by Susan King
The child tucked its head and surged, spun, floated in a circle. She saw its genitals, swollen and clefted, female. Tears started in her eyes.
Sorcha cried out and jerked awake. “What was that?” she breathed, putting a hand to her belly over Michael’s hand.
“I think your babe just turned,” Michael said, smiling a little through her tears. “She did.”
Sorcha nodded, then gritted her teeth as a contraction took her. This one, Michael could see, was stronger than the rest, the result of the downward pressure as the babe’s head slipped into place. Sorcha grabbed Michael’s hand, grabbed the covers, cried out gutturally.
More contractions came, each one faster, harder, fiercer than the last. Michael tried to help Sorcha through each one, rubbing her back, speaking softly, while Giorsal snored. Labor progressed so quickly, suddenly, that Michael called out to Giorsal for help, unwilling to leave Sorcha’s side. But the older woman did not seem to hear her.
She wiped Sorcha’s brow with a linen towel, counted the moments between pains, watched Sorcha’s face, and knew that the time of birth drew near. “Giorsal!” she called. “Wake up!”
Loud snoring was the only reply. Michael murmured to Sorcha, who thrashed and grunted with the increasing strength of the force that overtook her body. Michael ran to Giorsal and pushed at her broad shoulder. Giorsal snorted contentedly and fell over on the cushioned bench in a drunken stupor.
Michael ran to the door and yanked it open. Diarmid was there in an instant, Mungo behind him. Seeing Michael’s face, Diarmid strode past her into the room. One look at Giorsal had him spinning toward Mungo. “Get her out of here!” he snapped.
Mungo, looking equally stormy, hoisted the midwife to a standing position and half-dragged her from the room.
Michael supported Sorcha’s back as the mother groaned with the profound urge to bring forth her child. “Help me,” Michael said to Diarmid. “You must help. She is ready now. Listen to her breathing.”
Sorcha moaned out, the cry ending in a grinding grunt. “Let me hold her while you deliver the child,” Diarmid said, quickly kneeling on the bed to take Sorcha back against his chest.
Michael grabbed up the linen towels she had folded at the foot of the bed earlier and positioned herself between Sorcha’s outspread legs. Sorcha groaned again, a primordial sound of breath and soul and blood that sent chills through Michael. “Now, Sorcha, now!” she said.
Diarmid tilted his sister forward slightly, supporting her. “Push,” he said. “Push, the time has come.”
“I see the head, ah, she’s lovely, push, my sweet,” Michael crooned, repeating that, saying other phrases. Diarmid murmured to his sister as well, and he and Michael spoke a harmony of encouragement while Sorcha strained.
Finally Michael coaxed the head out of the passage, then the writhing shoulders, the chest. The child slipped out with a burbling sound into her spanned and waiting hands, its little body warm, slick, wondrous.
“A girl!” She wrapped the child as she spoke. “A daughter, Sorcha. A beautiful daughter.” She watched the cord as it pulsed, and watched the child that lay curled and limp in her hands.
Limp. Oh God, she thought, and looked up at Diarmid. He caught her glance, his gray eyes shining clear at first. Then he frowned and laid his sister back with a kiss to her forehead, wiping her sweaty brow. He was at Michael’s side in an instant, silent, ready to help.
“We must keep the cord attached as long as possible,” she said. He nodded. “Help Sorcha,” she said urgently, whispering. “I must try to help the child to breathe.”
Diarmid bent toward his sister, and Michael focused on her task, turning her back to Sorcha, who was still connected to her child through the pearly, twisted cord. Michael sat the tiny, wrapped child upright, cradling her delicate neck and head, tipping her forward slightly, tapping her back. All the while she crooned nonsense words, loving her, pleading with her.
No cry came from the child in her hands. She rubbed her fingers over the tiny back, flicked her fingers against the bottoms of her smooth-soled foot to rouse her. The child did not respond. She laid her on the bed to examine her.
Birth blood, slick and dark in the candlelight, made it difficult for her to tell if she had begun to breathe on her own. She pressed her ear to her chest, shifted her carefully, listened to her back. She could hear the faint, slow beat of her heart—far too slow. Limp, dusky purple, slack-limbed, she had the delicate appearance of one born too soon.
