Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) (26 page)

Clearly Bram had not made much of an impression on Dunlaing’s house. He must have only been passing through.

Dunlaing blew the woman a kiss and then turned toward Ardan. “This does not concern the situation with Brigid. Now tell me, druid, what do the gods have to say?”

Ardan had only one druid stick left, having tossed the other into the fire in his room. He pretended to chant and then flung it across the floor. The other diners pushed their chairs back and gasped. Although this delighted Ardan, he had no time to waste. He retrieved the stick and returned to his place beside the king. He lowered his voice to sound as grim as possible. “We must speak in private, king.”

The king’s guests whispered together like a cloud of honeybees.

“Of course, of course.” Dunlaing left the table and headed to the archway entrance of the hall. He waved his golden scepter at an attendant. “See that we’re not disturbed.”

Ardan paused to admire the stir he’d caused, and then followed Dunlaing to a private meeting room.

The king stood before a washing basin and cleansed the meal’s residue from his fingers. He dried his hands on a crisp linen towel and hung it neatly on the washing bowl stand. He drew his palms across his gray-black hair, sighed, and then seated himself on a chair engraved with twisted knots and faces with huge eyes. “Now, druid, what is so important? Have the gods spoken or not?”

Ardan could not imagine why Dunlaing was not as nervous as the others who had witnessed his performance. “I assure ye, king, if the matter wasn’t critical, I would have never requested ye leave yer feast.”

Dunlaing closed his eyes and tapped his fingertips together in front of his lips. “Aye, aye, go on.”

Ardan cleared his throat and found a stool. He paced around it, gathering his thoughts. “’Tis like I said before. Brigid may come to her senses and resume her ways. She’ll lead all the people in yer kingdom to follow Christ the King and reject the edicts of King Dunlaing.”

Dunlaing opened his eyes and leaned forward. “Aye, ye have said this. Stop yer pacing, man. On with it.”

In all the years that Ardan had known Dunlaing, he had never thought the king impatient. He could grow angry, justly, but he was usually very accommodating. “Perhaps this is not the time to discuss a plan. Perhaps the king has grown weary after his meal. We could continue in the… ”

“Nonsense.” Dunlaing wiggled his fingers at Ardan. “If the gods see fit to replace me as king of Leinster, then ’tis not my place to argue. I care most about the people in my territory.”

What had happened to the man? What had he discussed with Bram?

Ardan bowed his head, waited a moment, and then continued. “I understand, king. Ye
are
the wisest the territory has known. “ The words wedged in Ardan’s throat. “And the gods have been well pleased with yer leadership. ’Tis just that… there is a message.”

“From the druid stick?”

“Aye, king. But I must ask first about the druid who visited ye last.”

“Again?” Dunlaing stood, paced around his regal chair, wagged his finger at Ardan, and then sat again. “I told ye, he was just passing through.”

“I understand. But if he gave ye a message from the gods… well, the prophecy may connect with mine in ways I don’t yet know. I must hear his words.”

“He said very little, really.”

Ardan reached out his hand in a friendly gesture. “I must interpret the meaning, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

Dunlaing lifted his gaze to the rafters. “Let me think. Ah, that’s it. He spoke about a god who will reward those who speak his truth. Do ye know what god he refers to, Ardan?”

Ardan twirled his stick between his palms. He gathered some stones he kept in his belt pouch, including the valuable fire stone. He stared down at them for so long that the only sound he heard was Dunlaing’s breathing. He closed his eyes, pleading with the gods to give him the answer to Bram’s riddle.
Reward.
How?
His truth.
About what?

Thankfully, Dunlaing waited silently.

In his mind, Ardan called on every god on earth, under the earth, in the sky and dwelling on the heavenly bodies there. Then, distinctly, Brigid’s face appeared before him, not as he had left her, weak and ineffective, but bright and beautiful, the way she used to be.

“That’s it!”

“What, man?”

Ardan hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “The message points to Brigid and the destruction that she may cause. Just like at the Samhain.”

Dunlaing stared at him as though he’d lost his senses. “What are ye speaking of, man?”

“It’s
her
god. ’Tis plain to me now.” He tucked the druid stick into the embroidered folds of his tunic. “This will require an order from you, king, something ye command Brigid not to do.”

Dunlaing snapped his fingers and ordered parchment and wax brought in. “I will only do what the gods insist, Ardan. I must trust ye.”

