by Susan King
“Ranald and I have just brought back a shipment of goods from Ireland,” Arthur said. “We picked up some fine steel on this trip.”
“Did you?” Diarmid asked calmly.
“We traded hides and wool for broadswords of excellent Spanish steel, and German-made iron blades,” Arthur said. “West Highland warriors will be well armored should King Robert require their fighting skills again soon.”
Diarmid nodded. “I appreciate you and Ranald seeing to my interests in my absence. Who bought the woolfells collected from my Dunsheen tenants?”
“I met with Flemish merchants in Belfast, who were pleased to see such a large quantity of Scottish wool. At first they wanted to trade only with you, Dunsheen, but I plied them with good Danish aqua vitae until they agreed to deal with me as your representative.”
“I trust the price was fair,” Diarmid said. “Bruce has given the Flemish trading privileges with Scotland to encourage their support.”
Ranald shrugged. “A poor price. They claimed it was inconvenient to meet in Ireland.”
“Once we can trade directly with the Low Countries again, profits will improve,” Arthur said. “There is a growing market among continental textile makers for Highland wool, and the fine quality of Scottish hides has Flemish and Italian leather makers asking for more.”
“The English cannot blockade Scottish waters indefinitely,” Diarmid remarked. “King Robert is working on another truce with England.” One of the black hounds, Columba, padded over to him as if looking for table scraps. He scratched the dog’s head idly as he spoke.
“You heard this news recently?” Ranald asked.
“I traveled and fought beside the king for months,” Diarmid said. “He discussed the terms of the treaty with a few of us. He is aware that access to trade routes has been greatly impaired for western Scotland. We must regain the right to sail through English waters to reach the ports where our goods are in demand.”
“Until he works out a truce, we can continue to obtain goods through Irish ports, and trade our wool, hides, and timber there.” Ranald twirled his cup in his hand. “I have stockpiled Spanish silk, plain woven cloth, quality leather goods, grain, almond oil, spices, and several tuns of claret and Bordeaux wines. We can trade that in Scottish ports now, and make a profit for ourselves.”
“My forty-oar birlinn has been of great use to you while I have been gone, I see,” Diarmid remarked. “I hope you intend to let Scotland profit a little from your efforts, as well as yourself.”
Ranald twitched an eye. “Of course,” he said blithely.
“The White Heather is a fine, spacious galley,” Arthur said. “A joy to captain, brother. You may have pledged her to Robert Bruce as a warship, but when the crown does not need her, that birlinn is well suited to trading.”
“Indeed she is a fine vessel. I am having one built like her for myself,” Ranald said.
“I commissioned a family of Norwegian shipbuilders on the Isle of Lewis,” Diarmid said. “Their birlinns are of superior design and quality. My other galleys are smaller, but just as well-made.”
“Indeed,” Ranald said. “I prefer English oak for the hull over Norwegian. But English wood is expensive, and difficult to obtain just now.” He smiled. “With a few successful shiploads, I should be able to afford it. We have more customers now among the chiefs and lairds of the western Highlands, eager to use our birlinns to sail their goods to Ireland, and glad to buy the exports we acquire.”
“I assume you plan to take the goods to Ayr and Glasgow, then,” Diarmid said. “Use the White Heather for the journey, since you already have the goods loaded on board.”
“I will,” Ranald said. “And I will direct the oarsmen to be ready to sail at dawn. They are finishing their supper in the quarters below stairs. I appreciate your cooperation in this trading enterprise, Dunsheen. But I warn you that your part of the profits will be thin due to the lower prices offered for the wool in Ireland.” He sipped from his goblet. “I have arranged a meeting with guild merchants in Ayr to discuss getting more exported goods into their markets in spite of the English blockade. Arthur has offered to attend the meeting with me. Perhaps you would care to come?”
“Arthur can go in my stead,” Diarmid said. “His knowledge of the coast and his understanding of the English blockade will be helpful in those meetings.”
Arthur nodded agreement. Diarmid glanced up when he heard the quiet shush of a woman’s gown trailing along the floor. Michael came toward them, carrying Brigit in her arms.
