Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (24 page)

Brigid crept around the platform and leaned in toward the woman, allowing the cat to lunge from her arms.

The shadowy figure pointed to the door. “What are ye waiting for? Go now.”

“I must speak to the king.”

“What? Do ye know the hour? Go.” She cuddled the cat and drifted back under the blankets.

Brigid sighed, too loudly. The larger lump under the blanket grunted. “Who’s there?”

The woman in the bed groaned. “Just a servant bringing in the cat, love.”

“Humph.” Dunlaing rolled over. His black and silver hair floated down on his pillow like disturbed feathers.

Brigid tiptoed to his side. “Dunlaing, I must speak to ye. ’Tis urgent.”

“What?” He boosted himself onto his elbows. “Who must speak?”

“Brigid of the Cell of the Oak.”

He tossed his blanket over the head of his companion. “How did ye get in here? How many are with ye?”

“No one but me. Please, king, my mother has been kidnapped.”

“Guard, guard!”

The door burst open and Brigid was yanked away. “Please, ye must help Brocca!”

She heard Dunlaing’s voice before the chamber door crashed shut. “She’s not here.”

The guards dragged Brigid along the pebble path. Her knees ached as bits of stone cut into her flesh. “Help me, someone!” She glanced at the guard. “’Tis true that ye’ve no prisoner named Brocca?”

The red-haired one spoke. “We’ve no prisoner at all. No Brocca even visits.”

They tossed her outside where Geall was obediently waiting. She reluctantly threw herself on his back. If Brocca was not there, then where was she?

The hostage had slept the entire trip. Ardan couldn’t be more pleased. Soon they would approach Blackwater and head for the open sea. A tiny island at the southern tip of Ireland would be the perfect place to keep Brocca hidden away. He wouldn’t allow her to be killed, of course. Having the lass know her mother lived would keep her under Ardan’s authority.

The first leg of the journey, on land, had not been easy, but Ardan had employed the best guides. “How much longer?”

The driver turned to look at him. “Half a day, I expect.” “Could anyone have followed?” Ardan couldn’t take any chances. There had been moments along the way when he had felt someone watching, but he’d seen no one.

“Nay, no one.”

Ardan relaxed in the bed of the rig, using the sleeping woman’s shoulder as a pillow. He called to the driver. “I’ll pay for ye to stay and keep watch over my hostage.”

The man behind the reins almost lost his grip and the wagon swayed recklessly. “Stay, ye say?”

“Watch yerself, man!” The wagon steadied.

Ardan shouted to the front. “Aye. Guard her. But no harm shall come to her. I’ll leave ye complete instructions.”

The driver glanced over his shoulder. He was about Ardan’s age and wore a red scarf tied over his head. “Where, Master Ardan, are we going? And for how long?”

“Keep going until I say to stop. I must return to Leinster, to the king. I have some matters to attend. Things ye wouldn’t understand. Then I’ll be back. Half a moon’s cycle likely.”

“She’s blind?”

Ardan didn’t like the sound of the question. “Aye, but like I said, no harm shall come to her. Ye know who I am?”

The driver stared straight ahead. “Aye, King Dunlaing’s druid.”

Ardan reached up and grasped the back of the man’s neck. “I do not answer even to the king, man. I commune with the Others. They help me. They will know if ye harm her or if ye do anything whatsoever that does not honor what I ask.” The wagon tilted, but Ardan continued. “Do ye know, man, what manner of curses I can call down upon ye and yer household for generations? The spirits will bring worms to eat yer eyes out while ye still live. And if that were not enough,” he paused to chuckle, “on the next Samhain, I’ll bring them to yer house. Where I picked ye up, where yer wife and children wait for ye. Only ye won’t be there to protect them, will ye now? And the spirits will visit yer house – and do what they will.” Ardan shook his walking stick at the man. “First yer wife will suffer while yer children watch. Then they’ll have their turn. One by one. Do ye understand?”

The man’s shoulders shook. “Aye, Master Ardan. No curses, please! I’ll be yer most trusted servant.”

Ardan released his grasp on the man and returned to his reclining position. “Good. We understand each other.”

Chapter 23

“Do not hide yourself from me. Do not reject your servant in anger. You have always been my helper. Don’t leave me now; don’t abandon me, O God of my salvation!”

Psalm 27:9, New Living Translation

Brigid sped toward the spring where she’d found her mother’s brooch. She looked for clues, a sign of where they’d taken her. The night air merged into early morning dew, wetting her hair and face. Somewhere, in some nearby home, someone was stewing cabbage. Why now? Where? She sniffed the sickening smell and her stomach turned.

Dubthach.
After all these years, had he returned to take revenge? The arm of her cloak did little to wipe the moisture from her face. Dew had seeped into every fiber of her clothing. Brigid reached the spring and pulled Brocca’s brooch from a leather pouch fastened at her waist. She realized then that she still had her shoes stuffed inside her tunic belt. In her haste and worry she had not realized that her feet were naked, freezing, and sore. She dropped down from Geall’s back and led him to the spring to drink his fill. The stones surrounding the spring felt like ice when she sat on them. She sucked in her breath and tied on her shoes.

