Brigid of Kildare (20 page)

The girl did not answer.

Still holding the girl’s hand, Brigid turned to the little crowd and said, “It seems she would prefer not to join us in Cill Dara. And that is fine.” Brigid offered the girl the kiss of peace.

The father stepped forward and said, “Maeb wants to go, all right, but she cannot talk. She’s a mute and has been since the day of her birth.”

Brigid’s hand tightened around that of young Maeb, until her own knuckles shone white. “It saddens me to see our strong Gaelic culture absorb the Roman beliefs that women are chattel. I will force no woman to act against her wishes, regardless of her father’s command. I will not relinquish Maeb’s hand until she tells me her desires—in whatever way she can.”

Brigid turned away from the parents of this poor girl—no doubt pushing her into abbey life because no man wanted to marry a mute—and asked the girl again, “Is it your intention to enter the Abbey of Cill Dara as a religious?”

I could feel the crowd tense, and I worried that they might turn against Brigid, abbess or no. The girl, whose face altered inexpressibly at the loving attention given her by Brigid, emitted a croak.

The mother gasped at the sound, but Brigid merely smiled at the girl, who tried again. With a rasp, she said, “I wish to do nothing but what you wish.”

While the crowd watched in amazement as the girl made these first utterances, Brigid continued their conversation as if it were quite normal. “I wish for you to speak your own desires.”

“I wish to join you,” the girl whispered.

Brigid hugged the girl tight. “Then join us you shall. Maeb, welcome.”

We said our farewells, and left the knoll with Maeb. I have recounted this story in the life, and I have no doubt that many will call it miraculous. And perhaps it is. Or perhaps it is the result of Brigid’s goodly kindness. Only He knows.

Oh, I can hear your knowing laugh, brother. Yes, I confess that Brigid fascinates. Worry not. Daily I remind myself that Satan can take many forms, even that of a well-intentioned, pious-seeming woman. So may I share with you my efforts to ensure that no fresh temptations of Satan worm in? I dedicate the evenings, when the light fails and illumination grows impossible, to shoring up my defenses. After evening Mass, I rush to my hut. Once I secure the door behind me, I throw myself facedown on the dirt floor and assume the penitential position of the cross. Silently, for I cannot risk another religious overhearing my supplications, I cry to God for His help to strengthen my heart against any of Brigid’s sacrilege or allure.

Hours pass in this manner, so many I cannot account for all of them. I rise from the floor only when my body aches and my forehead bleeds. Then, filled with fervor, I pry loose the stone in the hut’s floor where I store my secret writings, these letters to you among them. Exhausted and near collapsing, I force myself to report to Gallienus.

I recount in excruciating detail Cill Dara’s heretical practices of which I’ve been told and which I’ve observed—the tonsures, the suggestion of the Druid in certain rituals, the renegade celebration of Easter, Brigid’s performance of the Mass, and the unorthodoxies of her life. I list all the banned Gospels I saw in the scriptorium’s satchels, knowing that this profanation is so deep Gallienus need not call it
Arian or Pelagian. Even an Arian or Pelagian would take offense at the copying and dissemination of the prohibited texts.

As I lie down to rest on the rock that served as pillow, I pray to arise renewed to God’s task. And so you find me, in the prayerful moments before sleep.

Brother
,

I heard from Brigid’s own mouth that she was warrior-born. And through the tales of the abbey’s history, she told me that she was warrior-trained. Yet I have a confession. I thought that all her talk of martial instruction and practice was common Gaelic boasting or, cast in a more flattering light for Brigid, a show of might to the warrior society lurking outside her walls. I did not believe her.

Brother, I am no innocent, clinging to visions of His peaceable kingdom. I understood that the Abbey of Cill Dara’s peace stood on vulnerable ground in an unstable culture. Too often, my time with Brigid was interrupted by urgent requests for her skills in mediation. Though she never described the disputes she arbitrated, I learned from others that she adjudicated upsets among chieftains and bloody disputes between neighbors. Yet somehow, these clashes and the ensuing carnage seemed far from the calm world of Brigid’s hut and the scriptorium. I do not know why. Perhaps my obsession with the Gospel book and the history distracted me. Or perhaps Brigid shielded me.

But even I heard grumblings about the Liffey decree from the other monks. The river Liffey cuts through the plains of Cill Dara, passing through or touching upon by means of swampland three adjoining territories. Each of these provinces was governed by a different chief, and the most pugnacious of the three—Caichan—had proclaimed by writ that they must join together to build a wide road through the three regions, the design of which would sit upon the Liffey riverbed and swampland at certain points. At the outset, the three chiefs agreed that the region needed the road, and set their people to labor creating a solid foundation with tree branches and stones, utilizing Caichan’s plan. Within weeks, however, it became clear that Caichan had allocated
the most arduous work on the soggy riverbeds and marshes to the people of the two other chiefs, Miliucc and Dichu.

Although she never mentioned the nature of her work, I watched firsthand as Brigid trudged out to settle countless disputes about this decree. I knew that she recognized the benefits of the road and desired its furtherance for the abbey purposes. Yet as the road building grew ever more challenging, the tensions escalated.

One afternoon, Lochru and Daig, two of Brigid’s Gaelic monks whose abbey roles were nebulous but who appeared whenever peacekeeping measures were called for, interrupted our work. Instead of receiving them inside, as she did other visitors, Brigid talked with them outside the door for nearly a quarter hour. She finally stepped back into the hut, announcing that she’d have to stop our labors for the day.

