by Susan King
A child sat there: a small, slight thing, shivering under ragged folds, its pale hair in a tangle. It stared up at him, then scuttled away, using scrawny arms to slide backward. It did not run. The creature stared at him. Its eyes were light, its face elfin. Was this indeed a child of the fair folk—the fairies? But the wobbling lower lip was so human—this was a child, lost and frightened, a little girl clutching a ragged plaid around her, her hair all tangled golden curls.
She sobbed out, and the small sound stirred Diarmid to the soul. He hunkered down. “Are you lost, little one?” he asked gently. She shook her head mutely, scuttled backward. “Not lost? How is it you are out here alone? Where is your mother or your father?”
Silent, she only shivered in the cold wind.
“Here,” he said, drawing the plaid closer around her. He held out a hand. “Come, I will take you home to your kin. Tell me where to find them.” He stood, beckoned.
She held up her thin arms, a trusting gesture. She wanted him to lift her up.
”Ach, you’re that tired, hey.” He bent down and picked her up. She might have been a sack of feathers. He began to descend the slope. The child rode in his arms like a moonbeam, weightless, fragile, silent. She tilted he head against his shoulder.
“What is your name?” he asked. She watched him with somber eyes. “I am Diarmid.”
“I heard a wildcat,” she whispered.
“It cannot harm you now,” he replied. “I am here.”
“I waited for you. I was cold,” she added plaintively. “And then you came.”
He frowned. No one expected him here. He had ridden out to visit the girl-child fostered in Sim MacLachlan’s household. He remembered a pretty, sturdy toddler with blond curls and the impish, crooked smile of the Dunsheen Campbells. This little one was fair and young, but far more delicate a child than that one would be at her current age.
Sim MacLachlan, who had the safekeeping of his niece, Brigit Campbell, kept Fionn’s orphaned daughter well. Diarmid had left her in the care of Sim’s wife as an infant, and paid a handsome fee each year to keep her fostered and happy there.
The girl looked up at him. “Are you the king?”
“King of Scots? I am not.” He almost smiled.
“King of the Daoine Sìth,” she said. “They are my kin. I am a changeling child.” She said it casually, as if she told him the color of her hair, or the number of her toes.
He stopped. On this moonlit night, he could almost believe that of the waif. But the pressure of her little arms around his neck, the unwashed odor of her hair, her fragile weight were real—and alarming. Something was very wrong here. “You are what?”
“Old Morag says my kin are the fair folk. She is Simmie’s old grandmother,” she added.
“Sim MacLachlan?” he asked. A sense of dread filled him. Reaching his horse, he bent to set the child on the ground for a moment. Her arms tightened around his neck.
“Do not let go,” she said. “I cannot walk.”
Suddenly he was aware of the limp drape of her legs over his arm. “Are you hurt?”
“I have a curse on me. Morag says I am a changeling. She is a wise woman.”
“I hardly think so,” he growled.
“She said if I stayed out here, all would be well.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Old Morag left you out here alone?”
She nodded. “I am to wait for the daoine sìth to come for me. And here you are.” She tilted her head. “You are tall and strong, like a king.”
He huffed. “I am no sìtheach come for you.”
”Ach,” she said, nodding wisely, “you are.” Her quick smile was elfin.
That slanted little grin struck him to the heart. Carefully, he set her at the front of his saddle and swung up behind her.
Someone had abandoned this child, believing her to be a changeling—a weakling fairy child switched for a healthy human one—in this case perhaps because she was fragile and had some trouble in her legs. The idea of such cruelty and ignorance chilled him—and the thought of who she might be made him tremble with dread and anger.
Taking the reins, the child in his lap, he looked down. “Tell me your name,” he said.
”Brighid,” she said. “Brigit. It means strength.”
“Brigit Campbell?” His voice was barely above a whisper. He saw then that her moon-colored eyes were surely gray, like his, his sister’s, Fionn’s too. Now he saw the ghost of his brother’s face in her small countenance. Fionn’s daughter, Diarmid’s own charge since his brother’s death, looked up at him.
