Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (23 page)

Dunlaing tipped his head to the poet. “Go on, then.”

The poet paced the room, his earthy cloak swinging behind him with each step. “Brigid spotted robes given to Conleth by the Romans. He’d piled them in a corner. She thought they could be sewn into clothes for the poor, and he allowed her to take them. Thing is, poor Old Conleth had no other clothes, and no maids to sew him any either.”

Dunlaing stroked his stiff beard. “Sounds just like that woman. Always taking to give to the poor. And here she has left a poor aging man without covering for his own cold body.” The poet retrieved his harp. “Ah, on the way back I returned to Old Conleth alone. As I reclined by his cooking fire, a wagon approached filled with robes identical to the ones Brigid had taken. They were given to Old Conleth, and what he’d donated to Brigid’s cause was restored to him in full. And Brigid never knew this.”

Another druid, this one sporting an old gray beard that curled on the ends, piped up. “A miracle? Nay. The church heard of his need and sent the clothes.”

The poet wandered the room, speaking directly to each listener. “Call it what ye like, but the church’s weavers had no time to replace such finely woven fabric, let alone sew new garments, in the few days between when she gave the robes away and when Old Conleth received them back.”

Ardan addressed everyone. “’Tis nothing that any druid could not do. ’Tis of no importance.”

The poet sang, “Building the Cell of Oak, they are, where all will come to learn of her Lord.”

Dunlaing grabbed Ardan’s robe and pulled him to his face. “And an army? Will these men form Brigid an army?”

Ardan flinched. The king’s anger was good for his purposes, but he was uncomfortable being so close to the man’s fury. “I do not know, king. But we must act right away.”

Dunlaing released him and ordered the druids to join him at a table. A long silence passed before he spoke. Dunlaing shoved his chair away from the table and stood. “Wise men, we must crush the threat to my kingdom. Is there anyone among ye who thinks Brigid’s god will not grow stronger in the hearts and minds of the people in the days to come?”

No one raised an objection.

The king continued. “Then, Ardan, I will hear yer plan.” Ardan resisted the urge to smile, though he was pleased.

“Poet, does this woman value objects of gold or silver?” He shook his black locks.

“Then cattle?”

Again the poet denied it.

“Is there anything man can buy that this woman cherishes more than her god?”

The poet stood. “Nay, Ardan. There is nothing, bought or no.

Ardan stood to look the young man in the eye. “Ah, but yer wrong. There is something she cares for dearly. Something, someone, she has worked all her life to have at her side – her mother, Brocca.”

The poet reached for his harp. Ardan raised his palm to him. “Stop, brother. There is no satire, no curse ye can compose that will change the truth.”

Dunlaing turned to the young man. “Do ye agree?”

The poet sat. “I agree that the truth can never be changed. However, if Ardan seeks to turn good into something sinister, I’ll not take part.”

The other men mumbled to each other.

“Break the druid code of brotherhood?” Ardan was surprised the poet had suggested such a thing, and in front of the king.

The young poet turned toward the king. “Nay, to stand against what’s wrong, ’tis no assault against the code.”

Again the brothers whispered.

“Silence!” Dunlaing slammed his fists on the table. “If our kingdom is threatened, war is always an option. I will hear Ardan out.”

It was the first time someone had mentioned war. The king was truly shaken by the mention of another king and Brigid’s followers. Ardan would have to steer his ruler back to the topic at hand. “As I was saying, King, Brigid cares most about her mother. She draws her strength from Brocca. I am not suggesting a war against such a mouse-like woman, King.” He glared at the poet, who stared innocently back. “We just take Brocca as a hostage. Hide her away. Then Brigid will lose all desire to build her kingdom. The threat will disappear like spring snow in the midday.”

The brothers agreed and the poet was outvoted.

“’Tis meant as no offense,” one druid told the poet. “What has been decided was fair.”

The poet turned to leave. “None taken.”

A sigh lifted throughout the room. No one wanted the poet to send dire curses their way. It would have been his right had he felt affronted.

