Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 1

“Ni heaspa do dith carad. There is no need like the lack of a friend.”

Old Irish saying

Brigid would never forget that day. Yet the memory of her mother’s face and the sound of her voice were fading like the sun-bleached pebbles she plucked from the water’s edge.

“Hush now. Bear up, child,” she remembered her mother saying as she was led away.

Ten summers and childhood innocence had caused her to forget the details of their separation. Even so, she recalled the smells: her mother’s hair, heather-scented from her homemade soap; the stench of cattle pulling the wagon her mother rode on; the aroma of cabbage cooking in her father’s kitchen. Brigid couldn’t stomach a meal of cabbage since. One whiff sent her running outside, clutching her stomach, tears running down her face.

But her mother’s face? She couldn’t remember it. Brigid squinted her eyes and gazed out at the clouds skimming the Irish Sea. The white drifts took on images. Brigid tried to discern them, imagining each one a face. Was her nose long? Her hair curly?

“Hurry along, lass! We’ve got to finish our chore and get back to Glasgleann. The master wants his supper,” Cook called, holding a string with several fish attached.

They’d been gathering all day – she, Cook, and Brian, her father’s coachman. Brian, an excellent fisherman, had been allowed to drive them to the shore. Brigid’s father had a taste for fresh fish, eels, and clams, so Brigid and the others had been chosen to do his bidding.

Brigid gathered the clams she’d dug and plopped them into an open-weave basket. “Coming.”

She stowed her catch in the back of the flatbed wagon, then clambered inside. Cook filled several wooden crates with her strings of fish and then covered them with flat lids.

Brian secured them by pounding wooden pegs into the top. “No fear of losing the treasure on the rocky ride home.”

Brigid watched the young man work. Brian’s face was as red as hot fire coals. His pale skin reflected the summer sun and trickles of sweat dripped from his wispy beard. At his feet, five bags wiggled. She knew he’d been successful in his eel hunt, and she wanted a peek. “What did ye catch?”

Brian struck the last peg with his hammer and loaded Cook’s fish. “Ye mean in here?” He pointed at his feet.

“Aye, in there. Caught a dog, have ye?” Brigid stuck out her tongue and pulled her hands to her chest, doing her best puppy imitation.

He threw one bag onto her lap and she jumped to her feet. The sack hit the wagon floor with a thud. The creature inside was still alive, wiggling frantically. “Should I take a look, then?”

“Nay!” He sprang up and snatched the bag.

Cook laughed as she crawled in to sit beside Brigid. “Brian fears he’ll lose his catch. What would the master say then?”

“I do not fear the master.” Brian seized the bag and untied the rope. He reached inside and pulled out an eel, black as the ocean’s depths. Brigid nodded her acknowledgment, and Brian stuffed the creature away.

Cook held up a sun-scorched hand. “Fear the one who holds yer future.”

Brian took his place in front and leaned over to pat the horse. “I do that.” He made the sign of the cross on his chest. They trundled back toward Glasgleann, the estate her father had named for its green valleys, and Brigid tried again to picture her mother. Was her hair red? Her eyes blue? Or were her mother’s locks golden like her own? Perhaps her eyes were green, matching Brigid’s.

“Cook? Do ye remember my own mother?”

The old woman gazed at her. “Why would ye be asking such a thing?”

Cook was much older than Brigid’s mother. She had to be. She had grandchildren, lots of them, running about her skirts while she baked brown loaves of honey-sweetened bread in Glasgleann’s kitchen. Cook’s daughter helped out in the dairy. Brigid rubbed the back of her neck, burnt by the sun during her clam digging. Why had Cook’s family been allowed to stay together? They were slaves, same as her.

Brigid noticed Cook glancing up at Brian who was busy guiding the horses. He hadn’t heard them. The old woman fingered her linen apron, smoothing out the wind-driven wrinkles. She spoke, and Brigid had to lean in close to hear. “I suppose ’tis no harm to tell ye a bit. Seeing as yer father cannot hear us.”

Cook squeezed Brigid’s arm so tightly it turned numb.

Brigid was stunned and tried to wiggle free.

Cook kept up her grip. “But promise ye’ll not repeat what I tell ye, Brigid.”

“I’ll not. I promise.”

