Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (19 page)

Ardan enjoyed the anxious looks on the faces in the crowd. He prolonged the moment by staring back at as many as he could. When he deemed they’d suffered enough, he broke the silence. “’Tis no one here.”

Another wave of sighs washed over the hall. Ardan closed his eyes for effect. “’Tis a young woman. Someone whose birth had been prophesied. I feel the time has come. I must go and find the murderer. Do not follow me if ye fear the banshee.”

Ardan had never seen the fairies called banshees, the ones heralding death, though he thought he’d heard them at times. The mention of the spirit would be enough to keep anyone from trailing him.

He arrived at the women’s cell just in time to see Troya enter ahead of him. She lifted her golden druid’s sickle over Brigid’s head. Ardan ducked away from Brigid’s sight. He didn’t want her haunting him from the other side, proclaiming that he had broken his druid code. He’d done nothing of the sort, of course. Still, one had to be careful with spirits.

A scream. Troya.

The sound thundered in his ears. Good. The people would believe the banshee had come. “Guards, come quick!” he shouted.

A voice rang out behind him. “I’m here.”

The young lad, the king’s incompetent, stood behind him. Ardan peered into the cell. Brigid and her mother clung to each other sobbing. Troya lay in the middle of the room with a spear protruding from the back of her head. Her white cloak was soaked crimson.

She was dead.

While Ardan had been congratulated for his keen senses, the young lad was lauded even more. The Christians had survived, and they praised their god for delivering them. As Ardan had imagined, many people believed Troya was the embodiment of the banshee. Unfortunately, they also believed Brigid’s god had destroyed the evil fairy and delivered Brigid and her mother from harm.

Ardan was forced to resort to an alternative plan, although he wasn’t precisely sure how to enact it. He escaped to his outdoor altar to ponder and seek inspiration.

The wind howled through leafless trees. Ardan flung the cowl of his cloak off his head and lit a candle with his torch. He was protected from the weather in his hollowed-out shelter beneath the roots of an ancient oak. He sought solitude and had ordered the other druids to stay away. He alone would seek help from the gods.

Ardan rubbed his hands over the earth.
Speak to me.

Lightning flashed. A storm gathered. Ardan raised his arms to the heavens. “Come into me, powers, be ye dark or light. Any who help me obtain my rightful place in Ireland are welcome.”

A tingle crept over him. Not from the cold, he told himself. The gods were present, and in that holy place they would hear him. They’d have to.

All night and most of the next day he took no food or water. He emerged from the tree shelter with a fresh idea.

The king was ready when Ardan entered the castle. Dunlaing extended his ring, as always, and Ardan kissed it – for the last time, he inwardly vowed.

The king twisted the ring on his finger. “This Brigid bothers me, Ardan.”

“I understand, king. She has embarrassed ye, and now the lairds have witnessed her powers.”

Dunlaing rubbed the embroidered edge of his royal robe. “There will be no hearing for an honor price against Brigid now that her accuser’s dead.”

“Aye, king.” Ardan stood like a tree and he could almost feel roots growing beneath him, extending underneath the earth’s surface and reaching the fringes of the Otherworld.

The king cleared his throat. “In spite of my misgivings, I shall grant Brigid the audience she has requested. That I must do.” He stared at the floor and twisted his ring some more. “I do not wish to be made a fool. I will grant her whatever she wishes and set her free, be rid of her.”

Ardan didn’t like the sound of that. “But, king, do ye think this wise? She will expand her following. Soon the people will turn to her and reject the king.”

Dunlaing’s head shot up. “Do ye think it so, druid?” He slammed his fist down on the arm of his royal chair. “I brought them victory rather than bloodshed by allying myself with a neighboring king. This was not done easily.”

Ardan bowed his head. “I understand, my king. And the gods are pleased by the treaty.”

Dunlaing tapped his fingers on his knees. “What can be done? Exile her?”