Shock coiled into rage as he realized that his niece had been mistreated. And he felt the burden of remorse and guilt, for he had promised to protect Fionn’s child as if she were his own. As for those he had trusted with the task—
“Where is Sim MacLachlan?” he growled.
“Simmie is dead. They are all gone, but for Old Morag. She took me to her little house.”
“I am your kin, Brigit. Your uncle, Diarmid Campbell of Dunsheen.” He drew a deep breath. “You will come to live with me now. But first I want a word with Morag.”
“Her house is on the next hill,” Brigit said. “But she will be sleeping.”
“Then we will wake her up,” he said fiercely, and urged the horse ahead.
September, 1322
The wild brilliance of dawn faded into morning as Diarmid rode beside Mungo MacArthur, his friend and gille-ruith. They headed toward home, past the lavender shoulders of the distant mountains to the western coast and Dunsheen Castle, far from these border hills where King Robert’s army clustered. He and Mungo had been with the king’s raiding force for months, and now were finally riding westward. Diarmid would have agreed to almost any request if the task he took on brought him home. Owing fealty and service to the crown, either knight service or the loan of his fast multi-oared galleys, he had chosen to personally report to Robert Bruce.
Now he cantered quickly, but Mungo, used to running wherever he went as Dunsheen’s runner, was less sure on a horse and lagged behind. “You are in a hurry, Dunsheen,” he panted when he caught up.
“We have an errand in Perth before we can go home.”
Mungo grunted. “You seem certain this woman in Perth will come with you to Dunsheen.”
“She will,” he said. “She has the soul of a saint. She will not refuse my request.”
“Ah, the laird of Dunsheen eagerly leaves his games of war for the sake of a small child.”
Diarmid gave him a wry look. “You have four children, man,” he said. “Would you not do anything you could for them? I thought so. Brigit has improved little since I found her that night. I thought rest, good food, herbal doses and a good home would help her regain strength.”
Mungo sighed. “The herb-wives, even the physician you hired have all said the same. She will not walk, Dunsheen,” he said gruffly. “Accept it as fate.”
“One woman said she would waste away to nothing,” Diarmid said bitterly. “Another said she will not survive another year and should be left in a convent. And the physician,” he added, “the educated man, wanted to amputate her legs so the weakness would not spread. I will not listen to any of that.”
“No one knows what caused this for her, and no one knows how to treat it. Even you, with your medical knowledge.”
“I will see her healed. She is my responsibility,” Diarmid growled. He would find a way. She was his niece, his ward, the soul of the promise he had made to his brother and had not kept.
“Is this fierceness because Brigit believes you are the king of the daoine sìth, and capable of magic?”
“In part,” he admitted. “She has too much faith in me, I trow. And I can refuse her nothing. I am lost each time she smiles at me.” And he had made an impulsive promise to the child that he had to keep. Brigit wanted magic. She believed in it, and in him. And he, desperate, had agreed.
He sighed, wishing the brisk wind could blow away all the troubles that sat on his s
houlders. He needed peace in his life; he had only turmoil of late. Now king and crown made more demands of him, and would challenge his honor in the bargain. But he had a sworn duty to his king as a Highland laird.
He looked down at his left hand, fisting it, flexing the stiff fingers, feeling the ache in the ugly scarring there. “At least this the king gave me allows me to return to Dunsheen. I was reluctant to agree, but Sir Gavin Faulkener convinced me to help. I trust his judgment.”
“Interesting that the Englishman is among Bruce’s closest advisors now. Bruce has many strong men around him with true hearts and clever minds. You as well, Dunsheen.”
“It is a privilege, and poses difficult choices.” He shoved his fingers through his unruly brown hair. “But I agreed to watch for treason in my own sister’s husband, though Ranald MacSween claims utter loyalty.”
“He holds Glas Eilean, island and castle, for the king, and guards the seaward entrance to the Isles with much dedication, seems to all. Why would the king suspect he is false?”