Too soon, too soon, she thought frantically. She had called her forth, turned her in the womb, too soon. Her own heart beat in a panicked rhythm. She flipped her upside down and thumped her buttocks, thumped her back. Her thin arms and legs jerked.
A watery cry burst forth, wavering through the air. Michael sat her upright gently, hearing Sorcha sob out in joy, hearing Diarmid murmur something as he pulled the covers over her.
Michael held back her own joy as she washed the child tenderly. She was pinker now, but still too deeply colored to be breathing normally. Breath and life stirred in the child, but she feared that she was too weak, too early to survive long. She swathed her quickly in silk and linen, watching her feeble movements, listened to her breath stop, gurgle, start again. All the while she sensed the babe’s stubborn will to live.
Her tiny lungs labored over the unaccustomed air that burned inside of them, giving off an odd sound. Her skin had a transparent, wrinkly sheen, her miniature ears were soft, still folded from the birth canal. She fought to breathe and live, but was not fully prepared for life; she needed the safety of the womb. The spark that flickered inside of her could vanish any moment.
“How is she?” Diarmid asked, leaning toward her.
“Early,” she whispered. “So very early. We can only wait, and pray that her breathing becomes regular.”
“May I hold her?” Sorcha asked. “Is she breathing?”
Michael glanced up. “She is,” she said. “But let me christen her first. What name will you give your daughter?” As she talked, she rubbed the child’s back, held her head, warmed her against her own body, prayed she would keep breathing long enough to have a name, to be held by her mother. Her frail condition alarmed her deeply, and she wanted to hide that from Sorcha.
”Aingealag,” Sorcha said, her voice hoarse. “Her name is Angelica. Baptize her so the demons will not have her.”
Michael nodded and dipped her fingers in warm water from the basin. She murmured the Latin words that bound the child to heavenly protection, and added a short Gaelic prayer to seal the protection of Brigit’s nine angels around Angelica.
“The cord has gone white,” Diarmid said. Michael nodded, and he cut it. The child was free now, and must breathe on her own. Michael wrapped her and turned away, holding her upright, thumping her back gently, listening to the sporadic, frightening hiss of the tiny breaths. She turned toward a shadowed corner of the room to hide Angelica’s struggle from Sorcha.
Three times as she held her, the child lost the rhythm of her breath, sputtered, turned dark-hued. Every breath, every movement she made, tore into Michael’s heart.
Diarmid came toward her. “What is it?” he whispered.
“I do not know what else to do,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I am afraid Sorcha will lose this one, too.”
Diarmid took the bundled child. The tiny body fit in his scarred, gentle hand. “Touch her,” he said urgently. “Let your healing gift flow into her. There is nothing else.”
She nodded, almost relieved to be told what to do, and spread one palm over the child’s torso, placing her other hand beneath Diarmid’s fingers. Within seconds, she felt intense heat radiate through her hands. She knew, suddenly, that the gift had begun to flow earlier, at the moment of the birth, and had helped bring Angelica this far into life.
Diarmid and Michael held her in the cradle of their hands. Michael closed her eyes and poured her soul into the child. After several long moments, the babe rasped and mewled, lost h
er breath again, turned dark. Michael took her hands away, deeply frightened. She looked up at Diarmid.
“The rhythm of her breathing is not good—her lungs are too weak. Perhaps—” She could not finish the thought: perhaps this one was meant to go back to God.
“Bring her here,” Sorcha called from the bed. “Bring my daughter to me.” Her voice was husky, strong. She sat up.
Michael nodded sadly. Diarmid carried the child, placing her in his mother’s arms.
“Poor little one,” Sorcha said. “Her breathing sounds like the others.” Her voice had an infinitely gentle sound, like silk, like water, soft and fluid and giving. Michael watched, awed by the aura of serenity that seemed to surround Sorcha as she held her daughter. “She is beautiful,” Sorcha said, and tucked her against her breast.
