Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (3 page)

“All those words?” Dubthach ticked off his fingers as if trying to remember exactly what she had said. “Which ones are the magic ones? Which ones make the chickens produce, the cows give more milk, make the butter sweeter and more plentiful?”

Brigid rolled her eyes and pulled the door open. “That’s what I said. I’m off to my bed.”

Chapter 3

“Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?”

Matthew 7:9

Brigid approached the others the next morning. Brian tinkered with the plow. Cook and Alana watched.

Cook’s neck strained like a goose’s to look at her. “What was that all about last night?”

“The miracles in the dairy.”

Cook grabbed Brigid’s shoulders. “Did ye tell him, then?

Did he listen?” She released her grip.

Brigid shook her head. “Yer right. He didn’t listen. Was only concerned about his wealth. Thinks my prayers contain magic words that can be used by anyone to conjure up milk and eggs.”

Brian shook his head and lowered his hammer. “Shall we get to it?”

Prayer time.
That’s why she had been summoned to the field. The four of them were the only Christians at Glasgleann, and they snatched moments here and there for prayer and support.

Alana recited a verse from the Psalms, one of many she had memorized. Cook’s granddaughter had a mind as sharp as needles. Her recollection of verses recited by travelers was a blessing to their little group.

“One day I’ll learn to read and write,” Brigid promised. “I’ll bring the Word of God here to all of ye and teach ye to read it for yerselves.”

Brian chuckled. “Lairds, gentry – they’re the ones who learn to read. Not slaves.”

They didn’t understand. Everything they had learned came from listening to stories. Brigid longed for more, ever since she had seen a page of manuscript shown to her by a traveling Christian monk. Dubthach knew how to read. Wasn’t she his daughter? Why then shouldn’t she learn?

That night Brigid lay awake, unable to capture the peace of sleep. She thought about the miracles God had allowed her to perform. She also wondered about her mother.

Puddin, Brigid’s pet cat, lay on Brigid’s chest, purring loud enough to wake the chickens had they been nearby. Brigid nudged the cat away and rolled to one side. The moon outside her window cast a faint glow on her face.

Why had God given her the ability to perform miracles? Brigid was thankful she could help people – that was her heart’s desire. But she was no more special than anyone else. Was she?

Brigid pondered her conversation with the master. Why had she said that about the poor always being with us?

The room filled with the soft sighs of sleeping slave women. They’d worked hard and they welcomed sleep. She had labored also, but her dreams were held back by unanswered questions.

Brigid pulled her linen sheet over her face and turned away from the moonlight. Squeezing her eyes tight did nothing to calm her unsettled heart.

Where was her mother?

Brigid awoke the next morning and knew she hadn’t slept long.

“Get up, lass!” Cook called. “Brian and the master have already left.”

Brigid had nearly forgotten. Dubthach and Brian were riding to the shore that day to meet a merchant ship. Dubthach insisted on doing his own bartering. He didn’t trust anyone.

His absence meant she was free to ask Cook about her mother. “Coming!” Brigid yelled out the window to Cook who was working in her herb garden.

She pulled a fresh tunic over her undergarment and splashed water from the room’s basin on her face. She was dragging a comb made of bone through her tangled tresses when Cook appeared in the room.

“Think it’s time to be lazy when the master is away, do ye now?”

Brigid was stunned. “Why, nay. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Suppose being the master’s daughter gives ye some privilege.” Cook snapped a laundered apron off the wall of hooks and tied it about her waist. She took two steps toward the door.

Brigid blocked the doorway, hands on hips. “I’m a servant, same as ye.”

Alana pushed in under Brigid’s arm, followed by three golden-haired siblings. “Maimeo, are we making the honey bread now?”

“Aye, off with ye!” Cook shooed her clan out of the sleeping room and turned to Brigid. “If ye think yer the same as me, yer mistaken. And remember what I told ye yesterday. Mind me, Brigid. The master’s wife has ears all over Glasgleann.”

Cook shut the oak door and Brigid felt the vibration run right through her. Cook was right. They weren’t the same. The master’s eldest servant was privileged enough to have her family near.

“Where’s my mother?” Brigid whispered to the mice she heard running inside the walls. Her legs felt like day-old porridge. Throwing herself down on her mat, Brigid wept into her hands.

Brigid found Alana hovering over a mixing bowl when she arrived in the kitchen. The lass greeted her with concern. “Are ye ill, Brigid?”

“Nay, I’m just… well, tired is all. I came to fetch my milking buckets.”

“Mamai’s already done the milking, Brigid. Come, help us bake.”

Alana’s brothers and sisters scurried about the room, pulling at Cook’s skirts. Hearing Alana speak about her mother and call Cook, her grandmother, “maimeo”, was more than Brigid could bear. “I have some mending to do. And I have to check on Puddin. She’s due to have kits any time now.” Brigid’s excuse satisfied Alana and she returned to kneading dough. Brigid paused a moment to watch Alana and the others. Cook pulled back the shutters, letting streaks of sunlight fill the dank kitchen. Without the master to spoil the mood, the kitchen servants were relaxed and cheery.

Brigid hastened outside.
Behind the barn.
Puddin, if she had given birth, would probably be there. The sunlight gave way to clouds and a mist began to fall, coating Brigid’s clothing with moist beads that would soon dampen more than her spirits.

“Puddin, are ye there?” She inspected the birches behind the barn and found no trace of her cat. Just as she was about to head into the barn, a likely place for a mother cat to give birth on a rainy day, someone grabbed her arm.