She paused near the table. With her back arched slightly and her head held high, her face serenely perfect, she resembled a painted statue of the blessed Mary holding her child. Diarmid smiled to himself as he studied her quiet grace.
“Your niece is tired, Dunsheen,” she said softly. “I will take her up to her chamber. Lilias and Iona are putting the other children to bed.” Behind her, the others chattered softly as they withdrew from the great hall.
Diarmid rubbed a hand over his eyes, as if he needed to rouse himself out of the world of men and material concerns that had preoccupied him since supper, and enter the gentle world where women and children and matters of comfort ruled.
He rose to his feet. “Let me carry her.” He came around the table and held out his arms. Brigit murmured sleepily as he took her slight, warm weight against his shoulder.
“Lilias said that she would bring the child’s nightly dose,” Michael said. “I hoped—you said that you would explain the remedies to me. That is—if you wish me to stay here and work with her.” She looked down, as if she hesitated to look at him.
Diarmid recalled sharp words between them earlier. “I will explain her medicines to you. Come ahead. Pardon me, Arthur, Ranald.” They nodded good night.
He strode from the room with Brigit in his arms as Michaelmas followed.
CHAPTER TEN
“Such herbs are quite reasonable for Brigit,” Michaelmas said, after Diarmid and Lilias together had explained to her the contents of the herbal electuary that Lilias had brought for Brigit to drink. “But I would suggest giving her a willow infusion early in the day, and another at night,” she added. She sniffed the contents of the cup before sipping it delicately. The underlying burn of the drink made her frown. “What is used as the vehicle?”
“Claret,” Lilias said.
Diarmid, standing near the bed, raised an eyebrow. “Even a little is strong for one her age. Those herbs should be mixed in something less potent.”
“It’s only a bit,” Lilias said. “It helps her to relax.”
“Chamomile added to the herb blend would be a good relaxant for her at night,” Michaelmas said. “Mix her medicines in cider or warm milk, and add honey and cinnamon if she favors them. She can have some watered wine when she has pain or muscle soreness. I will write out an order for the herb-wife so that she can prepare some additional medicines. Can the woman read?”
Lilias nodded. “She is a widow who lives not far from here. She prepares simples and potions of all kinds, although I keep a good stock of herbs in our kitchen here. I may have some of what you need, but I will have Iona take the instructions to the herb-wife.” Michaelmas nodded her thanks.
Lilias leaned toward Brigit, who lay tucked in her bed. “Good night to you, dear,” she said. “Be sure to say your prayers.” Brigit nodded, and the old woman left the room, closing the door quietly.
Michaelmas reached out to touch the tiny head of the doll tucked in the covers beside Brigit. She smoothed the strands of silken thread hair sewn above the doll’s embroidered eyes and mouth. “She is lovely,” she said.
“Lilias made her for me,” Brigit said. “She is my guardian angel. Her name is Micheil.”
Diarmid chuckled. “Ah! You had called her Angel because you did not know which one to name her after.”
“She’s Michael now,” Brigit said firmly. She leaned back against the pillows and folded her hands in prayer, her blond curls drifting around her s
mall face like a halo of gold. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a prayer, then looked at Diarmid and Michaelmas. “You must both say them with me for the charm to work. Lilias always does.”
Diarmid nodded, sending a little wry smile toward Michaelmas. He sat on the edge of the bed, while she did the same on the other side.
“May the angels of heaven shield me,” Brigit began, “the angels of heaven this night, may the angels of heaven keep me, soul and body alike,” she finished in a lilting singsong.
Diarmid spoke in unison with her, his voice deep and mellow beneath Brigit’s light, small tones. Michaelmas repeated the phrases as well. Unfamiliar with the words, she recognized the cadence of a typical Gaelic prayer. “That is a lovely prayer,” she said when they had finished.
Brigit began another. “I lie down this night with nine angels, nine angels at my head and feet—”
“—Saint Brigit so calm, Mary revered,” Diarmid said, taking up the prayer, “and Michael my love with me.”
