Lady Miracle (12 page)

She did not know what to say, how to break the spell he wove with just a look, a touch, the sound of his breath close to hers.

She remained silent, waiting, remembering with a rush of yearning the wondrous feel of his lips over hers by the healing pool.

Diarmid stepped back and inclined his head. “Good night to you, Michael girl,” he murmured. “Thank you for looking in on Brigit. Sleep well.” He turned and walked away.

Michaelmas stood motionless, her heart hammering profoundly, while Diarmid disappeared into the shadows beyond the open door.

Diarmid leaned a shoulder against the carved wooden post at the foot of Brigit’s bed and watched Michael as she spoke gently to Brigit. In the black gown and white wimple, she looked more like a chaste young nun than an experienced, capable physician.

That she was, indeed; he was certain of her skill and knowledge now. He had observed her for the past hour, ever since he had entered Brigit’s chamber early that morning to greet the child, and had found Michael already there. He had seen subtle traces of fatigue in the shadows beneath Michael’s blue eyes and in her pale cheeks; but she greeted him quietly and turned back to Brigit with a sweet smile.

As he watched Michael, he became certain that his decision to bring her to Dunsheen had been heaven-guided. No one better suited to this task. Her manner with Brigit was calm and practical, her hands endlessly gentle. After questioning Diarmid about the child’s health and diet, she had focused her complete attention on Brigit.

Diarmid stood by the bed with no thought of leaving, although much demanded his attention elsewhere. He watched silently, feeling as if time had rolled back fifteen years and he stood once again in the infirmary at Mullinch Priory, watching Brother Colum.

Whenever the elderly monk had tended to illness or injury, or to the regular bleedings of the monks, he had explained to Diarmid what he did, why, and how. Each day for two years, he had taught Diarmid about herbs and remedies. Diarmid had learned quickly and voraciously, and had committed to memory the contents of the few medical texts that the monastery owned. During that time, and through the years that followed, he had wished for more to read, more to learn, more to experience.

The hardest lessons had come on the field of battle, where he had taught himself, under duress, much of what he knew about repairing torn flesh and broken bones. But he had done little with his medical skills in the last few years, outside of helping his kin when necessary. Months ago, he had examined Brigit himself; he had scant experience with ailing children, but his knowledge of anatomy was thorough. He had found her to be in general good health, with no evidence of traumatic injury. The weakness in her limbs was puzzling; he had often wondered if an illness was the cause, although his knowledge of such conditions was limited.

He wondered what Michael would conclude. Observing her now, he was learning again. Michael’s skill rekindled in him the keen fascination that he had once felt for his craft. He wished for a moment that he had not stopped practicing, but then he reminded himself that his reasons had been sound.

He leaned against the bedpost, focusing his attention once again on Michael and her quick, competent examination. She listened to the child’s heartbeat by laying her head against Brigit’s chest, and asked her to cough while she rested her ear against her back. She counted pulsebeats for long, silent moments; she looked carefully at the child’s eyes and throat, and felt around the neck and beneath the armpits. She palpated her stomach, and rolled the child over gently to run her fingers along her spine, back and legs.

After checking head, limbs, and trunk in detail, she asked Diarmid for a glass vial so that she could examine the child’s urine, pointing out that she did not as yet have her own instruments. Diarmid went to his chamber and returned with the only clear glass available at Dunsheen, a Venetian cup of thick, patterned glass banded in silver, fashioned to hold wine and once prized by his mother. When Brigit supplied the necessary sample, Michael held the glass up to the light critically, swirling and even sniffing its contents.

Then, as she had done several times during the examination, she turned away to write down a few words, using a quill pen dipped in ink and a single sheet of parchment, which she had managed to procure from Lilias.

“Brigit, tell me how this feels,” Michael said. Supporting the child’s right ankle, she lifted the leg a few inches off the bed and held it.

“Fine,” Brigit said.

Michael bent the right knee gently and pushed the thigh toward Brigit’s stomach. “And this? Fine as well? Good. Now this.” Michael rotated the upper leg gently to test the hip joint. “Can you lower your leg by yourself?” she asked. Brigit nodded, her mouth set in determination. “Good girl,” Michael said, beaming. She lifted the left ankle and leg. “And how does this feel?”

“Hurts,” Brigit said, catching her breath tearfully. Diarmid tensed inwardly when he heard the pain in her voice.

“This?” Michael bent the knee and moved it slowly upward.

“Hurts,” Brigit gasped.

“Then I will stop. Can you move your leg?”

Brigit grimaced with effort and barely managed to wiggle her toes. “I cannot do it.”

Michael smiled. “Ah, but you moved your toes, and I am pleased.” She held the child’s flaccid left foot, which curled inward, and flexed it gently, thoughtfully. Once she glanced at Diarmid briefly; he saw a flash of concern in her eyes. Then she took Brigit’s left hand. “Squeeze my fingers as hard as you can,” she said.

Brigit wrinkled her nose as she tried, although her fingers barely rounded over Michael’s.

“Good girl,” Michael said softly. “Can you sit up?”

Brigit rolled to her left side and pushed with her right arm to lift herself to an upright position. “Brighid means strength,” she said. “And I’m strong,” she insisted.

“I see that,” Michael said. “Can you stand?”

