Lady Miracle

by Susan King

  “Try it,” he said, tearing off a sliver. “Just a bit. There,” he said, as he slipped it between her lips.

  The dried root was sharp but sweet, coated with sugar. She sucked, and waited. The boat surged and she swung against Diarmid. He caught her and kept an arm around her shoulders. Cold salt spray drenched them both, and he slicked the water from her face with a gentle hand.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I am not sure. Perhaps.” Her stomach still hovered at the edge of upheaval, but the worst of the sensation had faded.

  “It does not work for everyone, but I find it useful. I learned of it from a Venetian trader,” he said. “He supplies us with sugared ginger along with other spices from the East for Dunsheen woolfells. When we can get shipments through.”

  She looked around the boat, at the rowers, at Mungo laughing with the drummer, who had stopped his insistent rhythm for a while. “Your birlinn looks like a Norwegian longship. I have only sailed on the larger European ships, and rowing boats.”

  He nodded proudly. “All of my birlinns are Norwegian built, in the design used for centuries by Vikings. This kind of vessel is far more practical in the western Isles than the square, deep European ships, and so most Islesmen use them. Birlinns are perfect for sailing among islands and coasts—light, graceful, fast, and flexible, an advantage in trade or in war.”

  “War?” She glanced at him.

  “I hold my land of the king’s good will in exchange for two birlinns pledged as warships,” he said. “King Robert has required their service a few times, but most of the time I use them for trading and voyaging.”

  She nodded, sucking on the ginger. Her stomach felt calmer, but she doubted the illness was over. Another heavy wave brought the boat high; when the prow smacked down, Michael shoved away from Diarmid to hang over the edge. After a moment, when nothing happened, she looked at him in surprise.

  He smiled. “Better,” he said with satisfaction.

  “A little,” she admitted. Her head ached viciously, and she had not lost the persistent dizziness, but her stomach was undeniably quieter. She rose shakily to her feet. “How much longer must we sail?”

  He stood too, and pointed ahead. “See those mountains?” He gestured toward three blue, conical shapes that pushed against the cloud-filled sky, far in the distance. “Those are the peaks on the Isle of Jura. Beyond that lies the Isle of Isla. Glas Eilean is just off its southern tip. We will sail for another hour or so at least. Our progress is slow because of the heavy seas. Currents affect a boat like this even more than winds.”

  She nodded. “Is it always this rough out here?”

  “Not always.” He smiled a little. “There are times when the sea is like green glass,” he said, “sweet and smooth and fast as ice. Other days the clouds are high as mountains, filling the sky, and the winds carry us like a dream wherever we want to go. Then there are times when the water is rough and quarrelsome. A storm often comes behind such waves. But my birlinns—the larger one, the White Heather, a small one I call Grace, and this, the Gabriel—are nimble vessels in any weather.”

  She turned to glance up at him. His eyes had a silver clarity, like the sparkle of sunlight on the water, that showed his pride and his excitement. “You love the sea, and your boats,” she said.

  “I do,” he said. He glanced at her. “But you do not, I know. We are pulling toward Isla as fast as we can, and we’ll follow the shoreline on power of oars, although we must be careful of the rocks and currents.”

  He stood beside her for a while, silent, then put a hand on her shoulder and turned her slightly. “Listen, now,” he said. “Listen carefully.”

  She did, frowning to concentrate. The constant rhythmic rush of waves was underscored by another sound, a deep, throaty roar. “What is that?” she asked in alarm. “An approaching storm?”

  “The sound of a whirlpool—Corrievreckan, it is called—formed by the tidal currents between Jura and another island. At times that channel is calm, if tricky, but winds like these can start it turning, and storms can whip it to a dangerous frenzy. A birlinn like this can be swallowed in an instant.”

  “We are not going near there, are we?” she asked nervously.

  “Not at all,” he said. “We are safe.” His hand still rested on her shoulder. He drew her closer, supporting her with his strong arm, peering down at her with concern. “Are you well?”

