Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) by Cindy Thomson Page A

a hibernating bear and told the story while she ate. “The brothers were opening a new peat bed. Hard work, that, riding the bog of grasses and such. They’d been laboring most of the day not too far from here, just to the east. Takes a short time to walk there if yer donkey’s not in a foul mood.” He gazed at the clouds overhead. “’Tis a bog soiled by blood now. We won’t go there. We use wood we cut from the forest to warm us through the winter.” He scratched his orbed belly through his brown linen cloak – the color of a peat bog. He smelled like one too, earthy and damp.
    Cillian’s voice grew louder and tight. “Druids in robes, looking like winged gulls, swooped in, waving swords like warriors. Curse those druids! ’Tis not their role to take up weapons.”
    “You saw them?” Brigid had heard many tales about the cloaked men pagans called priests, poets, and prophets, but she had never laid eyes on one.
    “Nay, not me. But Philib, the brother who left as I began to tell ye ’bout it, witnessed the whole attack.”
    “How awful.” Brigid wondered how witnessing such unprovoked violence would affect someone. Now she understood why they hid.
    “Did ye send for the king? Did ye have the druids arrested?”
    The remaining monks gathered up the dishes and disappeared from the dining rock. Cillian stood and looked down on her, making her uneasy.
    “Ye may be sixteen springs, soon to be seventeen since the winter’s now breaking, but ye know nothing of the world, miss.” He slapped his foot on the rock and withdrew a small knife from the leather laces of his boot. “This is justice, should I ever see another druid. No king will stand up to those devils. They fear their curses. They should fear God.”
    “But the Bible says justice is the Lord’s.”
    He rammed the knife into the dirt next to the dining rock. Brigid gasped and knocked over her wooden bowl of broth.
    She hurried to wipe up the spill with her apron, but he held her back.
    “Listen to me, little lass. I am the Lord’s servant. If he wishes to use me to enact his justice, so be it.” His voice seemed to shake the branches above their heads. Was he really hiding? Or was he lurking in the woods, hoping for an opportunity to avenge the monks’ murder?
    She turned away from his angry expression. “I… understand. I do.”
    Brigid hastened to her sleeping quarters where Aine slept secure under fur blankets. Lord, why am I here? This man is no better than Dubthach. He says he’s a Christian, but he seeks revenge for his own pleasure. Are Aine and I safe here? Is it worth staying here just to learn to write?
     
    Soon Brigid had her answer. The poor, the lonely, the hungry, had found her. And she now had something to give them. She was living with Christians, so it seemed, and a worker for the Lord always gives to the poor.
    “Here now, “ she said to a fellow. “Take these eggs to yer wife and let her cook them over the fire. Tomorrow I’ll fetch ye some cream from the monks’ dairy.”
    The poor soul’s face was covered in grime, but his eyes were sprite and excited. “’Tis so kind of ye. The monks rarely give away their food. Only twice a year on feast days.”
    “Feast days?” She could barely believe what she heard. Did the monks follow pagan feasts? Perhaps they were not what they seemed.
    The beggar blinked. “Aye. Ye know, the Christian feasts? The celebration of yer god’s birth and death. Falls on the breaking of winter and the breaking of spring. Well, thank ye again.” He crept under the brambles surrounding the monks’ gathering of log huts and then disappeared down the road near the river, in the direction Brigid and Aine had come from.
    The pagan feasts occurred at the times the fellow described as Christian feasts. Dubthach had allowed the pagans working for him to build large fires and celebrate in their own way. Sometimes they wore repulsive masks and drank ale far into the night. Their chants drifted into