“Has his reasons, I suppose. But if Ranald is a traitor, my sister will suffer for it too.”
“Sorcha will not be blamed. We would not allow that.”
“She will suffer in other ways,” Diarmid said sharply. “But I have no choice. English ships barricade the waters on the western coast and cut off Scottish trade routes. The Highland people are dependent on exports. My own galleys have engaged in sea warfare, and now we can only trade through Irish ports. And the king heard from an English source that Ranald is less than loyal. Glas Eilean is a key sea fortress. If there is a plot in the western Isles to harm Scotland, it must be exposed.”
“Then we will watch MacSween for the king.”
“Lately Bruce granted Glas Eilean’s charter to Gavin, who then gave it to his sister hoping to attract a strong Highland lord as her husband. Gavin cannot oversee Glas Eilean himself.”
“Ah. MacSween will be furious! Who is Faulkener’s unmarried sister?”
“A widow. Michaelmas is her name,” Diarmid said.
“The woman in Perth?” Mungo gaped at him. “The one who helped my father when he was wounded on a battlefield?”
“The very one. She owns Glas Eilean now.”
“What a fine mess.” Mungo shook his head. “Now I see why you want her at Dunsheen. Does Gavin know you are wed already? You cannot marry this girl.”
“I cannot, so I suggested one of my brothers for his sister.” She might hold a key to the king’s situation, but she held another key, too, one that could fulfill Diarmid’s vow to a child.
Magic. The only true magic he had ever known had been in this lady’s hands, and he meant to find her. “She has become a skilled healer. Gavin says she had some medical training in Italy, and that she was wed and widowed there.”
“Yet another healer.” Mungo sighed.
“Just so. Come ahead.” Diarmid cantered toward Perth, where an angel dwelled.
CHAPTER TWO
No sunshine once again, Michaelmas thought, and sighed. She had spent nine years in Italy, and often longed for warm sun. Standing in the doorway of the hospital building, holding a stack of clean, folded sheets, she lifted her face to the autumn breeze. The hems of her widow’s black surcoat and gown fluttered around her feet, and the air ruffled the linen wimple that framed her face.
“Lady Michaelmas, bring the sheets inside.” An imperious female voice cut into her thoughts. “The sisters have stripped the beds to be remade.”
“I am coming, Mother Agnes.” Michaelmas turned, but something caught her attention. In the distance, where blue hills encircled a glen, she saw two riders. She watched their progress for a moment, recognizing the wrapped plaids of Highlanders. Their sturdy mounts headed toward the hill on which the small hospital complex stood.
Saint Leonard’s Hospital, enclosed within a stone wall, overlooked a river and glen. Michaelmas often noticed new arrivals come by that route. The master physician came every few days and the apothecary rode in once a week from nearby Saint John’s Town, which some called Perth. Most of their visitors were those in need of medical help or the charity of beds and food.
As for the two riders, Highland men sometimes came here, especially those wounded in the raids that King Robert and his army sometimes made against the English in this area. The taller of the two men rode a black horse and moved with singular grace and rhythm, dark hair loose, posture strong and proud even from a distance. He did not look wounded. His companion rode more awkwardly, and possibly was in need of treatment.
But regardless of her medical training, she would not be permitted to treat them. The prioress, priest and master physician had agreed on that. She tended patients—but only in secret.
“Lady Michaelmas, we are waiting!” Mother Agnes called.
She turned quickly. “Coming!”
“Close the door! Master James does not like his patients to be exposed to the outside air!”
Michaelmas shut the door, then hurried along the aisle formed by twenty-four beds, twelve to each side, in the common hall. In a corner of the wide room, Mother Agnes watched her with a pinched expression, spoke to two novices with her, and then left by another door.
Michaelmas breathed out a sigh of relief. A few elderly patients, lying paired in the beds, reached out toward her as she passed. She greeted each one, but hurried along. She had spent too much time in the courtyard fetching clean sheets from the drying ropes.