Ardan flung his right hand over his heart. “King Dunlaing, am I not a trusted advisor? Did I not predict Troya’s actions and therefore save young Brigid’s life? Do ye doubt my spiritual connection? Because if ye do, there’s no limit to how the gods may punish… ”

“Nay, nay, Ardan. I have trusted ye many years. But I must say this: If ever ye lead me astray, ye’ll be banished. The same for any advisor.”

Ardan tightened his abdomen and sucked in his lips.
This king will surely be deposed. And soon.
He tried to smile sincerely. “Have no fear, king. Now, to the matter.” He turned to the king’s scribe who had seated himself at a low wooden table next to the king’s chair. On one corner of the desk a candle burned, dripping globs of hot honey-scented wax down its sides.

Ardan addressed the scribe. “Be it known that from this day forward, Brigid of the Cell of the Oak shall not instruct any inhabitant of the land called Ireland to follow her god, the one called Christ the King. Further, she shall not declare that any works she performs are done in that god’s name. Failure to comply will result in indenture and torture for herself and anyone found following her god, by the order of Dunlaing, king of Leinster.”

Dunlaing removed his signet ring, and then paused. “Druid, why must the order include all the people of Ireland? Should it not be pronounced only in my providence? And torture? Really, is that necessary?”

Ardan rose and touched his torque as a reminder of his position. He hadn’t realized Dunlaing had grown so tender and inept. “The gods command it. We may not understand. We are mere mortals.”

The explanation was enough. Dunlaing sealed the order and commanded readings to commence throughout Leinster. “Is there anything else, druid? I’d like to return to my guests. As ye hear, the music has begun.”

“Only one thing more I require. Grant me a copy of yer order, so that I also may declare it wherever I travel.”

Dunlaing knew that Ardan traveled a great distance.

Certainly he’d not object.

Dunlaing cocked his head. “Very well. A copy will be delivered to yer room tonight.”

Ardan bowed and headed toward his chamber amid tunes of tin whistles, harps, and bodhrans. He was in no festive mood. Bram had probably already found Brigid. He’d need to hurry just as soon as the scribe delivered his copy of the order. Ardan stopped by the scriptorium to inform the servant that he’d carry the parchment unfurled. That way he would not be delayed waiting for ink to dry.

Chapter 24

“Where then does wisdom come from? Where does understanding dwell?”

Job 28:20

After Ardan left, Brigid went about caring minimally for her needs. She had no desire to starve herself but had little motivation to do anything beyond that. She ate a few berries and crumbs of bread that Ardan had left, washed her face in the frigid waters of a stream, and returned to her cave home to pray.

She wasn’t sure if she was truly fasting to obtain spiritual guidance or if she refrained from nourishment solely because her stomach cramped every time she smelled cabbage. Even if the stench was only in her mind, she could not will it away.

Deciding that they hadn’t done her any good, Brigid abandoned her usual spoken Psalms and praises which she’d learned from the monks and came to plead her case before God. She plopped down on the cave floor and lifted her hands.
Yer just and mighty. Ye know that what has happened is not right. Teach me, Lord. Somehow, teach me what ye would have me do now.
Brigid moaned, frustrated that her prayers were inadequate. In the semi-dark edges of the cave, dimly lit by rays of sun filtered through the head of the shelter, bats winged about, annoyed at her outburst. Even the wild creatures despise her.

She cried aloud. “I’m being punished! Why?”

“Because yer human.” The voice came from outside the cave.

“Ardan? Back so soon?” She scrambled to her feet.

A figure, too small and bent to be Ardan, appeared at the cave’s opening with the sun behind him. He wore a white cloak, but Brigid could not make out his face.

“Who are ye? What do ye want?”

“Don’t ye know me, Brigid?” The man lowered his hood and blinked clear blue eyes at her.

“Bram!” She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.

He did not return the embrace but kept his grip on his walking stick. Afraid that he was so fragile she might cause him to collapse under her hugs, Brigid stepped back. “Oh, how I’ve missed ye! I should have come out to Ennis Dun, but… well, so much has happened. We were kidnapped, my mother and I. Ye must have wondered why we didn’t come back after the Samhain.”

Bram stepped lightly into the cave and found a rock to use for a seat. “Hush, now, child. I know quite a bit, I do.”

Brigid could not keep still – perhaps because she’d had little company. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed the kind old druid. “Ardan took us away. Said that Brocca owed a woman named Troya an honor price.”

Bram raised his hand to stop her rambling. That was when she truly looked at him. In only a few months he seemed to have aged greatly. Every slight move seemed to cause him pain and a gurgled cough stirred from his lungs.