Michaelmas’s gaze flew to his. He looked at her, his eyes silver and steady in the candlelight. Glancing away, blushing, she repeated the verse and reminded herself that Diarmid spoke of the archangel Michael. But the velvet-warm tone of his voice and his direct glance had touched a deep chord within her, as if harp strings vibrated with a pulsing, excited beat.
“From the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet,” Brigit finished in her dulcet voice. “See, now we are blessed here, and the fair folk cannot ever come to take me away,” she said.
“Ah, but I’m sure the king of all the daoine sìth will not let that happen,” Michaelmas said lightly. She glanced at Diarmid, and saw, with surprise, that a blush stained his cheeks.
“He protects us all. And he can make magic,” Brigit piped.
“Brigit,” Diarmid said, with clear discomfort.
“I know you do not like others to know,” Brigit whispered conspiratorially. “But Lady Michael is one of your people.” She smiled at both of them as if they shared a secret. “You promised me magic to heal my legs. I hope it happens soon.” Her eyes shone with trust.
Michaelmas looked at Diarmid, realizing why he had insisted that she perform a miracle for Brigit. He returned her glance reluctantly and cleared his throat. “I will do what I can,” he replied. “Hush now, and sleep. Lady Michael will rub your legs, and that should feel very nice.”
Brigit snuggled under the covers, tucking the limp little doll in her arms with a few cooing, loving sounds. Michael helped her to shift to her stomach, arranging pillows beneath her. Then she began to stroke her back and shoulders gently.
Diarmid watched, still seated on the edge of the bed. “Now you know why I wanted you to come here,” he murmured.
Michael nodded slowly. Turning away, she picked up a small vial of almond oil that Lilias had left for her and put a few drops in her hand, rubbing them together thoughtfully.
“You surely need some magic here,” she said in a soft voice, as she began to knead Brigit’s bare legs.
“We have tried everything but that. Everything. I want you to stay, Michael. Do what you can.” His voice was low, soft, urgent, utterly compelling.
“Without miracles?” she murmured, remembering the bitter words that had passed between them earlier. “Without magic?”
He looked down at Brigit. “Whatever you can do,” he said, “however you can do it.” He looked at her. “Please, Michael.”
She remembered once that he had said he was afraid he would beg her one day, and hate them both for it. She drew a long breath. “I do want to help her.”
Diarmid let out a long, low sigh. “But I will not give up on my other request of you,” he murmured.
“Stubborn Highland man,” she whispered, with a warm rush of affection.
He smiled a little but did not reply. She sensed him watching her as she rubbed Brigit’s tiny limbs. Deep golden firelight, warmth, and silence pervaded the chamber. The sweet scent of the almond oil on her hands filled the curtained bed space. The child, nested in soft pillows, two fingers tucked in her mouth, closed her eyes, breathing peacefully.
Michaelmas glanced at Diarmid. Low firelight edged his hair and shoulders with dark, warm color. He seemed content to stay and watch. She was pleased. His solid, silent presence was welcome to her, and the strength and capableness he emanated was deeply reassuring.
She turned her attention to the child, letting her sensitive fingers knead and test while she explored the muscles. Closing her eyes briefly, she recalled pages in her medical volumes as if they lay open in front of her. Anatomical drawings and vivid memories of animal and human physiology, observed during the many dissections she had assisted in Ibrahim’s lectures, went through her mind at lightning speed.
Following the shape and contour of the child’s legs, her fingers delineated the delicate structure of bones, joints, and muscles. She searched for the source of the problem, hoping that a detailed exploration would tell her more about the weakness along the left side of Brigit’s body.
As she worked, the only sounds she heard were the snap of the peat fire and the rhythmic noises Brigit made as she sucked her fingers. Diarmid was so quiet that she did not hear him at all, although she was keenly aware that he sat only an arm’s breadth away. She drew in a long breath and closed her eyes, enjoying the peace and warmth as she worked.
Within moments, she began to see images in her mind. Not memories of books and lectures, the pictures almost seemed to come from her fingertips themselves, as if her hands suddenly possessed the quality of sight. Behind her closed eyes, she saw what lay beneath Brigit’s petal-soft skin.