After the others left, Dunlaing nodded to Ardan, pleased with his druid. “This very night I will send my men for Brocca.”

Ardan retreated to his room in the castle after volunteering to lead the raiding party.

Darkness fell before Brigid returned to the Cell of the Oak. A flicker of light in the distance became bright as a beacon as she rode closer, leading her home. In sight of the dwelling place, she saw that the frame of the great building had been completed in her absence.

She looped the leather horse reins to an elm near the house. Animal skins had been stretched over the doors, makeshift shutters covered the windows, and the roof was in place, awaiting sod. People inside were singing and laughing.

Brigid cupped her hands to her mouth. “Maither, I’m here!”

Deerskins parted and Brocca rushed out. “Daughter, I have Cook inside. Come join us for some refreshment. Haven’t the men done wonderful work in your absence?”

Inside, barrels and logs served as chairs, and a peat fire smoked in the center of the room. Near it, cradling one of the worker’s children in her lap, Cook sang with the merry crowd.

Brocca called to her. “Cook, Brigid has come home.”

The old woman whispered something to the youngster, who sprang from her lap. Cook pulled herself up from the floor. She had grown feeble in the years they were apart. Brigid hurried to her side. “Cook, how fine to see ye!”

The old woman stroked Brigid’s face with her dry hands. “They told me ye were terribly disfigured, but I see it is not so.” She grasped Brigid to her bosom.

How magnificent it was that she was with Cook again, yet how sad that the woman had aged a great deal. “Cook, I’ve missed ye so.”

“Ah, dear child. Ye’ve found yer mother and that’s what ye always wanted. It pleases me, it does, to see yer safe and to hear ye’ve dedicated yer life to yer Lord down at the seashore.” Brocca tugged at Brigid’s sleeve. “Let me see.” She ran her smooth fingers over Brigid’s face and then touched her eyelid.

“Ah, ’tis true. Ye’ve healed.”

Brigid gripped both women’s hands. “I’ll tell ye everything that happened. Let’s sit.”

They laughed, cried, prayed, until all the others sought the refuge of their beds. After the excited chatter slowed, Brigid asked about her father – not to see if he was well, but to find out if he’d caused Cook any harm. “Tell me, Cook, how did Dubthach allow ye to come?”

“Suppose he thinks I’m at the seashore.”

Brigid examined the freshly hewn beams in the ceiling. “Well, that evil old man does not deserve the labor of such a fine Christian woman.” She squeezed Cook’s hand. “Ye’ll stay on here, with us.”

Cook placed a withered hand against her cheek. “I have family at Glasgleann. Ye have yer mother now. Ye don’t need me, Brigid.”

“Don’t need ye? I want ye near me, Cook. Bring the others here. I’ll buy them from Dubthach.”

Brocca put her arm around Brigid. “She wants to go back there, darlin’. Ye must let her be. People don’t like change much when they’re old. She’ll visit.”

Brigid whispered into her mother’s ear, “Like ye said, maither, she’s old. She’ll not have many visits left. Dubthach owes us this for what he has put us through.” She spat the words out like poison. “I’ll convince him myself.”

Cook grabbed Brigid’s arm, pinching with more force than Brigid imagined the woman could muster. “Nay. Ye’ll not go see him. He’ll let me come when I wish.”

Long ago Cook had grabbed her like that. Back when Brigid had mentioned Dubthach’s old wife. “Oh, Cook, don’t ye know? Troya is no more.”

Cook pulled her close. “Why do ye speak that woman’s name?”

“She’s dead. Did my mother not tell ye?”

Brocca reached for her. “Not yet. I did not yet tell her.” Cook let go and plopped back to her animal pelt cushion.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t know. ’Tis just that I protected ye for so long from her.” Cook’s lower lip trembled and she tightened her mouth to keep from crying.

Brigid reached for Cook’s hands. “And I thank ye, Cook. I thank ye.”

