Brigid of Kildare by Heather Terrell

mind whirls with the conundrum in which this union has placed her, but her body does not reel in accordance. She knows not what course to take; even constant prayer yields no solution to her puzzle.
    The regal procession of king and queen, followed by Brigid and a trail of warriors with banners flying and horns sounding, arrives in the borderlands between Dubtach’s original lands and Eaghan’s. Two large tents, one crimson and one amethyst, stand in a flat field adjoining a grove. The warriors dismount at Dubtach’s signal and escort Brigid and Broicsech toward the tent woven of rich purple cloth.
    Before she passes over the threshold, Brigid turns around. She watches as her father nears the other tent. Eaghan himself pushes back the tent’s opening and stretches out his hands in welcome to Dubtach, his imminent kinsman.
    Brigid steps into the darkness of the tent’s interior, so black it matches her despair. Her mother has taken a place on the rich carpet covering the forest floor and motions for Brigid to join her. Brigid declines the invitation, preferring to remain closer to the fresher air outside.
    “You are unnaturally quiet, Brigid.”
    “I thought that is what you wished, Mother.”
    Her mother stands. “I did not raise you to docility and meekness, Brigid. I raised you to strength. Strength, however, does not mean that we always get to pursue our will. Strength means that we must follow our destined path with fortitude and grace.”
    “And strength sometimes means that we must act as our conscience and our God dictate—even if that course does not accord with the designs of our family or our land,” Brigid says in a near whisper. With her words comes the insight she seeks.
    The warriors’ horns call for them. Broicsech leaves the tent with Brigid and a bevy of maids in her wake. The women make a colorful stream as they weave across the field to the ceremonial mound where the men await.
    Dubtach and Eaghan stand at the flattened top of the mound. Their crowns and jewel-encrusted swords gleam in the dying light of day. A place awaits Broicsech next to Eaghan’s queen in the semicircular terrace just below Dubtach and Eaghan on the mound. With a warrior at each elbow, Broicsech climbs to her position.
    And at the mound’s base stands Cullen, waiting for Brigid. He is handsome, with his black hair, green eyes, and crooked nose. As she stares at him, Cullen smiles at her with gentleness and curiosity. She thinks that he looks a kindly man, and in another life he might have made her a good husband. Yet she knows with certainty that this union is not the path to which she is called.
    Custom requires the exchange of commitments between Dubtach and Eaghan before Brigid takes her position at Cullen’s side. Disregarding the ritualistic order, she approaches Cullen directly. She hears her mother gasp and her father call out to her, but she continues her advance.
    Standing before Cullen, Brigid says, “I am so sorry, Cullen. You seem a good man, and I wish I could honor my father’s vows. But I cannot.”
    “What—what do you mean?” he stammers in shock, making Brigid like him all the more. No false warrior’s bravado for him. “If you act out of doubts as to my feelings toward you, I promise you that they are true.” His pledge of affection makes her task more difficult, for only a gentle man would reassure her rather than lash out at the insult to his honor.
    Ignoring the protests of her parents, she reaches for his hands. She squeezes them and says, “I do not doubt your feelings, Cullen. And your words make me wish even more that I could enter into this marriage.I am fortunate that a man such as yourself wants me for his wife.” She smiles at him, and a tiny, hopeful grin appears at the corners of his lips.
    “Then be my wife,” he says.
    Tears form in Brigid’s eyes at his sincere plea. They course down her cheeks as she says, “Cullen, I would like nothing more than to be called to a