In the late evening the sound of hooves announces Patrick’s arrival. There are no words spoken only the muffled thumping of fists and I know he is beating Grellan. It breaks my heart that he should suffer such cruelty. It seems there is no end to the foulness that emanates from Patrick. I will not wander again if Grellan must suffer so. I try to comfort him in my mind, but cannot reach him, hurt and afraid he has closed me out.
I have not left the cell for two days. Grellan has not appeared. There has been no one to speak to; nothing to break the monotony of the hours and my loneliness is absolute. I dismiss the subtle gnorring at my bones as punishment for lying so long on the bed, useless, like a forgotten tool that has grown rusty at the edges, discarded and of no future service. I pace the small cell in hope of alleviating the discomfort, but to no avail. In this the second night I have not slept, the pain has become almost too much to bear. It is like a knife cutting across my body, a pain that is all consuming and I cannot rise above it. It is time for the child to come into the world.
Screaming cries escape me. The pains have continued for so long that I am beyond reason with delirium, but still the child clings to the safety of my womb as though it senses the dangerous times it is to be born into. I’m sure I will die, alone here in this cell, with only agony for a companion.
A soothing hand caresses the sweat dampened locks of my hair and brushes them from my forehead. Is it but a dream that Maud is here in the cell with me. I turn to her and she takes me in her arms as she would a child and shushes me. Patrick has become afraid that I will truly die and has brought her to aid me in this difficult birth. I and the child are of too much use and he will not have his future plans thwarted by the inconvenience of our death. The soft pad of Grellan’s bare feet paces outside the cell door in agitated nervousness. He cries as a baby, uttering the only sounds he can form.
Like a dog, I stay on all fours on the sweat soaked mattress and as the final animal groans leave my throat with force, so to the child begins to slip from my body. It is Maud that takes him to arms, for I have not the strength. I lay unmoving in the aftermath of so much suffering, incapable of looking at the creature that has almost cost me my life. It is Maud who wipes the birth blood from his wrinkled face and wraps the small defenceless body in a cowl against the chill.
I stare at the creature I have birthed with its full head of black hair and a sob of misery escapes me. Myrddin is again, if only in part, alive and with me. Maud, in her old woman’s wisdom, presses the child upon me. I take him into my arms for the first me. He looks at me and I see already the glint of mischief there.
Sobs of loss and misery rack my exhausted body in this, the strangest of moments. In instinct I put the child to my breast and he begins to suckle. The life flows from my body into his and it is now we become one and the love of a mother for her child is born within me. I know, with an unwavering certainty, I will die before I let any harm fall upon him. Mochta son of Myrddin. I watch him feed and even as my tired body begs for sleep, I am, in some inexplicable way content.
In time my strength returns, I sit at the door of the cell with the child sucking content at my breast. He feeds well. Grellan comes often to squat by the side of my stool. He is my silent, faithful companion. He brings me offerings in his own childlike way. I am grateful for the bundles of long green stinging weed he deposits at my feet though bruised and wilted they may be from being clutched to tight in his hands. After boiling them in water, on the small hearth Patrick now permits me to use, I leave the dark liquid to steep and when it has cooled enough, drink it’s bitterness. With this aid my milk flows free and ample and the child is placated. The redness of birth has, in truth, soon abandoned his small body. He grows fat and rounded from the constant suckling though food for those held captive is scarce and well controlled by Patrick’s miserable hand. I am bone-thin and my clothes hang upon my half-starved frame in tattered rags.
There is but one bright spot in these grey surroundings. A plant has sprung to life from between the dry stone walls of the cell. It too grows strong, though I know not on what soil it feeds or from where it’s roots take the nourishment it needs. Its green stems have sprouted a bright yellow flower and like me, it bends seeking the warmth of the sun.
