Lady Miracle

by Susan King

  Rinsing the water over his shoulders, he thought about the surprising refusal Michael had given him. He had been unprepared for it. Her counter demand had astounded him even more. He shook his head in dismay. He could sooner win the moon and stars for Michael than Glas Eilean. Breaking through its barriers would be no problem—that was not what stopped him. He held back because he feared for his sister’s welfare and her health.

  Sighing, he stepped out of the tub and dried himself with a linen sheet, then crossed the dark room to open a wooden chest to grab a thick, soft woolen tunic of dark green, one his sister had made for him in the English style. Dressed, he left the room to go find Brigit.

  Michaelmas awoke, startled, when she heard the small cry. Soft and whimpery, the sound came again. She heard pain in it, and more. Troubled, she sat up, listening through the dark.

  She had been asleep on a narrow pallet bed in a tiny room above the great hall. Cold air leaked through a tiny slit window, hung with a piece of hide to keep out the strong winds. She slid out of bed, feeling the chill through her silk chemise and the cold impact of the wooden floor against her bare feet. Grabbing her surcoat, she tossed it on over her chemise; although it was improper to go about with a surcoat over a thin undergown, she hardly thought it mattered just now. No one would see her.

  She heard the faint, frightened sound again. Opposite her bed, a doorway, covered with a heavy curtain, led to another chamber. The soft cries seemed to come from that room. She picked up the cold candle by her bed and ignited the wick at the iron brazier, filled with glowing peat, that warmed her chamber. Holding the flaming candle, she went to the adjoining door and parted the curtain.

  At the far end of a dark, spacious chamber, faint firelight spilled over a bed draped in pale blankets. Michaelmas heard a whimper and a sniffle.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered. “Are you ill?” She stepped forward. A tiny girl lay in the middle of the great curtained bed, propped on pillows, her body thin and small beneath the blankets.

  One of the dogs had been asleep by the fire. He rose up and came toward her—the larger one, Padraig, she remembered. He sniffed at her and seemed to recall her as well, for he accepted her pat on his huge head. Then he went back to the heathstone to lie down.

  “Brigit?” Michaelmas asked softly. “Is that your name?”

  “It is,” the child whispered “Who are you?”

  “My name is Micheil,” she said in Gaelic, holding the candle high.

  “Michael?” The child’s eyes, set in a delicate face, sparkled like silver in the light. “Are you the archangel Michael from my prayers?”

  Michaelmas smiled and shook her head. “I am not an angel,” she said. “I am a visitor to Dunsheen. Your uncle brought me here.”

  “Is he home?” Michaelmas nodded. “I thought you came from heaven,” Brigit said. “Your hair is the color of the moon, and the light glows all around you. You look like an angel, or a lady of the daoine sìth, all magical.”

  “What a lovely compliment,” Michaelmas said. “You look magical too. Your eyes are as bright and pretty as stars.”

  Brigit smiled, a crooked grin touched by a dimple. “I am a child of the fair folk.”

  “Are you?” Michaelmas was enchanted by the child’s bright imagination. “They are a very handsome people.”

  Brigit nodded. “My kin are of the fair folk, and so am I.”

  “Are you alone here? I thought I heard someone weeping.” Michael looked around the room.

  “Padraig is here,” Brigit said, pointing to the dog. “He is my special gruagach, my guardian spirit. But he did not cry. You might have heard me. My leg hurts a little.”

  “Ah,” Michaelmas said. “Which leg?”

  Brigit pointed to her left leg. “This one hurts at night sometimes. I thought Lilias or Iona would come with that dreadful drink.” Brigit wrinkled her nose. “Did you bring it?”

  She shook her head, and Brigit looked relieved. Michaelmas set the candle on a wooden chest beside the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I know something about aches and illnesses,” she said. “Can I help?”

  “The wise-wives and the physician said no one can help me. I am a poor soul.” She cast her eyes upward innocently, obviously repeating an adult’s words.

  “I would like to try,” Michaelmas said. “Perhaps in the morning you will let me look more closely at your leg. But for now, we can change your position.” She took a pillow from the pile behind Brigit’s head and slid it under the covers, lifting the girl’s thin legs to support them on the pillow.