Cook let go and Brigid rubbed the red impressions left on her skin. She stared in surprise at the woman, who had never treated her so harshly before.

Cook’s eyes narrowed and her voice lowered to a whisper. “If ye ever heeded me, child, do it now.”

Brigid nodded. Her eyes blurred, her heart raced. Her voice caught in her throat and she forced out the words. “Tell me, did she do something wrong to be sent away?”

“Ah, child. ’Tis a shame, it is, ye being apart. Yer father had a wife, still does, though she doesn’t live at Glasgleann.”

“What? I have never heard of this.”

Cook tapped Brigid’s hand, and Brigid pulled away, fearing she’d squeeze too tight again. “Ah, lassie. That’s not something we should be talking about.”

Brigid’s chest ached, as though something had been cut from her. “But please, I have to know.”

Cook silently stared down the grassy trail ahead of them. Her lips moved, as though she was about to speak. Then the old woman bit her lip and gazed at her lap. She turned sharply and looked directly at Brigid, pulling the girl’s face into her open palms. “Dearie, Brocca was with child and our master’s wife would not have it. She urged him to send yer mother away.” Cook’s dark eyes glowed. “Master cares about his wealth. Would not lose two good slaves, so he sent for ye.” She released Brigid and held a wrinkled finger to her parched lips. “Even though the mean, old wife lives elsewhere, we cannot speak of this at Glasgleann.” Cook pressed her lips together. She meant what she said.

Brigid rubbed the back of her neck again. The story was confusing. “When she and I parted, were we not at Glasgleann?”

“Aye. Yer dear mother dropped ye off. She had to return to her master in Munster.” Cook stole a quick glimpse at Brian, and then motioned for Brigid to scoot to the rear of the wagon.

They nestled themselves between crates and spoke in mumbles. “I once lived with her in Munster? I don’t remember it.” The smell of the catch was starting to distress Brigid. Or was it the thought of that terrible day? Brigid massaged her queasy belly through her dull linen dress.

“Are ye sick, dearie? Should I have Brian hold up?” Brigid didn’t want her discomfort to end the conversation. “Nay, please, tell me more.”

“We should talk about something else. The dairy. Ye’ve been doing a fine job, Brigid.”

The miracles.
They could talk about that later. “Did she look like me?”

Cook slumped crossly against the wagon’s side. “Stubborn child. Ye always were.” Her words were sharp as spear points. Why was she trying to deny Brigid the only connection she had to the one person who truly loved her? Cook had many family members. She couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be alone.

Cook blew a puff of air, sending a gray curl bouncing on her forehead. “I believe she did look like ye, some. Though her hair was more auburn.” Cook’s face brightened. “Her eyes were pools of sea water, like yer own. Yer both beautiful lasses.” Cook squeezed Brigid’s hand, but not too tightly. That was her signal that their conversation was finished. They’d had many talks in the ten years since Brigid had been motherless. It was Cook who had first taught Brigid about Christ. Together they had traveled to hear a man named Patrick speak to the masses. Brigid always wondered how they’d been able to get away that day. Why had her father allowed the trip? That journey six months ago had been life-changing.

Brigid still remembered Patrick’s face, one she’d never forget – kind, warm, friendly. And his message. He spoke of a love that was available to all. Brigid desired such a thing – Dubthach certainly didn’t love her – and so she had embraced the Christian faith that day. Cook and Brigid, and a few others at Glasgleann, nurtured their beliefs by discussing Patrick’s teachings in the evenings. Sometimes the other servants mocked them; sometimes they listened.

“My mother? Did she know the One True God?”

Cook kept her eyes on the road. “Hush, now. We can’t be speaking of her any longer. ’Twill make yer father angry, it will.” Cook blinked her dark eyes. One corner of her mouth turned into a grin. “Aye, child. She does. She truly does.” Cook’s eyes watered as she turned away, pretending to survey the countryside.

Streams of tears stung Brigid’s sun-scorched cheeks. She brushed them away with her rough linen apron. Brocca did not follow the pagan beliefs of most people. The thought was comforting. Brigid longed to discuss Christ’s teachings with her mother. She imagined them sitting around an evening fire, hand-in-hand, chatting happily. Brigid could almost feel her cheek against her mother’s auburn hair.