Father’s whisper grows louder in my ear. His kindly voice I have missed these long months and it soothes me with its wisdom. “Find the strength, Brigid,” he tells me. “Flourish amongst the debris of the old ways as does the flower flourish amongst the rocks. Raise your head from this misery as it has done and begin again. Be strong, for in strength is survival. In time all that was lost will be returned. Take the new way and lead the people from within. Covered with the cloak of Christianity we will continue. Find the way.”
It was now, after so many months of confinement, Father chooses to speak to me and indicate the path we must follow to find the way forward. “Take the faith.” The message is repeated over and over again like a soft caress. “Take the faith and there will be freedom once again.” In my heart I know he was right. “Hide our ways ’neath the guise of the cloth and we will survive. There is much work to be done, Brigid, and you must lead the men to safety. Fear not the future for I will guide you. Be strong for soon, in time, your happiness will return and you will be at peace once more.”
In the bleakness of existence without Myrddin, the loneliness is without abate, but I have become accustomed to the hollowness which remains where once my heart beat strong with love for him. If duty calls for me to continue my life and serve the tribes without him, then my duty I will fulfil. A tear courses its track down my cheek when, unbidden, my thoughts wander to the past and the few short moments we shared.
After all this time it will cost me dear to bend before Patrick and appear weak in his whithering stare. So long have I fought against his will. But father assures me it was the only way and if I will but take the lead then the others would follow and peace will be restored.
Father’s counsel says, now I am strong again, we must act with speed and he has come to show me the way forward, to guide us and lead us.. He advises me to act before it becomes to late and our histories perish into extinction. If the Filé are gone, we have no past, no society and there will be nothing left. If false promises are what it takes to keep our ways alive then so be it. On father’s wise words I will proceed and in his steps I will follow until the people are safe again.
Patrick has eased my way and for once his constant lies will work against him. Maud tells me he speaks often of me to the people and tells them I am here of my own free will. Tells them I have converted to the faith and am taking time here, in this misery of a place, as a sanctuary and to learn his godly ways. It is great work he has done convincing the people and with the Filé by my side, we will have little effort in bringing our plans to bear. Father speaks that it is so.
Maud brings me snippets of gossip along with the provisions she can so sorely spare, more importantly she brings me the plants I need to make the cures, as Patrick still will not let me leave the confines of this place. He can hide me no more. The people come to me. It is whispered from one to another where they can find me. Even Patrick’s anger and threats of his burning inferno cannot keep them away. In surrender and compliance will be survival.
Patrick gloats upon his false victory. The sneer of contentment on his face distorts his features to truly maniacal. He bares his teeth in the grimace of a smile which does not light the flinty hardness in his eyes. He is victorious or so it seems. His great battle has been won. He has accomplished that which has driven him for so many long months. It is said and without a word he turns from me and leaves me there sitting on the bed in the cell. The rapid gallop of hoof beats signal his departure. No doubt he rides swift to inform his superiors of his triumphant achievements
“In this anchor-hold you have repented your sins against God and found the true way to spiritual enlightenment.”
It costs me dear to kneel before him. The pressing touch of his hand
upon my head is a weight not easily born. His droning voice supplicating his Lord to save my proffered soul holds an undisguised note of gloating triumph. I suffer these moments of discomfiture for it is but a meeting of the ways. Patrick is a fool, as are all men who seek only power over others. He presses the dry wafer between my lips. The body of Christ. His fingers are rough and catch on the dry skin of my parched lips. Dry from the cleansing of spirit he forced upon me. Two days with no food and water.
The silver chalice cracks hard against my teeth as he forces it to my mouth. A few drops spill onto the simple white dress he has bidden me wear for this ceremonial occasion. The blood of Christ. I think of the blood of the lives he has spilled and drink the bitter brew so no more will be lost. More bitter is my new soul for the concealing of the true ways. I gag on the wine, but swallow knowing that soon I will be free to go and take my place once more amongst my people.