  Brigit leaned back, yawning. “That is better. Will my Uncle Diarmid come to see me tonight?”

  “He may be asleep,” Michaelmas said. She brushed fine golden strands from Brigit’s brow. “And so should you be. You will see him in the morning.”

  Brigit yawned again and turned her head, snuggling down into the mattresses and pillows. She dug under one pillow and came up with a limp cloth doll, which she tucked against her. “If you are not an angel, then you must be a woman of the daoine sìth.”

  Michaelmas smiled as she rubbed Brigit’s back. She could feel the girl’s tiny ribs and sensed a strong, quick heartbeat.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “You came out of the shadows like you were under an enchantment. And you said my uncle brought you to Dunsheen. The daoine sìth do what he commands, because he is their king.” She yawned and clasped the doll, worn and ragged about its edges, in her small arms.

  “He is what?” Michaelmas asked in surprise.

  Brigit murmured something sleepily and was silent.

  “King of the fair folk.” Startled by Diarmid’s hushed voice, Michaelmas spun around.

  He stood at the foot of the bed in shadows and candlelight. Waves of dark, wet hair framed his face and broad neck. She had never seen him clean-shaven before, and noticed immediately the smooth, firm shape of his jaw. As he moved close, she caught the clean scent of herbal soap.

  “King of the—what did you say?” Michaelmas whispered.

  He did not answer as he leaned over Brigit and touched her head. “Greetings, little one,” he said softly.

  The child opened one eye. “Uncle, you’ve come back.”

  “I have,” he said, stroking her hair.

  “Did you bring magic for me?”

  “Not just yet, Brighid milis.”

  “Did you bring me a gift from Ireland? I do like sweets.”

  “I know. But I was not on a trading voyage, I was with the king, where there were no sweets. Hush now, and go to sleep.”

  Michael watched as he soothed her to sleep, fascinated by his deep, soft voice and the sight of his large, powerful hand, so gentle and careful on the tiny head. After a few moments, he straightened and looked at Michael. “Has she been in pain?”

  “She was uncomfortable, but I moved her pillows and we talked a bit,” Michaelmas said. She picked up the candle and stepped past him, her shoulder brushing against his hard chest in the darkness, her hand grazing the soft wool of his tunic. She meant to go back to her chamber, but paused and turned back, the candle flame flickering. “Tell me—what did Brigit say about you and the fair folk?”

  He rubbed his fingers over his clean jaw hesitantly, and glanced at sleeping child, then half chuckled, as if in chagrin. “She, ah, she believes that I am the king of the fairies,” he murmured. “She thinks I can make magic.” He cleared his throat. “And, uh, she thinks she is a changeling, a child of the fair folk.”

  Michaelmas stared at him incredulously. “But why?”

  He sighed. “I had the guardianship of her when her parents died. I placed her for fostering with a man I trusted. I rarely saw her. A few months ago, I rode to see her”—he paused, looking down. Michaelmas noticed a muscle thumping in his cheek. “I found Brigit set out on a hill late at night, in cold winds. She had been left there deliberately. Her fostering family had died, and the old grandmother who had charge of her was convi
nced she was a changeling child because of her lameness.”

  Michael gasped. “I have heard of that custom.” She frowned. “Brigit thinks that you are the king of the fair folk because you found her and took her away?”

  He shrugged. “No one can dissuade her of it.”

  Michaelmas watched him as he spoke. The deep pitch of his voice was musical, the candlelight turned his gray eyes to crystal and touched his face and waving hair with light. She too could believe that he had stepped from the otherworld, a warrior made of magic and dreams.

  She drew a breath, stirring herself back to a firm, practical sense of reality. “Brigit is young,” she said. “She mistook me for an angel at first. But she was very sleepy. She decided that I was a woman of the fair folk, because I said that you had brought me here.” She smiled. “Young children often imagine things in curious ways.”

  “She often confuses angels with the fair folk. She says a prayer to Saint Brigit and to Michael the archangel each night, and asks protection from the sìtheach as well—just to be safe, I suppose.” A twinkle glittered in his glance.

  “She has a keen imagination. But she will outgrow her ideas. When I was a small child, I thought that I was a changeling too—I was adopted, and no one knew who my parents were, then. And I had that strange power—” she stopped.