“Bram, yer not well! How did ye ever make yer way up here? And why did ye come?”

Bram shook his head and ran his wrinkled fingers across his forehead. “Brigid, please give me a moment to catch my breath.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve gathered herbs for tea. Have ye a pot about ye.

He pointed to a leather sack he had dropped at the cave’s opening.

“Rest while I prepare it.”

Bram pulled his cloak back over his head and closed his eyes, still coughing.

Brigid trembled. God himself had to have sent the old druid to her, for care, or perhaps he came because he bore a message. She gathered the herbs she had stored in a leaf pocket and stashed behind a rock. Then she went to Bram’s sack and pulled out a round tin cooking pot, just the right size for brewing tea. Before she left to collect water, she threw a few sticks and dry leaves on her fire and coaxed the old man to lie down next to it. “I’ll be back soon.” She darted out into the forest.

Spring was in full force, having driven away enough cool breezes that the wildflowers were free to bloom. She stopped when she spotted miniature star flowers. The tiny white blossoms poked their faces up against large green leaves that cupped the blooms like little hands. She gathered a few. Perhaps she’d find some watercress near the stream. With those ingredients, she could make a remedy for Bram’s cough. She returned with the water and plants, sprinkled fresh herbs into the pot, and then set the mixture over the fire to brew. She crushed the star flowers and watercress to form a poultice.

Bram was asleep, but when he woke, she would spread the mixture on his chest, cover it with a cloth warmed over the fire, and bid him to sit with his back against the rock. She’d seen the monks do this, and many people recovered after such treatment. She might not be blessed anymore to perform miracles, but at least she could do something.

The next day, after benefiting from Brigid’s care, Bram seemed better and eager to talk. “Tell, me now. If ’twas Ardan who took you and Brocca hostage, why do ye look for him to return here to the cave? Do ye not seek to escape him?”

After explaining all about Troya, Brigid’s miracle with her cloak that forced King Dunlaing to grant her land, the building of the Cell of the Oak, and how she had taken a vow before a bishop, Brigid told her trusted friend about Brocca’s latest abduction.

“And ye think Ardan is responsible, do ye?” Bram sipped tea and shared barley bread from his bag.

“Absolutely. He as much as told me so when he visited me just two days earlier. In fact, he promised to return today, and he wants something from me.”

Bram gummed the bread. His front teeth were gone. “Ah, he surely does. And something that will benefit him, no doubt.”

Brigid scratched her head. “Bram, ye once said Ardan was not part of yer druid brotherhood.”

“Aye, he seeks spiritual powers for his own benefit, be they good or evil. He does not care as long as he gets the esteem and power he covets.” He washed the bread down with a swig of tea.

Brigid could not remember Ardan ever saying he sought things for himself. He wanted the honor price paid for Troya, not for himself. And now, he recognized her as Brigid of Ireland, helper to all those living on the isle. The druid might be misled, but like Bram, he could come around. He seemed to want to help people, and besides, he held her mother. Brigid had no choice but to trust him if she wanted Brocca back.

Brigid leaned in close to whisper to Bram. “Ardan may seem untrustworthy, but I have seen another side of him, a side that wants to help others. He’s going to reunite me with my mother.”

The old man raised one wispy eyebrow. “That so? And after he took her hostage?”

“I know it sounds odd. But I’ve no other choice. Perhaps he had a reason to take her. Perhaps he was protecting her somehow. There were other strangers at the Cell of the Oak that night.”

Bram struggled through coughs to speak. “Brigid, yer speaking nonsense. Yer trying to make what is into what you want it to be.”

She refilled his mug and encouraged him to sip the hot liquid and let it soothe his throat. “I have to find my mother. Ardan may worship gods who have no voice, but… ”

“No voice. That’s how it is?”

Brigid patted the old man’s hand. “I meant no offense. ’Tis just that he… well, he’ll come around to being as nice as you are.”

Bram narrowed his eyes. He shifted a bit until he found a comfortable position. “And yer telling me, then, that the crafty self-serving fellow does not require anything of ye to restore yer mother?”

“Aye, I suppose he does. But don’t worry, Bram.”

He leaned forward, coughed softly, and then raised his shoulders while chuckling to himself. “There’s much ye don’t understand, Brigid. I have lived long, learned much. Ye’d be wise to heed my words.”

Ashamed, she stared at the dirt under her black feet.

