Brigid of Kildare (24 page)

“You do?”

“Yes. I saw small movements in the heather, and I thought you were a hare. And then you appeared before me.”

She laughed. “So that is why you grew pale when I stood before you. You had expected a rabbit, not a woman. Well, I certainly had not expected a tall Roman to materialize from our Gaelic mist.”

I laughed with her, and then grew silent, thinking about the conversation that had followed. “I offended you that day.”

She seemed surprised. “You could never offend me, Decius.”

“I must apologize, Brigid, for my insolence on that afternoon. I mistook you for a villager, I offended the learnedness of the Gaels with my surprise at your excellent Latin, and I—”

She interrupted me: “Decius, I am the one to offer apologies on this of all days. On Imbolc, we Gaels ask for forgiveness and new beginnings.”

I sensed that she wanted to continue, but I needed to speak. “Brigid, if you only knew of my sins…. You have done nothing meriting an apology.”

“Oh, but I have.”

I stared into her face, just able to visualize her aqueous green eyes in the growing light. “Brigid, I am guilty as well.”

“In truth?” Her voice was earnest, raw.

“In truth.” Without intention, my tone matched hers.

Her eyes searched my face. “Oh, your black eyes are so hard to make out in this dim light. I need to see into them to make certain you can forgive what I confess. This work I ask of you, the Gospel book and the history for Pope Simplicius, I—”

Before she could continue, I interjected: “Brigid, I too have a confession about this work—”

The chant “Brigid” sounded out from the hilltop. The recitation grew louder as a single beam of sunlight shot out over the peak. It illuminated Brigid’s face like gilt on vellum.

“We must return to Imbolc, Decius. I am needed for the final prayer of dawn. But please let us continue later, when Imbolc has ended.”

In thoughtful silence, we climbed up the hill. Before we reached the summit, with its throngs of celebrants, I asked her one last question: “What of Valens?”

“Valens.” She looked at me, her brow knitted in confusion. “What put Valens in your mind?”

By her response, I knew he meant nothing to Brigid, that his place next to her in the Imbolc circle had occurred by happenstance. This was all the reassurance I needed. “It is of no consequence.”

We reached the hilltop, and I released Brigid to her people. Brother, my future—nay, my very soul—awaits my conversation continued with Brigid. Pray for me. Please pray for me.

Brother
,

Somehow, brother, I returned to the scriptorium and the last of my great Gospels, that of the apostle John, after I finished the words of my last entry to you. Somehow, I pushed to the recesses of my mind the long wait for Brigid. And somehow, our Lord deemed me worthy of letting the words of John overtake me.

Brother, I have spared you the finer details of my illuminations thus far, but I must share the sublime experience of crafting this Gospel
book. Gaelic tradition calls for each Gospel to be introduced by a portrait of the evangelist, which faces the opening text of the Gospel with elaborate decoration of the type I have described before. To this convention, I added my own design: I prefaced each evangelist portrait with a full-page painting containing all four evangelist symbols, the lion, the ox, the eagle, and man. By this device, I intended to unify the emblems of the Gospel book and to emphasize their cohesive message. If nothing else I undertake in my life brings Him joy, I pray that this celebration of His Word—displayed in my own melding of Roman craft and Gaelic artistry—pleases Him. I hope my delight is not sinful vanity alone.

When the light waned, I gazed up from the page for the first time in hours. As I scanned the empty room, I appreciated that the other monks had left the scriptorium for the evening meal. In my creative fervor, their departure had gone unnoticed.

I finished the final brushstroke of the multilayered lattice border around the evangelist symbols. As I began returning to safe storage the metalwork samples I used for inspiration, I touched the golden torc Brigid had loaned me as a guide for the delicate scrollwork I planned for John’s portrait page. I thought about the curve of her neck in which the torc rested. My mind brimmed with thoughts of Brigid, and I wondered what kept her from me that very moment. I began to imagine the unusual life we might fashion together, pairing our devotion to each other with our devotion to sharing our Lord’s message.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I jumped. I turned around with a smile, thinking that Brigid had snuck into the scriptorium before the meal began. Yet Brigid’s countenance did not greet me—Valens’s did.

His grin wiped the smile from my own face. Though I no longer seethed at the sight of him, I did not relish a conversation with him either. “Valens, you startled me. I did not realize anyone remained in the scriptorium.”

His smile stayed in place. “You seemed rather lost in your work.”

“When the Word moves through you, the world recedes. But surely you understand.”

“Yes, of course. May I see the page that so fixated you?”

Brother, I wondered at his motive, as he had never before shown
the least interest in my work. Nevertheless, in my newfound munificence, I wanted to oblige. At least until Brigid summoned me.

I turned toward my worktable. As I peeled back the protective parchment from my page celebrating the four evangelists, I heard him whisper, “Gallienus sends his regards.”

I froze. I wanted Valens’s words to vanish into the air, desired his own disappearance.

He said the reviled words louder: “Gallienus send his regards.”

I had no choice but to face Valens. “Gallienus?”

The smile was gone. “Yes, Decius. Gallienus sent me to Gael to collect your evidence.” So this was the means of conveying the fruits of my mission to Rome.

“The evidence for Gallienus?” Brother, I stumbled over every word as if I were an infant learning to speak. He must have thought me obtuse, but I knew not what to say.

