by Susan King
Muffled against the plaid that covered his chest, taking in the mingled scents of wind and pine, of smoke and man, she closed her eyes, not thinking, hardly feeling anything but the blessed, firm support he offered her.
Then she pushed away, legs trembling. “I’m fine,” she insisted wearily.
He murmured assent and took the horses’ bridles to lead them into the shelter of a few trees, where Michaelmas saw the shape of a small hut or stable. After a few minutes, he returned and walked ahead of her along the shore, beckoning her to follow.
“Loch Sheen is a sea inlet,” he said. “When the tide is low, a sandbar connects the castle to the shore. But tonight we must row across.” He led her toward a cluster of tall reeds, where a narrow rowing boat lay moored.
She caught her breath and hesitated. Boats and water made her distinctly uneasy. She did not want to reveal her fears or her unwillingness to Diarmid. Thin water lapped at her feet, and she stepped back uncertainly.
“Michael,” Diarmid called. “Come on.”
“What—what about the horses?” she asked.
“They are sheltered over there. I will send someone to ferry them across once we reach the castle. Come ahead, now.”
“When will the tide be low enough to walk across?” she asked in a meek voice.
“Tomorrow.” Diarmid took her hand.
Pulled along, she secretly touched the golden brooch, hoping that its luck would hold once more. Soon she sat on a crude crossbench made of a sturdy pile of brushwood, while Diarmid rowed the narrow boat toward the castle.
Biting anxiously at her lower lip, she gripped the sides of the boat hard enough to get splinters. She looked at the solid black shape of Dunsheen, thrusting ominously up from its flat, dark isle. Brilliant remnants of the sunset glittered in the sky and across the dark surface of the loch like scattered rubies.
The boat bumped over a series of wavelets, and Michaelmas cried out, gripping the wooden rim. Diarmid glanced at her, his features outlined by the sunset light. “What is it?” he asked.
“I—I do not much like boats,” she admitted.
“Ah,” he said, rowing. “You will have to get used to them if you are to stay here.”
That statement made her even more uncomfortable. She held tightly, her empty stomach lurching uncertainly. She gulped in fresh air against the feeling and tried to focus on the steady, calming rhythm as Diarmid rowed. Looking up, she saw the castle looming large and imposing on its isle. A light glowed high in a narrow window.
Diarmid glanced up as she did. “There are not many to welcome us at Dunsheen just now,” he said. “My brother, Mungo’s kin. And Brigit.”
“Your wife?” she asked on impulse.
“She is not here,” he said curtly.
She cleared her throat. “You have a brother?”
“I have three, all younger,” he said. “Arthur will be out to sea, Colin lives inland, and Gilchrist, the youngest, lives here. Our mother passed a few years ago, after our father. Her elderly cousin, Lilias MacArthur—Mungo’s grandmother—tends to the household now.”
She nodded and shifted on the pile of wood, trying to ignore the insecure sensation of floating, and resisting the terror that pushed at her. She reminded herself sternly that she had survived two long journeys in merchant galleys between Scotland and Italy. This brief trip would soon be over.
“Relax,” Diarmid murmured, watching her. “You’re safe.”
She only nodded, hands gripping, and did not trust herself to answer.
Soon the dark, soaring castle walls filled the sky, and the boat lurched against a narrow strip of sand and pebbles. Diarmid shifted the oars inside and stood, reaching down to help Michaelmas out. She stepped onto the shore, glad to feel land underfoot, glad she had not thoroughly embarrassed herself.
Diarmid took her elbow and led her toward the castle entrance. She fought against the urge to lean against his strength, and placed one foot resolutely before the next.
At the closed portcullis, he took a small curved horn from its loop on his belt and blew three plaintive notes. Startled, Michaelmas heard a returned shout. Soon metal and wood creaked as the portcullis rose.
“Welcome to Dun Sìan,” Diarmid said.
“Storm Castle.” She repeated its meaning as she looked up into the teeth of the iron gate suspended menacingly over their heads.
“Some say it is well-named,” he said, and escorted her inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Dunsheen!” a man’s voice cried. “Welcome home!” A tall, white-haired man approached them across the bailey yard, carrying a glowing torch.
“Angus!” Diarmid said, grasping hands with him.
“Greetings to you, Dunsheen!” Angus grinned. “A long time gone, you were. And you bring a guest.” He looked curiously at Michaelmas. She thought his gaunt face looked somewhat familiar.
