me, Aine.”
Brigid and Aine were treated to a fine meal of boiled beef – a gift from a visitor, they were told.
Cillian poured ale and then reclined on a straw mat. Other monks busied themselves with manuscripts in their private dwellings. “My sister vowed the day that little Aine was born that she’d send the girl to me for training. Seems that day has finally come.”
“I was sick, uncle.” “Oh?”
Brigid explained. “She had sores, boils. It was pitiful. Her mother sent her to ye to hide her from her father.”
Cillian reached for Aine who scuttled to his side. He brushed back her nearly-dry golden-brown tresses. “I see no marks at all.”
“Brigid prayed for me, uncle. On our trip here. There were terrible hungry people who pulled at our cloaks.” Aine went on to detail their adventure as though she were a bard with a harp entertaining a crowd with legends and song. That one had the gift of storytelling.
Cillian cast Brigid a long look while speaking to his niece. “Seems this young woman has healing gifts from our Lord along with the ability to tame wild animals.”
Aine giggled. “Aye, she does. Can she stay, uncle? Ye can teach her to read marks, too.”
“I’d be pleased. We’ve got an empty dwelling suitable for ye both.”
Chapter 7
“You never miss the water till the well runs dry.”
Old Irish proverb
Brigid took the opportunity to ask a question when she helped serve the evening meal. “Why have ye hidden yerselves here?”
Five men ranging from Cillian’s middle age to as ancient as the oaks sat around a rock that served as an outdoor table. They didn’t eat from a communal bowl. Brigid thought the monks had odd manners.
Cillian didn’t look up while he heaped stew prepared from yesterday’s beef into each monk’s wooden bowl. “How old are ye, Brigid?”
“Sixteen springtimes, I’m told.” “Doesn’t yer mother remember?”
Brigid had no desire to talk about her mother. She hoped her travels would bring her to mother’s doorstep one day, but the details were too painful to relate to strangers. “My mother is not with me.”
He looked at her in surprise. “I’m sorry to hear that. Where are ye from? If ye do not know why we have concealed ourselves, yer certainly not from nearby.”
“For most of my years I lived with my father up north. In the territory of King Dunlaing.” Brigid cut a loaf of brown bread and followed behind Cillian, serving each man a slice that Aine topped with a dollop of honey.
Cillian sat with his brothers in the Lord. “I’ll tell ye, Brigid, since yer too young to know.”
One of the brothers gulped down his food and stood. “I care not to hear it again.” He hurried to his hut.
Cillian followed him with his eyes. “’Twas not so long ago there was a raid very near here.”
Brigid was curious. “A raid?”
“Not of cattle, mind ye, but of workers for the Lord.” Cillian ate, slopping his bread into the stew the way Brigid had seen Dubthach do.
“Two of my brothers were killed as they gathered peat for the next season’s fire.” He swallowed hard and reached for his ale.
Brigid stretched out her hand to comfort him, but he pulled back sharply.
“They seek to kill us, those devils! The kings are powerless against druids who evoke evil spirits.”
Brigid sent Aine off to ready their sleeping hut since she’d eaten earlier. Children should not hear such terrible talk. The monks were probably not used to caring for children.
After the wee one scampered off with an armload of fleece for covers, Brigid whispered, “But God is more powerful than druids.”
Cillian’s eyes spread wide, his nostrils flared. “Don’t speak of things ye do not understand, lass. Ye may have grown into a woman, ye may think yer wise, but ye’ve never been through the worst.”
He had no idea. What could be worse than losing your mother?
He was quiet for a moment, and then, after he finished his meal, settled into a slump like
Brigid and Aine were treated to a fine meal of boiled beef – a gift from a visitor, they were told.
Cillian poured ale and then reclined on a straw mat. Other monks busied themselves with manuscripts in their private dwellings. “My sister vowed the day that little Aine was born that she’d send the girl to me for training. Seems that day has finally come.”
“I was sick, uncle.” “Oh?”
Brigid explained. “She had sores, boils. It was pitiful. Her mother sent her to ye to hide her from her father.”
Cillian reached for Aine who scuttled to his side. He brushed back her nearly-dry golden-brown tresses. “I see no marks at all.”
“Brigid prayed for me, uncle. On our trip here. There were terrible hungry people who pulled at our cloaks.” Aine went on to detail their adventure as though she were a bard with a harp entertaining a crowd with legends and song. That one had the gift of storytelling.
Cillian cast Brigid a long look while speaking to his niece. “Seems this young woman has healing gifts from our Lord along with the ability to tame wild animals.”
Aine giggled. “Aye, she does. Can she stay, uncle? Ye can teach her to read marks, too.”
“I’d be pleased. We’ve got an empty dwelling suitable for ye both.”
Chapter 7
“You never miss the water till the well runs dry.”
Old Irish proverb
Brigid took the opportunity to ask a question when she helped serve the evening meal. “Why have ye hidden yerselves here?”
Five men ranging from Cillian’s middle age to as ancient as the oaks sat around a rock that served as an outdoor table. They didn’t eat from a communal bowl. Brigid thought the monks had odd manners.
Cillian didn’t look up while he heaped stew prepared from yesterday’s beef into each monk’s wooden bowl. “How old are ye, Brigid?”
“Sixteen springtimes, I’m told.” “Doesn’t yer mother remember?”
Brigid had no desire to talk about her mother. She hoped her travels would bring her to mother’s doorstep one day, but the details were too painful to relate to strangers. “My mother is not with me.”
He looked at her in surprise. “I’m sorry to hear that. Where are ye from? If ye do not know why we have concealed ourselves, yer certainly not from nearby.”
“For most of my years I lived with my father up north. In the territory of King Dunlaing.” Brigid cut a loaf of brown bread and followed behind Cillian, serving each man a slice that Aine topped with a dollop of honey.
Cillian sat with his brothers in the Lord. “I’ll tell ye, Brigid, since yer too young to know.”
One of the brothers gulped down his food and stood. “I care not to hear it again.” He hurried to his hut.
Cillian followed him with his eyes. “’Twas not so long ago there was a raid very near here.”
Brigid was curious. “A raid?”
“Not of cattle, mind ye, but of workers for the Lord.” Cillian ate, slopping his bread into the stew the way Brigid had seen Dubthach do.
“Two of my brothers were killed as they gathered peat for the next season’s fire.” He swallowed hard and reached for his ale.
Brigid stretched out her hand to comfort him, but he pulled back sharply.
“They seek to kill us, those devils! The kings are powerless against druids who evoke evil spirits.”
Brigid sent Aine off to ready their sleeping hut since she’d eaten earlier. Children should not hear such terrible talk. The monks were probably not used to caring for children.
After the wee one scampered off with an armload of fleece for covers, Brigid whispered, “But God is more powerful than druids.”
Cillian’s eyes spread wide, his nostrils flared. “Don’t speak of things ye do not understand, lass. Ye may have grown into a woman, ye may think yer wise, but ye’ve never been through the worst.”
He had no idea. What could be worse than losing your mother?
He was quiet for a moment, and then, after he finished his meal, settled into a slump like
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