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

her head thinking of how impulsive she had been, running off so fast. She should have gone to see Cook before leaving. Now she’d have to manage on what little information she had.
    Her mother knew Christ as her Savior. Brigid breathed deeply in that promise. May God lead me to her.
    The air was moist, chilly, and fresh. There were no fires nearby, and thus no people. Brigid loved people but being alone with her thoughts and prayers would certainly help her decide what to do next.
    What else could she remember? She halted her horse and slipped down from the saddle. “C’mon, horse. We’ll think on this as we walk.” Perhaps traveling on foot would help shake the webs from her memory.
    She and her mother had both heard Patrick teach. Many Christians learned from Patrick’s teachings so perhaps that wasn’t so unusual after all.
    She sighed and patted the horse. “I’ll name ye Geall, which means pledge, because the first time I met ye I vowed to ride ye until I found my mother.”
    A drizzle fell, threatening a downpour. She’d have to find shelter. Brigid cupped her hands to keep the rain out of her eyes and surveyed the horizon. Something dark jutted up from the ground. Curious, she made her way toward it. When she reached the object, she was disappointed to find it was a just a rock, not the door to a shelter.
    “What ye search for is not on that stone.”
    The voice behind her made her scream out. She spun around and gaped at a pair of frosty blue eyes peering out from under a rain-soaked dove-white hood. She let herself breathe again. Those were not Ardan’s dark eyes.
    “Whoa, now. Ye’ll scare yer horse, ye will. Didn’t mean to startle ye. My name’s Bram.”
    She backed away to have a better look at him. “A druid?”
    “Who else would ye expect to see at a druid’s stone?” “A what?”
    “Druid’s stone. See those marks there?”
    The rain pelted the surface of the rock, making it difficult to see anything. Brigid rubbed her thumbs across scratches in the stone. Along the edges of the rock there were several carved marks, lines really. They varied in length and seemed to be gathered in groups. At unpredictable intervals the marks seemed to break free from the others like dandelion seeds bouncing away from a stem.
    She shook her head. “’Tis not Latin.” The druid agreed.
    “’Tis not Irish either.”
    “What an intelligent lass to discern so. Come, I’ll give ye shelter from the rain.”
    “Wait. Are ye associated with a druid named Ardan or his druidess assistant?”
    “Certainly not. I am not any king’s druid either. I am Bram, druid of the island Ennis Dun.”
    The druid led Geall past the strange stone and into a grove of trees. The branches above helped sieve the rain a bit, but Brigid was still damp and uncomfortable. They stopped just outside a shelter of sticks and animal skins.
    “This is a camp I just built, but it’s dry enough. Please.” He motioned for her to enter while he tied up the horse.
    Inside, a tiny fire was smoking within a ring of stones. Brigid had to duck, but when she sat down the shelter seemed large enough. She noticed a bag of rolled-up parchment tucked at the back of the hut.
    “So ye know how to read, do ye?” The druid entered behind her and stoked the fire with logs. He sat across from her with his back to the bundle of parchments.
    “A bit. A monk named Cillian of Aghade taught me.”
    The firelight made the druid’s face glow, a face that was anciently wrinkled. His pale hands barely showed themselves under the thick white cloak he wore.
    He motioned to the fire. “Warm up a bit. Then drape yer cloak over the twigs near the smoke.”
    He had rigged a clothesline in the tiny space. The man seemed quite comfortable living in the woods. Where was Ennis Dun and why had he left there? More disturbing was what he’d said to her when they first met, that she wouldn’t find what she looked for on that stone. “I do know how to read, Druid, even