Brigid of Kildare (4 page)

The date struck Alex. She thought back to the first letter her firm had received from the order, almost certain that it dated to exactly four weeks ago. Instead, she said, “I’m certain the order trusts your judgment implicitly.”

Sister Mary bowed her head in humble prayer, but Alex thought she saw a flinty gleam in her eyes before she lowered her gaze. “As long as God has faith in my decision, I’ll be pleased.”

Alex watched as Sister Mary struggled with the lock to the church entrance, which bore a modern design incorporating the distinctive cross of Saint Brigid. Declining offers of help, Sister Mary finally made just the right deft turns, and the lock yielded. She insisted on pushing open the heavy bronze doors herself.

The church interior was even darker than the stormy spring morning outside. Without turning on a single light, Sister Mary crossed the church with her quick, officious step. Hurrying to keep up with the nun, Alex followed her into the Madonna Chapel, at the far end of the church. She paused while Sister Mary genuflected, stepped behind the shrine’s little altar, and knelt down on the floor. Alex assumed that she was squeezing in one last prayer before they began.

Instead, Alex heard the rattle of keys and the scrape of metal. Sister Mary emerged from behind the altar with a chalice. Even the faint light could not diminish its radiance. About twelve inches high, the hammered silver crucible bore golden bands of filigreed ornaments around its rim and base, each of which gleamed with colored gems and amber also set with delicately worked gold filigree. It was a masterpiece.

One by one, Sister Mary carried the equally beautiful paten and reliquary from the storage space; each piece rivaled the chalice in artistic handiwork, lavishness of material, and aesthetic impact. She laid them next to the chalice on the white linen cloth spread out on the altar. Alex itched to hold them in her hands, but didn’t dare touch them until given permission from their guardian. Instead, she stayed back and drank them in with her eyes.

Sister Mary joined her. “What do you think of our sacred charge?”

Alex looked directly at her; she wanted to make sure the nun understood the import of her words. “Sister Mary, I’ve been privileged to study a few early-medieval liturgical vessels that I consider world-class, truly incomparable. Even without in-depth analysis, I’d say these pieces fall within that category.”

Sister Mary graced Alex with a broad, beatific smile. “Well, then, let me introduce you to them.”

They approached the altar slowly, as if performing a sacred rite. At least it felt that way to Alex, whose only religion was her work. Sister Mary held up the chalice, paten, and reliquary for Alex’s visual examination, but not for her tactile inspection just yet. She had more to say. “Our order’s history tells us that Saint Brigid herself commissioned the two communion vessels—the chalice and the paten. As I mentioned, the early Abbey of Kildare housed a famous scriptorium and a highly advanced metalworking studio. Brigid was determined that God’s glory should be manifest in man’s world—just one of the many reasons we’d like to properly honor her.”

“What about the reliquary?”

“Brigid ordered its creation as well.”

“Brigid commissioned her own reliquary?” The construction of reliquaries, shrines to house the physical remains of martyrs and saints, dated back to very early Christianity, and Alex had studied many of them. But she’d never heard of a saint or martyr directing the formation of his or her own reliquary before he or she died. It seemed presumptuous, like declaring oneself a saint in one’s own lifetime.

Sister Mary did not hear—or chose not to hear—the skepticism in
Alex’s voice. “Yes, she did. They are all early-sixth-century pieces created at Brigid’s behest.”

Alex realized that she would gain nothing by arguing with the authoritative nun. If her assessment produced a formation date different from Sister Mary’s, she’d allow the scientific results to speak for her. Instead, she asked, “Do you know if the reliquary still contains the original relic?”

“No, it doesn’t. Our history tells us that the relic was removed in the ninth century and taken, along with Brigid’s full remains, which rested in the abbey church, to Downpatrick to protect them from the Vikings. The relic and Brigid’s body were destroyed in the ‘Reformation’”—the nun spat out the word—“of the sixteenth century, except for her head, which was saved and presented to the Jesuit church in Lisbon.”

