  “Decius has appeased the envoy for now, but another will be dispatched in due course. Decius is willing to return to Rome and help us in whatever way we conceive, but I cannot foresee a successful path.”

  Broicsech begins pacing the length of the tent, and Brigid cannot suppress a smile. She sees the source of her own nervous habit. Broicsech says, “We may have to leave Gael’s independence to your father and his efforts at unification.”

  “I feared as much.” Brigid sinks to the ground, bone-weary from her constant efforts and her relentless worry.

  Broicsech sits down beside her, dirtying her exquisite plum gown in the mud of the riverbank. “You may still protect something of your people, Brigid.”

  “Enlighten me, Mother.”

  “What of our formidable women?”

  “How might I protect our women when I have failed at using the might of our Lord to protect our borders from Romans or barbarians?”

  “Remember Mary, the Mother of Jesus Christ. Perhaps you can fashion an image that will make all Christians revere her as did her Son. Much as you refashioned yourself to make the Gaelic people revere you.”

  xii

  ROME, ITALY

  PRESENT DAY

  They would have to deal with Rome.

  “You’re certain about this?” Alex asked Sister Mary as they crossed Saint Peter’s Square on their way to the Vatican.

  “You’ve seen how hard I fight to keep the real Brigid from receding into the mists of history. Why would I allow the real Mary to disappear when I have the means to do otherwise?” Sister Mary looked at Alex with a quizzical expression. “Anyway, what’s wrong with a strong Virgin Mary or a bold Brigid?”

  The translation had confirmed every aspect of the keepers’ tradition, and although Sister Mary’s order had concurred that their title to the relics—and thus the manuscript—was beyond reproach, the order insisted that Sister Mary consult Rome before the sale. The order believed that the manuscript raised monumental theological implications, of which church hierarchy had to be informed. Put another way, the members weren’t sure how to feel about this Brigid or this Virgin Mary, and they wanted Rome to tell them.

  Sister Mary was not of like mind. “Some days I lament my vow of obedience to my order. Must we all look to Rome like lemmings? Can’t we trust ourselves to deal with the manuscript in a manner befitting a saint and the Mother of God? After all, we treated the relics properly for over a thousand years, sometimes in spite of Rome and its betrayals—like selling Ireland off to the English in the late twelfth century,” she said to Alex as they walked through the main gate into the Vatican, in a rare moment of personal disclosure. “Ah, ignore my babbling. I took the vow, and now I
must abide by it.”

  Entering the Vatican, Alex experienced a surge of déjà vu. Although the warm welcome Alex received at the side of a respected nun bore no resemblance to the anonymity of her visit with Declan, she was constantly reminded of him. And there was a tiny, rebellious part of her that questioned whether she’d been harsh in her judgment. She tried to shut her feelings off by replaying his last words, but they squeezed through nonetheless.

  Numerous priests and nuns emerged from their desks and offices to greet Sister Mary as they walked through the Vatican hallways on the way to their appointment. Alex shot the nun a puzzled look at the breadth of their reception, but Sister Mary only smiled and whispered, “I’ve spent a lot of time here lobbying for my Brigid and for recognition of the early Irish Church. Some take to my message and others abhor it.” She smirked and said, “The latter are hiding in their cubicles. Or maybe they’re all cowering in the office of Father Benedetti.”

  A young priest escorted them directly into the office of the secretary-general of the Secret Archives. From the sumptuousness of his office and the obsequious treatment by his underlings, Alex deduced that the older priest clearly held a senior role, though he wore no visible evidence of his rank. Father Benedetti stood when they entered, and he and Sister Mary shook hands with seeming respect, but they immediately squared off like old enemies.

  “You requested a meeting to discuss a matter of some urgency?”

  “Father Benedetti, I’ll leave it to my expert, Alexandra Patterson, to explain just what we’ve got at Kildare.”

  Alex made the presentation she’d rehearsed repeatedly with Sister Mary back in Kildare. She stressed the historical and artistic importance of the Book of Kildare, the Life of Brigid, and the Scribe Letters, as they’d come to call them. But she was ever cognizant of her audience, and tried never to overstate the religious implications of the finding or even mention the Gospel of Mary the Mother. She allowed the texts to speak for themselves.

  Father Benedetti stayed silent for a time, staring at Alex and Sister Mary as if waiting for some information more befitting his station. Then he begrudgingly turned his attention to the appraisal. He reviewed it with excruciating slowness, designed, no doubt, to unsettle. Alex started to get uncomfortable, but Sister Mary remained as still as a statue.

  “How can I help you with this book of yours? Books, I should say,” he added in a belittling tone.

  “We’re not here asking for help,” Sister Mary explained. “We are here out of courtesy. My order insisted that we notify you that we are planning to sell the texts.” Her tone made clear that she did not agree with the necessity for such an announcement. “And Miss Patterson here tells me that, at auction, the texts will garner considerable publicity—and bidding. We just wanted you to be apprised.”

  Alex knew that the nuns of the order wanted Sister Mary to do more than just forewarn Rome of the sale; they wanted theological guidance and approval. But Sister Mary would never deign to ask for it. For all her adherence to the Catholic Church and her faith, she bore the old Irish distrust of Rome. The Irish should be left to the Irish, she believed.

  “I do appreciate your courtesy visit. But you understand, of course, that the church can never sanction the sale of these items.”

  “We are not asking for sanction. We are merely providing you with information and notification.”

  “Then I am sorry to inform you that we will have to ban the sale,” he said, although he looked anything but sorry. He looked delighted.

  “On what grounds?”