“Ouch! Let go!” She recognized the fellow. He was a common slave who worked for her father. A shepherd.

“Want to know about the master’s old woman?” He grinned at her with a full mouth of white teeth, very unusual for shepherds.

She has ears all over Glasgleann.
Brigid knew she had to heed Cook’s warning. “I don’t believe I do.” Brigid flung his hand away and moved toward the barn door.

He blocked her path. His boots were covered in sheep dung, and a blade of grass hung from his lips. He pulled it loose and pointed it at her. “I hear ye’ve been asking why yer mother was sent away.”

The man’s black eyes bore into Brigid’s soul. Hearing someone speak about her mother brought her to tears.

She looked away. “Where’d ye hear that?”

“Oh, I heard, that’s all. Was that old woman that did it. Course, the master allowed it. Sent yer mother away, he did.”

“I know that. ’Tis no concern of yers. Leave me be.”

“Suit yerself, lassie. But Cook won’t tell ye everything.” He slipped off into the forest like a brown snake.

Why would that man leave his sheep to come tell Brigid what she already knew? No, Cook wouldn’t tell her about that old wife, but what did it matter? Odd, he was. She knew others like him, always spreading gossip to feel important. Was that what was happening? Were all the servants talking about her now?

Brigid’s head throbbed. She didn’t care about some old wife her father had once had. Dubthach wasn’t capable of loving anyone but himself, and he’d probably cast his wife away, just like Brigid’s mother. No, that woman, whoever she was, was not to blame. It was Brigid’s deceitful father who had separated her from her mother.

Brigid glanced around the dairy. Hungry people would visit soon. Surely there was more to give away than just extra milk and eggs. She rushed back to the main house, birds clucking at her heels.

Cook’s family was busy chatting in the kitchen. Dubthach’s dishes were just out of their sight in a large cupboard that towered over Brigid’s head. Because the cupboard door was slightly ajar, she wouldn’t have to risk having the door creak and draw attention. Brigid’s heart pounded as she fingered the serving pieces. She kept an ear to the happy conversation in the next room as she tried to be as invisible as possible.

“Why is Brigid sad, Maimeo?” a child asked. “She misses her mother.”

“She has a mother?”

A boy chided his sister. “Yer lame. Everyone has a mother.”

“Do not.”

“Aye, they do.”

Cook scolded them. “Hush now. She does. Can’t remember her much and that’s what makes her sad.”

They went back to their baking, as though Brigid’s plight was not worth wasting too much time worrying over. They’d never know what it was like to be motherless. None of them.

Brigid examined the cabinet’s contents. Several pieces of silver intermingled with the everyday tin dishes and wooden utensils. Why shouldn’t the beggars have the best? She slipped a bowl, two mugs, and a delicate vase from a shelf and tiptoed outside, not bothering to close the cupboard.

She curled the dishes under her apron and glanced around. If someone saw her, she’d think of something, say she was polishing them.

The people were there, next to the dairy barn, as always. Two lads and a bent old woman. Brigid ducked inside the dairy, promising to return. No one would miss the silver. Dubthach had plenty.

Brigid gathered what she could. The animals were always generous. Outside, she found the poor folks glancing around as though a wolf might pounce on them any moment.

“What’s this?” The old woman patted Brigid’s outstretched bundle.

“No less than what ye deserve. Take it.”

Toothless grins spread across their faces as she handed them the silver serving pieces filled with the farm’s bounty. She had placed a daisy in the vase and presented it to the woman.

“Master must be away,” she heard the old woman say as the threesome shuffled back into the forest.

Brigid went about her chores as usual and at the end of the day Brian and the master returned. By the following morning Dubthach had discovered what she had done, and his roar of rage set the crows to cawing. He bellowed her name.

Brigid wiped cream from her fingertips as she hurried from the barn. What would he do? Beat her? Or something worse? She found her father standing planted in the main hall, arms folded, spittle on his lips.

“We’re going to see King Dunlaing.” She hadn’t expected that. Dubthach’s cheeks were crimson. His eyebrows bent into a point above his nose.

Brigid’s hands quivered. “Now?” He spit his words. “Aye, now.” “Are ye having me jailed?”

Dubthach laughed. Brigid couldn’t imagine what was funny.

“Suppose I could, though how would that benefit me?” It was always about
him
.

“I can’t be having ye give everything I own away. Would surely gain me more to put ye in his service.”

“But I beg yer pardon, sir. I didn’t give all our food away.

The chickens still gave enough eggs for us, and the cow provided more than enough milk.” Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the other things she had taken.

Dubthach gritted his grimy teeth. “’Tis not the milk and eggs I’m talking about. ’Twas not enough for ye, was it? We’re going. I’ll have no more talk about it.” He pointed to the wagon outside. Brian was absent, making her feel even more nervous.

Brigid hung her head. What had she done? She gazed at her mud-caked skirts, forming a plan that would stall for time. “If I’m to go to the king, sir, I must look my best.” She hoped Cook would be in the servants’ quarters. Maybe she’d tell her what to do.

Dubthach paced, rubbing his gray whiskers. “I suppose I don’t want the king thinking he’s getting inferior goods.”

Goods? If she hadn’t known before, she did now. Her father had never loved her.

“Go on, lass. Hurry up, now. Every minute yer with me ye cost me something.”

Brigid ran from the house. The morning mist wet her face, mixing with tears she couldn’t control. If he didn’t want her, why didn’t he sell her back to her mother’s owner? Why must they go to the king?

“Cook? Brian? Is anyone out here?”

Only the swallows answered. Where was everyone?