Pages of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 2) Read online

  The old woman shook a finger at her. Aine could still see the mud under her fingernails, evidence of a life of labor. “A bit of water will not harm it. It will dry. But enough of its magic will swim into the water where my animals will drink it. Fertile, they’ll be, don’t you know. Just wait and see.”

  About that time the scribe arrived, nearly tumbling down the hill toward the pasture. He had obviously spotted the book under the clear water because he started gasping for air and holding his chest with one hand while trying to steady himself, waving his free arm in the air.

  Nessa indeed was correct about the book’s power. The following spring, Nessa’s cows bore twice as many young as anyone else’s. And did she ever tell about it. There was scarcely anyone in the land who did not hear the legend of the book. A lucky charm, of sorts. Later Aine later learned that the book also possessed the capacity to warm, vibrate, and shiver—whatever was needed to indicate its will. She did not fear it. She knew in her heart the book was not evil, just incredibly powerful like Brigid.

  What she was about to do, take prosperity from one clan and give it to another, did give Aine cause to ponder. Guilt flowed like a muddy gusher. She told herself she would borrow the book’s magic for a wee while. She must. For her mother. She would not let Daithi and his people starve, if taking the book came to that. She could return the book to them in due time, after it had brought wealth to her mother’s clan. But when—and if—she did return, she would not become Daithi’s wife.

  The well-tended path encircled the monastery buildings with no stones to trip her up. She had no torch but she was growing accustomed to strolling about in the dark. A woman on the run had no other choice.

  Holding her cowl tight to her neck, she considered the possibility that Brigid’s magic might transform her and conceal her identity. What would it be like to be a hawk or even a wolf? Druids and druidesses had the ability to change shapes, some said. Brigid probably did too. She could teach Aine. Then Aine could hide herself away whenever she pleased. Uncle Cillian snubbed his nose at such beliefs, but being a man, what did he know about womanly powers?

  The path suddenly narrowed and ended at a hedge of dense, dark bushes. A soft murmuring came from behind them. Wee splinters of light fingered through the shrubs.

  Aine crouched low, straining to see between the branches. A fire crackled somewhere nearby. She wedged herself into the bush to get a better look. Peering into the night, she saw a small fire burning within a ring of stones. A woman fed the flames with twigs, chanting all the while.

  A bell tolled again in the direction of Brigid’s church. Why were the abbey’s residents not here tending this fire? Only one was here to celebrate, and from the ordinary appearance of her clothing, she was not a member of Cill Dara’s community.

  Aine’s foot snagged on a branch and the resulting snap echoed louder than the fire’s crackling, causing the keeper of the flames to turn in her direction. She had been found out, but the celebrant did not appear menacing. Aine slipped through the hedge and faced the fire. The lass stared at her while circling the flames, chanting, “Come, Exalted One, and bless us.”

  A pile of oak branches lay on the far side of the fire. Aine grabbed a twig, tossed it into the fire, and followed the path of the woman, tentatively at first, but then with vigor as she found the woman accepting of her presence. After many rotations around the fire, another joined them. Soon, the first young woman darted off into the snug woods. Aine sat down on a log while the second woman took up the ritual. Staring at the yellow and orange glow, Aine murmured, “Protect us, myself and the book.” It wasn’t that she wasn’t strong—Cillian was always saying she was as bullheaded a lass he’d ever the chance to meet—but she needed a champion by her side. Someone who actually had the power to defend her must hear her plea.

  Aine rubbed her fingers over her face. She must have been too distraught, too self-absorbed to realize it before, but this was no festival fire. While Aine had come toward the direction of the great fair to find Brigid, it was not the season for it. So what did it mean? There were no musicians, no jugglers, no merchants. This was no new undertaking, judging by the charred appearance of the fire ring. It seemed one person at a time cared for the blaze rather than a convergence of fair-goers. There was no indication that this might be a cooking fire, either. The center lacked the three stones most fires held to support cooking pots. The flames danced free and clear up to the inky sky. The only explanation was that she sat before a ceremonial fire, an offering of some type. Maybe the god for whom the fire had been built would show favor on her.