  She nodded, still wobbly and uneasy, but much more in balance. The improvement might have been due to sugared ginger, but she thought that Diarmid’s presence made the greatest difference. He anchored her with his steadfast support. She leaned against him like a rock in a storm.

  Standing there, she could easily forget the torment of her feelings. He was with her now, and no other life existed for either of them beyond the deck of the birlinn. She glanced up at him and saw a glimpse of his crooked smile as he glanced at her. This was what she wanted, what she needed. She did not want to think beyond that.

  “Look out there, Michael,” he said, pointing briefly, dropping his hand back to her shoulder. “Look far out, away from the boat, away from the waves that break along the sides. And stand easy, with the motion of the boat, like this”—he briefly put his hands on her hips to demonstrate, shifting her weight subtly with the rocking of the galley—“and you may find yourself becoming a sailor after all. Like this,” he said. “Find your balance.”

  His hands shifted her, guided her so languidly that she felt chills spiral along her spine. His voice, low and soothing and sensual, was just as distracting as his hands. She felt its vibration within her body, like a kiss of sound.

  She blushed and strived to gather her thoughts, standing as he had told her, legs apart, knees flexible, to find her balance. With his hands guiding her, she found a better sense of stability. Then she lifted her head to watch the distant surface of the sea, where the water ruffled dark blue and frothy beneath the azure sky. Out there, the tumult of wind and wave seemed far less. She felt calmer, suddenly, and smiled with sudden relief.

  Diarmid looked up. “This wind brings a storm behind it. Those waves are long and sweeping, pushed forward by heavy winds. We may see a gale before long.”

  “Will we reach Glas Eilean before then?”

  He laughed softly. “Surely,” he said. “We may even be home to Dunsheen before the storm breaks. Sometimes a gale takes days to come in.” He lifted his head, and the wind whipped back his hair. She glanced up at the strong, whiskered line of his throat, and at his eyes, colored like storm clouds.

  He was beautiful to her, fierce and yet kind, the rock she leaned against. Standing with him as they faced the magnificent power of the sea, she felt a new resoluteness linked to his—as if together they created a source of infinite, enduring strength that fed both.

  But she glanced down hastily, breaking the fantasy. She must leave when they returned to Dunsheen. His kindness out here, amid wind and water, had not changed that. No matter that her heart longed for him, that she felt strangely incomplete without him. He was not for her.

  She stepped away from the shelter of his arms abruptly, and felt as if some part of her soul tore a little.

  “Are you ill?” he asked behind her.

  She shook her head and lifted her gaze toward the far sea. “I am fine,” she said. “You need not concern yourself with me.”

  “But I do,” he said. “I do.”

  She did not turn, and though Diarmid stood behind her for a long while, neither of them spoke. She looked out over the churning, cream-tipped sea as the wind beat about them both.

  The world spun around her, the sea careened onward, but Michael felt changed—wary of the water still, but she could stand stronger to face her fears. For now, her anchor, her rock, was just at hand. But she vowed that later, when he was gone, she would remember that Diarmid had showed her some of the staunchness within herself.

  He stared out over the rolling blue water toward the high cliffs at the
southern end of Isla. A multitude of birds— seagulls, gannets, and the white-fronted geese that flocked to the island in the winter months—sailed overhead. Pale wings fluttered as the birds glided and landed along the cliff sides that harbored their nests. He envied their freedom, suddenly.

  He turned to watch Michael. She stood in the stern, slim and straight and fine-boned. As the birlinn skimmed past the cliffs, she gazed upward, her face showing awe, innocence, and the strain of sea travel. Her face was pale as linen, her eyes were ringed in shadows, and her hair hung limp over her shoulders. But she stood with quiet grace, a wet, bedraggled angel in the stern of his boat.

  He wanted to gather her into his arms, warm her, kiss her, but so much held him back. What burgeoned between them was still there, still powerful enough to sweep them both into its irresistible current. But he could offer her no promise, no future, no real joy. His mistake, years earlier, had created the barrier between them, and he could not tear it down.

  Sighing, he looked northeast toward Jura. On a small island off its opposite coast was the nunnery where Anabel lived. Perhaps he should go there and ask her to release him. She had that power.