Oh, God, why did this happen? What shall I do?

She examined the muddy ground near the spring and followed footprints leading to the river. She already knew Brocca’s captors had gone in that direction, but she slowly followed the path, leading her horse behind, hoping that some insight, some plan would come to her.

None did.

It was odd, those footprints still being there days later. None of her servants would have come this way. The path from the sleeping quarters to the spring was well worn, the path most took – not this way.

The river lapped in currents over small rocks, around bends of mossy turf, and off into the distant trees.

Brocca was gone.

No one knew where she was.

The thought which had come to Brigid earlier, about Dubthach stealing Brocca, was foolish, she now realized. Cook had clearly explained how physically and mentally paralyzed the man was, living alone in the wilderness.

Someone else had taken Brocca. If not random raiders, surely Ardan was to blame. He hated Brigid, though she didn’t know why. His chin, jutting out like an ocean cliff, his eyes the color of hammered iron, his lips, thin ribbons spewing distrust, all told her that the man hated her. Why he hadn’t tried to kill her when he had the chance was a mystery.

Brigid resumed leading her horse through the woods in no particular direction. Her mind was at work, trying desperately to find answers. She prayed for wisdom.

Druids.
Brigid wanted to understand the pagans, but it was difficult. Especially since two she knew, Bram and Ardan, were so different. Yet, they both adhered to some kind of code. Was that why Ardan hadn’t killed her? Was that why he had stolen her mother instead? But to what end?

The new morn’s sunrays chased away the dark corners of the forest. She thought about returning to the Cell of the Oak, but could not see the purpose. She had no answers to the barrage of questions she knew would be thrown at her.

And Brocca would be notably absent. Brigid didn’t think she could bear that. She could gather a search party and scour the woods, but the raiding party was half a day ahead. And in what direction had they gone?

She was weary, sickened by the smell of cabbage that would not go away no matter which way she wandered. She decided to seek shelter, to be alone, to think and pray. A small crack in a rocky outcrop west of the river suggested the presence of a cave shelter. She worked her way up, coaxing Geall along behind her, though he was none too cooperative.

She reached a narrow shelf near the opening and discovered she’d been right. There was a cave there, and it would be the perfect place to hide away and seek God’s direction. After all, hadn’t Jesus done that, hidden himself away in the wilderness for forty days? She should follow his example.

Inside, the dank darkness mirrored her mood. She threw herself to the ground and wept, not even bothering to tie up her horse. The stench of stewed cabbage had followed her. She held on to her stomach, willing the pang to leave, but it would not. With drops of sweat beading up on her forehead, Brigid ran out of the cave to empty her stomach. She cried and wiped her mouth with damp rhododendron leaves.
Oh, God, where are ye?

She dragged herself back to the cave, embarrassed that she had allowed herself such thoughts and gotten upset enough to be sick. Geall had posted himself outside the cave entrance. She pulled a blanket out of the saddle pouch – someone had thought ahead to make sure she had sufficient protection from the weather. The wrap was thick and tightly woven. She swept it around her shoulders, imagining the warmth she felt was a hug from her mother.

Maither.
She burst into tears again.

Days later, Brigid was still there, leaving the cave only occasionally to take care of necessities and to munch on a few wild herbs to settle her stomach. She prayed, when she could bring herself to, and recited Psalms that came to mind. Mostly, she wondered how God could have forgotten her.

After about a week of feeling sorry for herself, some woodsfolk discovered her.

“We’ve been looking for ye, Miz Brigid. Are ye fine?”

Brigid peered out of the cave. The sun hurt her eyes, and she imagined an owl would feel the same way when someone stirred him from his home. “I am. I must be alone to meditate and commune with God.”

A man with cheerful furrows fanning out from his eyes like a sunburst ducked his head inside the cave. “I understand. ’Tis like those monks. Especially those, I hear, who live out on the western islands.”

She nodded and pulled the blanket up to her eyes.

An old woman, probably his wife, stepped in front of the man and held up a finger. “Before we leave, since we’ve come all this way just to check on yer wellbeing, might ye find some food for some hungry travelers?”

“Of course.” Brigid snapped her hand to her mouth. What had she said? She had nothing. She cleared her throat. “God always provides, does he not?”

The old couple murmured, and elbowed each other. The man mumbled, “God provides for Miz Brigid always.”

“Give me a moment.” Brigid searched the leather bag still attached to Geall’s saddle. Nothing. She felt her pockets. Nothing. “Well, we’ll have to look in the forest. I’ve no dairy here.”

“Certainly.” The couple followed her like baby chicks waddling after their mother.