Chapter 29
Dawn brought with it a chorus of bird song. Brigitte didn’t hear a tweet. She had woken up in the foulest of moods. If there had been something to throw other than the stinking bucket she’d have thrown it. Come hell or high water, Jack or Patrick, was in for it. The bolt slide over and Brigitte made a dash for the door. It didn’t budge a millimetre when her weight hit it. She bounced off the solid wood and landed in a heap on the floor. Her shoulder hurt. It wasn’t the door Jack had opened, but the hatch. “Let me out of here, you bastard.”
“In this anchor-hold you will repent your sins against God and find the true way to spiritual enlightenment.”
Only his face was visible in the small square opening. His features were cast in shadows and didn’t make a pleasant sight. He threw a bag of food through the opening and then shut it. Brigitte was not in a good mood. Her hair had gone greasy and hung in cloggy strands down her back. It needed shampooing. She smelt. She thought twice and decided she stunk. Jack hadn’t given her anything to clean herself with. The small bottles of water he put in with her sandwiches were just about enough to stave of thirst. The dirt from the floor had ingrained itself between her toes. Her hands weren’t any better. The one thing she couldn’t stand was being grubby. The next time Jack appeared she’d ask him for something to wash in. She passed the time having fantasies about long hot showers and bubble baths. “Jack, I’m filthy. Can I have a bowl of water to wash in, please?” Considering the situation it seemed a reasonable request.
“For one to look upon herself and her own white hands does harm an anchoress who should keep them too beautiful. Have they nothing at all to do. Far better they should, each day, scrape at the earth of their graves in which they will rot.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d been hoping for. She needed a plan.
Brigitte ripped the front of the nightdress open so it exposed a good amount of cleavage. She’d give him what for when he opened the hatch again. She sat on the bed and waited. He came back two hours later. She whispered his name in the most seductive tone she could muster. “Patrick,” she batted her eyelids and hoped it added to the effect. “Open the door and come inside.” His hand clutched the framework of the hatch. She stroked his fingers and then reached up to touch his cheek.
“We could be enjoying ourselves in here. Look there’s room for two in the bed.” He blinked at her, but remained silent. She stood back from the door so he could see her fully and gave him her most beguiling smile. In for a penny in for a pound, she rubbed her hand over her breast and prayed her nipple would go hard. She hoped she wasn’t too much of a mess and the stench from the bucket didn’t reach his nostrils before she could hook him. She might as well have been a statue with two heads. The dead-pan voice of Patrick came back loud and clear.
“Contact between a man and a woman is a shameful deed.” ith a scathing glance, he slammed the hatch too. She lay on the bed and sulked until she fell asleep. There wasn’t a lot of anything else to do.
Once, in the early afternoon, he’d snuck up to the hatch while she’d been laying there stewing. She hadn’t heard him approach or slide the bolt over. It crossed her mind whether a patron saint would know how to use a drop of three in one, but she let it pass as there were more pressing things on her mind. She was fed up with him spying on her. It took her a while, but Brigitte finally managed to rip a good size chunk of fabric off the bottom of her nightie. She hung the tatty shred over his spy hole. That would stop him. Sometime later, how much she wasn’t sure as she’d lost all notion, the silk moved. It wafted in and out. She didn’t know if it was the breeze or if it was Jack trying to see through it. Not knowing made her feel worse. She yanked it down. At least when she could see him she knew what she was dealing with. She screamed. His face was pressed against the opening.
“Leave it open, Jack, please.” A whining, begging note had crept into her voice.
“A window? You want a window? Sight gives only misery to the see-er.”
“ Please,” It didn’t make any difference. He slammed it shut and slid the bolt home. Brigitte lay back down on the bed and turned her face to the wall. That was the last straw. She didn’t care how long she had to wait. She’d had enough. She stood by the side of the door with her back pressed against the crumbling damp stone and waited. Sooner or later he’d bring her supper.