  Aine sprung to her feet and joined in the sacred dance once again, the treasured book still tied firmly at her waist.

  Later, when the fire keeper rested, Aine crept away from the flame, thankful that the woman had not asked her why she was there. She was tired and weary, and the lambswool-clad cot in the guesthouse beckoned her to return to it. But she could not. Not yet. Under the cover of darkness, she must hide the book. But where?

  She pushed her way through the bushes encircling the fire. Then she turned back and looked at the hedge. The sisters never came there. Hardly anyone did, she guessed, because the ground was not packed down from many feet. Those who had come had done so only for the purpose of worship. Quiet. Unmolested. She rubbed her chin. This patch of ground must be a special place, exceptional enough for the book.

  She dropped to her knees and began to hollow out a space between two of the bushes. The ground was pliable, and with the help of a stick, she soon had a hole big enough to hold the book. She wrestled it from her belt and dropped it in. Its presence would surely please the god of the fire. All would be safe at last. She smacked her hands together when she turned to leave. Safe at last!

  At dawn, Aine joined the community for morning prayers and to break her fast. She wouldn’t be staying long, but she’d placate the abbess by participating for now. The seating arrangement in the church and afterward in the refectory told her who the abbess’s closest advisors were. Besides Brigid’s blind mother, there was a tower-tall woman who took orders directly from the abbess and a petite, blonde woman named Fianna who had seen to Aine’s needs when she first arrived at the guesthouse. Fianna and the tall one had their heads together a moment before conferring with Brigid, who immediately cast her attention on Aine.

  They were talking about her. Had one of them seen her bury the book? They had all been engrossed in their prayers at the time.

  When Brigid stopped staring, Aine slid from bench to bench, hiding behind taller girls until she was close enough to overhear.

  Brigid’s voice carried the lilt of a scolding granny. “Fianna, if you knew our guest had left her bed during prayers, then you were not where you should have been. You will mind your duties and not concern yourself with anything but our guests’ needs.”

  Aine’s heart pounded. She’d been so careful not to be seen.

  Fianna tilted her head in compliance and disappeared into the cloud of brown-robed faithful. Those around Aine left too, leaving her exposed. She put an elbow on the table board to shield her face with her forearm.

  Brigid inclined her head toward the tall nun. “Sometimes I feel as though all I do here is dole out discipline. Surely God has more for me here than that.”

  The spindly one raised one brow. “You have another visitor. This one a man.”

  Brigid seemed surprised. “Oh?”

  “The Poet has returned.”

  Brigid clapped her hands. “I haven’t seen him in years. Where is he?”

  “He told Fianna he would wait at the church for you. Said he didn’t want to disturb your routine.”

  The abbess nearly sprung from her bench. Aine watched as she waded past the other women who had crowded near the door. They turned to glare at Aine after the abbess had gone.

  Brigid’s tall assistant paused in front of Aine on her way out. “Whatever you are up to, you mind yourself. Brigid might not throw you out, but I will, if need be.”

  Aine put on her best smile, the one that usually worked with Daithi, and carried her bowl to the washers waiting in the yard. It was difficult to appear unmoved. She wanted them to like her, or at least to tolerate her presence. She sucked in a breath as she made her way back to the stone path that encircled the community of buildings.

  She spotted something white near the yew grove. The tip of Brigid’s hood rose and fell among the branches. She was walking there and perhaps talking to her visitor. Aine desperately needed to know if anyone had seen her bury the book. When the path led her directly in front of the yews, she paused, pretending to be searching her pocket for a lost item.

  Brigid sounded irritated. “I’m on my way to see our visitor, Etain. What could be so important?”

  Aine recognized the voice. The rude, lanky one had rushed on ahead to intercept Brigid.