“The chiefs are drawing battle lines over the Liffey decree, are they not?” I asked.

She looked at me with surprise. “Yes. How did you know?”

“It is no secret within the abbey. I assume that you will try to stop them. May I join you?”

“I do not think so, Decius. It isn’t safe.”

“I need to witness the full history of the abbey to record it, do I not?”

Brigid smiled. “I suppose you are right. If you insist, come.” Her robes swirled around her as she exited the hut. She did not wait for my answer.

We set out on horseback to the west, on a route unfamiliar to me. I had grown accustomed to roaming the countryside with Brigid at my side, but instead, Lochru and Daig flanked her. The threesome rode so quickly that I pushed my horse to keep their pace.

By nightfall, we reached a grove. I spotted a large bonfire at its center, and we veered toward it. Tall oaks wove a canopy over our heads, but the moonlight was so strong and the fire so bright, I could easily make out the men gathered there. At the core of a large circle of soldiers stood three exceptionally tall men, two with long hair and the other with short hair, spiked with a chalky substance. All three wore outer cloaks of a heathery fabric over short, brightly colored tunics and sword belts hooked with blades so long they touched the ground. They were screaming.

To my astonishment, I recognized these men. They often attended Sunday Mass with their vast families in tow and their sword belts empty, yet I had no idea they were the chiefs so often criticized in conversation. I could not believe that Brigid had managed to convert these hardened warrior souls.

Though we dismounted and drew close, the chiefs’ exchange was so heated they did not take notice of our presence. Until Brigid drew herself to her full height, cleared her throat, and called out, “Chiefs.”

“Abbess, my apologies,” Caichan said. In unison, the chiefs and their men knelt before Brigid.

“Shall we leave the weapons outside the grove?” she asked, though it sounded more like a command.

The chiefs nodded in agreement, and their men began to gather the shields, chain mail, helmets, and swords that rested behind each as a declaration of impending battle. The men took leave of their chiefs, and we religious and warriors stood facing one another.

“I understand that the accord we reached has been undone,” Brigid said.

The chiefs began shouting at once, each pronouncing the inequity of the decree and the impracticality of the accord. Brigid stayed absolutely still while they aired their grievances and then said, in a voice quieter yet mightier than any of their own, “You will not behave in this offensive manner in this sacred place, under God’s blessed sky. You will abide by the accord I painstakingly wrought with His guidance. Did Patrick teach you nothing about the destruction and sinfulness in warring against your brothers?”

The chiefs stopped their bellowing and stared at her. As did I. As did Lochru and Daig. The power in her voice was inescapably Godsent.

Caichan’s scrape-metal voice interrupted the still night air: “My apologies, Abbess. For bringing you from the warm safety of your abbey on a cold eve. For dragging you into this quarrel once again. And for disobeying your request for adherence to the accord. The battle will proceed at dawn, as we discussed.”

As the chiefs took their leave, Brigid acted. She walked slowly to Caichan’s side. Then I saw a flash of silver as she reached into the
sleeve of her cloak and pulled out a knife. She pressed it against Caichan’s throat and disarmed him of a blade hidden in his own sleeve. Lochru and Daig did the same to the other chiefs.

“You think us harmless because Christ teaches us to turn the other cheek, do you? Because Patrick schooled us to abandon our swords? Never forget that, unlike Patrick, I am also the daughter of Dubtach and Broicsech, thus a warrior just like you. When you battle, you wound God’s Abbey of Cill Dara and His people. Through my hand, He will punish you if you persist.”

Brother, I know not what more I should add to this account. I could tell you of the humble apologies and fealty offered to Brigid after her show of force, or I could tell you the manner in which the three chiefs proceeded with the river Liffey project. Yet what I must divulge is that Brigid proved me wrong, and I pray forgiveness from Him for my doubts. She is indeed a warrior.

Pray for me.

Brother
,

I am in need of confession, yet cannot secure it here. The Gaels have a curious practice for confession. They do not stand in church and proclaim their sins publicly, as we do. For they do not view sin as a public matter, a crime against the church. Instead the Gaels see sin as the penitent’s private business with God and, as such, deserving of a private confession between the sinner and his or her confessor, whom they call
anmchara
, or soul friend.

Curious, is it not? I do not think it quite rises to heresy of the sort Gallienus seeks, but it is an oddity nonetheless. Inexplicably, I have grown quite fond of this
anmchara
confessional concept, and since I cannot make a soul friend of anyone here, may I make you my
anmchara
for a particular sin?

A new monk, called Valens, arrived in Cill Dara several days ago. Though from a central region we would deem provincial, he is indeed Roman. He is learned in scribing, illumination, sacred texts, and languages. He and I share many similarities, and one would think we
might incline toward a natural friendship, however artificial and guarded, given my situation.

Outcast monks, priests, and nuns arrive in Cill Dara with regularity, so this particular addition would not typically merit mention. Why then, brother, you ask, do I write of this Valens to you? And why, pray tell, do I convey this information to you in the context of an
anmchara
confession?

Because I revile him. My stomach churns as I watch him walk from the refectory into the scriptorium. My fingers clutch as I observe him settling into his seat at the scriptorium and dipping his quill into the ink for that first brushstroke of the morn. My eyes narrow as I witness his careful application of pigment to the vellum. I loathe the very sight of this black-haired, charcoal-eyed Valens.