There was a scuffle of loose stone outside the cell. She braced herself ready, held her breath and counted to three. The three seconds it took for him to swing back the hinged portal and for his face to appear in its place. On four she spun round toward the door and jabbed her index finger straight in his eye. His howl of pain was nothing less than gratifying.
He staggered away clutching his face, but she still hadn’t run out of steam. She stuck her face in the window and screamed after him. “He who hath only one eye shall see the light. Take that. Matthew, Mark, Luke or fucking Cyclops. Piss off with your biblical quotes you, you... psychopath!” It made her feel loads better for all of five minutes then she sat on the bed and cried.
Sleep didn’t come easy. The longer she was there the harder it got. She lay, wide-eyed, in the dimness for seemed like hours. Her ears had become accustomed to the deafening silence and she was sure somewhere close by there was a generator running. She got up and started pacing across the cell. Something brushed gently against her leg. She yelped in pain and bent down to run her hand over where it hurt. Her skin had blistered in a neat row. Edging her way to the table, she scrabbled in the dark for the matchbox, took one out and struck it. She held the small flame to the wick of the lamp then picked it up and held it high. The soft light showed her a pile of stinging nettles heaped on the floor.
There was a rustling sound outside the cell and Brigitte thought she heard the pad of bare feet on the track. There was someone there. The boy? She called out. “Open the door. Open the door.”
A weak and tremulous voice sounded in her head.
“No, no, no.”
“Open the door.”
“No, Patrick bad.” He had the gurgling voice of an electronic hobbit. He giggled. Something clicked in her head.
“Grellan, open the door for Brigid, there’s a good boy.”
Silence.
“Grellan?” This was getting her nowhere.
“Hurt me,”
“He won’t. I won’t let him.”
Silence.
“Grellan!” She shouted at the top of her voice. “Open the fucking door.” She knew it was her imagination when the creak of rusty metal echoed through the cell. With the flat of her palm on the wood she gave the door a gentle push. A little squeak escaped her when it swung open.
She walked out of the cell and headed toward where she could hear the motor running. It wasn’t far away. Up in front of her, Jack was sitting on the step of a camper-van, shirtless, shaving. A small round scar indented the skin between his shoulder blades. Brigitte wondered what battle he’d been in to get that. She didn’t let it distract her, but he was either expecting her or had eyes in the back of his head. He turned to look at her and asked, “
Enjoyed your camping trip? There’s really nothing like a spell of solitude for tuning in to ones psychic senses. Three days enough or would you like to stay longer?” It took a second for it to register that Jack sounded like Jack.
She was a wild cat let out of a cage. As he stood up she leapt at him. The words which came from her mouth were anything but holy. He caught her wrists as she flailed her fists against his bare chest. His two hands weren’t enough to contain her. She kicked him as hard as she could with her bare foot and almost broke her toe. The pain was worth it to watch him grimace.
“Calm down.” He told her and grabbed her in a rough embrace. It left her with her feet dangling in mid-air. All the better to kick with. “Brigitte, stop it and listen will you.” She didn’t feel like listening, but he wasn’t letting go. He tried a different tack. “There’s shower in the van and a change of clothes. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” The fight went out of her. He loosened his grip and she slid slowly to the ground. “Off you go,” he nodded at the van. “The towels are in the cupboard by the door.” He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled a number. “We’ll phone the police and let them know you’re safe and sound. I had them round this morning, said they wanted to speak to you asap as Paul had reported you missing. Told them there was nothing to worry about, I’d get you to call when I rowed over. Told them you’ve been on a religious retreat. I think you’re friend got jealous. He thought we were having a dirty weekend.” She looked down at the state she was in.
“Well he wouldn’t have been far wrong would he?”
He gave her the once over and Brigitte cringed. She really didn’t want to know what she looked like.
“No, but he didn’t have to call the press...”
“He did what?” She was shocked.
“It’s not exactly what I was hoping would happen, but any publicity is good publicity as the saying goes. He probably thought the tabloid pay-off would clear his debts.”