Ardan knelt down, bringing himself eye-to-eye with Dunlaing. “If ye want to break someone’s influence, ye have to remove what they cherish most.” Ardan snapped his fingers as though the thought had just come to him. “Brigid cares not if ye banish her to the outermost wilderness. She wants to tell everyone ’bout her god and build her kingdom. If ye send her off, people will follow, and she will gather other clans together.” He gazed into the king’s puzzled face. “Ye know what would happen, don’t ye? She’ll build up an army against ye.”

Dunlaing’s fingers folded into fists. “What can stop her, druid? What do yer sticks tell ye?”

Ardan took the hint and pulled his wands from the depths of his cloak. He rolled them about in his fingers and then tossed them onto the stone floor in front of the king. The ruler of Leinster had no druid training and would trust Ardan to interpret the gods’ message in the magical rods.

Ardan pressed his lips together and eyed the placement of the sticks. They seemed to be pointing to hope and patience, but it didn’t matter. Ardan wouldn’t be lying if he told the king what he really saw – a way to break Brigid’s spirit.

“Hear her as she requested. Let her think her god will help her. Offer her whatever she asks, and let her live in peace for a time. When she starts to proclaim miracles, attributing them to her god, that will be the signal that the time has come to act. She will be the one humiliated, and you, great king of Leinster, will be honored.”

Dunlaing straightened his back. “This sounds fine. How will it happen?”

“By taking from her what she cares most about.”

“And that is what, man? I have little patience today for druid puzzles.”

The time was not right to reveal his plan. He needed the king to depend on him for answers. “The magic druid sticks plead for patience, dear king. We will have the answers when the gods say the time is right.”

Chapter 18

“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”

Proverbs 15:1

Brigid woke in the middle of the night, sweating. The image of her father’s old wife, a spear running through her skull, appeared over and over again in her mind. Somewhere she was certain someone was cooking cabbage. She found a bucket in the corner of the cell and vomited.

Brocca said nothing while running her hands over Brigid’s damp hair.

The night continued on with the same events mercilessly following each other through her mind the way a dog chases its tail. At the first flicker of daylight entering through a slit of window high on the wall, the guard who had executed Troya came for them.

He was beaming, as though rather than murdering a human being, he had shot a prize buck for supper. “I brought boiled eggs and cream. C’mon, eat up. The ladies will be here soon to dress ye and take ye to the king.”

Brigid wiped her mouth on her gown. “We will see the king, ye say?”

“Aye, just as ye asked. I suppose ye’ll no longer be held responsible for an honor price, seeing as the woman who asked for it is now dead.”

Brigid felt sick again. Her mother didn’t look too well either. The lad had saved their lives, but why had it come to this? Ultimately, Dubthach was responsible. He was the one who had caused Troya to hate them so.

The lad stared at them. “Did ye hear me?”

“Oh, aye. The king. We’re to be set free, I suppose.” Saying the words out loud helped Brigid realize there was much to do for the people outside Dunlaing’s castle.

The guard brought hot water and cloths, and Brigid and her mother managed to scrub the grime from their bodies. They were given soft linen gowns and cloaks woven in many colors. Brigid placed one of the fine garments over her mother’s shoulders and thought she stood straighter because of it. She pinned a silver brooch at one corner. “How does it feel, maither?”

Brocca patted the ornament and then ran her fingers down the cloak’s gold-embroidered edges. “I much prefer this to the druidess costume.”

“It suits ye far better.” Brigid asked for her own cloak back. She preferred its thick black material to what the servants offered.

The young man reappeared when they were dressed. “’Tis time to accept the offering of the golden scepter.”

This time Brigid knew what to do almost without thinking. She had appeared in front of the king before.

Dunlaing’s brilliant blue eyes greeted her with no animosity. “I believe ye have been treated unfairly, Brigid.”

Brigid touched the scepter and glanced at the floor. “I have. Troya’s honor price should have come directly from the source of her pain. Not me, but my father, Dubthach of Glasgleann.”

Brocca made a grunting sound in her throat and pulled at the back of Brigid’s cloak.

Dunlaing waved his bejeweled right hand in the air. “I rid myself of this matter. I seek only to right the wrong that has been done to ye by keeping ye locked in my castle where ye were nearly killed with no means of escape. Please, tell me what ye want.”