“This is Lady Michael,” Diarmid answered. “A healer. My lady, this is Angus MacArthur, Mungo’s father.” He turned to Angus. “Mungo will arrive in a few more days.”
Angus nodded. “Lady Michael,” he said. “I have heard the name before—ach Dhia, Dunsheen, is this the one?” he asked.
“This is,” Diarmid answered. Michaelmas sent him a questioning look. “Angus was seriously wounded on a battlefield near Kilglassie,” he explained. “He was unconscious at the time, but afterward, Fionn and I told him about the young girl who helped to save his life with her healing skills. Perhaps you recall that day,” he added smoothly.
Michaelmas nodded. Diarmid’s careful phrasing told her that he had never revealed her secret, even to Angus. He kept his word all these years, just as he had promised her. “Angus,” she said warmly, holding out her hands. “How lovely to meet you after so long. I remember you well.”
He bowed his head. “Lady Michael, I am honored, and I am in your debt. If you want for anything, just ask me. Whatever you need. I’ll move the very loch for you if you like.” He grinned.
Diarmid chuckled as he took her arm. “She might like you to drain it someday, I think,” he drawled. “Is there food ready?”
”Tch, of course, I’ll awaken my mother,” Angus said. “Come in, the fire is hot and the wine plentiful, and we’ll surely find the pair of you some food.”
They walked through the bailey toward the high tower that dominated the enclosure, and climbed a set of wooden steps to the arched entrance. Michaelmas heard dogs barking as the three of them walked down a corridor and went through an open doorway. Angus murmured that he would fetch the food, and left them.
Michaelmas heard the strains of soft music as she stepped into the dark, spacious hall, its raftered ceiling lost in shadow. At one end of the huge chamber, where a wide hearth glowed, delicate harp music floated on the air.
A man, the harper, sat by the stone fireplace, his carved wooden harp leaned against his left shoulder, his dark head bowed over the polished neck. He looked up as they entered, but his hands never ceased to strum the quiet rhythms of the song.
As they neared the hearth end of the room, two large black dogs bounded toward them, barking happily. Diarmid petted their glossy black heads, grinning as he bent down to greet them.
“Ah, Padriag, Columba,” he said, rubbing their black coats. “These are the guardians of Dunsheen,” he explained, as Michaelmas extended her hand cautiously to each dog. The hounds nosed at her hand until she petted them, laughing.
Diarmid subdued them with a quick word, and gestured for her to sit in a high-backed chair with a deep cushion. She sank into its support with a sigh, while Diarmid sat on a bench beside a long table.
The harper rang out the last note on the strings, his long fingers suspended. He looked up, and Michaelmas nearly gasped.
He was, quite simply, beautiful. An exquisitely sculpted warrior angel, colored dark and warm by gleaming firelight. She recognized a younger, more finely shaped Diarmid in his features. He smiled, a lilting lift of his mouth, but his brown eyes retained a sad q
uality that contrasted his classic beauty.
“Welcome, brother.” The harper’s voice was deep and pleasant, with a mellow quality similar to Diarmid’s.
“Gilchrist, God’s greetings, bràthair.” Diarmid clasped his hand. “How fares it here?”
“Well enough,” the harper replied, shifting on his wooden stool. He wore a wrapped plaid and was barefooted. Michaelmas noticed, with an odd sense of shock, that his lower right leg was misshapen; as if sensing that she looked, he tucked it out of view beneath the stool. She saw the wooden crutch, formed from a tree limb that leaned against the side of the hearth.
“My lady,” Diarmid said. “This is my brother Gilchrist. And this is Lady Michael of—” he looked at Michaelmas oddly, as if he just realized that he did not know her married title.
“I am Michaelmas Faulkener of Kilglassie,” she said. “Widow to Ibrahim Ibn Kateb of Bologna.”
Gilchrist raised a brow in curiosity and looked at Diarmid.
“I brought her here from Perth to examine Brigit,” Diarmid said. “She is a physician.”
Again Gilchrist looked surprised. “A what!”
“I was schooled in Italy,” Michaelmas explained.
Gilchrist nodded, his dark hair swinging against his cheek. “Schooled in Italy and bred in Scotland. The Gaelic flows sweet as dew from your lips, my lady. Welcome.”
