Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (14 page)

The gods had smiled on him. If he had never fallen and shed his blood on the stone, he might not have seen the message within the message. For without the hidden marks, the stone seemed to be a common marker, telling a traveler how much farther to the next druid gathering. But when he uncovered the concealed marks, the true meaning was clear.

The passageway opens here, At the Samhain’s midnight.

A candle shown from stone’s east side

will mark the way to the one whose birth was prophesied.

Brigid.
The coded message spoke of the young lass he sought. The gods had heard his request. At the festival where the dead mingle with the living, he’d be able to snatch Brigid and deliver her to Troya. Once Brigid was dead, the knowledge of the god who threatened to overrule Ardan’s gods would die with her. The Others approved of his plan.

Chapter 14

“The seeking for one thing will find another.”

Old Irish saying

Torchlight in the distance guided them to the crannog. Brigid hoped her mother had preceded them. “Is there someone there?”

“I’ve always got a man posted to tend to things. I’ll call the rest.” Bram handed Brigid the pole he used to guide the raft and grasped a bullhorn that was secured to the side of the vessel. He took in a long slow breath from inside the shelter of his deep hood and blew two short calls through the horn followed by one long blast. Then he sat down on the wet raft logs, exhausted.

Brigid felt the craft’s edge with her fingers. “Is the raft safe?”

He blew puffs of air that clouded in the cold. “This weather’s been a test of its worthiness, it has, and it shows no signs of stress. Don’t worry, lass. We’ve made it safe, we have. My household will soon find us.”

She struggled against the wind-driven waves to navigate with the help of the steering pole, but thankfully the little island was near. She glanced at the old man. “Yer spent. Would ye like me to blow the horn?”

He shook his wet hood. “Nay, the watchman heard.”

A soft sound echoed Bram’s call from the dark island. Brigid listened as it grew louder. “He’s calling yer servants, then?”

“Aye. Yer mother will come.”

When they reached the fortress, a shadowy figure dressed all in black met them, lending a hand and securing the raft. They scrambled over stones and up a steep path to the gate. Inside the picket walls they made for the largest shelter, and once inside, traded their soaked outer cloaks for dry blankets the caretaker offered.

“Oh, a fire!” Brigid headed for the central stone ring and shivered as her body detected the warmth. Her eyes watered for a moment, but soon she was able to take in the surroundings. The hut was simple, encircled by sleeping cots and baskets of what she hoped was food. There had to be more shelters in the compound. Perhaps her mother was waiting in another. “My mother, Bram?”

He blinked the smoky fire from his own eyes. “Soon.” He turned to the servant. “Man, have ye put water on for tea?”

The servant scurried to his duties, preparing an herbal tea and a meal of dry bread and cheese. When they’d had a bite, Bram tended to Brigid’s wounds.

He dampened some pulverized herbs with a bit of the tea and dabbed at the scratches. “Healing already. Ah, to be young when yer body does what it should.”

She pulled the cloth away to have a look. “Pine needles?

Comfrey?”

“Ah, ye know yer herbs. Some of that, aye. Ground up last summer. Should do fine for yer scratches.”

Brigid endured the pampering for a while and then asked again. “Bram, when will I see my mother?” A dark thought crossed her mind. “Is she in danger?”

The caretaker tipped his head toward the pelt door.

Bram leaned toward her. “Someone’s coming.” He rushed to a corner and gathered his druid prophecy sticks. He hummed and chanted something Brigid couldn’t understand and then tossed the sticks on the ground near the fire.

Foolishness.
Brigid joined the servant at the doorway and listened. The sound of a boat lapping through the waves grew closer. The wind had died down and the patter of frozen rain ceased. The man hurried out of the hut and she followed.

“Who’s there? My mother? That old beggar looking for his gold cups?”

The man answered her with a stern look. He climbed to a lookout, paused, and then slid down quickly. As she looked on, he departed the fortress walls and skidded down an incline where a curragh cramped with torch-bearing visitors waited. Bram joined Brigid at the entrance to the crannog and rested his hand on her shoulder.

She turned to look into his pallid face. “Not enemies, I assume?”

“One can never be too careful.”

Brigid wanted to ask him what he was running from, but a tiny woman dashed toward them, stretching out her arms. A man followed close behind with a torch, picking her up every time she stumbled. The woman’s face was radiant as she cried out Brigid’s name.

Bram pushed Brigid forward. “Go to yer mother.”

Brigid’s feet froze. She’d longed for the moment, but now she couldn’t budge, couldn’t believe it could be true.

Brocca came to her and enfolded her in thin arms. “Ah, my Brigid! How I have longed for ye all these many seasons.” She squeezed Brigid and wept.

“Maither.” The word felt odd coming from Brigid’s lips. It was a term others used, not her. Brigid felt herself being bustled into the shelter by the small wave of visitors.

After they had all collected inside, Bram introduced the others. Although they were all his servants, they seemed to be his friends as well. They laughed, hugged, and smiled much like the peasants in the woods who held equal standing among themselves.

Brocca ignored the others and clung to her daughter. Everyone seemed to understand that the reunion was something special. Brigid and Brocca received attention as though they were royalty.

Brocca ran her hands over Brigid’s cheeks. “What happened to ye, darlin’?”

Bram stepped forward. Brigid had not yet found her voice. “A fall from a wagon. Nothing serious. I’ve treated the scratches.”

Brocca squeezed Brigid’s hand. “Well, then. I will look after it also.”

Brigid couldn’t breathe. The close proximity of people and the smokiness of the fire that had been stoked to prepare food, made her gasp for air. She shook the hands off her and ran outside. The sleet had changed back to rain, and she welcomed the feel of it on her skin. Voices came from the hut, but only Bram followed her.

