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

night?”
    He didn’t answer. A fox scampered across her path, shining his yellow eyes at her before sliding back into the woody landscape. The creature was not startled by their appearance. Animals have keen senses, seem to know when things are urgent.
    She pulled her cloak over her head and shivered against the sharp late-summer winds. Why at night? Would she arrive back at her barn before milking time? With babies there was no telling. She knew that, from the few times she’d assisted with births before. Some bairns were quick, and some seemed to be so reluctant to make their arrival that they reminded her of how tenaciously stubborn the human race is.
    “Here it is. The MacFirbis home. I can’t stay with ye, Brigid. There are others who need my help tonight.”
    She watched him drift into the woods until his white cloak appeared gray in the distance and then disappeared. She hesitated a moment before knocking. What should she say?
    The door to the minuscule cabin swung wide and MacFirbis met her. The man glared at her with wild eyes, slipped his coat over sagging shoulders, and ran into the woods.
    “Wait! Where are ye going?”
    Too late. He was gone. Men weren’t usually much help during birthing anyway.
    Brigid peered around the cabin. A mound of blankets told her where the expectant mother was. “Where’s yer maid?”
    “They’ve all left me,” the woman answered from the blanket pile.
    Just as Ardan said. They all feared an invasion of the dead. If they were that frightened, it could only mean the mother was in grave danger.
    The cabin was dark, cold, and vacant, except for the suffering woman.
    “Are the pains bad?”
    The woman grunted. She was curled up on the floor in a corner. The labor had progressed so that the woman could barely manage to speak. Brigid had seen it before.
    A shriek followed, rattling dishes on the shelves. Brigid set to work building a fire. All the while she sang softly, hoping to calm the terrified woman. But as she lit the candles hanging from the rafters, Brigid was met with a horrifying sight. MacFirbis’s wife had a scowl that would terrify the mightiest warrior in Ireland, even the legendary Cu Chulainn. Her hands were covered with blood and in her shaking arms she was cradling a still child.
    Brigid breathed deeply, asking God for strength. “Please, darlin’, let me hold yer child.”
    The woman cowered and hissed at Brigid.
    Brigid crossed herself. “Oh, God, do not let evil into this house tonight.” She tried again, pulling ever so gently on the woman’s sleeve. She softened and allowed the bundle to be taken from her.
    Brigid rushed to a bowl of washing water left beside the fire pit. A warming blaze illuminated what she held in her arms. The wee bloody face was so thickly coated that the baby’s mouth was hidden. Brigid dipped her hand into the lukewarm water and cleansed the child, a girl. She slid her fingers over the child’s mouth and pried the babe’s lips apart. The tiny face was blue, but the child’s body was still warm from her mother’s womb.
    Her mother wailed from the corner.
    “Don’t be afraid.” Brigid hummed a tune she remembered hearing the monks sing. The notes were cheery but not loud. The words were about hope in dark times.
    With as gentle a hand as she could muster, Brigid cleared the baby’s nose and then stopped her singing to breathe into the child’s face. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. The woman was starting to recover. Perhaps Brigid’s praise to the Creator had calmed her.
    The baby coughed and Brigid and the new mother laughed out loud.
    “What is that song ye sang?” MacFirbis’s wife took her cleansed infant into her arms to nurse.
    “A song to my God.” Brigid steadied herself against a wall. The hours passed, and the room transformed from a deep, dark cave into a brightly-lit home of joy. The rising sun shone tiny ribbons of light through the house’s wooden doorframe. “There’s something familiar