Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (13 page)

“But yer a druid. Doesn’t yer position offer ye some privilege?”

He tightened his hands on the rope reins. “Not among thieves.”

“Aren’t people afraid ye’ll put a curse on them or something?”

He laughed out loud. “Only Dubthach believes that. And I only threatened him to assure yer safety.”

Brigid’s head swirled like the dancing leaves around them. “Ye threatened Dubthach? Why? When?”

The druid dropped his voice low. “Oh, dear. I’ve said too much, I have. Yer mother will explain.”

Brigid was about to question him more, but they’d reached another of those peculiar standing stones and Bram stopped the wagon.

“Wait here. Keep yer eyes on the surrounding woods while I read it.”

“Nay. I want to learn to read it. Teach me.”

Bram’s clear eyes turned gray. “Ye’ll stay here, I say. Becoming a druid takes many years of training, it does. A druid’s language will not be shared without guidance from the gods.” He hurried away.

What could he mean? The old druid was not nearly as protective over the first rock she saw, the one where she first met him. He’d said the lines represented something only druids understood. Not only did druids speak in puzzles, they apparently also read them.

She watched at a distance as Bram knelt beside the stone. He examined it beginning at the bottom left side. He ran his gnarled fingers over the marks, stopping every few moments to gaze at the trees that dropped their leaves like fox-frightened chickens shedding their feathers. Bram spat into his hand, sprinkled dirt on top and rubbed the paste onto the stone. What message could be so important? What was he reflecting on? What bizarre ritual was he performing?

Bram returned, but he did not acknowledge her inquisitive stare. Instead, he studied the trees, held out his hand toward the horse, and then drove on.

“What was that all about?” He didn’t answer.

She tried again. “Words that are written down tell stories.

That’s what I learned from Cillian the monk.” Still nothing.

Brigid had forgotten what she said until several moments later when the druid spoke. “Just stories? Is that all the monks are writing?”

A sharp wind blew from the south, bringing the smell of the ocean. She shouted an answer while retrieving a blanket from the back. “Nay, not just stories. Other things too.”

Bram didn’t respond until she returned to the seat next to him. He seemed to be unsettled since he studied the stone. More serious. He touched her hand with his. He was cold. She covered them both with the blanket.

He winked at her. “What other things do they write?” “Do ye really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Why is it fine for ye to know ’bout that, but I am not to know the druid’s language?”

Bram’s words sounded rehearsed. “A druid has a responsibility that can only be handled with years of training. The language, ’tis more than mere stories, even more than mere words.” He pulled at the blanket with one hand. “I could teach ye, aye, but I’ve not enough time before the gods come for me.” He smiled at her and wrinkles darted from his eyes like spokes on a wheel. “But stories… aye, we
can
share stories. Ye tell me yers. I’ll tell ye mine.”

A mystery, but perhaps learning some of the druids’ stories, and pointing out the errors in them, might help Brigid reach him with the stories of Jesus.

She lowered her chin. “You first.”

Bram began explaining about the branches of the oak tree and the mysteries they held. Just then a band of men lunged into their path.

Ardan saw the bandits and was torn. Should he rescue the druid? Druids have vast spiritual connections. Helping him might appease gods, but if the gods were responsible for the attack, Ardan’s help would only bring trouble upon himself. Still, if he did nothing and Brigid was killed, his plan to use her and Troya to bring honor to himself would be ruined.

He looked down at his drab clothing. He was in disguise. No one would know who he was. A battle of wills raged in his mind. He was not a warrior. But a druid
can
defend himself.

While he debated, three aggressors shoved the lass and the old druid to the ground. They ransacked the wagon. What was that they held? Ardan squinted. His horse lost its footing, sending pebbles down the cliff toward the altercation. His presence was revealed. He’d now have to play the part of rescuer. The decision had been made for him. “Stop, thieves!”

The three men looked up, their eyes as round as full moons. They saw him climbing down the cliff, bearing a dagger, and darted off into the woods.

The old druid struggled with his walking stick as he got to his feet. “Well, good man. Ye’ve certainly come at the right moment.”

“Glad to help. Are ye hurt?” Ardan offered a hand then pulled it back and covered his mouth, pretending to shield himself from dust the tussle had stirred up. Hopefully, Brigid wouldn’t recognize him.

Brigid stood brushing the road from her cloak. “Nay. No harm done. Bram?”