Brocca patted the air. “I’ll let ye two talk some more without me. I will see ye in the morn.” She slipped back into a corner where the women slept together behind a curtain of ox hides suspended from the ceiling beams. The men occupied the opposite corner.

Cook smiled, her teeth still mostly white. “I have always known ye’d be a blessing. Despite what Brocca’s druid feared.” “He feared I’d be a curse?” Brigid couldn’t imagine kind old Bram thinking that way.

“He wasn’t sure, child. That’s why he was so cautious when arranging the seashore meetings. Pagans imagine all kinds of things. He said he felt powers unlike any others the day ye born.”

“Brocca thinks he will accept Christ.”

“He’d better hurry. Like me, time for him upon the earth grows short.”

“Don’t speak that way, Cook.”

“’Tis not a bad thing, child. Death, ’tis part of life, not the end of it. If our Lord awaits us when we gasp our last breath, what shall we fear?”

Brigid leaned against her old friend and relished the security of her touch, her familiar scent of sticky bread dough and sweet apples. She gazed up into the old one’s earthy eyes. “What shall we fear? Being separated from those who are most special to us.”

Chapter 22

“You have not handed me over to my enemy but have set me in a safe place.”

Psalm 31:8, New Living Translation

The smells of the evening meal still lingered in the lodge. Brocca wished the windows could be flung open so that the grease and smoke would escape, but the night air was too chilly for that. She twisted her linen tunic back into position. The assault on her nose had caused her to wiggle in her sleep and entangle her legs in her covers.

She no longer heard Brigid’s voice and assumed she and Cook had retired for the evening. The shelter was quiet. The hour must be late.

Brocca rubbed her nose with her finger. The irritating smells would not go away. She should open a window, just a crack. She’d never get any sleep if she didn’t. Brocca tossed the woolen blanket off her legs and sat up on her straw mat. Rubbing her fingers along the ground, she found the corner where the floor and two walls met. The window, she knew, was not far up the wall and a wooden plank covering the opening was latched shut like a door. If she unlatched it, the resulting gap would let in just enough fresh air without waking anyone. Brocca found the latch and slid it back. The window shutter swung open too easily. She reached her fingers through the opening, frantically trying to find the shutter and close it before the night air woke everyone.

Fingers from outside grabbed her arm. The scream that formed in her chest was mute when it reached her mouth.

The intruder dropped her hand, and she heard the thump of his boots on the floor inside.

Everyone was awake now, screaming. Torches… hot… crackling flames.

Fire!

“Maither!” Brigid’s voice came from the other side of the room. “Here, come here!”

Follow the voice.

People stumbled into Brocca’s path.

A sickening crack. Metal hitting flesh. People were dying.

Where are the walls?
Bodies pushed and shoved her toward the middle of the building. Smoke clogged her nose, and she dropped to the floor, gasping for fresh air.

Who? Why?

A cattle raid perhaps. What should she do?

Brocca squeaked out some words. “The cattle are outside, the cattle are outside. Take them!”

Someone grabbed her by the hair and pulled her along. Night air tingled on her skin. She was outside. She was saved. Her lungs filled with fresh nighttime air.

“Ouch, you’re hurting me!” The tugging continued. “’Tis Brocca. She’s the one.” That voice.
Ardan.

She was lifted and flung over the shoulders of a muscular man who whisked her away from the heat and noise. She gasped and coughed as she bounced about, the man’s iron-like arms wrapped around her legs.

Suddenly, she was tossed to the ground and the jolt forced air from her lungs. Her ankles and wrists were bound.
Ardan again.
The way he flipped the leather strips around her hands and feet, the way he tied them so quickly she couldn’t wiggle free – it was him all right. And his smell – like wet dog fur. She’d know it anywhere.

“In the boat!” he yelled.

She was stuffed into a vessel and felt the water give and bend around the leather-covered curragh.

“Help!”