  “Forgive me, but Fianna just told me where Aine was last night. I think you should know.”

  “Tell me if ’tis important.”

  “She’s been dancing with the pagans.”

  Aine put a hand over her mouth, fearful that the nun was about to tell Brigid that Aine had buried something near that fire. She strained to hear. Did she need to retrieve the book now and leave?

  “And why was Sister Fianna not in her bed or at prayers?”

  There was a pause. The tall nun had evidently not expected that response.

  “Really,” Brigid said, “you must get control of your tongue.”

  Etain’s voice softened, and she apologized. Aine feared Brigid was about to return to the path, so she ducked behind one of the thickest branches where she had an even better view of the two women while still remaining concealed.

  Etain raised her straw-like eyebrows. “Your maither. She’s
fond of that poet, aye?”

  “Of course. What of it?”

  “I hear you are quite fond of him too.”

  Brigid grabbed the woman’s arm. “Etain, you will not start rumors that could disrupt this community. I will not allow it. I’d sooner turn you out.”

  Sure, and Brigid didn’t need a man. Aine could have told Etain so.

  The sister’s voice softened. “I would never hurt you with malicious talk, friend Brigid. You must know that.”

  “Even so, you must be careful what you repeat.”

  “But others are saying it, and I thought you should know.”

  “Etain, just what are they saying?” Brigid clicked her tongue. “Tell me only if it pertains to the well-being of Cill Dara.”

  Furrows lifted from Etain’s forehead. “’Tis no harm in our bishop taking a husband. Everyone thinks that’s why the Poet’s come. That’s why he spends so much time speaking to your maither.”

  Brigid sighed. “We are longtime friends, the Poet and I. That is the truth, and ’tis all anyone need know.”

  Etain nodded. “And what of the lass? Whether Fianna should have been near the pagan fire or not, she did see your young friend there.”

  “I will speak to Fianna again. And as for Aine, she is not a resident here. She has taken no vows. She may very well be in trouble, but we do well to remember she is a guest at Cill Dara. We do not hold her to the same level of accountability.”

  Aine smiled to herself. Brigid was still her defender.

  Three

  “Stoop as you walk the path of life and you’ll not be struck by the branch of pride.”

  Irish proverb

  Ninnidh paced on the path in front of the men’s guesthouse. Too much time had passed since he last saw his old friend. He’d had many places to go, many people to entertain and educate. As the only high royal poet he knew of who was also a Christian, he’d been quite occupied the last few years.

  He fingered the fringe of his forest green tunic, a mark of his status in society. He used his position of influence for Jesu, but sometimes he longed to wear an anonymous dirt-colored cloak to blend in with the common people.

  Today, he planned to tell Brigid his true name. He’d felt spiritually convicted for withholding it. Previously, he’d reasoned that if no one knew his name, he would never become revered by the people. He wanted the attention to be on the message rather than the messenger. But it had not worked out that way. A poet was respected more than a king.

  He sighed, glad for fresh revelation. God, of course, knew how the people viewed poets. God was the one who had given Ninnidh the gift of song, after all. Trying to remain anonymous had been Ninnidh’s attempt at taking control, at deciding what was best. He had been wrong. Now that he no longer desired to keep his name secret, his old friend should know.

  He perched on a stone outside the guesthouse, strumming his harp. How many years had it been since he’d seen Brigid? Six at least.

  He turned when he heard footsteps. “Maither Brigid! That’s what they call you now. You are as beautiful as ever.”

  Her cheeks blushed as she reached to embrace him. “God be with you, friend. There is welcome here for you.”

  He gently kissed her cheeks and then stepped back. “’Tis a wonderful establishment you have here. God has richly blessed you.”

  “So that I may bless others. Come to the refectory and eat. The men’s door is on the west side. When you have satisfied your belly, we will talk.”

  He held tightly to her hand. “I am satisfied just seeing you again.”