“I am well. We owe ye for yer help, sir.” He reached into a bag and pulled out a golden goblet.

Ardan had never seen anything so luminous. He examined it closely, turning his back to the girl. The piece fit the curve of his fingers. The ornamentation circling the base was unlike anything he had ever seen. “Roman.”

Brigid tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

Ardan held the cup in front of his face. “Oh, I was just thinking to myself. This looks foreign. Where’d ye get such a lovely thing? From the merchant ships?” Ardan realized he’d been so caught up in admiring the piece he’d nearly forgotten his mission.

Brigid tried to look at him so he tilted his head away. She tended to the druid instead, flicking grime from his cloak as she spoke. “Nay. ’Twas a gift. One might not be enough to buy some new clothes. Bram, shall we give him another?”

Another?
Ardan stared at the old man. “Well, I was just trying to help, that is all.”

The old druid stepped forward. “I could use yer help when we get to the bay. This lass is on her way to see her mother. They have been separated since she was five seasons old.”

Ardan stretched his tunic over his mouth, as if he were cold. It didn’t appear that Brigid recognized him. As the old man mentioned Brigid’s mother Ardan noted the sorrow in the girl’s eyes. He’d trained himself to search for a person’s weakness. Knowing such things was often advantageous. Brigid pulled on the edges of her cloak and glanced over her shoulder at the western horizon. She longed, ached, for her mother. It was clear.

The old druid pulled him aside. “’Tis an extremely important pilgrimage, ye see.”

Ardan smiled. “Aye, I do see.”

“If ye’d agree to help us, I’ll see to it that ye get five of these exquisite cups. We’ll be needing to get to my crannog with our possessions.”

“Five? Kind of ye, sir. I’d be most happy to be of service.”

A fortunate occurrence. Now Ardan would have Brigid cornered out in the bay.

He’d proceed slowly. If he sensed the old man would not be amicable to the scheme, he’d keep up his masquerade as a commoner and keep the gold vessels as a reward. Then he’d kidnap the lass during the Samhain. That all-important festival was approaching, a time when everyone dressed in disguise and the dead walked among the living. In that setting no one would know what had happened until it was too late.

“May I ask that ye carry on ahead of me and I’ll catch up? I need to make a few arrangements at my home first,” Ardan lied, returning the gold cup to the leather bag Bram had pulled it from.

CHAPTER 13

“All sins cast long shadows.”

Old Irish proverb

Ardan retraced the wagon’s path until he arrived at the clearing bearing the ogham stone. He’d never seen this particular one. Since the ancient druid had intently studied it earlier, it had to have significance. If the druid was keeping something from him, Ardan wanted to know before he himself was cornered in the bay.

There were no other stones in sight. Having only one to interpret would make his task simple. A raven swept overhead, casting a long shadow over the stone on that unusually sunny autumn afternoon. The markings were not decipherable without adequate sunlight.

“Off with ye!” Ardan waved his walking stick at the bird hovering above his head.
What was happening?
With his robed arms billowing wildly, he must have stirred the ire of the tree gods. Leaves dropped with a sudden whirl of wind, bouncing up and striking his face.

The world around swirled, and Ardan lost his balance. He came crashing down at the base of the stone, striking his head against it. Warm trickles of blood dripped from his forehead onto the marks engraved on the stone, but his head hurt too much to make sense of it. Then all went black.

“Where do ye think he is?” Brigid cuddled close to the druid for warmth.

“I’ve been wondering myself, I have. Not likely a poor man would pass up the chance to get his hands on those goblets.” Bram halted the horse.

“What’s wrong?” Brigid glanced around for more robbers. The wind dislodged leaves from their treetop homes, but neither man nor animal was in sight.

“He said he was going back to his home, aye?” “That’s right.”

He whipped the reins against the horse and started again, this time at an urgent clip.

“Bram, what is it?”

“We’ve been deceived, we have. If the man were going home, he’d have asked for one goblet in trust, left it for his family, and returned post haste.”

“What do ye mean, deceived?” Brigid had to hold on to the side of the wagon to keep from being flung out. “Maybe the bandits caught him. We should go check. He might need help.” Bram wouldn’t listen. The rig didn’t travel fast enough for him so he stopped to hurl out everything he deemed unnecessary. With much effort, he tossed away the barrel of ale along with the pots and pans. He left only the sack of gleaming cups then scurried back to take up the reins.

