Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (10 page)

Before long, Brigid, Liam, Liam’s brother, and the fox were granted audience. They stepped round masons hammering loose blocks of limestone as they followed the guard.

The visiting ruler entered the makeshift hall in the same manner he had approached Brigid many years before, with purple robes flowing and his scepter stretched out before him. He pointed it at her and she touched it.

“Ah, Brigid. I do remember ye. Yer father sought to put ye in my service some time back.”

“Aye, King Dunlaing, and ye gave me my freedom instead.

I am forever grateful.” She bowed, expressing sincerity.

He seated himself on an armchair, too ordinary for a king. “What brings ye to Cashel?”

“I could ask ye the same.”

He laughed so hard Brigid thought he’d split the laces on his royal robes. “War is not a matter to be discussing with a lass like you. Unless ye’ve become a warrior, and I see no weapons.” He bobbed his head as though looking for a shield and spear that he knew didn’t exist.

It was enough of a distraction to keep Brigid from explaining her presence in Munster.

She opened her arms wide then folded them at her waist. “I’ve brought the king’s fox.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The animal peeked from behind her skirts. She held her breath and prayed, believing God wouldn’t let the poor simple man be punished.

Dunlaing squinted. “Aye, looks like him. Mine did tricks. If this is an acceptable replacement for my pet, it will fetch like a dog.”

A servant produced a yarn ball, and Dunlaing threw it under the red curtain cloaking the doorway. The fox dashed after it and squeezed under the fabric. The animal returned shortly with the ball between its pearly teeth and then dropped it at the ruler’s feet.

“Amazing. What else can it do?”

Brigid forced a smile. “’Tis a pet fit for a king. I have yet to be entertained by its games, but if it pleases ye, I beg ye to hold nothing against this poor man who killed the fox that ran through yer camp earlier.”

Dunlaing glared at Liam and his brother. “We shall have a test. If the animal fails, the man who drove his spear through the heart of my pet will meet a similar fate. However, if this fox does everything I expect, then I accept that it truly was a mistake, and I’ll not hold him responsible.” He snapped his fingers and the fox jumped into the air, twisting itself into a ring so that its snout and tail nearly touched. Before it reached the ground, the animal straightened out and landed on its feet.

The king gathered the fox onto his lap. “’Tis him, ’tis him!

He’s been restored from the dead. Go now!”

Liam didn’t want to take chances. He whisked them away from Cashel quickly. During the journey the children had more questions, blurting them out at once like jabbering seabirds fighting over bait.

Brigid patted the head of Liam’s eldest. “Seamus, why don’t ye tell them what happened.”

The effusive lad happily obliged while she gazed at the woods they trotted past.

She thought she spied a red fox near the area where they’d captured the one they brought the king. Had the fox escaped the king?

“Aye, I’ve seen her, that Brigid of Glasgleann.” Dunlaing slammed his fist on the arm of his ill-carved chair.

Ardan stood in front of the king, hoping not to reveal too much delight in the news. His assistant, Troya, stood in his shadow. “Do ye know where she’s staying?” Ardan tried desperately to motion Troya away, but she wouldn’t oblige.

Troya pulled on Ardan’s walking stick. “We’ve got to find her.”

Dunlaing groaned. “Did ye have to bring yer apprentice with ye, Ardan? I’ve plenty to worry about without that woman causing a ruckus and disturbing the ruling king.” He motioned to Troya and she stepped hesitantly forward, dropping her mangy ash-colored head toward the ground. Dunlaing pointed to the door. “Make sure he doesn’t spot ye on yer way out.”

Ardan knew the king’s remark would throw the old woman into a rage.

Troya popped her head up and pointed a crooked finger at the king. “I am a druidess and a poet of satire. Kings should fear me. Listen to me.”

Ardan pushed her away again and whispered, “Wait for me outside.”

A guard helped with the request.

After she was behind the red curtains and rock walls, Dunlaing muttered, “Why do ye keep her, Ardan? She’s no poet, and no one fears her satire. She’s a sham.”

“She still learns, king.”

“She’s as old as my seanmhathair. Take up a younger apprentice.”

Ardan said nothing.

King Dunlaing accepted a cup from a servant, sniffed at it, then threw it to the dirt floor, slinging golden liquid across one stone wall. He rocked on the flimsy chair. “I have to live in these conditions while this king’s house is rebuilt. And if that were not enough, that Brigid woman comes to insult me.”

Ardan could not believe his luck. “She was here?”

A servant retrieved the cup and backed out of the room. “She visited with the intent of returning my pet fox. Or so

I thought. She deceived me, that one. The fox left my presence almost as soon as she did.”

