Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (16 page)

Brocca whispered back, “I’m surprised ye know this. I suppose ye’ve spent much time at the seashore listening to stories.” Brigid had, but who were those people to own such things?

Brocca held her hand over her mouth. “They were probably given the treasure as payment for fighting in battle. Does not matter from where it comes. They are truly needy for spiritual guidance. We will join them for a short time. To refuse their hospitality would be rude.”

They had to be polite to gain the people’s confidence, but as the day dragged on, Brigid contemplated Brocca’s appointment at the druid stone. Although she would have liked to skip the druid ceremony, Brocca had promised Bram she’d take his place. Brigid began to fidget, wondering if they’d return in time.

The sun dipped into the horizon as they left the woodsfolk to their evening preparations. Brocca had prayed to God and blessed the people. They truly saw her as a Christian priestess.

As they made their way back to Bram and the others, unanswered questions poked at Brigid like gnats. She could not shoo them away. Should she ask about Troya again or try to find out more about the druid stone? She imagined they’d have many hours to come in which to discuss the past, but the time of the Samhain was fast approaching so she decided to ask about that.

“Maither, what’s to happen at the gathering of the druids?”

Brocca laughed and tugged at the flat tin brooch pinned to her cloak at her collarbone. “Most likely nothing, though they will all say otherwise. Some will offer sacrifices, some will interpret the ogham on the stone, some will toss their druid sticks in an attempt to gain insight into what the new year will bring.”

The druid’s estate was in view. Brigid whispered although no one was close enough to hear, “What will
you
do?”

“I will stand in for Bram, and ye’ll go to be my eyes. Ye’ll tell me what ye see and what ye do not see.”

“And what of the ogham stone?”

“Ye’ll describe the marks to me at midnight when a candle casts its glow on the writing. Foolish though that may be. I can feel the marks with my fingers. But we’ll follow their instructions in order to do what we can to show people the truth.”

“Ye know the writing?” The news delighted Brigid. She had wondered about the strange script ever since Bram had stopped at the stone and investigated it so carefully.

“Aye. Now come.” Brocca pointed in the direction of the sleeping quarters. “Ye must help dress me in druidess clothing.”

When Brigid left Brocca to take care of necessities, Brocca requested a private meeting with her master.

“What do ye mean, ye invited her to go with ye, woman?” The old man’s voice was as stressed as the hide on a musician’s bodhran.

“I know danger looms, Bram, but God has urged me to do this.”

“I’ll send a servant to guide ye.” “Nay. I want Brigid.”

He tapped his druid stick on the ground and, as if he thought it worthless, tossed the wand into a corner of his sleeping hut. “I’ve told ye, I have, Brocca, that the gods spoke to me of danger lurking.”

“She knows of Troya.”

Bram grabbed her arm, squeezing too tight. “How does she know this?”

“She says Cook told her, although I don’t believe she knows everything.”

“And still ye choose to take her to the Samhain gathering of the druids?”

She wiggled free of his grip and then rose. “Oh, Bram. Don’t ye see? I have to take her to the place of evil in order to protect her. We will confront it together, defeat it, and then go on to live in peace as freewomen. Besides, this is the perfect opportunity to teach about my God. Ye know that, aye?”

“I know that’s what ye want to do. ’Tis no concern of mine that ye instruct ’bout this other god, ’tis not. But… ” He grumbled. “The leaves speak danger. Brigid knows ’bout Troya. She fears a druid named Ardan. And the stone’s message… ”

Bram paced around the small hut, paused at the place where he’d thrown his druid sticks, then returned and put his hand on her shoulder. He lowered his voice. “If Brocca and her god can do this and succeed, then truly no other gods rival hers.”

Brocca smiled and patted his rough, dry hand. She had expected him to rant and rave, to tell her how foolish she was. But somehow he understood. Brigid was God’s blessing to Ireland and now was the time to prove it. With that accomplished, no one, not even the wicked Troya, would command enough power to harm Brocca’s daughter. And all who observed the power of the One True God would give the Lord the honor.

Just before midnight Brigid and her mother approached the clearing where the mysterious stone stood like a grave marker. Brocca, though her robes hung on her skeleton-like body, looked lovely in the golden jewelry of a druidess. She carried a walking stick embedded with deep blue, green, and red stones.

Along the edge of the clearing, men and women dressed in white robes stood mute. No one was as exquisitely attired as Brigid’s mother. Nearly barren trees with moonlight peeking between the branches, cast eldritch shadows on the ground. Although not the site of tombs, which pagans called passageways, the somber mood suggested such.

Brocca whispered, “When midnight comes, the moon will cast a shadow directly across the middle of the stone. Do ye have the candle?”