A rag was stuffed into her mouth. It smelled worse than Ardan. Her head was as heavy as ten oxen. There was no mistaking it – she’d been smothered with the same herbs that had caused Brigid to sleep the night Ardan kidnapped them from the Samhain.

Brigid had not been asleep long when she found her newly built home in flames. Cattle rustlers, thieves, the king’s men perhaps? It didn’t matter. Were her mother and Cook safe?

A figure, dark, coughing like a sick child, came at her with arms outreached. Cook. “I can’t find her, child!”

“Go, this way.” Brigid directed confused people toward the door while searching for the diminutive shape of her mother. Once outside, she turned each head toward her. “Brocca? Have ye seen Brocca?”

Frightened, wheezing – they couldn’t answer. Everyone who could muster the strength ran to the spring with buckets to douse the fire. But what did it matter if the structure burnt to the ground? Her mother was missing.

Fear rose thick in Brigid’s throat. She scurried to the spring. Was Brocca there? Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Whoever had attacked them would flee in that direction.

She caught her foot on one tree root after another, sending shards of pain up her legs.

Maither, where are ye?

A rising moon shed a bit of light on the spring that glimmered down a trail of watery rocks. She scooted carefully along the water’s edge. The stream spread wide, growing as it neared the river. She held on, tree to tree, until she heard the rushing sound of river water. In the distance, a light twinkled – the torches of the tormentors, devils – too far away to shout at.

Brigid’s hands trembled. “Maither?”

She could no longer grasp the width of the birch she clung to, and she slid to the ground. Her fingers detected something metal and cold. She whisked away tree litter until her hands located the object, some sort of jewelry. She held it up to the moonlight. Brocca’s brooch. Her mother had been kidnapped.

Brigid clasped the adornment so tightly that her palms bled.

“Child? Where are ye? Brocca?” Cook had found her. “Maither… ” Brigid held her fist, with the brooch locked inside, up to her mouth. She resisted Cook’s attempt to move her.

Her mother was gone, snatched away from her like a fox’s prey.

Cook summoned some men who half-carried Brigid back to the camp.

The others were pleased that they had extinguished the fire and that the building would be repairable. Brigid didn’t care. Her heart was heavy, her head cloudy. Her mouth tasted like sour cabbage.

She stared into the distance, realizing that her actions appeared odd to the others, but knowing she was helpless to do anything else. Her mother, the one who loved her most, was ripped away, taking Brigid’s very soul with her.

Days later – Brigid didn’t know how many days – Cook managed to convince her to take some broth. The old woman whisked around the camp, assigning tasks and taking the situation under control. Brigid was thankful. Her sorrow shrouded everything, rendering her numb.

“Bear up, child. We’ll find Brocca.” Cook’s dark eyes pierced Brigid’s fog, bringing a fleeting moment of comfort.

“Do we know where to look?”

“Maybe. The men went to the king’s castle to inquire. A fellow said he recognized one of the intruders as being the king’s druid.”

Brigid opened her bandaged hand and gazed at her mother’s silver brooch. “Ardan.” The name was flecks of burning embers, and she spewed it off her tongue. “Do ye think Dunlaing is holding her then?”

“We can hope so, child. Dunlaing will hear of this injustice and order her returned.”

“If she’s there, I’ve got to go to her.” Brigid sprang to her feet and called for Geall. Night had fallen, but she felt an urgency to hurry to the castle. Too much time had already been wasted.

Cook motioned for Brigid’s attendant to ignore the order. “There’s no sense in rushing out. The men will take care of things.”

Brigid scowled at the young man. “Ye heard me, man. Get my horse! ’Tis my duty. I’ll take care of it.”

Cook appeared hurt or worried, but Brigid could not tend to her. Brocca was a hostage. That had to come first. She marched outside to wait.

The servant delivered Geall and a torch for traveling. Brigid stroked the horse’s nose. “Yer a good and faithful servant.” She smiled at the attendant. “Thank ye for taking such good care of my horse. Although we’ve only just returned from a journey, he’s been well groomed. Should harm come to me at the castle, this horse will be yours – for all yer good service.”