  Diarmid smiled, the tilted lift of his mouth enchanting. Michaelas felt her heart quicken oddly. “Changeling?” he asked, so softly she hardly heard the word. “Perhaps you are one of the magic folk after all,” he murmured.

  “Why do you say so?” she whispered warily. She expected him to answer her with another mention of the healing touch.

  “Your hair,” he said. “It holds its own light, somehow.” He brushed back the drift of hair that fell along her cheek, raising a subtle shiver in her. His hand rested on her shoulder for a moment. She could smell his clean male skin, and the fragrant herbs in the soap he had used. She sensed his warmth along her body, and her heart pulsed insistently in response.

  She did not know what to say, how to break the spell he wove with just a look, a touch, the sound of his breath close to hers.

  She remained silent, waiting, remembering with a rush of yearning the wondrous feel of his lips over hers by the healing pool.

  Diarmid stepped back and inclined his head. “Good night to you, Michael girl,” he murmured. “Thank you for looking in on Brigit. Sleep well.” He turned and walked away.

  Michaelmas stood motionless, her heart hammering profoundly, while Diarmid disappeared into the shadows beyond the open door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Diarmid leaned a shoulder against the carved wooden post at the foot of Brigit’s bed and watched Michael as she spoke gently to Brigit. In the black gown and white wimple, she looked more like a chaste young nun than an experienced, capable physician.

  That she was, indeed; he was certain of her skill and knowledge now. He had observed her for the past hour, ever since he had entered Brigit’s chamber early that morning to greet the child, and had found Michael already there. He had seen subtle traces of fatigue in the shadows beneath Michael’s blue eyes and in her pale cheeks; but she greeted him quietly and turned back to Brigit with a sweet smile.

  As he watched Michael, he became certain that his decision to bring her to Dunsheen had been heaven-guided. No one better suited to this task. Her manner with Brigit was calm and practical, her hands endlessly gentle. After questioning Diarmid about the child’s health and diet, she had focused her complete attention on Brigit.

  Diarmid stood by the bed with no thought of leaving, although much demanded his attention elsewhere. He watched silently, feeling as if time had rolled back fifteen years and he stood once again in the infirmary at Mullinch Priory, watching Brother Colum.

  Whenever the elderly monk had tended to illness or injury, or to the regular bleedings of the monks, he had explained to Diarmid what he did, why, and how. Each day for two years, he had taught Diarmid about herbs and remedies. Diarmid had learned quickly and voraciously, and had committed to memory the contents of the few medical texts that the monastery owned. During that time, and through the years that followed, he had wished for more to read, more to learn, more to experience.

  The hardest lessons had come on the field of battle, where he had taught himself, under duress, much of what he knew about repairing torn flesh and broken bones. But he had done little with his medical skills in the last few years, outside of helping his kin when necessary. Months ago, he had examined Brigit himself; he had scant experience with ailing children, but his knowledge of anatomy was thorough. He had found her to be in general good health, with no evidence of traumatic injury. The weakness in her limbs was puzzling; he had often wondered if an illness was the cause, although his knowledge of such conditions was limited.

  He wondered what Michael would conclude. Observing her now, he was learning again. Michael’s skill rekindled in him the keen fascination that he had once felt for his craft. He wished for a moment that he had not stopped practicing, but then he reminded himself that his reasons had been sound.

  He leaned against the bedpost, focusing his attention once again on Michael and her quick, competent examination. She listened to the child’s heartbeat by laying her head against Brigit’s chest, and asked her to cough while she rested her ear against her back. She counted pulsebeats for long, silent moments; she looked carefully at the child’s eyes and throat, and felt around the neck and beneath the armpits. She palpated her stomach, and rolled the child over gently to run her fingers along her spine, back and legs.

  After checking head, limbs, and trunk in detail, she asked Diarmid for a glass vial so that she could examine the child’s urine, pointing out that she did not as yet have her own instruments. Diarmid went to his chamber and returned with the only clear glass available at Dunsheen, a Venetian cup of thick, patterned glass banded in silver, fashioned to hold wine and once prized by his mother. When Brigit supplied the necessary sample, Michael held the glass up to the light critically, swirling and even sniffing its contents.