In exquisite, beautiful detail, she saw the bones and the pink, thin muscles that wrapped around them; she saw fragile nerves tracing upward, and blood singing through lacy veins like roots carrying life.
Her hands heated quickly then, as if her fingers floated on a warm cushion of air. And for one instant, for the space of a breath, like a flash of lightning, she understood the child’s ailment in its entirety. She gasped and opened her eyes—and the sweeping sense of awareness disspelled as quickly as it came. Blinking, she tried to hold her thoughts, but the images and the details of her knowledge faded like the last wisp of a dream.
“What is it?” Diarmid asked.
“I—I am certain that there is no injury here,” she said. “It was the fever, Diarmid.”
He frowned. “What makes you so certain?”
She shook her head, shrugged, unable to explain. “I just know it,” she whispered. “I just know.”
As a child, she had experienced similar spontaneous flashes of insight, with vivid images that showed her the exact break in a bone, or how deep a cut went; she had glimpsed babes carried in their mothers’ wombs, knew their gender and the state of their health.
But like the healing power that flowed from her hands of its own mysterious accord, this inner sight was just as elusive. She sighed and moved her hands to rest on the child’s back. Whatever abilities she had, they were wholly unpredictable. She frowned and tried to focus on using the medical knowledge that she had spent years acquiring.
Kneading the parallel muscles along the spine, she tried to observe, tried to think through what she found. Once Mungo arrived with her books, she would look for every bit of information on lameness. She would chart a horoscope for the girl, too, hoping she could discover which constellations and planets had influenced Brigit’s health at the time of her birth.
She looked up to see Diarmid watching her. He reached out then, and began to rub Brigit’s small shoulders and neck with his long fingers. His large hand nearly covered her slender back. Brigit sighed and shifted her wet fingers in her mouth.
When his hand brushed against Michaelmas’s fingers, the accidental touch sent a lightning shock through her. More grazing touches followed as his hand moved in languid, graceful circles.
The rhythmic motions of their hands and the qui
et warmth within the enclosed bed sent delicious shivers throughout her body. She watched Diarmid’s strong, gentle fingers, and suddenly realized that she had stopped thinking about Brigit’s condition, had ceased to analyze what she found. Like the child, she too was relaxing gradually in the silence and the warmth of touch.
“I have been thinking about our discussion, Micheil,” Diarmid said. Mellow, deep, hushed, the dark velvet sound of his voice was as soothing as his touch. Michaelmas felt a shiver trace through her, and recalled the brief, wondrous kiss they had shared beside the healing pool. The scent of almond oil must be an intoxicant, she thought, shaking her head to dissolve the spell and to better concentrate.
She cleared her throat. “Which discussion?” she asked.
His circling hand brushed against hers again. The contact shot through her body like solid fire. “About Brigit,” he said. “Perhaps you are right—she could make an effort to stand if she had some help with it.”
She watched his hand as if entranced. “How so?” she asked.
“Her legs are not strong enough to hold her weight for long,” he said. “But if her knees were splinted somehow—”
“Ah!” She nodded. “Ibrahim sometimes wrapped the knees of lame patients with bandages and splints. With better support, they were able to move around on crutches or with canes.”
“I will see what can be done,” he said.
The mention of crutches reminded her of a question she had wanted to ask. “Diarmid, what happened to Gilchrist’s leg?”
“A fall, a few years ago, while hunting. Both lower bones in the right leg were badly broken, and did not set properly.”
She frowned. “You did not treat him yourself?”
“I was away with the king’s army. When I saw him months later, the break had healed, but the leg was misshapen.”
“Poorly healed breaks can sometimes be corrected,” she ventured. “Ibrahim did it. The surgeon must be very skilled, but you have the ability.”
He looked at her swiftly, directly, then glanced away. “Had,” he said softly. “Had.” He flexed his left hand, where it rested on the bed, its scars shining pink in the dim light. Then he went back to tracing a pattern over the child’s shoulders.