After they returned to Glasgleann and unloaded their catch, Brigid continued her daydreaming. She told the cows that her mother loved the Lord God. She whispered a story to the chickens, telling them how she and her mother would one day recite the twenty-third Psalm to each other. She returned to her butter churn in the main house and barely noticed Cook’s steaming pots of food. Her heart was full of hope.

Then she heard her father’s voice.

“Oh, Cook! Boiled eel, roasted clams! What a delight ye’ve prepared. Like a feast for a king.” Dubthach clapped his hands and then proceeded to tear into the meal like a wild wolf. He was seated at the kitchen’s planked table with a feast spread before him. His lone chair was centrally positioned, allowing easy access to all the platters.

Brigid eyed him from her corner of the keeping room. Whatever he didn’t eat would be split among the servants, but that was not what concerned her. The man who had torn her from her mother’s grasp was chomping away as though nothing had happened. He was ancient, nearly as old as Cook. He professed no belief in any god. He was heartless and greedy.

Dubthach slopped ale down his short beard, but he didn’t seem to notice. His blackish teeth ripped flesh from the clamshells. “Well done, Cook. I must send ye to the shore more often.” He glanced up at Brigid. Though she was his own daughter, he treated her like a common servant. “I hear ye’ve been making a great deal of butter, lass. And the chickens under yer care produce twice as much as anyone else’s. Tell me, just how do ye do the things ye do?”

Brigid looked at him, and a wave of disgust washed over her. How could he possibly be
her
father? How could this man have touched her sweet mother? She shrugged her shoulders. He wasn’t worth wasting breath for.

Chapter 2

“Always remember to forget the troubles that passed away. But never forget to remember the blessings that come each day.”

Old Irish proverb

“Brigid, how did ye get away without a beating?” Cook grabbed Brigid by the arm as the two marched toward the dairy.

“He can’t hurt me, Cook. Not any more than he already has.” Brigid wiggled free and ran ahead, her feet digging into the damp dirt path. The wind whistled past her ears, but all she heard was the sound of her mother’s voice, clearer than she’d ever heard it before. “Bear up, Brigid. Take heart. Bear yer lot.” What could her mother have meant?

Brigid threw the barn door wide and flung herself onto a pile of hay. The animals’ smell soothed her. They asked nothing from her, gave all they had to give, and would never take anything back. If only people were the same.

Cook marched in after her, nearly hysterical. “Why didn’t you answer the master? Don’t ye know, lass, we’ll all suffer for it? Could ye not think about us?”

Brigid sat up, pieces of hay sticking in her hair and between her fingers. “Think of others? Is that not what I have been doing? I make sure the hungry get what they need from our dairy. I get up at dawn and return to my bed long after the chickens roost. I work for the master, not myself. How can ye say that?” Brigid trailed off into a long sob that reached the depths of her soul.

If she had expected sympathy, she didn’t get it from Cook. “’Tis time ye learned yer place, Brigid. Ye do what yer supposed to because yer a slave. ’Tis a far better lot than joining the starving masses wandering the woods with the wolves.” She stomped out of the dairy and shoved the door closed, leaving Brigid alone in the dark.

“She doesn’t understand,” Brigid said to the cattle, the doves in the rafters, the chickens, and to God, if he was listening.

Brigid longed to stay there, with her face buried in the hay, but she felt a strange urging to return to the house and seek Dubthach’s forgiveness. She hated the thought, but at the same time, she knew she had no choice. Cook was right. She was a slave, and slaves have their place. If she continued to act with disrespect, Dubthach would exact a punishment on them all, fearing some sort of rebellion. Brigid couldn’t bear being the cause of it. She had to go back.

Evening had cast its black cloak. Brigid couldn’t see her feet so she concentrated on making her way toward the dimly lit turf-topped house. She rammed her toe into a tree root, causing a shard of pain to shoot up her leg, but thankfully she didn’t fall. When she reached the house and cracked the door open, all was quiet.

Brigid’s father had wanted an explanation. She sighed, tapping her fingers on the rock wall of the kitchen. He was still sitting at the table, examining parchment record books by candlelight. He looked up at her. His jaw was set. The old man dropped his writing instrument and curled his fists into balls. “Dare to come back, did ye?” He shoved his round gut away from the table. “I’ll not have such disrespect from ye,

Brigid. The others will think I favor ye simply because ye were born to me.”