“Yes, Decius, the evidence that the Abbey of Kildare practices a heretical form of Christianity,” he said with impatience and irritation.

I collected myself. “So that the church might replace Gael’s religious leaders and unite the land under the true faith in tribute to the emperor?”

“Or offer Gael to the barbarians if the emperor falls and the church needs to present an inducement to maintain its standing…. I am certain Gallienus will use Gael in whatever manner he deems most politically profitable,” Valens said with a shrug.

I could not believe my ears. “Hand Gael over to the barbarians?”

Brother, you have seen from my letters that doubts about the godliness of my mission have plagued me for some time. I had attributed my qualms to my allegiance to the Gaels, and to Brigid, of course. At that moment, I identified another source of my unease, and I realized I could never do Gallienus’s bidding.

“Do you have the evidence?” Valens insisted.

“I, I—”

Brother, God blessed me in that moment. For with a bang, the door to the scriptorium slammed open, and in Niall lumbered. I have never wanted to embrace the prickly keeper of the scriptorium before, but I gladly would have done so then.

“What are you two doing in here?” he bellowed.

“Finishing up,” Valens answered for us both.

“Hurry then. Brigid has been asking for you, Decius.”

I thanked Niall and hurried to take my leave. Valens did the same, and whispered as we walked: “I will come to your hut tonight to collect the evidence and you. A ship awaits us on the nearest coast.”

Niall grabbed Valens’s arm. “I am not done with you, Valens. I noticed that your worktable was untidy when you retired to the refectory last evening, and I want to make sure that—”

Brother, I seized the chance the Lord provided, and I ran into the night. To Brigid.

Brother
,

Brigid awaited me. The moment I closed the door of her hut behind me, we were silent, though we each had much to say. Our earlier approach toward boldness had made us shy.

Yet I knew we must begin. So I closed my eyes, let my reserve and caution slip away, and started. Brother, I told her
nearly
everything: the reason for my journey to Gael, the truth behind my nighttime visits to the scriptorium, the real destination and use for her Gospel book and abbey history, the details found in my report to Gallienus, the location of the stone under which I secreted my evidence against her and Gael. I even told her of Valens, and of Gael’s role in the impending power struggle between Rome and the barbarians. Holding back only my deepest feelings toward her, I laid bare my soul, and waited.

She was quiet throughout my confession. This quiet state, so unnatural for one so forthright, unnerved me. I had expected a warrior’s rage and an angry withdrawal of her affections. Or worse, if I could conceive of worse. Instead, she smiled with such tenderness I thought perhaps she’d neither heard nor comprehended my words.

I started to repeat my admission, but she interrupted me with a finger to her lips. “Decius, there is no need. I know who you are. I have always known.”

“You know?”

“Yes. From the moment I saw you stride across the plains of Cill Dara with determination in your Roman eyes rather than the exhaustion of subjugation, I knew. I’d thought Rome would send you sooner. I’d waited long for you.”

“You do not hate me then?”

She looked shocked at the question. “Hate you for doing the hard duty your church asked of you? Hate you for performing a dangerous task you believed would serve God? I do not hate you for the truth, Decius; I admire you for it.”

“Admire me?”

She smiled. “Yes, Decius, I admire you. I admire your veneer of reserve and the way it shatters when your righteousness bursts forth like a spring too long underground. I admire your keen, curious mind and your talent with the brush. And I—” She stopped abruptly, but looked deeply into my eyes with a mixture of longing and regret. I saw that she loved me as I did her.

Yet if I’d ever thought that Brigid and I might profess feelings for each other despite our vows, I knew then that I was wrong. I felt the possibility of a life with her drain away from me, and I realized that our feelings must be made stronger and more constant by our shared silence—and our dedication to God.

She paused and looked away, her eyes growing unfocused and distant. “I hope you can say the same of me once you have learned
my
truth.”

Brother, I could not imagine that her deeds could be worse than mine. I looked into her face. “No words that you utter can change my admiration for you.”

“Your admiration for me …” She sighed and said, “Decius, I chose you to create the Gospel book and the history of the Abbey of Cill Dara because I knew the truth of your presence here among us. Though I may have intended your Gospel book to leave Gael as an honorarium for Pope Simplicius, I never intended the history to leave Gael at all. The history was for you alone.”

“For me?”

“Yes. I only hoped that hearing our story—the story of my people and our God—would sway you to return to Rome and persuade your church leaders.”

“Persuade them of what?”

“Persuade them that, though different, our brand of Christianity is true. Persuade them that we Gaels should continue on our own path, be it religion or rule. With Valens’s arrival and his words, I see now that they will never be so persuaded.”

“You do not know that for certain, Brigid.”

“One need not be a prophetess to see that change is coming.” Her head dropped down. “I am sorry for my duplicity.”

This time I was silent. She had deceived me. Yet I could not be angry with her, not when I looked into her eyes and saw that she had lied to me out of love for God and her people. I could not rage at her for her dishonesty when I knew her to be just in her motives.

“You have no reason to be sorry.”

“You do not hate me then?” she asked me, as I had asked her.

I responded in kind. “Hate you for performing a dangerous task you believed would serve God? I do not hate you for the truth, Brigid; I admire you for it.”