Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter 9

“But you know, O LORD, all their plots to kill me. Do not forgive their crimes or blot out their sins from your sight.”

Jeremiah 18:23a

“Greetings.” The man in the white cloak approached Brigid. “My name is Ardan. I am a druid commonly working in the house of Dunlaing.”

At first Brigid was speechless. She wasn’t sure whether to fear the man because of the stories Cillian had told her or to welcome him because he was affiliated with King Dunlaing, the ruler who had granted her freedom.

“I realize the monks here do not welcome me, but I came to see Brigid. Ye must be her.”

Thinking about Cillian’s dirk hidden in his boot, she looked around for him. He wasn’t in sight. She took one step toward the druid, in hospitality. “I am Brigid.”

A shuffling sound came from the dining shelter. Brigid wondered if the brothers were taking up arms or falling to their knees to pray.

“Why have ye come to see me?”

Ardan walked toward a tree stump, his white robes trailing behind him like thin ribbons of clouds on a summer day. He held his walking stick tight in his hand, though he had no infirmity that she could see. He sat down and laid the stick across his lap. “Tales of yer works have spread among the people. At first they thought ye were a miracle worker, spreading charity. But now it seems the fox has found another burrow.” Cook had once told Brigid that druids spoke in puzzles.

Now that she’d actually met one, she knew it was true. “What do ye mean?”

Grunts came from the monks, but they were obviously not going to emerge from their hiding places. The druid didn’t seem so dreadful to her. She knew he had no real power. Even if he caused her harm, God would protect her soul from the ones Cillian called devils.

“Let’s just say that ever since ye cursed that apple orchard, people have been saying yer, hmm, less than kind… perhaps even some kind of witch. Even a druid would not do such a callous thing.”

“Outrageous! I always tell them I do the things I do in the name of the One True God.” Brigid’s voice was louder than she meant it to be, but she didn’t care. “If God chose to curse that apple orchard, then it was to be.”

Ardan stood and circled the stump – a pagan ritual, she assumed.

“Ye may be right. But… think about this: how will ye be able to help the people at all if they choose not to trust ye? If ye really want to spread the work of Patrick’s god… ”

“He’s my God too. And yers if ye’ll let him be.”

He chuckled and his dark eyes narrowed. “As ye say. But if that’s yer intent, ye’ll need to prove yer god’s charity and goodwill toward the woodsfolk.”

“How?”

When he stepped close to her, she heard the monks thump against the shelter’s door, likely straining to hear the rest. Cillian could not be in there with them. Not after the way he had once vowed vengeance against druids. It was probably just as well.

“There’s a woman who’s having a difficult time birthing a baby. No one will help her because the Tuatha De Danann stand outside her door, ready to snatch the baby away.”

Brigid took a step back. “Nonsense. The dead cannot take a life.”

Ardan smiled, and she was convinced he was sincere. She really did want to help the people and he seemed to want that also.

He circled her once again, tapping his long walking stick on the ground as he went. “Yer the only one who does not fear them. Yer the only one who can help.”

She reached out to touch the stick. “Take me to her.”

Night drifted in as she followed the druid. His white attire illuminated the path, but at times he traveled so fast Brigid feared she’d lose him. She shouted at him, “Why are babies always born at night?”

He didn’t answer. A fox scampered across her path, shining his yellow eyes at her before sliding back into the woody landscape. The creature was not startled by their appearance. Animals have keen senses, seem to know when things are urgent.

She pulled her cloak over her head and shivered against the sharp late-summer winds. Why at night? Would she arrive back at her barn before milking time? With babies there was no telling. She knew that, from the few times she’d assisted with births before. Some bairns were quick, and some seemed to be so reluctant to make their arrival that they reminded her of how tenaciously stubborn the human race is.

“Here it is. The MacFirbis home. I can’t stay with ye, Brigid. There are others who need my help tonight.”

She watched him drift into the woods until his white cloak appeared gray in the distance and then disappeared. She hesitated a moment before knocking. What should she say?

The door to the minuscule cabin swung wide and MacFirbis met her. The man glared at her with wild eyes, slipped his coat over sagging shoulders, and ran into the woods.

“Wait! Where are ye going?”

Too late. He was gone. Men weren’t usually much help during birthing anyway.

Brigid peered around the cabin. A mound of blankets told her where the expectant mother was. “Where’s yer maid?”

“They’ve all left me,” the woman answered from the blanket pile.

Just as Ardan said. They all feared an invasion of the dead. If they were that frightened, it could only mean the mother was in grave danger.

The cabin was dark, cold, and vacant, except for the suffering woman.

“Are the pains bad?”

The woman grunted. She was curled up on the floor in a corner. The labor had progressed so that the woman could barely manage to speak. Brigid had seen it before.

A shriek followed, rattling dishes on the shelves. Brigid set to work building a fire. All the while she sang softly, hoping to calm the terrified woman. But as she lit the candles hanging from the rafters, Brigid was met with a horrifying sight. MacFirbis’s wife had a scowl that would terrify the mightiest warrior in Ireland, even the legendary Cu Chulainn. Her hands were covered with blood and in her shaking arms she was cradling a still child.

Brigid breathed deeply, asking God for strength. “Please, darlin’, let me hold yer child.”

The woman cowered and hissed at Brigid.

Brigid crossed herself. “Oh, God, do not let evil into this house tonight.” She tried again, pulling ever so gently on the woman’s sleeve. She softened and allowed the bundle to be taken from her.