He urged her under the overhanging roof where the rain couldn’t wash away her tears. “When ye seek something so long, ’tis sometimes impossible to believe ’tis true when ye find it.”

Brigid swallowed. “A wise druid saying.” She kicked at the mud sticking to her shoes. “I wanted to find my mother. I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to be the one to care for her, yet she tends to me. And… I don’t know her, Bram.” Tears washed down her face like the rain dripping off the hut’s roof. Bram encircled her with his cloak. She leaned her head against the smallness of his shoulder. “It has been many years, child. Yer memories of yer mother are those of a child, yet ye no longer are a child. What ye needed then, ye need no more.

That’s what’s troubling ye. She will understand. I will speak to her.” He pointed toward a smaller shelter. “Go there. Ye’ll find turf for a fire and warm pelts. I’ll confer with Brocca, and she’ll join ye there later. I’ll send some venison stew.”

“Oh, thank ye, Bram!” How she wished that this man had been her master instead of Dubthach.

“Wait.” He reached up to remove a torch from an iron pocket near the door where it had been protected from the rain. “Take this with ye and get that fire started. This will be a bitter cold night.”

Brocca heard his footsteps approaching. “Bram. My sweet child – where is she?”

“I have sent her to the sleeping quarters. We will eat, talk, and then later ye’ll join her there.”

Brocca bowed her head. He was her master, and although she hated the thought of being separated from Brigid, even for an hour, she acknowledged his authority. He had said they would talk, and there was much to discuss with him.

The other servants busied themselves with food preparation. Brocca’s work was done for the day. She had closed up the dairy just before the horn blast sounded. Bram only used the horn to signal danger and summon them to the crannog. But long ago they had agreed that if he were ever able to pry her darling Brigid from Dubthach’s clutches, he would signal Brocca with a long horn blast. When she heard it, her heart had nearly leapt from her chest.

Brocca had known Brigid’s arrival could come at any time. Brian, Dubthach’s coachman, had told Bram of Brigid’s exile. “She seeks her mother above all else,” Bram had told her after his last visit to the Christians’ biannual seashore gathering.

Brocca scooted closer to the peat fire, letting the warmth dry her tears. Bram had much explaining to do. Where did he find her daughter? What danger had brought them to the crannog? There had to be a reason why they gathered there instead of meeting at their dwelling. And why did the girl seek solitude now?

Someone tucked a mug of herbal tea into her hands. She thanked the server and lifted the tin cup to her lips. Soon the smell of thickening stew wafted to her nose.
Oh, Brigid.
The poor lass. She must be terribly hungry.

The sound of harp music told Brocca the cooking was nearly finished. Bram’s footsteps neared again.

“We will talk,” he said. “But in hushed voices. The gods are angry, they are.”

Brocca had humored his talk of pagan gods for far more years than she wished. She and some of the other servants had attempted to talk to Bram about Patrick’s teachings, but while he was willing to accept the existence of another god, he would not abandon his gods for the One God, the Creator.

Brocca reached her hand toward him. “Why do ye say the gods are angry?”

His woolen cloak touched her legs as he seated himself beside her on the rush-covered floor. “The Samhain approaches. I have read the new ogham in the clearing. Druids from far off have placed it there. Wise men, they are., who have traveled from Leinster. I met them briefly during my wanderings. They left after marking the stone, but the message is important – a message concerning knowledge.”

Brocca had become the old druid’s confidante in recent years. Perhaps her blindness had made her the perfect listener. “What does any of this have to do with my daughter? My arms ache for her so.”

“Patience, Brocca. Ye’ll be with her soon, ye will. But first we must speak about the Samhain.”

Brocca took in a deep breath and released it slowly. The pagans’ holiday, a celebration that she had once enjoyed, was becoming a burden. More and more people were seeking to have the future revealed on that occasion, when the veil between life and death was thought to be lowered. “Only the One God knows the future, master.”

“Ah!” His cup hit the dirt floor; it was evidently empty because she felt no splatter of hot liquid. “The gods reveal their plans to me. I heard them just this afternoon on the journey here.”

She resigned herself to hearing the pagan tales. “Very well. Tell me of the ogham.”

Bram leaned in close and whispered, “I will tell ye the message, but ye must promise not to reveal it to anyone before its time.”

She snorted. “Of course not.” “Not to yer daughter.” “She’d have no use for it.”

“Ah, but yer wrong. On the way she begged me to tell her the message. Seems she’s learned the writing and reading of the Romans from monks in Aghade.”

“Monks?” The news surprised Brocca. She realized Patrick had established several areas in the east where some were faithful to the Word, and that some men had dedicated their lives to serving Christ, but writing?

“That’s right. I cannot tell her, nor anyone save you, ’bout the message.”

“Riddles. Yer becoming like every other druid in Ireland.”

He moaned. “And I am to believe ye met every druid on the isle?”

Of course she hadn’t, but she had traveled before she lost her eyesight. He’d allowed her that, but she had to admit he was far more familiar with people from distant provinces than she was.

He drummed his fingers against something hard, his druid sticks likely.

“Something is truly bothering ye, master.”

“Aye. And ye’ll be better off for knowing, but she won’t.” “Tell me, then.”

“The Samhain’s in two days’ time. When the time of the dropping of the veil comes, the stone instructs the holding of a candle near it, to lead the way to the passage.”

She pulled the woolen blanket a servant had brought her up to her shoulders. “What of this?”

“The stone says the passage will lead to someone – someone important whose coming was prophesied.”

“Ye know I don’t believe in such things.”

He continued on anyway. “There’s a stranger in the forest, there is.”

“That’s why ye fled? To get away from the stranger?” “Aye. Believed him to be a beggar, I did. Brigid thought so too.”

“How do ye know he’s not?”