“Aye, but won’t a torch do?” Brigid disliked carrying candles that dripped down her fingers.

“Nay, it must be a candle.”

Brigid detested being present for the pagan ritual. If her mother could see the clearing, look at the solemn faces, she wouldn’t like it either. “Maither, what if there had been no moon on this night? How would we know the moment of the supposed lowering of the veil between us and the Otherworld?”

Brocca smiled. “’Tis always a full, bright moon at the Samhain.”

“How could that be?”

“Shush now, child. Tell me when the moonlight crosses the stone.”

Everyone focused on the standing stone. Brocca was closest, allowed the position because she stood in for Bram, the most ancient of all druids.

The wind swirled around the clearing. The torch in Brigid’s hand flickered. How would a lone candle stay lit?

The moonlight crept closer. Brigid tried to make out the faces of the people, but hoods masked identities. One figure directly across from her held his torch close to his face. Red and yellow light shone onto his robe, allowing Brigid a glimpse of a face she thought she recognized.
The beggar who had chased away the bandits?
She hadn’t gotten a good look at the fellow, but he could not have been a druid. She tried to remember where she’d seen him before, but he pulled his torch back before she got a really good look.

A chill tingled at her neck.

Brocca touched her arm, making her jump like a frightened toad. “Where’s the moonbeam now, daughter?”

Brigid glanced back at the stone. “’Tis nearly in place. What shall I do?”

“Light the candle. Stand opposite the mark, and hold the candle so that it shines directly on the mark I point to.” Brocca strode to the stone as if she knew exactly where it was. She bent low and ran her hands from the bottom of the stone to the top.

The hooded audience closed in. Brigid wanted to run away. Why would her mother, a Christian, participate in a heathen rite? She must have a plan, but Brigid couldn’t imagine what.

Brocca didn’t need Brigid’s help. Her hands read the marks for her and she spoke them. Brigid tried to discern the writing from her mother’s interpretation, but it made little sense. She could make out something about holding the candle over the mark at midnight, and then the way becoming clear. There was also something about a birth being predicted.

“Now!” Brocca raised her voice for all to hear. “Hold the candle over the mark now, and we will know the way to the One.”

Christ? Did her mother mean to interpret the pagan message to show the way to Christ? Brigid leaned across the upright stone and held the candle against the mark her mother pointed to. The moonlight seemed to push the candle’s glow straight into Brigid’s face. She felt its warmth and the peace of God. She would have stayed in that position for some time if the druids had not started such a ruckus.

“She is the passageway!” “The druidess’s daughter!”

They pulled at her like so many hungry people.

“Nay, nay!” Brocca called. “She can show you the Way, but it is not her.”

Brocca’s face disappeared in a sea of white hoods. Hands carried Brigid away. “Maither! What’s happening?”

Then she saw his face again – that beggar on the road. He dropped his hood, exposing golden adornments. He was surely not a beggar. She saw that now. He was the first druid she’d ever met, Ardan.

Chapter 16

“Therefore, if the Son makes you free, you shall be free indeed.”

John 8:36

Ardan hadn’t counted on the candlelight illuminating Brigid. Perhaps it was some trick brought about by her mother. Just before the commencement of the ceremony, he’d heard rumblings about a woman and her daughter standing in for the ancient druid. He couldn’t believe how the gods had smiled on him and sent Brigid right into his grasp. He had thought he would have to go searching for her.

But even though she was in reach, stealing her away would not be as easy as he had hoped. Her mother was so revered among the people that she had been called on to replace a powerful druid.

He’d have to invoke his authority. The girl had seem him clearly anyway. Now was the time to reveal his superiority.

“Silence, brothers and sisters! I am the great druid of the king of Leinster, King Dunlaing.”

Just as he hoped, the crowd drew back, leaving Brigid and her mother in the center. Those lower druids wouldn’t know who to trust – the blind woman who had come in their leader’s place, or a stranger. He’d have to tip the scale.

“I declare authority in this gathering.”

One druid began to speak. A brother or a druidess? At first he couldn’t tell in the dim light. “Bram’s our authority and the priestess Brocca stands in for him this night.”

Ardan nodded in the woman’s direction. “She is less than perfect. Ye can all see that. Would the gods endorse an imperfect mediator?”

The frail woman turned full circle to speak to all. “I represent but One God and he accepts me as I am. He will accept you, too. Which one of ye has no fault, no blemish in yer heart?”

Ardan straightened his shoulders and stood over the woman, dwarfing her in his shadow. “Judge for yerselves, druids. Whom will the gods choose?”