  Then, as she had done several times during the examination, she turned away to write down a few words, using a quill pen dipped in ink and a single sheet of parchment, which she had managed to procure from Lilias.

  “Brigit, tell me how this feels,” Michael said. Supporting the child’s right ankle, she lifted the leg a few inches off the bed and held it.

  “Fine,” Brigit said.

  Michael bent the right knee gently and pushed the thigh toward Brigit’s stomach. “And this? Fine as well? Good. Now this.” Michael rotated the upper leg gently to test the hip joint. “Can you lower your leg by yourself?” she asked. Brigit nodded, her mouth set in determination. “Good girl,” Michael said, beaming. She lifted the left ankle and leg. “And how does this feel?”

  “Hurts,” Brigit said, catching her breath tearfully. Diarmid tensed inwardly when he heard the pain in her voice.

  “This?” Michael bent the knee and moved it slowly upward.

  “Hurts,” Brigit gasped.

  “Then I will stop. Can you move your leg?”

  Brigit grimaced with effort and barely managed to wiggle her toes. “I cannot do it.”

  Michael smiled. “Ah, but you moved your toes, and I am pleased.” She held the child’s flaccid left foot, which curled inward, and flexed it gently, thoughtfully. Once she glanced at Diarmid briefly; he saw a flash of concern in her eyes. Then she took Brigit’s left hand. “Squeeze my fingers as hard as you can,” she said.

  Brigit wrinkled her nose as she tried, although her fingers barely rounded over Michael’s.

  “Good girl,” Michael said softly. “Can you sit up?”

  Brigit rolled to her left side and pushed with her right arm to lift herself to an upright position. “Brighid means strength,” she said. “And I’m strong,” she insisted.

  “I see that,” Michael said. “Can you stand?”

  Brigit nodded and pushed her legs ove
r the edge of the bed until her feet dangled above the floor. Diarmid stepped forward to support her as she straightened and took her weight on her right leg. Brigit stood trembling for a moment, then fell back into his waiting hands.

  Michael’s smile did not lighten the serious expression in her eyes. “You are indeed strong. Can you stand on your left foot?”

  Supported in Diarmid’s large hands, Brigit dragged her curled left foot forward with effort. Suppressing his urge to help her, Diarmid watched her struggle to take her weight on her left leg. As she tipped helplessly forward, he scooped her into his arms.

  “Enough,” he said brusquely, looking at Michael.

  “Enough, your uncle is right,” Michael said. “You are sweet to do this for me, though I know you are tired. I’ll take only one more moment of your time.” She stepped close to them. “Let me see your eyes once more, dear,” she said, and lifted the child’s eyelids to peer close. “Show me your smile, now, and then your uncle will carry you down the stairs.” She tickled Brigit beneath the left armpit, and the child grinned. Michael responded with her own smile, her azure eyes lighting as if a candle flame sparked within.

  When Michael glanced at Diarmid, her simple joy changed to soberness so quickly that he felt an odd sense of loss.

  “Can you carry her down to the hall, please?” she asked. “Lilias promised her a treat when we were done.”

  He complied with a nod, striding out of the room with Brigit clinging to his neck. Michael followed them down the twisting angle of the stone steps, her skirts swishing rhythmically.

  In the great hall, he set Brigit in a chair and let Lilias fuss over arranging cushions, a blanket, and a stool for her feet. The chamber was filled with the chatter and activity of Iona MacArthur and her siblings, a younger girl and two small boys. Gilchrist sat at the harp. Diarmid stood silently by as Michael greeted his brother and was introduced to the rest of Mungo’s children, Eva, Donald and Fingal. He waited while she spoke with Lilias regarding the best foods for Brigit.

  By the hearth, Gilchrist sat with his head bent over the harp, plucking strings and tuning them carefully with his small wooden key, barely looking up as girls and dogs whirled past him, working and playing. Iona scrubbed the heavy oak table, and swept the old rushes that had covered the planked floors into piles to be removed. The youngest girl dipped her hand into a bag of dried ferns and heather blooms, scattering the mixture over the clean floors and giggling while the dogs jumped and barked as if Eva made a game just for them.