Brigid stared at him. What had scared the man so? Bram gazed toward the horizon, ignoring her. What had she gotten herself into? Was this old druid mad? How did she know he really had her mother on his island?

On an impulse she leapt from the wagon, hitting the ground hard and scraping her face on fallen tree branches.

Bram halted a short distance away, scrambled down from the wagon seat, and shuffled back to her. “Who’s the daft one now?”

Her cheek lay in a paste of bloodied dirt. Her lungs refused to expand. She gasped, filling them with little pockets of air. She saw him creeping toward her, and she backed away on her knees. “I don’t know ye. You may be the one who’s a deceiver.” Bram reached out his hand, the color of sun-bleached shells. “Child, I want to help ye, I do. It’s been hard for ye, living with Dubthach. Come. We’ve not much time.”

Brigid dismissed his hand and scrambled to her feet. She was sore, scratched, but not hurt too badly. “How could ye know what my life at Glasgleann’s been like? Some magical sense ye have?” She mocked him but couldn’t hold back.

He shook his wispy hair loose from his hood. “Oh, I know, I do, because I’ve seen ye since that time you and Brocca were separated. And I’ve talked to Brian.”

Brigid felt dizzy. Words stuck in her throat as she gasped for air to push them out. “Tell me how… how did ye see me? And Brian?”

“I will tell ye, but please, get back in the rig. Got to hurry.” He handed her his walking stick.

The wind blew harder, stinging her raw cheeks. She’d have to go with the druid. If there were a chance her mother was on that island, she had to find her. The druid spoke oddly and was easily spooked, but putting up with the old man would be worthwhile if it meant she’d get her mother back. And certainly her mother
would
explain everything.

Her side ached as she pulled herself up to the wooden plank seat. She fingered her facial wounds and noted the rawness. Her fingernails were caked with dirt. What would her mother think? What would she say? It did seem idiotic to jump from the druid’s wagon to save a poor man who was nowhere to be seen.

The druid snapped the reins against Geall’s spotted back.

“Hold on. The gods are in the wind and they speak of danger. Long ago I built the crannog for times like these. We’ll be safe with the servants, but we’ve got to hurry to make it before dark.” His voice battled to be heard above the howling wind. A storm gathered on the horizon.

Before long the landscape changed. The terrain was so rocky that the wagon was of no use. Bran shouted directions. “We’ll leave the wagon here. I’ll tie the horse up under that rock shelter and come back for him later.” The wind brought sheets of rain, coating the rocky earth with a shiny black film. “Take the bag!”

Brigid cared little about the treasure. She longed only for her mother’s arms and a seat near a snug turf fire. She grabbed the sack anyway and threw it over her back. The metal inside thumped along her spine as she walked over and around slick, wet boulders. Bram, his white cloak providing a contrast to the darkening sky, seemed to navigate the rocks like a lizard as he carried his own pack.

“Hurry, now,” he called back to her. “The water’s rising, it is.

Brigid couldn’t answer. She had to will her feet to take every difficult step. The rain hit harder, beating her shoulders like a drum. Finally, she forced out some words. “How much farther?” Bram pointed to the hollowed-out base of a large tree.

“We’ll stop here just a moment – to rest.”

They ducked beneath the finger-like roots. The ground was damp, but at least they were spared the constant splatter of angry raindrops. She tossed the bag of goblets outside the shelter.

“Let me look at ye.” The druid nudged her chin upward and she gazed into his wintry face. He pulled a bundle of linen from his pack, dislodged one strip and patted her face with the cloth. “When we get to the crannog, I’ll fetch some herbs for a poultice.”

She didn’t care. “My mother cannot see my wounds unless ye tell her.”

He blinked, pulled his hood up, and waved his arm. “Keep going. Down this cliff I’ve a raft.”

They darted back into the storm. The rain was sharper than before – splintered shards of ice. Brigid grabbed the bag of goblets and held it above her head like a shield. They skidded down an embankment where she spotted the raft hauled up on the beach, waves lapping close. Darkness descended, taunting them.

“Will we make it?”

Not answering, he dragged the raft down into the rising surf and pushed her onto it. Was this the same old man who earlier had not been able to mount a horse? Brigid wondered what kind of fear could drive the man to ignore his physical ailments, the hostile weather, and her foolish jump from the wagon, in his haste to return to the safety of his island fortress.

Rudely awakened by rain pounding his face, Ardan rolled to his side. He drew one hand up to his forehead and patted the throbbing spot. Moist warm blood mixed with the pelting rain.
The gods are angry.