The prophets and bards of the woods milled about, mumbling like a cluster of crows. No one ventured an answer. No one would admit their ignorance. Just when Ardan was about to invoke a chant to summon the wisdom of the Others, a wolf howled not far away, perhaps a sign from the gods.

The brotherhood scattered into the woods, leaving Ardan alone with Brigid and her mother. “There was no passageway open tonight!” they called as they drifted like fog into the dark forest.

Delightfully easy.
Ardan had trained
his
followers much better than the old one had done with those in the western woods. If Troya were here, she would never have backed down so easily.

The girl stared at him. Her face was pale as seabird feathers. “Ardan, why do ye follow me?”

The girl’s mother stretched her arms, grabbing at air. “Who is it?”

Brigid slipped her arm around her mother’s waist. “He is as he said, King Dunlaing’s druid. And Troya’s teacher.”

The one called druidess melted into a faint.

“Maither, hear me!” Brigid tapped her mother’s pale damp face.

Ardan latched on to the girl’s arm. “Ye’ll come with me.” He paused. Seeing the girl so exasperated, he thought it might be to his advantage to take her mother also. He muttered into Brigid’s ear, “What is she called?”

Brigid jerked away and fell to her mother’s chest. “She’s Brocca of Ennis Dun.”

Before she could protest, Ardan slipped a pouch of sleeping herbs over her mouth. Brigid struggled in his grip, but as she drew breath to scream the odors from the toxic herbs filled her lungs, and she collapsed across her mother’s body.

Ardan rode the bishop’s horse and pulled a cart behind. He glanced back. He must have used more herbs than he thought. Brigid was still asleep in the back of the cart he had borrowed from common people celebrating the new year.

Commandeering the cart had been no trouble. People feared unfamiliar druids on the Samhain. Lugging the women the way he had, women who appeared for all the world to be dead, had frightened the small family he’d met. They would have given him anything, believing he was raised from the dead and roaming the surface of the earth.

Brocca, who had awakened almost as soon as they rode off, badgered him with questions.

“What know ye of Troya?” She tugged at the leather laces he’d secured to her wrists.

Brigid’s mother was gaunt, spent like summer blooms. She might have been beautiful once, but now she was withered and fragile.

She spat dust from her mouth. “Tell me.” Demanding, she was. He almost pitied her.

Ardan kept his eyes focused on the road. The moon was fading, and steering a cart in total darkness was a task he didn’t relish.

The woman would not stop talking. Finally, hoping to silence her, he answered, “We have much in common, woman, but I’ll tell ye nothing. I’ll save my story for the king.”

They both needed Brigid. Brocca was blind and dependent. The lass would stay by her mother’s side. Holding Brocca hostage would keep Brigid compliant. The lass’s love for her mother was her weakness. If druid training had taught him anything, it was to hold on to every advantage, just in case.

Ardan congratulated himself on his astuteness. Forcing Brigid to join with him, and using her mother as a hostage, would be an acceptable alternative should he later decide he needed one.

“Aagh.” Brocca clenched her stomach.

Ardan pulled the horse to a stop. “Too much talking, woman. I’ll need to tend to yer sickness.”

The ill woman glanced toward him, her unseeing eyes bloodshot. “My reward is in heaven.”

Ardan needed her healthy if he decided to let Brigid live. He’d make camp, scour the countryside for herbs, and wait for Brigid to fully recover from her unconscious state.

His plan did not unfold as he hoped. Brigid awoke and bolted from the cart. Ardan caught up to her and knocked her to the cold ground. She wiggled beneath him like an eel.

“Let go of me! How dare you?” Her elbow landed in his eye, sending him reeling backward.

She darted back to her mother. Ah, he’d been correct about her weakness. Ardan sucked in a breath and lunged after her.

Brigid struggled with the laces binding Brocca. Ardan grabbed her hair. “Ye’ll not get away. Give up!”

Still she squirmed, as though she could free her mother while he yanked her golden locks out hair by hair.

The sick woman wailed, “Stop, daughter! Do what he says.”

Brigid gave in, slumping to the cart floor.

Perfect.

The lass spat in his face. There was still fight left in her. “Let us go,” she demanded. “If it’s an honor price Troya desires, let her seek it from Dubthach.”

Ardan dragged the lass to the opposite end of the cart and lashed her against the wheel, tying her wrists with strips of leather he cut from his bag. “She’ll name her price in yer presence.”

Brigid sneered at him. “Why are ye doing this?”

“Calm down, woman. All will be revealed in time. First, we must get yer poor mother well.”

Brocca coughed. “Ye seek to poison me. I’ll not help ye!” He sighed. Why must he always be in the presence of irrational, emotionally driven women? “I do not seek to poison ye, Brocca. Ye want to help yer daughter, nay?”