  The ecclesiastical court had banished her to the nunnery as a lay sister, but if she ever desired to take holy vows, and agreed to donate the land she owned to the Church, the court had promised that her marriage would finally be annulled.

  But Anabel MacSween was the least repentant, least pious woman he knew. She would never take holy vows, despite her exile. Until now he had not cared, but he resolved to visit her, to ask her, although he expected a refusal.

  He remembered her vividly, creamy skin that flushed easily in passion, brown eyes and russet hair, a lush, strong body, a sharp, often cruel wit. She had emanated a feline sensuality, and he had found it easy to become ensnared.

  The last day he had seen her on the island, she had been angry, eager to hurt him further. “I have been banished to a religious house as penance for my sins,” she had said. “But I remain your wife as long as we both live. That is the prison we share, Diarmid. Mine is here on this island, and yours is everywhere that you go. No wife to hold, no heirs for your castle.” She had turned and walked away.

  He had never gone back to see her. He sent donations to the convent there, as he must, for her keep: payment in wool and foodstuffs collected in trade. But he never brought it himself.

  Her words echoed in his mind. Your prison is everywhere you go. No wife to hold...no heirs.... He could not have had a more effective enemy than Anabel MacSween, his wife.

  “Diarmid!” Hearing Michael’s call, he looked toward her. She pointed south, past Isla’s high cliffsides, flocked with seabirds. Beyond lay several small, scattered islands. On the largest of them, a castle rose stark against the sky.

  “There,” he said, nodding. “That is Glas Eilean.”

  He heard her gasp as they drew closer to the awesome beauty of the island and its high keep. Glas Eilean was a long, wedge-shaped island, its far end rimmed in sandy beaches and green machair, its middle ground a mass of low, rolling hills, its close end a high, raw stone cliff that plunged into the sea. Atop the cliff rose the square, golden stone walls of the castle, like a crown on the cliff side.

  She pointed to the low end of the island, where sleek gray seals clustered on rocks, and smiled as she watched them. “Will we land on one of the beaches and walk up to the castle?”

  “There is a quicker way inside,” he said, and called orders to the crew to prepare to enter Glas Eilean.

  The oarsmen changed direction and speed, and soon sailed so close to the cliffs that Michael exclaimed in apprehension. Once they were close enough that Diarmid could almost touch the buff-colored stone, the prow of the ship slipped inside one of the long, dark shadows that creased the cliff. They entered a tall, narrow crevice.

  Michael gasped, and the slight sound echoed all around. He stepped toward her as darkness engulfed them. The birlinn drifted slowly along the narrow, dark waterway, guided by the work of a few oarsmen and Mungo, who had taken the tiller.

  Diarmid touched Michael’s arm in the darkness. “Glas Eilean is full of caves,” he said quietly, his voice ringing clear above plunging oars and the slap-slap of water. “The castle entrance is just ahead.”

  “I have never seen anything like this,” she breathed.

  The tunnel widened, and amber light from wall torches high overhead shimmered on the dark water and walls. A staircase, steep and alarmingly narrow, rose into high shadows. The oarsmen guided the boat alongside the steps, mooring her with ropes to an iron ring sunk into the wall. In the darkness beyond the steps, two small boats floated, moored to other rings.

  Diarmid helped to secure the galley, then leaned forward and grabbed a sheep’s horn that hung on the wall. He blew three long blasts, the same distinct, plaintive notes he used at his own castle to announce that the laird of Dunsheen had arrived. Then he turned and held out a hand to Michael. Her hand was cold and trembled noticeably. She hesitated and glanced at the staircase.

  “This place is easily defended,” Diarmid said. “Only friends are allowed to mount those steps. A single guard can hold off a shipload of attackers, for only one person at a time can mount the stairs.”

  “Then this is where my brother’s men were defeated,” she said.

  “It is. But the door will be opened for us. Come ahead.”