The complaint was petty, but the king had information Ardan needed. “How long ago was that, king?”

“Yesterday. Enough of that. What news have ye?”

Ardan sped through tales of warring clans as rapidly as possible and returned to Troya.

The old woman paced beside their horses. “I’ve read it in the stones, Master Ardan. I know the time has come. Once the honor price of blood is paid, the gods will be pleased and I’ll have trouble no longer.”

This pleased Ardan. Long ago he’d found an unsuspecting companion who held a grudge against Brigid. He had allowed her to think he would restore her honor, though he never expressly said so, and she had no idea what he was really going to do.

Ardan circled Troya, meditating on his schemes. If his original plan had worked, Troya would have found the lass at her daughter’s home and plunged a dagger into Brigid then. But it hadn’t worked and as a high druid, he could not do it himself. The gods expected druids to obey a strict code of behavior. He needed someone else to commit necessary but unseemly deeds. He’d done it before when he hired beggars to dress in white robes and terrify the monks. And successful, that was. Those men had done little to advance Christianity since.

Troya shifted from one foot to the other and hissed, “Why do ye do that marching around? Makes my head spin.”

“Silence!” His pacing habit helped him compose his words and served to unnerve those watching. He delighted in the experience, thought it more delicious than a harvest’s first fruits.

He continued to pace around the old woman and think. This Brigid, the one a passing prophet once spoke to him about, had received the prophecy of being either a curse or a blessing. And now she had become a Christian with works and deeds, not in word only. Her power was so great that her god obeyed her command of destruction. She’d already cursed an apple orchard and seen its red fruit shrivel like beached salmon. Her displays of power had to cease. He paused and brought his fingers to his chin. If not extinguished, then perhaps such power could be used for his purposes.

Ardan tapped the old woman’s shoulder with his walking stick. “Ye’ll have the honor ye deserve, and the gods will know. They bless those who have high standing among men.”

Gullible woman. Her bitterness had caused her to be rejected by the master of Glasgleann, opening the door for Ardan to use her. Things were going well. Eventually, Brigid would be eliminated by Troya’s hand and King Dunlaing would have Troya executed.

Troya grinned. Her mouth contained few teeth. She bowed in front of him. This was almost too easy.

“Troya, at times it is a burden that I am the only one in all of southern Ireland who understands the skirmish that must take place – a conflict not resolved with swords on a battlefield, nay.”

She cocked her head and wrinkled her thin nose. No matter. He alone understood. This struggle was for the hearts of the entire Irish race. He had to be clever and timely to assure that everyone would do as Troya did – bow to him, the leader of all the druids, and not to the god of Patrick and Brigid.

He remembered the prophet’s words. “Brigid, the one born to Brocca, shall be Ireland’s curse or blessing. I cannot predict which path she will follow.”

The prophet couldn’t predict. That could only mean that the woman’s actions would determine her fate. Ardan pondered the meaning and circled his apprentice once more. She stared with questioning eyes which he ignored.

A blessing was Christianity’s way of saying that belief in their god would overtake the island, but a curse – that was something for a druid to command.

Chapter 11

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.”

Proverbs 13:12

When Brigid returned from delivering the fox, she thought it best not to stay so close to Dunlaing, and bid an affectionate farewell to Liam, his brother and his family. Ardan was Dunlaing’s druid and he was after her. Besides, she wanted to head west toward her mother. All she knew was that her mother belonged to a druid in Munster, but somehow she’d find her.

Meandering through the countryside and around rocky outcrops and clusters of forests, she kept her eyes toward the setting sun. She attempted to collect all the bits of information she had in her mind and make sense of them.

Cook had said the druid treated her mother well. How could she know?

Brigid slowed the horse to allow herself time to think. She remembered that strange shepherd who had surprised her at Glasgleann. He’d said Cook had not told her everything. Brigid smacked her hand on her forehead. MacFirbis’s woman had spoken of the love of her youth! They had to be one and the same.

Brigid shook her head thinking of how impulsive she had been, running off so fast. She should have gone to see Cook before leaving. Now she’d have to manage on what little information she had.

Her mother knew Christ as her Savior. Brigid breathed deeply in that promise.
May God lead me to her.

The air was moist, chilly, and fresh. There were no fires nearby, and thus no people. Brigid loved people but being alone with her thoughts and prayers would certainly help her decide what to do next.

What else could she remember? She halted her horse and slipped down from the saddle. “C’mon, horse. We’ll think on this as we walk.” Perhaps traveling on foot would help shake the webs from her memory.