Brigid turned to her mother. “What shall I ask for, maither? What besides our freedom?”

“Only a place to lie our heads, darlin’.”

She turned back to the king. “I ask but two things, sir.” He touched his fingers together and nodded.

“I ask that the freedom which Bram of Ennis Dun has granted my mother and me be made official.”

“I shall order it into the Brehon records.” “Thank ye, sir.”

She glanced around the hall, but saw no signs of Ardan.

She turned to Brocca. “Maither, pray hard and do it now.” Brocca made the sign of the cross with her fingers.

Brigid bowed before the king. “I ask only for some land – for my mother and myself.”

The king raised his eyebrows. “I see. And how much land do ye require?”

“Only as much as my cloak will cover.”

He laughed. “And I suppose yer god will make yer cloak grow?”

Brigid narrowed her eyes. “Do ye mock the One True God, King Dunlaing?”

He stood. “I do not wish to look out my window every morning and gaze out on your small patch of land. Therefore, we’ll ride a short distance where ye’ll cast yer cloak.”

Brigid led her mother by the hand as they left the hall. The chill of winter blasted from the north. Brigid did not relish removing her warm cloak. People poured out of the castle, soldiers, maids, blacksmiths, and a handful of druids in white cloaks. They followed on horseback and in carts. Brigid didn’t see Ardan, but she felt him watching her, from one of the wagons perhaps. They were driven a short distance until the castle could only be seen on the horizon.

Brocca sighed the entire way. “Brigid, was this wise? To put God to a test?”

Brigid circled her arms around her mother. “Maybe not. But God increased the butter I made. He blessed Dubthach’s livestock so that they produced enough food for me to feed the woodsfolk. Who’s to say he cannot do this? Dunlaing’s pride will cause his fall.”

A servant blew on an ox horn. The blast beckoned curious people from the woods. The horn blower took a deep breath and announced, “Brigid, formerly of Glasgleann, will perform an act in honor of her god.”

Brocca whispered into her hair, “What have ye done, daughter?”

Brigid ignored her and focused on her cloak. The garment was generous in size, but if no miracle were performed, her territory would barely house a cow. Even so, a small still voice whispered,
Trust me.

Brigid closed her eyes and held her cloak to the wind. The crowd grew silent. She prayed. After a few moments, she felt a tug and immediately opened her eyes. Her cloak was attached to another, and that one to another, and to another, as far as she could see. The wind held them aloft, making them appear as one large cloak. The woodsfolk had joined their meager clothing to hers.

The wind howled and blew her hair into her eyes, sounding like a thousand frantic boars trouncing down the hillside.

Dunlaing wailed. “Stop, stop! Put down yer cloak and I’ll grant ye that much land. Please, stop now.”

Brigid dropped her cloak. The wind ceased, and the tail of black material floated down to earth. The poor folks shivered, shirtless. Had God snatched the clothes from them and added them to her cloak? Or had they willingly given their clothes to her? She was grateful, however it happened, and turned to face the king. Would he accept the elongated cloak or would he claim trickery?

Before she could ask, Dunlaing and his royal wagon were already disappearing down the path toward the castle walls.

Brigid dropped to her knees, feeling the wool of her cloak scratch her shivering skin. “A home, maither. We’ve a home now.”

After winter had dropped its frosty hold on Leinster, Ardan left his druid shelter in the woods to visit King Dunlaing. He dared not go any sooner. He had assured the ruler that Brigid would not embarrass him any further. Ardan wished to give the king’s anger time to abate.

“So, the great druid finally graces me with his presence.” Dunlaing scowled at him from his scrolled chair. “I will ask that ye read yer news and leave me at once.”

Ardan expected as much, so he had gathered men, fellow druids, to help him be reconciled with the king. Now, more than ever, he needed to be rid of Brigid. He wished he had bent the druid code, just a bit, and finished Troya’s work for her that night at the castle.