Brocca nodded, shivering. Ardan pulled his wool blanket off the horse and wrapped it around her trembling shoulders. “There now. That’s better, aye? Yer sick. Ye do not eat. How can ye help poor Brigid when yer weak?”

She shook her head and pinched her lips together.

“Don’t hurt her!” Brigid called from her side of the cart. “Ye only need me, not her. Let her go.”

He enjoyed the look of uncertainty on Brigid’s face. With the help of his fire rock, he lit a torch the cart owners had left behind so he could see her better – and she could see and fear him. He circled the cart slowly, watching her head bob like an owl. He stopped and snatched a lock of her hair in his fist. “Now, tell me, beautiful one, would it be kind to turn a poor, sick, blind woman out to the wolves?” He jerked harder on her hair. “Would it now?”

Brigid’s eyes rounded. “Nay, it would not.”

He let go, smoothing his hands down his cloak. “Druids have a code of honor. I could never do that. I will take good care of both of ye. When she’s well, we’ll go see King Dunlaing.”

“What has Dunlaing to do with Troya’s honor price claim?”

Brocca spoke. “He will decide whether to hear the claim. If he decides it has merit, he’ll let the Brehons judge.”

Ardan spun around. “Ah, yer right, blind one. Could it be true that the old one, Bram they call him, really
has
trained ye well?”

Brocca hung her head.

Before the sun rose, Ardan had started a small fire and roasted a small deer. Perhaps fresh meat would appeal to the sick woman and renew her strength. He prodded it with his walking stick. Almost ready.

He’d used a bag full of dried sweet herbs to make the flesh appetizing. Brocca would surely eat. Her nose lifted to the smell and her lips moistened.

How was this woman both druidess and Christian? If he allowed the women to continue with their questioning, he might find out. “We will talk while we eat. The feast is nearly ready.”

He prepared the meat, chiding himself for not packing more herbs. The countryside had been racked by frost, and his search turned up no suitable plants. Perhaps if they’d camped near a stream, he would have found a few decent roots. For now he’d have to rely on chants and a hot meal to revive his patient.

He freed one hand of each hostage for feeding. Trust him or not, they were ravenous and accepted the food readily. He found it odd that they each uttered some sort of chant to their god before eating. The sacrificial offering was said before the animal was killed, not after. What kind of druid master would teach such things?

Brigid squirmed. “May we sit together? ’Tis awfully cold.” Indeed the north winds blew, so he laced the women together back-to-back while he fashioned a shelter from animal hides and sticks. Once they were all inside and covered with the single wool blanket, Ardan noticed color returning to Brocca’s cheeks. “Tell me, woman, how long now have ye had no taste for food?”

“Until today, I cared for no food for six days.”

Brigid tried to turn to look at her, but they were too closely bound. “Six days, Maither? Had I known, I would have given ye my share.”

Ardan reached for his knapsack. “Are ye still famished? I’ve got a bit of bread packed.”

“Nay. My stomach’s a bit unused to the greasy meat. I need to rest now.”

The two women worked together to lie down. Brocca closed her eyes, but Brigid glowered at him. “Have ye poisoned us, Ardan?”

He stroked her hair, knowing she’d fear he would tug on it again. “If that had been my desire, ye would be dead already. I told ye exactly what I planned to do. If yer mother has worms, however, I am without my healing herbs to help her.” Brigid squeezed her eyes tight. “God will help her. She needs yarrow tea with honey.” She spat out her words. Her eyelids popped open. “Can ye do that, please?”

By the time the tea bubbled, Brocca had awoken. Ardan held a tin dipper to her lips and she drank with bright eyes. Though he wanted her well, Ardan began to fear the strength of her god.

In just two days the frail woman regained enough strength that Ardan thought it time to visit Dunlaing. He rehearsed his royal appearance in his mind, wondering if his words would be sweet enough to the king who still resented Brigid over the preposterous pet fox matter.

When they reached Cashel, Ardan left the women sitting in the cart, their hands tied to its sides.

“What’s yer business?” the guard bellowed from atop a wooden lookout tower.

“I’ve come to see King Dunlaing. I am his druid.”

The man disappeared and another guard opened the fortress door. He was taller than Ardan and quite chatty as he led the way. “So, druid, have ye spoken to King Dunlaing of late? I hear negotiations between our king and yours are going nicely. Seems there’ll be sharing of grazing land without bloodshed.”

Ardan halted. The guard continued talking and walking until he realized Ardan was no longer beside him. He chuckled. “Come along, man.”

Ardan’s blood rose to his head. He marched up to the tall guard and grabbed him by his leather helmet. “Do ye cower in the face of battle, warrior? Do ye fear fighting for King Aenghus of Munster?”