She and her mother had both heard Patrick teach. Many Christians learned from Patrick’s teachings so perhaps that wasn’t so unusual after all.

She sighed and patted the horse. “I’ll name ye Geall, which means pledge, because the first time I met ye I vowed to ride ye until I found my mother.”

A drizzle fell, threatening a downpour. She’d have to find shelter. Brigid cupped her hands to keep the rain out of her eyes and surveyed the horizon. Something dark jutted up from the ground. Curious, she made her way toward it. When she reached the object, she was disappointed to find it was a just a rock, not the door to a shelter.

“What ye search for is not on that stone.”

The voice behind her made her scream out. She spun around and gaped at a pair of frosty blue eyes peering out from under a rain-soaked dove-white hood. She let herself breathe again. Those were not Ardan’s dark eyes.

“Whoa, now. Ye’ll scare yer horse, ye will. Didn’t mean to startle ye. My name’s Bram.”

She backed away to have a better look at him. “A druid?”

“Who else would ye expect to see at a druid’s stone?” “A what?”

“Druid’s stone. See those marks there?”

The rain pelted the surface of the rock, making it difficult to see anything. Brigid rubbed her thumbs across scratches in the stone. Along the edges of the rock there were several carved marks, lines really. They varied in length and seemed to be gathered in groups. At unpredictable intervals the marks seemed to break free from the others like dandelion seeds bouncing away from a stem.

She shook her head. “’Tis not Latin.” The druid agreed.

“’Tis not Irish either.”

“What an intelligent lass to discern so. Come, I’ll give ye shelter from the rain.”

“Wait. Are ye associated with a druid named Ardan or his druidess assistant?”

“Certainly not. I am not any king’s druid either. I am Bram, druid of the island Ennis Dun.”

The druid led Geall past the strange stone and into a grove of trees. The branches above helped sieve the rain a bit, but Brigid was still damp and uncomfortable. They stopped just outside a shelter of sticks and animal skins.

“This is a camp I just built, but it’s dry enough. Please.” He motioned for her to enter while he tied up the horse.

Inside, a tiny fire was smoking within a ring of stones. Brigid had to duck, but when she sat down the shelter seemed large enough. She noticed a bag of rolled-up parchment tucked at the back of the hut.

“So ye know how to read, do ye?” The druid entered behind her and stoked the fire with logs. He sat across from her with his back to the bundle of parchments.

“A bit. A monk named Cillian of Aghade taught me.”

The firelight made the druid’s face glow, a face that was anciently wrinkled. His pale hands barely showed themselves under the thick white cloak he wore.

He motioned to the fire. “Warm up a bit. Then drape yer cloak over the twigs near the smoke.”

He had rigged a clothesline in the tiny space. The man seemed quite comfortable living in the woods. Where was Ennis Dun and why had he left there? More disturbing was what he’d said to her when they first met, that she wouldn’t find what she looked for on that stone. “I do know how to read, Druid, even if the meaning of your stone writing has eluded me for the moment.”

“Well, like I said, that stone is for druids.”

She rung the water from her cloak and draped it over the clothes rope. “A secret language?”

“Suppose ye could say that, aye.”

She glared at him. Was he part of a scheme to turn her over to Troya? “Why did ye say what I’m looking for is not on the stone? How do ye know what I’m looking for?”

“’Tis a druid’s business to know such things.” Such druid talk was maddening.

“And druids are brothers? Of one mind?”

Bram shook the rain from his cloak, flinging drops of water over the flames that sizzled in complaint. He hung his garment next to hers. “There is a code we live by. But nay, lass, I would certainly not say one mind.”

“This makes no sense. Cook says druids speak in riddles. I wish ye’d just tell it plain.”

He waved his hands over the fire, crossing them several times. “I am very old. I have time no more for riddles. This Cook who says this ’bout druids, who is she?”

“Cook of Glasgleann. She raised me ever since I was separated from my mother.”

The druid’s eyes grew round like a cornered badger’s. “Glasgleann? Up in Leinster?”

“Aye. Dubthach is master there.” Why was she telling him so much? She couldn’t stop. She’d had no one to talk to all day but Geall the horse.

The druid’s face brightened. His lips turned into a grin. “’Tis you! I thought it might be, I did.”

More puzzling words. “Do ye know me?”

“Aye, I’ll say I do. I snatched ye up from the ground the day ye were born. Yer mother, Brocca, birthed ye right on my doorstep. Yer all grown up now, but I can see in yer eyes it is you, Brigid.”

She could hardly breathe. She held her hand to her chest and gasped. The druid

drew her into his arms. “A blessing. Tell me ye’ve become a blessing. Ah, dear child.”