“Glory, child.” Cook emerged from the house. She pinched Brigid’s arm. “Stop talking like that. If ye think ye could be in danger, don’t go. I told the men… ”

Brigid shooed her away. “Ye’ll not order me as if I were still a child. If my mother is in danger, my safety means nothing. I am nothing.”

“Oh, nay, child. Ye don’t believe that. Yer God’s servant.

That’s not nothing.”

Cook’s objections did not dissuade her. She rode away as swiftly as Geall could carry her.

Brigid arrived at Dunlaing’s fortress and noted the stillness. A calm permeated the area. She steered Geall close to the stone walls where torches blazed and huffed. Where was the watch? Asleep?

Still atop her horse, she rapped her knuckles on the thick oak door, the only portal in the fortress’s outer wall. Her cold hands stung.

A voice called from the dark interior. “Who’s there?” “Brigid of the Cell of the Oak. I must speak to the king immediately.”

“Yer servants have been here and left.” “Even so, I must speak to the king.”

She waited. The surrounding woods were tranquil with only an occasional owl call.

Finally, someone cracked the door. “The king is sleeping. Come back tomorrow.”

The door was let go to close on its own, but it didn’t. Brigid dismounted, tied Geall to a post, extinguished her torch, and leaned close to the door. After she was sure the guard had disappeared back to his post, or to his ale possibly, she slipped inside.

She’d been in the castle before but didn’t know where the king’s sleeping chamber was. Removing her shoes would make her footsteps inaudible, so she slipped them off and tucked them inside the waistband of her tunic. Tiny pebbles encircled the path between the outer wall and the castle. She’d have to tiptoe through them, and then steal inside whatever door was unlocked.

Just like on the outer ring, torches hung along the wall, lighting her path. Brigid hugged the shadows underneath them, darting out to try the latch on several doors. Just as she was about to give up, one door nudged open a crack. She leaned all her weight against it until it finally pulled open, kicking up clouds of dirt underneath. The door obviously hadn’t been used for some time and would be the perfect place to enter unnoticed.

She was wrong. It was nothing but a storage room with no inside door. Dusty, rusted spears and buckets made her sneeze. She scooted the door closed behind her in time to hide from soldiers padding by. She listened through a small crack in the panes of the door.

“See anybody?” a man’s voice asked.

Another answered. “Nay, not me. Probably a cat. They’re always roaming ’round at night.”

“There was a lass by earlier. I sent her on her way though.”

Geall!
He was still tied up outside. What had she been thinking?

A squeal like a hungry babe took her breath away. “Here’s yer sneezer, Rogan. Take care of this cat outside.”

Outside? Nay, dear Lord. Do not let them go out and see the horse.

The soldiers kept talking. “Don’t be a half-wit. This here has become the king’s favorite. I’ll shoo her back to his chamber.” Brigid waited until she could no longer hear footsteps and then counted to ten before emerging from her hiding place. Down the darkened passage, the faint glimmer of the torch bounced. If she followed it, the soldier would lead her to Dunlaing.

Brigid again moved within the shadows of the outer wall. She encountered no one else. Once the torch light stayed constant, she quickened her pace. An unarmed guard with red curly locks tumbling down his head unlatched a door and slipped inside. She followed and found herself in an interior hall. The guard marched along then stopped at a door. He shoved it open and pushed a cat inside. Brigid made herself as flat as possible against the wall and prayed he wouldn’t look in her direction.

The guard retrieved a silver flask from his belt, laughed silently by pumping his shoulders up and down, and continued down the passageway, gulping as he went.

Brigid approached the door. He’d left it ajar. She entered. One lone candle flickered on the opposite wall. An enormous box bed stood in the center.

The cat curled itself around her legs and she instinctively picked the animal up and stroked it.

A figure sat up in the bed. Not Dunlaing, but someone smaller. A wife? A mistress?

The small shadowy figured stretched out her arms. “Here, lass. Bring the cat to me.”