“Today, dear king, I have brought a council of wise druids for the king’s service.” Ardan bowed and turned to the men. They each possessed talents in extreme measure – each different from the other. “I have convened a master of satire, a prophet, and a student of the stars. With such wisdom of the gods at yer hands, king, ye shall be rid of Brigid and her followers within one cycle of the moon.”

The men dropped their white hoods and bowed deeply. The corners of Dunlaing’s mouth spread and his cheeks glowed apple red. “A wise king always confers with advisors. I shall see what they have to say. But Ardan, I’m holding ye to what ye declared months ago. ’Twas seen in the druid sticks, nay?”

Ardan was pleased Dunlaing wanted to proceed. “Of course, king. In time, in time. When all the signs are right.”

Brigid sat beneath an ancient oak tree, the spot where her trail of cloaks had come to rest when Dunlaing had challenged her God. The woodsfolk had insisted on building a shelter beside the tree, and it was nearly finished. How things had changed. Only one season ago she was homeless and facing death. Now a large wooden building was being constructed. She would live there forever with her mother.

The pagans chose the site, although the Christians felled the trees for it. The ill-advised declared her some kind of druidess and thus in need of a home beside an oak. Some even thought she was a goddess because of the power she displayed. She had much work to do explaining that her works were from God and that he used her to display
his
power.

“It was much the same for me,” her mother had told her. “I tried to show the people God’s Way, tried to show his love. But they called me a druidess. God found favor in me and allowed me to speak with them, just like he did with Patrick, though I, a slave, never reached as many people as he did.”

Brigid had wanted to hear more about the gatherings with Patrick. She still didn’t understand why Dubthach had allowed Cook to take her to the seashore. And why had her mother not come to her before she became blind? But the questions were unimportant really. She wanted to let go of the past, never again ask her mother what happened before they were reunited. They had a new life.

The poor starving folks living at the border of Dunlaing’s castle needed much care. Brigid put aside her questions and kept busy blessing babies and producing large quantities of cheese and butter from small beginnings – God’s doings.

Brigid gazed up at the spring green leaves above her head. God’s hand had reached down to touch the tiny oak seed with life. Only the Master of all living things could turn a minuscule cold dark seed into a great immense tree, a vessel full of life. Pagans believed the tree was the god or that a god somehow inhabited the oak. She began to design a plan for presenting the Creator to the people. She wanted to persuade them to abandon the belief in a god who did not exist.

She’d need her paper, manuscripts. What was Cillian doing now? Maybe she could send for him, invite the monks to share the large shelter. They might refuse, choosing to stay secluded, but they could still assist her with manuscripts and she could send some of the faithful to Cillian for training. And, of course, Cook should come live with them. Brigid would see to that as soon as possible.

Brocca called to her from the building site. “Daughter? Come feast with us! A spring lamb has been slaughtered, and the earth’s first fruits of the season have been picked.”

Brocca was thriving. Whatever sickness she had suffered from left almost as soon as they took up residence on the land granted to them by the king. Her copper tresses were only streaks in her gray head, her illness had faded the color, but her skin was like milk and her smile as broad as the great river. Brigid and her mother sat with the builders inside the roofless framed structure. Most of the men who worked there had converted to Christianity. Followers of Ireland’s new faith seemed to cluster together now more than ever before. Smells of honey-sweetened bread and creamy cheese made the room seem that much more festive.

Pagans would be celebrating the new season that night with massive fires, but their activities could be no more joyous than Brigid’s current gathering of friends in the Lord.

“How are the flock of sheep faring?” one fellow asked another.

“This one met a sad fate,” another quipped, taking a bite out of a greasy drumstick.

Brigid enjoyed those people, even the unconverted ones. They were lighthearted, full of vigor and fun. Truly this was God’s calling on her life.

Brigid’s mother murmured into her hair, “Daughter, have ye thought of marrying?”

Brigid nearly choked on her creamed turnips. “Maither, why… ?” The food burned as it slid down her throat. Brigid waved her hand in front of her mouth and blew puffs of air.

One of the men jumped to her aid, offering a tin cup of cool spring water. She accepted it, but didn’t look him in the eye. Perhaps someone had a love interest in her, and she had never noticed. Having a husband would impede her work.