Brigid gulped hard. Her own hands tightened under her apron. He never favored her. Never. “I’m sorry.” She hung her head to keep the repulsive man from reading her true thoughts.

Dubthach looked at her for a moment, then slammed his fist on the table. “Very well. I’ll accept yer apology. For yer penitence, ye’ll have extra chores all week.”

“Aye, sir.”

“But ye’ll have to do something for me first. I want an answer to the question, lass. How is it ye produce so much in my dairy when others do not?”

She linked her fingers together and squeezed, bringing her hands up to her lips. “The poor will always be with us.” What she said surprised her more than it did her father.

“Aye. That’s what I always say.” Dubthach narrowed his eyes and stared. Brigid was uncertain whether he wanted to hear the explanation or whether he just liked the calming rhythm of her voice. No matter whether it was midmorning or suppertime, the slothful man could nod off quicker than a dragonfly darts.

She began. “Well, ye do have fine animals in yer barn. God has blessed ye with that. The cows are healthy indeed.” Noting that he was being lulled to sleep, she kept up her rambling. “I hear the sheep are fine specimens also. And bearing young every spring. Just yesterday, Brian said… ” She continued her banal observations for several minutes more until Dubthach’s head folded down to his chest and great breaths of air pushed through his wrinkled lips. He was asleep.

Brigid lowered herself onto a tree stump chair. Her father took pride in his possessions. For an Irishman, healthy chickens and livestock meant wealth. When things went well he was bearable, she had to admit. But life was uncertain, something a slave knew well and a laird only remotely understood.

If a wolf would happen to steal into the barn and kill some of the herd, Dubthach would erupt into a rage lasting longer than a December night. Wolves hunt. They eat chickens; they devour calves. Didn’t the old man know that? Why should he be surprised? Did he think he could invoke some magical power to hold the forces of nature at bay?

Brigid rose and stepped away from the fire. The old man would likely doze there until dawn. She lit a twist of straw from the candle dripping on the table. She’d need a wee bit of flame to light her path to the maidens’ quarters.

Outside, there were no shadows, no moonlight. She heard movement near the house, but assumed the noise she heard was from the birds roosting in the oaks for the night. Brigid tiptoed, as if she feared she’d wake the fairies. Of course she didn’t believe in such things, but in Ireland you had to be ready for anything. Patrick had said that, having come from a land across the Irish Sea, although Brigid didn’t fully understand what he meant.

A voice from behind startled her. “Excuse me, miss. Might ye have a wee bit of food for a poor lad?”

She crouched low to the ground, as if she could hide herself.
A fairy?
Couldn’t be. She managed to turn on squatted legs to see the form of a thin boy staring down at her. He came into the glow of her torch, and she saw that he was wearing tattered clothes. Wisps of raven hair stuck out beneath his gray felt cap, too large for the lad’s wee head, but he was a boy just the same. Not a fairy at all.

Despite Patrick’s warning, she hadn’t been ready. The unexpected encounter made her search for words, stuttering in the process. She’d helped beggars before. That’s what had started Dubthach’s interest in how she was feeding the poor. But they had never come around in the dark of night before.

The lad’s dejected, deep-sunken eyes convinced her she’d have to think of something. Whispering a quick prayer beneath her breath, Brigid ordered him to wait outside the barn door while she went searching, praying all the while.The moon finally made an appearance, just as her torch was dying. A beam of light pushed its way in through the cracked door, illuminating the cow’s mud-colored face.

“I know ’tis not time for yer milking, but supposing ye’d give me just a wee bit for the poor lad outside?”

Was that a nod from the cow or was she seeing things? Brigid ran for the wooden bucket she’d placed by the feed sacks when she milked earlier. To her delight, the cow did indeed have more to give.

“Now what about ye chickens?” Brigid eyed the red-feathered birds who’d also been disturbed by her presence. They clucked about the barn floor as if trying to avoid her suggestion.

“Come on, now. Have ye no compassion for a starving lad?”

The chickens lighted on their nests and clucked their earshattering agreement. “Oh, God, don’t let them wake Dubthach, or worse, the foxes.” Brigid retrieved two brown eggs and a white one with yellow speckles.