  “That the theology on which the manuscript and its imagery are based is heretical.”

  “Interesting. Well, you have no legal basis on which to ban the sale.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sister Mary handed him a legal opinion prepared by a solicitor of Alex’s recommendation. It set forth the Order of Saint Brigid’s unbroken chain of title to relics—and thereby the manuscripts—for over a thousand years. The church’s awareness of the relics and its failure to assert any claims of ownership to them barred it from making such claims now.

  Father Benedetti no longer appeared delighted. “If we cannot operate by law, then we will operate by God. We will declare you in breach of your vows.”

  “My particular vow is not to Rome but to God and my order. I will try to abide by Rome’s views, but I will sell these pieces.”

  “Even if you are deemed disobedient?”

  “To my way of seeing, that’s not a label you’d like to slap on an old nun like me. Wouldn’t it just draw unwanted public attention to the manuscript? Everyone would scurry off to steal a peek at a book so scandalous that the church censured an old nun for selling it. You might be getting lots of requests for information about why the church banned the Gospel of Mary the Mother in the first place, and why it continues to do so. In this climate, you might not fare so well.”

  His eyes narrowed in anger, but he said nothing. He understood that this was her opening move.

  Sister Mary knew that it was time to crack open the door just a bit. “You’d be better off going along with my sale. I’m not unreasonable, you know.”

  “Do you have a proposal?”

  “I may be a gambler, but I’m not a fool. I don’t think I’ll start off by bidding against myself.”

  “I see. You’ll leave it to me to bid against myself.”

  “Exactly.”

  Father Benedetti shot Sister Mary a look of such unbridled loathing it astonished Alex. “Please excuse me.” He rose and left his office through a back door disguised to blend in with his extensive bookshelves.

  Alex turned to Sister Mary to ask a question, but the nun placed a finger on her lips to silence her. She nodded toward the shelves as if to say, The books have ears.

  Within a half an hour, Father Benedetti returned with a red folder. He made a show of pulling out a report and reviewing it before speaking. “It has been drawn to my attention that the Holy See will be publishing a paper in our newspaper, L’osservatore romano, suggesting that the church’s position on the Virgin Mary might not be inconsistent with the Protoevangelium of James, the successor text to the alleged Gospel of Mary the Mother. In that paper, His Holiness explains that the Virgin Mary has always been specially venerated by the church and points to the Infancy Gospels—including the specifically named Protoevangelium of James, as well as the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew—as evidence of her special place in the hearts and devotion of all faithful. His Holiness even notes that one of the earliest depictions of the Madonna and Child—the painting in the Catacomb of Priscilla—offers confirmation of the early church’s adoration of the Virgin Mary. In this way, permitting the circulation of an image such as yours—one founded on the Protoevangelium or its predecessor, or even its successor, for that matter—is consistent with the papal view.”

  Alex was flabbergasted. Could it just be sheer coincidence that the church had at the ready a position paper that addressed the controversial issues raised by the Book of Kildare? If not, how had the church known what she and Sister Mary would say in their meeting? Then it dawned on her. The Vatican had had access to her black bag, containing the manuscripts, for nearly a day and a half while she and Declan had waited for Father Casaceli and had reviewed the Liber diurnus—and it had had the impetus to search it after Declan had told the librarian priest about their fifth-century finding. The church must have undertaken a cursory interpretation of the books before Alex and Declan returned to get them. Father Benedetti had come to their meeting well prepared.

  Although Alex believed that Sister Mary understood this as well, she gave no sign of it. “That is welcome news indeed.”

  “Might you be amenable to a sale that would place certain conditions on the buyer?” Father Benedetti asked. “Conditions that might position the object in the context of His Holiness’s recently expressed—though long held—opinions?”

  “Depending on what those conditions are, I might.”

  �
�What if the church were given the chance to explain its historical and emerging view on the person of the Virgin Mary as part of a larger exhibit displaying the Book of Kildare, the Life of Brigid, and the Scribe Letters?”

  “Would you deny that the Gospel of Mary the Mother ever existed?”

  “No, the church would not.”

  “Even though we do not have a copy?”

  “Even though you do not have a copy.”

  “Would you in any way undermine its depiction of a strong, forceful Mary?”

  “No. His Holiness has decided that the time might be right to embrace a more generous image of the Virgin Mary—one that might prove more appealing to our younger female constituents. And, as I am sure you can see from His Holiness’s recent opinion paper, the church has always welcomed the view found within the Protoevangelium of James and its progeny, the purported successor texts to the alleged Gospel of Mary the Mother.”

  “Even though it once banned the Gospel?”

  “The condemnation of the Protoevangelium and the PseudoMatthew was the decision of an earlier Holy See, a product of a different time. We will make that distinction abundantly clear.”

  “Then Miss Patterson and I will ensure that whoever purchases these manuscripts will provide the church with an opportunity to explain itself.”

  xiii

  GAEL

  A.D. 471

  Brother,

  I labored over the image’s completion, brother. I confess this small deception to you only. I knew that my long days with Brigid would cease when she became satisfied with our Mary, even though my actual departure from Gael might be months away, when Gallienus’s next ship came for me.

  But I could not bear parting from Brigid yet. Not yet. Just one more layer of lattice border, I told myself. Just another palm frond in an angel’s hand, I said in silence. Just a spare copy of the painting so Brigid may have one for her own collection, I whispered to the walls. I prayed that my slow brushstrokes could deliver just one more week, one more day, even one more hour with her. Though, in truth, the two images, identical in every aspect, drew as close to perfection as I believe I am capable.