Brigid of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 1) by Cindy Thomson Page B
Authors: Cindy Thomson
Ads: Link
the window of the maidens’ quarters where Cook and Brigid retired.
Cook had never let Brigid witness the pagan rituals, although once she spied Dubthach scurrying out to join the dancing, singing, and drinking. She had been curious, but Cook insisted that Christians should never take part.
Brigid wondered how Christians celebrated such feasts. She returned to her chores. Since she was an experienced milkmaid, Cillian allowed her charge of the monks’ dairy in return for food, shelter, and occasional instruction in writing. She freshened the rushes scattered on the dirt floor of the dairy. The monks thought such comfort inappropriate for an animal shelter, but Brigid believed in making all God’s creatures comfortable. Besides, she thought of the place as her home.
She finished the task and contemplated the beggar’s words. Christian feast. He’d said something about the Christian God’s birth and death.
The door flew open and Aine entered, looking bright and alert in the new dress Brigid had made her. In the months they’d spent with the monks, the little lass had grown enough to need new garments.
“’Tis time for instruction, Miz Brigid.”
Brigid hung her broom on a peg on the back of the door. This was worth all the trouble. “What do ye think we’ll learn today?”
Aine lifted the lid of a butter churn and stuck in her finger. “I expect we’ll be copying words from a book by Luke. Uncle says that has the story of the Lord’s birth.”
Oh, joy! Maybe she’d get the answer she was looking for.
Despite how gruff the head monk was, he was an excellent teacher. He seemed to delight in reading the Latin words to his scribes as they labored to copy text. He would pause and instruct the girls how to write down the stories in Irish. In this way Brigid learned both writing and, best of all, reading the Latin text of the Scriptures.
“I’ve been wanting to hear ’bout our Lord’s birth.” Brigid shooed Aine from the cream and nudged her out the door. “Seems like a long while since I heard the stories at Glasgleann.”
They entered the scribes’ room like spiders to avoid distracting the men who wrote. Brigid loved that hall, the only building built outside the tangle of oak trees. It sat on the riverbank with a row of windows strategically placed high on the wall to take in the expanse of sky left unobstructed by trees, thanks to the river. Sunlight burst through the windows and danced at their feet.
“Over here.” Cillian waved them toward a shrouded monk who sat hunched over a tilted table. He moved his quill so deliberately that sometimes it seemed as though he was doing nothing. They watched for a time, taking in the beauty of his scratched marks.
“I’ll read it to ye first, so as ye’ll know what ye’ll be writing later,” Cillian explained.
Brigid gulped. The privilege of what they were doing was lost on Aine, who dropped to the floor and squirmed at her uncle’s feet, but Brigid understood. Stories were passed on from generation to generation by listeners who in turn went on to tell the stories again. Druids, priests, monks, and common people all educated, inspired, and entertained others in that fashion. Brigid was sure that the pagan feasts included storytelling. And so far, all that she had learned about Jesus Christ her Lord came from the speech of others. Now she was learning to read the recorded texts for herself.
Brigid recognized some of the Latin words as she followed Cillian’s reading of the monk’s work. She even jumped ahead: ut cognoscas eorum verborum de quibus eruditus es veritatem . “So that you may know the exact truth about the things you have been taught,” she translated aloud.
“Brigid! I’m amazed ye learned so quickly.” Cillian was staring at her with his lower lip drooping.
“I am so sorry if I’ve disturbed… ”
“No matter.” Cillian beckoned the monks back to their work.
From that point on, Cillian, finding Brigid a rapid
Cook had never let Brigid witness the pagan rituals, although once she spied Dubthach scurrying out to join the dancing, singing, and drinking. She had been curious, but Cook insisted that Christians should never take part.
Brigid wondered how Christians celebrated such feasts. She returned to her chores. Since she was an experienced milkmaid, Cillian allowed her charge of the monks’ dairy in return for food, shelter, and occasional instruction in writing. She freshened the rushes scattered on the dirt floor of the dairy. The monks thought such comfort inappropriate for an animal shelter, but Brigid believed in making all God’s creatures comfortable. Besides, she thought of the place as her home.
She finished the task and contemplated the beggar’s words. Christian feast. He’d said something about the Christian God’s birth and death.
The door flew open and Aine entered, looking bright and alert in the new dress Brigid had made her. In the months they’d spent with the monks, the little lass had grown enough to need new garments.
“’Tis time for instruction, Miz Brigid.”
Brigid hung her broom on a peg on the back of the door. This was worth all the trouble. “What do ye think we’ll learn today?”
Aine lifted the lid of a butter churn and stuck in her finger. “I expect we’ll be copying words from a book by Luke. Uncle says that has the story of the Lord’s birth.”
Oh, joy! Maybe she’d get the answer she was looking for.
Despite how gruff the head monk was, he was an excellent teacher. He seemed to delight in reading the Latin words to his scribes as they labored to copy text. He would pause and instruct the girls how to write down the stories in Irish. In this way Brigid learned both writing and, best of all, reading the Latin text of the Scriptures.
“I’ve been wanting to hear ’bout our Lord’s birth.” Brigid shooed Aine from the cream and nudged her out the door. “Seems like a long while since I heard the stories at Glasgleann.”
They entered the scribes’ room like spiders to avoid distracting the men who wrote. Brigid loved that hall, the only building built outside the tangle of oak trees. It sat on the riverbank with a row of windows strategically placed high on the wall to take in the expanse of sky left unobstructed by trees, thanks to the river. Sunlight burst through the windows and danced at their feet.
“Over here.” Cillian waved them toward a shrouded monk who sat hunched over a tilted table. He moved his quill so deliberately that sometimes it seemed as though he was doing nothing. They watched for a time, taking in the beauty of his scratched marks.
“I’ll read it to ye first, so as ye’ll know what ye’ll be writing later,” Cillian explained.
Brigid gulped. The privilege of what they were doing was lost on Aine, who dropped to the floor and squirmed at her uncle’s feet, but Brigid understood. Stories were passed on from generation to generation by listeners who in turn went on to tell the stories again. Druids, priests, monks, and common people all educated, inspired, and entertained others in that fashion. Brigid was sure that the pagan feasts included storytelling. And so far, all that she had learned about Jesus Christ her Lord came from the speech of others. Now she was learning to read the recorded texts for herself.
Brigid recognized some of the Latin words as she followed Cillian’s reading of the monk’s work. She even jumped ahead: ut cognoscas eorum verborum de quibus eruditus es veritatem . “So that you may know the exact truth about the things you have been taught,” she translated aloud.
“Brigid! I’m amazed ye learned so quickly.” Cillian was staring at her with his lower lip drooping.
“I am so sorry if I’ve disturbed… ”
“No matter.” Cillian beckoned the monks back to their work.
From that point on, Cillian, finding Brigid a rapid
Similar Books