Alex was relieved. The Catholic Church had all sorts of rules about handling reliquaries that still contained the vestiges of a saint, and the regulations invariably delayed the appraisal and sale process. And Alex didn’t think she could withstand the delay; her mouth watered at the thought of moving forward with haste. “Do you know what the relic was?”

“I believe it was corporeal, possibly a bone.”

For all Sister Mary’s detailed historical knowledge, Alex found it surprising that the nun did not know the precise nature of the relic of Saint Brigid the order had once held. She took another look at the reliquary. It was rectangular and quite large—approximately eighteen inches long, twelve inches across, and ten inches high—making it an unusual design and size for a bone relic. The shape and size seemed more suitable for a book shrine, which traditionally contained sacred texts that had been handled or owned by a saint or martyr. Again, Alex thought she’d hold off on challenging Sister Mary. “Where would you like me to conduct my appraisal?”

“Here.”

“Here? In the church?”

Sister Mary nodded. “Sadly, this chapel to the Virgin Mary gets little use these days. If it is satisfactory to you, you may work in here during
the daylight hours. I have a table set up for you to the side of the altar.”

“Of course, whatever you wish.”

“I will lock you inside the chapel,” she said, pointing to an iron grill-work, “to ensure your safety and the security of the relics. I will return periodically throughout the day to check on you and then at day’s end to return the items to the protection of the Virgin.”

Brother
,

Forgive my long absence, as I pray the Lord will absolve me as well. The road affords scant few chances to pray, let alone write.

I call this dusty treacherous rut on which we travel a road, but I give it undue praise. This crude axe slash in the rough terrain of northern Italy and Gaul bears no resemblance to the ordered pavement of our Roman roads. Yet I should expect nothing more since it is barbarian-wrought.

We ride through lands that Rome once held and cultivated, but that now succumb to the barbarian destruction and ensuing decay. The Ostrogoths, Burgundians, and Franks charged through these hills and plains in a wild, tattooed stampede of bloodshed and triumph, leaving any evidence of Roman civilization to molder in the wake of their battle lust. These barbarians hunger only for the fight and the victory, not for caretaking of their conquered lands. They leave not societies but scars.

But, brother, I launch headlong into my journeys. You must wonder who constitutes this “we” I mention. The only salve in my crossing through barbarian mayhem has been my traveling companion and fellow
Roman, Lucius. Gallienus assigned the monk to accompany me as far as the seaside cliffs of northern Gaul to prepare me for my mission. When the road permits, Lucius instructs me in the language, manner, religion, and nature of the strange Gaelic peoples. He knows their ways well; when he was a young monk, the Gaels stole him into slavery from his posting in Britannia, much like the notorious Bishop Patrick. After some unmentionable years, Lucius was traded back into freedom, and returned to Rome. All this I learned from Gallienus. But for one instance, Lucius has not mentioned his own time in Gael.

We travel not as priest and monk but as middling merchants with no particular loyalties except to gold. The lands through which we pass do not suffer representatives of the true Christian church, but they welcome any other manner of society’s scum to enter and trade. These barbarians hold fast to their pagan beliefs or, in smaller but growing numbers, their heretical Arian Christianity, with its offensive denial of Christ’s very divinity. Though it bristles, we must hide all badges of our Lord if we are to accomplish His mission.

The road offers me much time to study this Lucius. I marvel as he transforms from a quiet monk who rides with steadfast solemnity at my side to a jocund merchant in a swaggering search for the local whorehouse or wager game, when the circumstances demand such proclamations. And he accomplishes all this with the smallest alterations in facial expression, posture, and tone. He astonishes further when he changes back again the very moment the situation permits, only to prostrate himself in a mad rush for our Lord’s forgiveness for even mentioning such sins. I believe that the pious monk is his truest self, yet his easy way with transformation amazes and I learn much from it. For soon—too soon—I must don my own mask.