  She nodded and stepped out of the boat directly on to the lowest step, which was awash in seawater. Diarmid noticed how cautiously and slowly she moved, and remembered that she would be still dizzy and exhausted from her ocean sickness, and unstable on her feet. He stepped out after her and placed his hand on her waist as she climbed ahead of him.

  She faltered once or twice, and gasped when she looked down the steep incline. In the birlinn, the men were stowing the ropes and preparing to mount the steps in a single line, some of them carrying sacks with the oats, barley, and plaid cloth that Diarmid had brought from Dunsheen for Sorcha.

  “Easy, girl,” he murmured, as Michael paused again, her hand tentative on the wall. “Go up, now, you are safe.” He said the words deliberately, knowing that she sometimes needed to know that she would come to no harm.

  The high arched doorway creaked open, and a single, small figure stepped toward them on the wide upper platform. Michael attained the top step and faltered again, leaning against the wall for support.

  A woman glided toward them, draped in a loose gown of gray wool, her hair like bright copper in the torchlight. With a murmur of sympathy, she opened her arms and enfolded Michael in her embrace. “Welcome,” she said, and looked at Diarmid as he gained the platform. “Diarmid! Ah, brother, welcome.” Her voice was light as silver bells.

  He smiled. “Sorcha, you look wonderful.”

  She lifted her cheek for his kiss, her gray eyes sparkling in the amber light. “And who is this you’ve brought to visit me? She is not well, this one, and looks near to fainting.”

  He put out an arm swiftly to support Michael, who appeared dazed and pale. “I’ve brought you a physician,” he said. “She’ll need your care first, though. The sea is not her best means of travel.”

  “Come in, and she shall have whatever she needs.” Sorcha turned, her natural grace uninhibited by her large, swollen belly. Together, Diarmid and his sister guided Michael over the threshold.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dawn light, the plaintive cries of seabirds, and a sweet, poignant singing voice awoke Michael. She opened her eyes and turned on her side, nested in a deep feather mattress, and looked across the chamber.

  Diarmid’s sister Sorcha sat in a deep window niche on a cushioned stone bench. Light poured over her from the large double-arched window, its upper section filled with milky glass, its lower section unshuttered. Sorcha held a small piece of embroidery stretched on a frame, and sang as she worked the needle in and out of the fabric.

  The melody was one Michael had heard Gilchrist play on his harp, but she had n
ot heard lyrics before. She listened as the quiet voice brought her to alertness. The song told of the children of an earthly woman and a male selkie, enchanted seal children who left their mother with her blessing, and swam away with their magical father. The melody was haunting, the words poignant and wistful.

  Sorcha ended her song on a pure, hovering note and turned. “Lady Michael!” she said. “Good morn. Are you feeling better?”

  Michael sat up, straightening her rumpled silk chemise, all that she wore. “Much better, thank you,” she said. “I ask your pardon for my sorry state when I arrived here. I think I hardly spoke to anyone, and only wanted to sleep.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I did not mean to be rude.”

  ”Ach, you were exhausted,” Sorcha said, rising from her seat and coming forward. She lifted Michael’s black woolen gown and surcoat from a wall peg and laid them on the bed. “Ocean sickness can drain the strength. You needed the rest. There will be plenty of time for us to visit.” She smiled. “I hope you do not mind me coming in here while you slept. I often sit by this window and watch the sea, and the seals playing on the rocks far out.”

  Michael looked around the small chamber, its finest feature the window niche with stone benches overlooking an expanse of sky and sea. “This is a lovely chamber. The view of the open ocean is magnificent.”

  “Ranald often sleeps here, as he says he does not wish to disturb me,” Sorcha said. “But since he is not at Glas Eilean now, I thought you might enjoy it.”

  Wondering if Sorcha knew who was true owner of Glas Eilean, Michael reminded herself of Sorcha’s kindness and decided to say nothing of it to her. She stood and picked up the leather sack she had brought with a few items, which someone had carried up from the birlinn. She changed her chemise to one of deep blue silk, and pulled on her clothing, clean hose, and a belt of flat brass links. Then she combed her fingers through her tangled hair and went toward a tiny privy chamber curtained at one end of the room. When she returned, Sorcha looked up.