Lady Miracle (11 page)

“You would if you wished to sleep this night,” Diarmid said. “She has a multitude of aches, and a description for each one.”

Michaelmas smiled and sipped at the claret, feeling its warmth slip inside of her and spread agreeably. Gilchrist began a song, and she settled back in the comfortable chair to listen.

She glanced at Diarmid, who leaned his head on his hand as he listened to the music. She felt herself beginning to relax in both body and spirit, in part from music and food, in part from the warm welcome that she had received at the castle of storms.

As the low light of a peat fire flickered in his bedchamber, Diarmid sank down in the wooden tub left in its usual place near the hearth. While he and Michael had eaten, Diarmid had asked Angus to bring buckets of steaming water to fill tubs in both his bedchamber and in a small antechamber beside Brigit’s room, where Lilias had decided Michael would sleep.

He sluiced warm water over his head and shoulders and scooped up soft ash and herb soap from a wooden dish by the tub, scrubbing his head and chest. He soaped his whiskered jaw and accomplished a needed shave, using the sharpest edge of his dirk. Exhausted, he sat back, wanting collapse into bed after the bath. But he wanted to see Brigit first, though he knew she was asleep.

He sank lower in the tub. He hoped that Brigit would like to Michael as she disliked the other healers who had examined her. He could not blame the child for her previous reaction. The two wise-wives from the Isle of Mull had irritated him with their strings and stones, chants and smoke. He shook his head at the memory, sure their rituals had been of no use.

He had also cut short the visit of an elderly physician he had met in Ayr. The man boasted of his Paris education and began daily bleedings for Brigit, put her on a strict diet of almonds and chicken broth, gave her a course of laxatives, all meant to balance her bodily humors. The man studied the curious charts he had with him, claiming the child’s natal horoscope advised that the legs simply be amputated, since Saturn conflicted with the moon in three configurations.

Within a few days, Brigit was weaker than a newborn. Horrified, Diarmid had dismissed the physician angrily, with Lilias adding a punitive commentary and Angus and Mungo escorting him to a departing boat, making sure that the man fell into the loch at least once.

Finally, just before Diarmid had left to join Robert Bruce, he consulted with an Argyll herb-wife who advised heat treatments, a good diet and herbal infusions from plants with which he was familiar. He appreciated her suggestions, and since then she had supplied prepared medicines. Brigit was more comfortable, but a cure did not seem to be in her future.

He sank against the side of the tub and sloshed water over his soapy chest. He was certain that Michael would use far more sense than the first physician, and would perhaps know more than the local herb-wife. And he hoped that she would consent to use her unique power to heal the child. That, truthfully, was all that he wanted to see done.

Michael’s image floated through his mind. Her serene face framed in pale, silky hair, her calm voice and gentle touch were easy to recall, as if he had committed their exquisite details to memory. He remembered, too, the soft, sweet taste of her warm lips, causing his loins to surge suddenly beneath the water. Scowling, he reached over and doused his head with the cooled water that remained in the bucket.

He flexed his left hand, remembering how she had touched the scars, examining his hand beside the pool. During those brief moments, he had felt something wondrous and dynamic, like a sweet lightning over his skin. She might deny her healing ability, but he was sure it was still there.

Her gifted hands were the answer Brigit needed, that he needed too. Like a bit of rag tied on a hazel tree for hope, he had placed the last remnant of his faith in Michael’s ability. She could help him fulfill the vow he had made to Brigit.

He shoved a hand through his wet hair as if the simple motion could rake away the worry that plagued him. His own medical knowledge told him the cold truth: no treatment could make the child whole. But each time he saw the brightness in her eyes, he resolved to see her well.

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 convinced 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.