She wiggled free. “Yer my mother’s master? The druid who purchased her from Dubthach?”

“Aye, that I am.”

“Praise be to God!” Brigid jumped to her feet, bumping her head on the roof of the shelter. Her hair stuck in the branches and she squirmed.

“Let me help ye.”

“Nay. Just tell me. Where’s my mother?”

He helped anyway, gently freeing strands of hair from the grip of the twigs. “I told ye I’m the druid of Ennis Dun. Moved out there a few summers ago. Too many people near Cashel now. A druid needs peaceful retreat. That’s where she is, Ennis Dun.” After the last hair was free, he returned to the fire.

“Then she lives?” “Oh, aye, indeed.”

“Why don’t ye free her?” Brigid resisted the urge to grab the old man by his tunic laces and make him confess to the sin of keeping mother and daughter apart.

“She would be worse off without me. It would be shameful to set her off alone.”

Tears flowed without warning down Brigid’s face. “She wouldn’t be alone! She knew where I was. She would come and get me. Why would that be shameful?”

A wolf howled not far away.

“Quiet down now, lass. Ye’ll be calling all the wild animals to us now that the sun has set. There’s more to tell ye.”

“Then tell me.”

The druid Bram stroked his bony fingers over his chin. “She’s better off staying put because she’s blind.”

Brigid held onto her chest again as if she’d have to hold in her pounding heart. “Ye said she was fine.”

He smiled again. “Being sightless doesn’t mean one is not well, my dear. My eyes are old. They don’t see as well as they used to. But I get along fine. I have traveled for so many years that I scarcely need them anymore to make my way. Yer mother’s that way in the dairy. She functions well there, she does.”

“I must go see her. Does she ask about me?” “She does, and I tell her yer well.”

“Ye make up stories.”

The druid’s lips pressed into a thin line under his whiskers. He grabbed a stick and flung it into the fire – revealing for the first time an emotion other than gentleness.

“I’ll forgive ye for that insult, young Brigid. Ye know nothing of druids.”

She gritted her teeth and then let her anger go. “Ye mean druids don’t make up stories?”

“I told ye druids lived by a code, nay?”

Her cheeks grew as hot as sun-baked stones. “Ye didn’t tell me what that means.”

He drew his withered fingers through his long mane of snowy hair. He might be impatient with her, but no more than she was with his ambiguous talk.

“One thing it means is that druids are truthful. They do not make up stories.”

The only other druid she’d met was Ardan. While he had failed to tell her everything, what he did tell her about the pregnant mother being alone and needing help had been factual.

“Why a code? What does it matter?”

Bram’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he tried to smother a yawn. She would get little more information from him that night.

The old man rubbed his weathered cheeks. “I will tell ye this: druids understand the spiritual world. They train for many years and learn from elder druids. They read the ogham writing like ye saw on the stone. They travel over many roads and talk with many people. If they were to make up stories or cause physical harm to those they meet, the gods would take revenge because the druids are… ” He paused and closed his eyes. “They are spiritually tuned.”

Brigid wanted to tell him that the One True God already knew what druids did, and what any man or woman did for that matter. But Bram
was
very old and his fortitude for the day was spent. Tomorrow she could ask him about curses and other druid activities, but right now there was one thing she had to know. “Will ye take me to see my mother?”

He lay down and pulled a woolen blanket up to his shoulders. “Ah, young Brigid. I was wondering when ye’d ask.” With his eyes closed, his breathing took on a rhythm.

“Bram? Ye’ll promise me, please? Will ye show me where she is?”

He grunted and bent one eyebrow over a squinted eye. “Ah, child. I will take ye, but I have to drop in on a bishop first. Ye’ll go with me, aye?”

“I’ll go, just so long as ye take me to see her right after.”

She grabbed a blanket for herself from underneath the parchment rolls.

He whispered. “By the druid’s code, I will.”

A stick, the druid’s walking stick, prodded her side, awakening Brigid. He spoke like a scolding mother. “Hurry along. One must not tarry in this territory.”

Brigid rolled over onto her back. There were trees above her head. How had he taken down the camp without her noticing? She must have been exhausted from her travel. Knowing that she’d soon see her mother prompted her to rise. She popped out of her covers and rolled them up.

The old man had everything packed on his back.

“Let my horse carry that for ye. Do ye not have a beast yerself?”

Bram let the bag drop from his shoulders, and she carried it over to Geall.

“Once, long ago, I did. I’m so used to traveling without one now. Don’t suppose I could even mount a horse anymore.”