She smiled. Diarmid cleared his throat. “She was raised in Galloway,” he muttered. “Of course she speaks the Gaelic well.” He bent down to pet one of the dogs who lay beneath the table.
Michaelmas blinked at his surly tone, then looked up to see Angus enter the room, carrying a cloth-covered platter. Behind him, two women followed. A young girl held a clay jug, and a small, bent-shouldered woman, her hands filled with a stack of wooden cups, came behind her. The girl, perhaps sixteen years of age, kept her eyes downcast as she neared the hearth, her pretty cheeks bright; the old woman scowled, bleary-eyed, as she shuffled forward.
Angus set the plate on the table and whisked back the cloth to reveal slices of beef and a pot of steaming porridge, and the women set the other things on the table. The dogs, smelling the food, sat up, and Diarmid admonished them to keep still.
“Greetings, Dunsheen, and welcome to your guest,” the old woman said. “Cold meat and hot oats are all I could manage so late at night, but eat and drink your fill. I had Angus open a new tun of claret.” She peered at Diarmid, her white brows lowered over sharp blue eyes. “You need a bath and a shave,” she pronounced critically.
Diarmid grinned. “Lilias, I see you are feeling well and full of spirit as usual.” He spoke loudly.
“Well as can be, with my joint pains making me so irritable,” Lilias said. “I do not much like being woken after I’ve gone to sleep. But it is good to see you, and your guest.”
“And you. Lilias MacArthur, I have brought Lady Michael of Kilglassie to visit, and to tend to Brigit.”
“My lady,” Lilias said, bowing her head. “Angus told me who you are. I want to thank you for your skills those years ago. You saved my son’s life. We are honored to have you here.” Michaelmas blushed and smiled, and turned as the girl silently poured out cups of wine and handed them to Michaelmas and Diarmid. She was lovely in a quiet way, with light brown hair and pale blue eyes, clothed in brown, her build plump and lush, strong and tall.
“Iona, thanks,” Diarmid said. “How do your brothers and sister fare?”
“They are well, sir,” Iona said, blushing as if she were shy, lowering her eyes. “My father did not return with you?”
“Mungo is on an errand, and will be here soon,” he said. She nodded and turned toward Gilchrist to hand him a cup of wine. He ignored her, suddenly absorbed in adjusting the tuning of his harp strings with a small wooden key. She set the cup beside him and left the room. Michaelmas glanced at him, and saw Gilchrist pick up the wine and watch Iona pensively, his cheeks stained as red as hers had been.
Lilias leaned forward and peered at Michaelmas. “Your lady is a pretty thing, but wan-looking, and young.” She swiveled her sharp glance to Diarmid. “Is she a nun? Did you take her out of a convent?”
“Out of a hospital, where she worked with the patients,” Diarmid said. “And she is a widow, not a nun,” he added loudly.
“Such a young girl, a physician? Never,” Lilias said.
“She is a book-taught physicus,” Gilchrist said, raising his voice. “Trained in Italy. She has come to look at Brigit.”
“Italy?” Lilias blinked. “Is that in France?”
“Italy is where the pope lives,” Angus nearly shouted.
“We import spices from the Holy Land through Italian ports,” Diarmid said. “Your cinnamon sticks and pepper come through Italy, Lilias. Most of our spices come from Venice.”
“Ah, pepper and cloves,” she said approvingly. “A fine place, Italy.”
“How is Brigit?” Diarmid asked.
“Sweet as the soul of an angel,” Lilias said, her gap-toothed smile joyful. “Eat now, both of you, and then rest. Mistress Physician, tell me what you know about joint aches. My knees and hips hurt me so much at night I can hardly sleep.”
“Let the woman eat, now, Mother, and come to your bed,” Angus said, taking her arm.
“I am not tired,” Lilias insisted. She pointed to her hip. “I have a pain just here, like a knife, and another here—”
“Mother,” Angus groaned.
“Are you taking medicines for the pain?” Michaelmas asked.
“Willow only. What would you suggest?”
“Come ahead, Mother,” Angus said, steering her away. “You can talk to the Mistress Physician another time. She is tired.”
He tugged on her arm and she snapped at him, but left, bowing her head to Michaelmas.
“Good night, Lilias,” Diarmid said as they left.
Michaelmas looked at Diarmid. “I did not mind talking to her about her aches,” she said.
“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.
Wit
hin 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.