“Thank ye kindly, God’s creatures.” She put the treasures into the pocket of her apron and poured the milk into a tin dish. Then she headed carefully for the barn door, ever mindful of the gifts she held.

After squeezing through the opening, Brigid greeted the lad with the best smile she could muster. She’d better warn him. “Do not be coming here again at this hour. If the master does not chase ye away, the wolves will.”

The door to the main house crashed open. “Brigid, are ye there?”

“Hurry! Don’t come back!” She shooed the boy away into the woods and shuffled over to the house.

“Ye fell asleep… I mean ye were tired and all… and I thought I’d leave ye alone.”

“Enough of yer rambling. Was that another beggar I saw?”

No use to pretend otherwise. “Aye.”

“Tell me how ye did that trick? How ye got milk and eggs when the animals should not have had any to give?” Dubthach could see in the dark like an owl.

“’Tis not a trick. I just… ” Brigid stumbled for the right words. Her master thought he’d found the secret to worldly wealth. How could she ever explain the wonders of God to a man like him?

He waved his cloaked arm toward the house. “Come back inside. Sit. There’s a trick here and ye’ll teach it to me.” The round man waddled back through the stone door, barely able to squeeze his body through the opening.

She followed him inside and lit two tallow candles from the smoldering peat fire. She placed them on the table next to the candle stump left from Dubthach’s earlier reading, and a circle of light filled the center of the keeping room, leaving the outer edges in darkness.
Like Patrick’s message in Ireland
, she thought.

Dubthach blinked his eyes. He stood and motioned toward the cupboard. “Bring me some tea.”

Brigid winced as she lifted the kettle off the iron hooks hanging over the fire. How did Cook manage? Brigid was efficient in the dairy, but the kitchen was unknown territory. She carried the hot pot over to the cupboard just as Cook bustled in the door.

“Ye’ll burn yerself, darlin’. What are ye doing?” “Getting tea for the master.”

“Och! Why did ye not carry the mug over to the fire instead of the other way ’round?” She snatched the kettle from Brigid and plopped it down on the dirt floor. Then she marched to the cupboard and fetched a mug. Cook poured steaming liquid into the mug and returned the pot to the fire, refusing Brigid’s offer to help.

Brigid put her hands on her hips. “I’m not a child.”Cook ignored her, served Dubthach his tea, and turned to leave. She stopped short at the door and motioned for Brigid to come near. “I’ll be in the field first thing in the morning with Alana. Meet us there after yer done milking. Brian needs help with the plow.”

“But what can I… ?”

“Needs lot of hands, he does.” Cook winked at her. “Fine, then.”

“Now, on with it!” Dubthach raised his mug to his bristled face. “Tell me the secret.”

Brigid lowered herself onto the stump seat. “Once again I coaxed extra milk and eggs from the animals in the barn, but this time there was more than enough for three.”

“What? There were others with that lad? Tell me about that. How… ?”

“Standing near the forest’s edge. I saw them when he ran away. Those pleading brown eyes and miry little faces melted my heart. They’re starving, they are.”

“As ye said earlier, the poor will always be around.” Why had she said that?

“Yer too soft, Brigid. Thought ye’d be more like… ” “Like you? Turn them away?”

He raised his hand to her. She cowered back, expecting a blow. He had never hit her, but he was an angry man and she feared him nonetheless.

He lowered his hand to his lap. His full lips turned into a grin. “Ye’ll tell me the secret and I’ll be patient until ye do.”

“We feed the barnyard animals well. Shouldn’t we also share with the poor?”

“A woman has no mind for business.”

I’ve a mind for the Lord’s business.

Brigid was tired. Her bed, and hopefully sleep, awaited her. She grabbed her cloak from a peg near the door. “Here’s what I did. Here’s the answer to yer question.”

Dubthach wrinkled his forehead and flicked his fingers back. “Go on. Tell it now.”

“I prayed. That’s what I did. Here’s what I said: ‘Lord, what will all those hungry children eat?’ ” She was shouting, but she couldn’t help herself. “ ‘Can the woods bring forth enough wild berries to quiet their hungry cries? If they do have parents to feed them, I know their folks likely don’t have work and will provide no more than hard biscuits. Give me a way, Lord, to help them.’ ”