“Pardon, Marjorie, Alice,” she told the novices as she laid the stacked linens on a table. “I hope the prioress knew it was my fault that the beds were not yet made up this morning.”
Marjorie picked up a sheet to spread it over one of the straw mattresses. “Och, the Mother Prioress was more grieved by what Father Anselm reported about you.”
Michaelmas she helped Alice fold and tuck another sheet. “What did he say this time?”
“He said you examined Mistress Jean and the Highland men yesterday in the manner of a physician,” Alice said. “He said that the patients are calling you that name again. Mother Agnes is not pleased.”
“She does hate for them to call me that,” Michaelmas said wryly, feeling her cheeks blush.
“‘Lady Miracle’ befits the Mother of our Savior, and the prioress says ”—Alice pursed her lips in imitation—“‘’'Tis no name for a Saracen’s widow, who has scant hope of attaining heaven because of her sinful marriage.’”
Marjorie laughed. Michaelmas snapped open a folded sheet vigorously. “Did she!”
“Michaelmas is a full physician!” Marjorie said. “And Lady Miracle is a fine name for her! She has a touch like an angel.”
“Mother Agnes is jealous,” Alice said. “She dislikes your marriage and your education.”
“I am widowed, does she like that better?” Michaelmas said bitterly.
“Och, you should be doing the work of Master James,” Marjorie said.
Alice punched a heather-stuffed pillow. “You could help more here but for the limits they put on you.” She looked up. “Could your marriage truly keep you from heaven?”
“My husband was a fine physician and a kind man,” Michaelmas said as she smoothed the covers on the bed. “He was a Saracen, but his mother was a Christian lady.”
“And now you are a widow and must make your way in the world,” Marjorie said. “You could accept membership in the barber-surgeon’s guild, since it was offered.”
“I refused. The guild will allow me to extract teeth, let blood, and repair small wounds. They will not even let practice midwifery unless I apprentice for four years here.”
Marjorie looked appalled. “You know as much as any midwife, and more!”
Michaelmas sighed. “They are still investigating me. I have argued for my physician’s license for months now. Father Anselm makes it clear it will never be granted to me.”
“You could go back to your brother’s home,” Alice said. “You can marry well.”
“I do not wish to ma
rry a Highlander, as my brother wishes. I want to use my skills.”
“A hospital somewhere will welcome a female physician,” Marjorie said.
Michaelmas shrugged, discouraged. “Enough, my friends, we have work to do. Alice, fetch this morning’s doses from the infirmary,” she directed. “Marjorie, please begin to wash hands, faces and feet. There is warm water in the kettle by the hearth. And have them rinse their mouths with minted water this morning.” The girls walked away to begin their tasks.
Michaelmas turned toward an old woman who lay in a bed close by, a knitted cap on her hair, blankets tucked high on her bony shoulders. Her head trembled with age.
“Mistress Jean,” she said brightly, “how do you fare this morn?”
The woman opened her eyes, their color muddy with age. “Ah, Lady Miracle. I feared ye might leave us with all the trouble the prioress gave ye.”
“I would not leave without a farewell to you.” She took Jean’s wrist to measure the pulse.
“I might leave ye first, dearling, old as I am.”
Michaelmas counted, while the pulse beneath her fingertips fluttered like a butterfly. Ibrahim had taught her to recognize the rhythm of an aged heart slipping toward its final silence. Little time was left for Jean. Gently she set down the woman’s arm. “What shall I bring you at midday dinner, Jeanie?” she asked. “Something sweet today?”
“Aye, but do not tell the prioress! She was angry enough when ye gave me a bed to myself. She will bring trouble for ye, that one.”
“Oh, she does not worry me. Here is Alice with the electuary Master James prescribed for you to take.” Michaelmas smiled.
Jean wrinkled her nose. “I do not—ooh, now who is that?” she asked, looking toward the door. “Two fine-looking savages!” she crowed.
Michaelmas turned to see two Highlanders standing at the threshold of the common room. Their green and black plaids, unkempt hair, and bare legs did give them a savage look. These must be the men she had seen riding this way.