He pulled himself to his feet. Raising his peasant’s hood did nothing to shield him from the damp. He retreated to the woods for shelter and slipped his tall frame under a brush pile. He had to have passed out for some time. The last he remembered, the sky was clear.

Ardan tore a strip from his undergarment, material that was of better quality than the rags he had been masquerading in. He tied it around his wound, pulled the soggy cloak over his head, and went searching for his horse.

By the time he found the mount, the weather had turned dreadful. Sleet was the worst climate to endure outdoors, and he knew that if the old druid lived closer to the coast, the conditions would be worse there. Knowing he had finer clothing stowed inside the bag he’d strapped to the horse, Ardan searched for a dry refuge in which to change.

The frozen rain fell faster and harder. “Come, now,” he whispered to the anxious horse. “We’ll find a cave if we keep moving. The rocks are plenty to the west.”

Ardan closed his eyes, calling upon his spiritual sense to guide him. In the end, it was the horse’s sense that found the way. The animal stepped gracefully through a carpet of mushy fallen leaves and bits of tree bark until he led Ardan to a tiny opening in a rock wall. “Good boy.” Ardan patted the horse’s nose.

Night was falling. Because the woods were wet and the tree branches coated in ice, he could not strike a fire. Ardan reached into his bag and gripped his warm woolen cloak. He shed his drenched clothing, including his undergarment, before pulling on the welcome cover of his own druid clothing. He wiggled his fingers inside the sack like a blind man and pulled out his sheathed ceremonial weapon. There was not even enough light inside the cave to reflect the normally gleaming surface of the solid gold sickle.

Welcome morning light illuminated the cave, but the air remained chilly. Ardan spotted the horse just outside the cave, munching happily on grass that was near enough to the rock’s opening to escape the frost. Ardan rubbed the night’s sleep from his eyes, and his thoughts drifted back to the events before he passed out the previous day.

The ogham.
He’d gone back to the stone to read its message. His fingers wandered to his sore head. Just a scratch. In his mind’s eye, Ardan saw the stone dripping in blood. His blood had filled in spaces in the carving, making it decipherable. He’d have to return today before tracking Brigid and her protector. The commoner’s clothing that had been damp yesterday was now frozen stiff. No matter, he didn’t really need it. He pulled his decorative embellishments from his bag. He normally reserved them for ceremony, but today they’d serve to remind anyone he might meet that he was a powerful druid – powerful enough to be endowed by kings with gifts from the craftsman’s hand. The smith’s first offerings were his, the best gold, bronze, and silver available.

He wrapped a massive metal collar around his neck and fastened it with a bit of chain that hung at the ends. He clasped two bronze bracelets decorated with rare trade enamel inlay around his wrists, although no one would likely see them there, and the coldness of the metal made him shiver. It was the presence of the objects that was most important. He draped a scarlet belt around his waist and then hurried outside to join the horse.

Ardan quickly realized he’d need the warmth of a fire to melt the ice from the druid stone. Besides, he was hungry and the gods who’d been displeased with him yesterday would require a sacrifice to ensure the journey would continue unmolested.

Ah, the druid’s prerogative. He’d almost forgotten. He pulled a rock from his cloak pocket. A fisherman had given it to him, saying that it came from the bottom of the sea. A fire rock, he’d called it. Interpreting the will of the gods to the common people, as well as to the king, had proven advantageous at times.

Ardan dug under the frozen surface of the forest floor until he found several pieces of dry bark. He returned to the stone with the fire rock, the bark, and a small dagger he kept tied in the laces of his shoes. Using his tools, he managed to create a ribbon of smoke that gradually transformed into a little flame.
Praise the god of fire.

Fortunately the wind was still. Ardan snagged two unsuspecting doves from their feeding at the base of an elm. He sacrificed them with his golden sickle, raising them in homage to the sky.

After he feasted, he attempted to read the stone. Its surface had been sufficiently warmed by the fire. Traces of blood stuck in spots but most of it had been washed away. He rubbed the grease from a dove carcass over the writing. Pleased that his craftiness had produced results, he studied the lettering from bottom to top.

Just as he’d hoped. The stone did not merely repeat some clan’s genealogy, as many such writings did. The purpose of this stone was to open doors to hidden knowledge. Secrets a druid of his standing needed, but was sometimes excluded from by those who were jealous of his importance.