  He willed himself not to have special feelings for his old friend, but he was losing the battle. He had been with her when she was horribly disfigured. He had been there when Bishop Mel had read the vows of bishop over her head. And with God’s help, he had saved her mother Brocca from calamity by pretending to be an evil druid’s cohort. They had a history as rich as though they had grown up together as foster children.

  Brigid’s tepid green eyes smiled. “Very well. Let’s go to the church, then.”

  The sanctuary was empty and cold, but rays of morning sun pouring in from the east wall’s transoms cast the place in a friendly light. Brigid seated herself on a low bench a few paces away from the altar, and he joined her. “You have been traveling?” she asked.

  “Aye. Always traveling. You should be pleased to know, Maither Brigid, that word of what God is doing through you is spreading over the whole island.”

  “I shall have to visit some of those people.”

  “And you should. I will be happy to escort you.”

  A sunbeam kissed her shoulder, sending glimmering light through her golden hair.

  “I would like that.”

  He moved his harp to his back, having no desire to play it while he spoke to her. “So, I have heard that many of those in your life since last we met have passed on.”

  “That is true. Even my earthly father, God bless him, is buried in this church’s graveyard. In fact, he was the first one buried there.”

  “And you didn’t even know ’twas him when you laid him in his grave.”

  “King Dunlaing told you?”

  “Ah, Leinster has a Christian king, thanks to you. He did tell me about it. I’ve been singing the story about the cross you wove. You’ll not be minding it, will you?”

  Brigid gazed straight ahead as though envisioning her father’s grave beyond the building’s walls. “I do not mind at all if it brings others to Jesu. That wee cross ’twas just something to keep my hands busy while I spoke to a dying man. I have woven them many times since, telling of Jesu’s sacrifice.”

  “Aye. And the telling of the story with the cross seems to help folks understand. You should see those I sing to, reaching for rushes to weave a cross while I make rhyme about it.”

  Brigid shrugged her shoulders. “God uses even the most ordinary things.”

  “Like me.”

  “Ordinary? A royal poet like you? I do not think so.”

  “Ninnidh. My name’s Ninnidh.”

  Brigid held a hand to her heart. “I am pleased to know your name.”

  He winked at her. “Ah, well, ’twas foolish pride kept me from sharing it. There’s many who will know it now, especially at Loch Erne.”

  “Loch Erne? Wasn’t that where you were headed when we first met? Up north?”

  “Indeed. I am directing my father’s Christian learning center there when I’m not traveling.”

  “Oh, praise God. What a wonderful example you must be to the young people.”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you still making music, then?” She pointed to his harp.

  “Of course. Teaching takes many forms.”

  The sunbeam had moved to her back, casting an impressive glow. “What brings you to Cill Dara?”

  “You mean besides your smiling face?” His words caused her to blush again, just as he’d hoped. “Truth is, I’ve run out of manuscripts to copy. I’d been thinking about traveling to Rome or maybe Tours, but ’tis such an arduous journey, that. I heard about your illustrious school here and thought I would visit.”

  “I am delighted you did. Our scribes are quite gifted. They are working on a magnificent book for celebratory mass.”

  He smiled. “Ah, books. There are those requiring deep contemplation and study, and those created as a supreme act of worship. Those illuminated codices are such a wonder. Worship for the scribe and worship for the beholder.”

  “Indeed.” She tilted her blond head to the side. “I suspect, though, you have come today seeking volumes for scholarship.” She seemed to be reaching for his hand when the church door thumped open.

  “Brigid?”

  “Aye, Maither?” Brigid turned toward the door where Brocca stood, wringing her hands.

  “I heard the Poet has returned.”

  Ninnidh leapt to his feet and hurried to Brocca, taking her into a hug while his harp bounced on the rope strewn over his back.

  Brigid’s mother laughed. “The rumors were true, then. What are you two doing alone in here? Come celebrate with us in the refectory.”

  They linked arms and left to join the community.

  Later, after much visiting and honey mead and song, Ninnidh stood with the abbess at the central well.