Two pheasants were roosting beneath an elm. They would make more than a meal’s worth of meat. Brigid felt she should pray, but no words came. Her heart refused. She hoped the pheasants would come willingly, but they did not, and she had no spear. She stood there, feeling the stares of the man and his wife on her back. The birds took flight.

She spun around and held her arms out to her side. “I’m sorry. I have nothing for ye, and nothing for myself either.”

The couple was speechless, gazing at her as though they’d seen fairies in the trees.

She called toward their backs as they descended the cliff. “Please understand! I just can’t help ye.”

Never had she turned anyone away before. She should have felt grief over it, but she didn’t. She had a hole in her heart that only her mother could fill. Without Brocca, Brigid felt unloved. And one who is unloved has no love to give. She was empty.

At night the cave was unbelievably dark. No firelight, no illumination from the moon, no distant torchlight from a settlement. The blackness was oddly comforting – until one night.

Brigid lay under her plaid blanket, dozing through unsettled dreams, when she felt a presence. She listened, hoping she could identify the sound. The object’s shuffling through the leaves at the cave’s opening gave the impression of mass. The thing, whatever it was, was large.

Brigid scooted back and leaned against the wall of the cave. Although she squinted, she saw nothing in front of her eyes. She remembered what Brocca had told her about being blind.
Use yer other senses.
But she was afraid. She couldn’t see the thing. Where was it? Was it coming for her? Would she have time to react?

Brigid clutched the blanket’s hem in her fists, willing herself to be calm.

Smell.
What was that smell? A grunt told her – a wild boar. She listened again. A short
snort-snort
came from the other edge of the cave. The animal hadn’t detected her yet. She crept slowly, painfully, toward the direction where she’d heard the leaves shuffle – the cave’s opening. She held her breath, then exhaled as silently as she could, blowing puffs of air through her teeth.

She hadn’t meant to, but she let a cry escape. The thing heard and trotted directly at her. There was no choice now. Whether or not she trusted her senses, she’d have to take a chance and hope that she ran for the opening and not the depths of the cave.

Brigid flipped her arms from side to side and ran. Her feet hit the leaf carpet of the forest floor. She breathed in the forest smell. Still the boar pursued her.

Wailing, she changed directions, hoping to climb the cliff and thwart the beast. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the night, and she pulled on saplings, climbing higher and higher. Her legs ached and her voice grew hoarse. Brigid suddenly realized the boar was no longer near. She wept tears more bitter than tansy.

She scuttled under a bush and stayed till morning.

The sun’s light brought little warmth. Shivering, she rose and returned to the cave to fetch her blanket. Fortunately, the boar had not returned and not left any excrement.

Brigid wandered farther from the cave, hoping to find some berries or roots. Today, this moment, was all she could manage to think about.

A figure in a dark cloak wandered near the river. Another beggar? She couldn’t bear having nothing to give. She was as hollow as a badger’s log home – and without meaning. The animals no longer obeyed her. She was worthless without her mother from whom she had gained strength.

A fast would be appropriate. She’d eaten little anyway, but if she avoided all food, perhaps then God would show up and aid her. And if she returned to the cave swiftly, the stranger would not find her.

She was only a few paces away from the cave when the man called out, “Hello, there! Might it be Brigid I’m seeing?”

She lifted her eyes to the ice-blue sky.
Why?

He hollered again. “’Tis I, Brian of Glasgleann.”

“Brian? What are ye doing here?” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears – scratchy and weak.

“Cook sent me. She’s worried, she is. I’m come to find out if yer well. May I come up?”

Brigid should have known Cook would send someone looking for her. She scooted to the edge of the cave’s shelf and shouted down to him, “If ye’d please, Brian, tell Cook I’m fine! Tell her to return to Glasgleann. I must be alone, like Christ in the wilderness, to pray and meditate. Please understand.”

Brian removed his hood. The morning sun shone on his copper-colored head. He raised one hand to his forehead. “How long?”

She bit her lip. What could she say to convince him to leave? She drew in the mossy air, collecting her composure. “Tell Cook that I’ll return just as soon as the Lord gives me direction. I am safe. I just seek counsel with the Lord.”

“I will tell her.” He drew his cloak back over his head and mounted his horse.

She watched him ride toward the Cell of the Oak, and she wondered if she should have asked for supplies. No, she was fasting. She had wanted him to leave, but now she felt more alone than ever. No God, no God-fearing friends, no mother. Her fast would be of more than food.

The next morning someone or something stirred outside the cave. Brigid’s sanctuary was not as secluded as she had first thought. Had Brian returned? She scooted to the opening and called out, “Brian, I told ye not to come back.”

“Who’s Brian?” Ardan, clothed in his snowy druid garb stood before her, smiling.

She was too weak to resist. “You? Where’s my mother?” She pulled hopelessly on the edges of his robes. He stood stoic, more powerful and confident than she. Brigid flung herself back to her blanket bed.

“We will talk about Brocca shortly. First we have to do something about you.”