“Sorcha—” Michael whispered. She wanted to say that she was sorry, that she had tried, but she found that she could not speak further. She could not say that she did not expect the child to live much longer, but she could see from looking at Diarmid and Sorcha that they knew that already.
Sorcha looked at her. “You did as much as anyone could,” she said. “Thank you. God will take her soon, to be with her brothers and sisters.” She looked calmly down at her child, accepting, fully loving, although her eyes held glinting tears.
Michael turned away, trembling, hardly knowing where she went as she crossed the room into the shadows. Diarmid turned away too, as if he too sensed that Sorcha needed this time with her child. Michael glanced toward Diarmid, saw him stand before the window, saw him reach forward and open the shutter.
To let out a soul, Michael thought.
Behind her, she heard Sorcha begin to sing, a melody of the seal children. She listened, strangely comforted, as the power of Sorcha’s love seemed to flood the room to its brim.
Peaceful silence spilled through the room like a breath of God. And then Michael heard an exquisitely beautiful sound. A tremulous, tiny cry.
She turned. Diarmid turned.
Sorcha looked up at them, smiling, tears flowing freely down her face. The crying was louder now, a quavering, indignant sound, full of life. “Listen!” Sorcha said. “Listen!”
Diarmid walked toward the bed, and Michael followed. The child waved her hands, pumped her tiny legs, her face reddening, fists flying. Deep and impatient, her cries soon took on the strong cadence of a beating drum.
Tears stung and pooled in Michael’s eyes as she watched. Sorcha looked up, smiling. A little sob escaped her lips. “I have prayed for this moment,” she said, “for years.”
Diarmid nodded and touched Angelica’s head. A tear slid down his cheek.
Michael broke then, sobbed out, shattered by joy. Diarmid turned toward her. Sorcha looked up. The child drew another lusty cry and struggled beneath the linen cloth that impeded her legs.
“She is a miracle,” Sorcha said, her eyes shining like diamonds, brilliant and deep. “Truly.” Michael nodded, tears streaming, feeling as if the burden of joy was almost heavier to bear, somehow, than the burden of sorrow she had expected. She wanted to go into Diarmid’s arms, but held herself back, not certain why. He reached out and touched her elbow briefly, but the caress was shy, reserved, as if he too held back.
“Diarmid, will you go tell Mungo that I have a fine daughter?” Sorcha asked. “The cook and the guards will be waiting to hear, too.” Diarmid nodded, kissed his sister, and left the room.
Michael took the child from Sorcha. She listened to the steady, quick thump of her little heart, measured the strong pattern of her breaths, left a kiss on her brow. She swaddled her, marveled at her, pronounced her strong and healthy, and handed her back to her mother.
After making Sorcha more comfortable, Michael gave her a little spiced wine in the herbal infusion. When Sorcha began to nurse the child, Michael sat by the window and looked out through the open shutter.
The darkness was still deep, although she thought dawn was no more than an hour away. Glistening rain pattered on stone, and a chilled breeze streamed in to cool her heated cheeks. She leaned her head against the window frame in weariness and listened to the soothing sound of the rain, felt the cool, cleansing wind on her face.
In the aftermath of a true miracle, she felt humbled, changed somehow, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly newly emerged. She watched the rain glisten like dark jewels, smelled the salt in the air. Her senses had a finer clarity, a deeper awareness of all the textures and wonders around her.
Behind her, Sorcha murmured to her child, a warm, velvet sound. Suddenly Michael wanted to hear Diarmid’s soothing voice, and needed—ached—to feel his arms around her.
The door opened, and she turned eagerly to see him, ready now to run to him, where earlier she had felt overwhelmed, uncertain. But Mungo entered alone and crossed toward the bed, looking at Sorcha. His gaunt face was softened by awe and utter devotion. He loves her, Michael thought sadly; so much, and he cannot show her.
She stood and went to the door, the urge to be with Diarmid strong. She had to find him.
Mungo and Sorcha looked toward her. “You’ll find him outside,” Mungo said quietly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Diarmid stood near the edge of the cliff, a tall, lean shadow in the rain. Michael gathered her dampening skirts and ran forward, then stopped as hesitancy overtook her. He did not turn, and seemed intent on his thoughts. He watched as a hint of dawn bloomed pale silver above the dark, sweeping sea.