He stood up with the help of his walking stick. “Pray for knowledge. I’ll pray too. But first, I must hide from his sight.” She went to him, feeling his limp body lean on hers for strength. The thought of someone depending on her, a small woman who had not had proper nourishment for days, seemed foolhardy. He settled himself into a dark corner on top of two blankets he’d had her claim from his traveling sack.

“How is it, Bram, that ye come to me, here in this lonely place, and you in such poor health?”

“I am old.” He puffed between words. “But that does not mean my spirit is not strong and willful. Now,” he cleared his throat, “pray to yer god while I listen.”

She wished he hadn’t asked. Brigid wanted Bram to believe in her God more than she could tell. But, her heavenly Father was far away from her desolate cave. No signs, no visions, no small still voice. He wasn’t there. For her old friend’s sake, however, she would try.

Folding her hands, she bowed in reverence. “Father, God, Creator of all things, please hear yer servant. Come to us in this place. Speak to us.” She was begging. She couldn’t help it. “Give us wisdom to do yer will.” What else? She was anxious to end it and made the sign of the cross on her chest.

Brigid left Bram to snooze and climbed out onto the cave shelf. The sun streamed through trees that had not yet fully birthed their leaf canopies, warming her for the first time since she took up residence there. Not even the fire that Ardan built had reached her soul like these solar rays. Soon she was asleep.

In the first dream she remembered she was a wee lassie on Cook’s knee. Cook was young with much less gray hair than now. The woman instructed Brigid, asking questions.

“Who created the sun?”

Brigid gazed up at her. “The One True God.” “How do we know this?”

“Because the Holy Scriptures, given to us by saints of old, tell us.”

Cook grinned and wiggled her fingers through Brigid’s hair. “And how do we know what the Scriptures say, Brigid?”

Young Brigid passed a finger under her nose and wrinkled her forehead.

“Come now.” Cook tilted her chin upward. “What’s the man’s name? The one who came across the sea to tell us ’bout those Scriptures?”

“Patrick?” The young girl sounded unsure.

“Aye, Patrick. And one day ye’ll meet him. And then ye’ll understand.”

Brigid dreamed more.

Brocca sat in a fluffy cloud field of meadowsweet and yarrow. She turned toward Brigid, her eyes wide open as though she could see. Her lips formed words with emphasis, as though she was afraid Brigid might not understand. “I’d rather be a slave for my Lord than be a free woman belonging to a sinful world.”

Brigid reached out her hands, but all she grasped was flower petals. Drifts of pollen floated off her fingertips toward the heavens.

She awoke then, her heart pounding. Had she received a vision and was her mother now dead? Somehow, sleep came again.

Brigid dreamed Bram was healthy again, with straight, strong legs, just like the day she’d met him. “A druid makes a pledge,” he told her, his blue eyes bright again. “Like the pledge ye spoke to the bishop and yer god. A druid pledges to commune with the spirits and minister to the common people. In doing so, he or she vows to cause no harm with the powers granted. ’Tis a great responsibility, Brigid, it is.” He wrapped one white wool-covered arm around her, an arm much sturdier than the one she’d felt earlier. “To whom much is given, much will be required.”

She awoke, puzzled by all her dreams, especially the last one. Why had Bram, a pagan man, recited a Scripture verse in her dream? Dreams often contained messages from God. What did it mean?

Late in the day, after the king issued his order, Ardan received a copy. The parchment would dry on the way, secured to a pole like a flag. He hoped he wasn’t too late. Ardan mounted his horse and galloped toward Brigid.

“She’d better still be there.” He hit open meadow and prodded his horse until he soared with his face in the wind. “God of the air, grant me speed.”

Before the sunset, Ardan spotted Brigid sitting on a ledge outside her dwelling. “Ah, fine, she’s still there.” He curled up the parchment proclamation and stashed it under his tunic belt.

Since he knew she hadn’t left, Ardan could take his time. He collected a handful of dry grass, strung a long blade around the whole bunch, and secured it with a leather thong. Taking another strip, he attached the bundle to a stick. Satisfied with his torch, he sat down on a stone and struck a fire with the help of his fire rock. At the top of the rock wall where he’d seen Brigid, a lone blackbird sat, pruning his shiny feathers. The lass was no longer in sight, but the faint flicker of a fire told him she had retreated into her cave to sit at the fire ring. He patted the official papers at his waist. She’d accept the deal he offered. And when she did, there’d be no one to hinder him. Even if that ancient druid was in there with her, he’d be no problem. The gods had ordained Ardan’s task.