Still, with all of my watching of Lucius, a question has surfaced. I have tried to disregard its sinful whispers, but it has returned again and again as a tormenting reminder that I carry some doubts about my mission. Prayer helped stave off this plaguing query for a time, yet I find I have not the resolve to ignore it entirely. I imagine that this confession will surprise you, brother, for you oft maintain, with a chuckle, that my cautious and resolute nature is nigh inhuman and so must be God-given—an indication that not only our parents but our Lord
marked me for His service. Though even you must own that I ill suppress a certain rashness of spirit when it comes to the barbarian hellions or a perceived injustice to family or God.

Despite my efforts at divine intercession, the question refused to be silenced one evening after Lucius gave his lessons. I said to him, “You speak the language with ease, and have an excellent feel for the Gaelic tribes and their lands, Lucius.”

“My thanks, Brother Decius. It is God’s doing,” Lucius answered as he stirred the fire. He never fails to use the formal “Brother” when addressing me, though I have often suggested that the informality of the road makes it incongruous.

“And you have the undeniable gift of transformation.”

Lucius paused. “That too is God’s doing, though it is hard for me to give thanks for it.” He looked up from the embers and stared at me. “Surely you see that assuming the merchant role pains me.”

“I do, Lucius. Still, I wonder. Why does the church not send you to this mission, Lucius? You are eminently suitable, far more fitting than me.”

He broke my gaze. “I would not go.”

“Even if ordered?” There is nothing so precious to a monk than his vows, and obedience ranks high among the oaths.

“Even if ordered.”

Embedded in Lucius’s answer was a plea to halt my inquiry. I tried to still my tongue and heed him, but my usual reserve deserted me. “Why?”

“Brother Decius, do not ask such questions of me. Just know that I could not serve the Gaelic people in the fullness of the Holy Spirit.”

I had overstepped and was heartily sorry to this man who had served me well. “Forgive me for pressing you, Brother Lucius. They must have harmed you deeply.”

“No, Brother Decius, worse. They tempted me.”

Lucius will leave me here, on this desolate Gallic coast, and return to Rome. I am to await a band of holy men, exiled from their own lands by the barbarian hordes, that we hear will soon arrive. I am to meld into their ranks for the arduous sea journey across to Britannia and
then beyond, to the land of the Gaels. I am to reassume my monkish robes and become an outcast among outcasts, looking for the shelter that the Gaelic monasteries afford. But, brother, I head to a land where even the most stoic of our Lord’s followers faced temptation. I wonder what will befall me.

These letters burn in my bag. We have passed no messenger, no worthy Roman citizen, to whom I can entrust them. I ask the Lord nightly to send a means, to help lift the worry about my well-being that surely must have settled on your shoulders. He does not answer my prayers.

I know our Savior is here even among these soulless barbarian peoples and the dregs churned up from their wars, but I strain to see Him as I never have before. I see only the wings of the twelfth eagle in flight.

I will write you again when I know next where He will direct me.

Brother
,

The voyage to Gael lasted but four days, yet seemed an eternity on a stormy sea churned up by Satan himself. I sailed on a small pirated merchant ship with five other outcast monks, and the northern chop maddened and sickened us all. We clung to the ship’s rails in futile attempts to steady ourselves and our stomachs, experiencing relief only when the ship becalmed for brief instances.

During those rare tranquil moments, we huddled together over hurried meals of stale bread and flat ale in the ship’s sole belowdecks cabin. Over this meager sustenance we shared our stories, as refugees do, though mine was fiction and uncomfortably revealed. Brother, how often I wished during the journey for even a small measure of your natural gregariousness and fluid way with truth. Instead, I struggled through the communing of histories and blurted out the new identity Gallienus had forged for me, that of a Christian monk and scrivener seeking refuge from a former Roman region beset by a warring mix of pagans.