The wind buffeted his plaid and shirt and blew his hair back, and rain gusted over him, but he stood proud and unyielding in the midst of raw beauty and elemental force.
Sensing that he wanted privacy, Michael wondered if she should go back inside and leave him to his thoughts.
A burst of wind swept over the cliff, whipping her gown against her legs, tearing the white veil from her head. She watched it go, floating over the cliff like a pale, silken angel. Diarmid turned and saw her, but he did not move. She approached him slowly, watching him through the dark and the slicing rain. Her love for him, her need, poured out unbidden in her gaze, like a flood that she could not hold back.
Diarmid watched her silently. Rain streamed in rivulets down his face and hair, soaked his shirt, pelted Michael’s hair and gown as she returned his steady gaze.
Then he raised his arms.
Huffing out a little sob, she ran to him. He wrapped her in his embrace, kissed her brow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He slid his fingers through her damp, tousled hair and held her, rocked her in his arms.
She tightened her arms around his waist and clung to him, her head nestled in the curve of his neck. He was strong, warm, the haven she most needed.
When he cradled her head between his hands and touched his mouth to hers at last, a little moan of joy slipped from her mouth into his. She returned the kiss, her lips moistened by rain and the tears that slid down her cheeks.
She tasted of salt, of wind, of the clean rain that washed their faces. He kissed her hungrily, deeply, wanting her more than he ever thought possible, wanting her to be wholly his, flesh and soul, forever. Her hands supported him, her mouth nourished him, her tears were those he could not shed himself.
He had come out here to be alone, hoping to cleanse the sorrow from his heart. The grief that he carried from Brigit’s birth, and the deaths that had followed, twisted in him like a blade while he watched Sorcha give birth and saw Michael struggle to keep the child alive.
But in the wake of a miracle, the old sadness had finally receded, and joy flowed through his veins. The rain and the silver flash of dawn over the sea, strength and majesty joined, stirred his soul profoundly. He felt as if he had stood on the cliff and felt parts of his old heart sweep away.
He would still regret that long-ago day, but now he knew that he need no longer punish himself. The deaths of Brigit’s brother and mother had been the will of heaven, and not his making; he had struggled to save them. An hour past, he had seen that heartrending b
attle mirrored in Michael and Angelica.
He raised his head, drew a deep breath, and held Michael close to his heart. Another old anguish had dissolved, its last remnants of regret and anger cleared away by rain and miracles and Michael’s tears. The knowledge of Anabel’s death had freed him from a prison of the heart, allowing him release, granting him peace and promise.
Holding Michael in his arms, he felt joy surge anew. He had not realized, until this moment, that Michael herself was a miracle in his life. Months ago, bold and thoughtless, he had demanded one of her—and she had responded, over time, by giving him her unquestioning love. He had been a fool not to see the wonder in that.
So much to say to her, yet he kept silent and kissed her again, his lips and hands eloquent in place of words. He cherished her, and she was here, and his, and words would wait.
She opened her lips for him, and he delved deeply into her mouth, where she was soft, warm, wet. His body hardened, flared like a hearthfire. The wind and the rain pummeled both of them, but she felt warm and yielding in his arms. He dragged his lips away only to return, unable to slake his thirst for her.
Pulling her close, he felt her shiver. “You’re chilled and wet,” he murmured. “Where is your cloak?” Mundane words, but he was incapable of saying more just yet. His heart was too full of emotion; he could barely comprehend the scope of it. But he knew that he wanted to protect her, hold her, keep her, love her.
Love her. The impact of that thought took his breath, stirred through his heart and his body. “Come inside,” he said huskily, and swept her up into his arms.
She was an easy weight to bear. He sensed her deep fatigue in the way she rode slack in his arms, draped her arm around his shoulders, rested her head against him. He strode toward the castle through the rain, and stepped in through the narrow door.
The guard was elsewhere, celebrating the birth of MacSween’s new daughter with the other soldiers; Diarmid heard faint, gruff laughter from the guardroom. Unseen, he carried Michael through the corridor and up the turning stairs.