Brigid rushed to a bowl of washing water left beside the fire pit. A warming blaze illuminated what she held in her arms. The wee bloody face was so thickly coated that the baby’s mouth was hidden. Brigid dipped her hand into the lukewarm water and cleansed the child, a girl. She slid her fingers over the child’s mouth and pried the babe’s lips apart. The tiny face was blue, but the child’s body was still warm from her mother’s womb.

Her mother wailed from the corner.

“Don’t be afraid.” Brigid hummed a tune she remembered hearing the monks sing. The notes were cheery but not loud. The words were about hope in dark times.

With as gentle a hand as she could muster, Brigid cleared the baby’s nose and then stopped her singing to breathe into the child’s face. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. The woman was starting to recover. Perhaps Brigid’s praise to the Creator had calmed her.

The baby coughed and Brigid and the new mother laughed out loud.

“What is that song ye sang?” MacFirbis’s wife took her cleansed infant into her arms to nurse.

“A song to my God.” Brigid steadied herself against a wall. The hours passed, and the room transformed from a deep, dark cave into a brightly-lit home of joy. The rising sun shone tiny ribbons of light through the house’s wooden doorframe. “There’s something familiar ’bout yer god. Something familiar ’bout ye. Do I know ye from somewhere?”

“Well, I’ve been living with Cillian’s monks in the woods for the past two winters.”

The woman kept stroking her baby while staring at Brigid. “Yer name, lass?”

“Brigid.”

Her eyes widened. “I knew that name once. Dubthach’s slave child.”

Brigid stiffened. She had thought she was a long way from Glasgleann. She hadn’t thought it likely she’d meet someone who knew Dubthach. “Seems ye know me. Did ye work for him?”

“Work for him? I say not. I do thank ye for saving my child’s life. Though many thought that ye yerself died at yer birth.”

Brigid pulled a three-legged stool to the fire and urged the woman to sit with her baby. “Now why would anyone think that?”

“My mother believed so. Before she was Dubthach’s wife, she was my father’s. When my da’ died, she remarried. My aunt raised me, but I visited Glasgleann one summer. My mother never set foot on the place after yer pregnant mother left, and so she believed what Dubthach told her, that ye did not live. I knew better, of course, I’d seen ye myself. But I kept quiet. There’s a woman there that people call Cook?”

“Aye, there is.”

“Stern one, she is. I was afraid of her when I was a child.” “Afraid of Cook?”

“Aye. I met a shepherd boy there, I did.” Her face took on the look of a mischievous child. “We spent many hours together in Glasgleann’s meadows.” She blushed. “I told him that my mother believed ye dead, but I told no one else. Cook threatened to throw me into the bog if I told my mother.”

“I don’t remember ye.”

“Suppose not. Cook sheltered ye in that dairy. But I was there, nonetheless.” She regarded her in the growing firelight. “So, Brigid still lives and she’s near.”

Dubthach’s old wife.
Why could Brigid not escape that story? “Did yer mother send my mother away when she was expecting me?”

“That’s the way I heard it. Dubthach told her the baby, named Brigid, had died at birth. My mother said she was so jealous of Brocca that she would have killed the baby had it not died.”

Brigid wasn’t sure what to think. Did the old woman still harbor such feelings? A long time had passed.

“Where’s yer mother now? Why is she not living with Dubthach if she loved him so much?” Brigid couldn’t imagine any woman feeling possessive over that loathsome man.

“Love him? Nay. ’Twas an honor price she wanted.”

Of course. The laws provided for such things when a person’s honor had been sullied. That woman should be seeking it from Dubthach, not from her.

Brigid thought it best to avoid her. “Where does she live?” The infant suckled at the woman’s breast, distracting her. “Yer mother, woman,” urged Brigid. “Where is she?”

“A brisk horse ride from here.”

Brigid’s pulse quickened. She stood and rubbed her fingers over her face. Before she could stop them, the words spilled out. “That woman sent my beloved mother away. Dubthach wouldn’t permit me to stay with her. I have lived my entire life without my mother because of her. I am the one who deserves an honor price!” She trembled. Her ranting caused the infant to wail.

MacFirbis’s wife quieted the baby and then whispered, “If I were ye, Miz Brigid, I’d run as quickly as I could back to the monks. My husband went to fetch my mother, and if she learns yer alive, she’ll be quick to call for her honor by having yer head.”

“But King Dunlaing would never allow it. He gave me my freedom. He respects my God.”

“King Dunlaing? He has nothing to do with it. My mother has been petitioning that druid Ardan for two decades to produce an honor price for her.”

Ardan? The monks were right not to trust the druid. She’d been tricked. Brigid grabbed her cloak and headed to the door. “Wait! I want to know that God, Brigid. He spoke to me as ye sang and rocked my wee one.”

Was it a trick? “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Learn that song. Trust me.’ ” Tears came to the new mother’s eyes. “And, ‘Save Brigid.’ ”

MacFirbis’s woman patted her chest and cooled her eyes with a wave of her hand. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard those words. I didn’t even know it was Brigid herself who stood before me.”

Brigid bit her lip. “That song is of praise and a plea for refuge.”

Brigid forced the words out, though her heart raced, sensing imminent danger.

Praise be to the Lord my Rock,

who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle. He is my loving God and my fortress,

my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield, in whom I take refuge.