Brigit nodded and pushed her legs over the edge of the bed until her feet dangled above the floor. Diarmid stepped forward to support her as she straightened and took her weight on her right leg. Brigit stood trembling for a moment, then fell back into his waiting hands.

Michael’s smile did not lighten the serious expression in her eyes. “You are indeed strong. Can you stand on your left foot?”

Supported in Diarmid’s large hands, Brigit dragged her curled left foot forward with effort. Suppressing his urge to help her, Diarmid watched her struggle to take her weight on her left leg. As she tipped helplessly forward, he scooped her into his arms.

“Enough,” he said brusquely, looking at Michael.

“Enough, your uncle is right,” Michael said. “You are sweet to do this for me, though I know you are tired. I’ll take only one more moment of your time.” She stepped close to them. “Let me see your eyes once more, dear,” she said, and lifted the child’s eyelids to peer close. “Show me your smile, now, and then your uncle will carry you down the stairs.” She tickled Brigit beneath the left armpit, and the child grinned. Michael responded with her own smile, her azure eyes lighting as if a candle flame sparked within.

When Michael glanced at Diarmid, her simple joy changed to soberness so quickly that he felt an odd sense of loss.

“Can you carry her down to the hall, please?” she asked. “Lilias promised her a treat when we were done.”

He complied with a nod, striding out of the room with Brigit clinging to his neck. Michael followed them down the twisting angle of the stone steps, her skirts swishing rhythmically.

In the great hall, he set Brigit in a chair and let Lilias fuss over arranging cushions, a blanket, and a stool for her feet. The chamber was filled with the chatter and activity of Iona MacArthur and her siblings, a younger girl and two small boys. Gilchrist sat at the harp. Diarmid stood silently by as Michael greeted his brother and was introduced to the rest of Mungo’s children, Eva, Donald and Fingal. He waited while she spoke with Lilias regarding the best foods for Brigit.

By the hearth, Gilchrist sat with his head bent over the harp, plucking strings and tuning them carefully with his small wooden key, barely looking up as girls and dogs whirled past him, working and playing. Iona scrubbed the heavy oak table, and swept the old rushes that had covered the planked floors into piles to be removed. The youngest girl dipped her hand into a bag of dried ferns and heather blooms, scattering the mixture over the clean floors and giggling while the dogs jumped and barked as if Eva made a game just for them.

Diarmid sighed and looked at Gilchrist, who shrugged as if resigned to the noise, and went back to his harp. After a moment, Diarmid folded his arms over his chest and looked at Michael, tapping his foot. She glanced at him.

“Well?” he asked expectantly.

“A moment,” she said, and bent toward Brigit. “You’ve been an angel,” she said. “And I will play a game of chess with you later, as I promised. For now I must talk with your uncle.”

Brigit nodded. One of the dogs came up and licked her hand, and she laughed in delight, petting his head. Michael smiled and smoothed a few of Brigit’s tangled curls.

Diarmid gestured toward the door. “We cannot talk in here. Come outside.” He took her arm and escorted her to the door.

Cool wind, carrying the invigorating scents of salt water and pine, struck him as he stepped out onto the stone walk of the parapet. The autumn sun warmed his face as he looked around. Beside him, Michael stepped out onto the battlement and gasped in wonder.

Fifty feet below, the base of the castle was lipped by a border of green isle, a wide swath of grass. Beyond the narrow shore, the loch glittered like sapphires and gold melted together, reflecting the sky and the autumn-colored mountains in its depths. Far in the distance lay the wide expanse of the sea.

“What are those mountains?” Michael asked.

“Mountains in the western Isles,” he answered. “Mull is closest to us. Turn this way”—he took her small shoulders and shifted her—“far out there, you can see Jura.”

“Beautiful,” she said, smiling.

He smiled too, half to himself, standing behind her. After months of raiding with the king through mud and forest, he was home at last. He inhaled the salted air, heard the cries of seabirds overhead, heard the shush of wind and wave together, and could only smile, could only feel content, needing no words to express it. He had missed this place intensely, had needed to be here. Closing his eyes, he sensed the water, the air, the very strength of the earth and rock that supported his castle, as if he could draw their elemental, essential power into himself.

Then he opened his eyes, recalling the other reason he had come up here. He leaned against the stone wall behind him and looked down at the neat, creamy crown of Michael’s veil.

“Well?” he asked.

She turned and looked up at him. The cool clarity of the autumn sunlight revealed her flawless skin. Her gaze was as azure as the sky, but a frown shadowed their color.

“She is a lovely child,” she began. “Phlegmatic in nature, with a touch of the melancholic. She needs herbs suited to drying and warming her systems. She lacks enough choleric bile, but I believe we can balance her with herbs and the right foods. More chicken and broth, apples, eggs are good for her. Less grains. She also needs thyme and dandelion and—”

“Enough of that,” he said impatiently. “What about her limbs?”

“I am not certain,” she admitted. “The right side of her body seems normal, although her muscles are weak from lack of use. But the left side—” She frowned. “She looks almost like an adult who has had an apoplectic fit, though she has no impairment of speech.”

“None at all,” he said wryly. “She chatters like a jay.”

“She has lost most of the strength in her left leg, and some in her left arm. I notice that the left side of her mouth droops a bit—”

”
Cam beul
,” Diarmid said. “I have it too. The recent name taken by Clan Diarmid is Campbell, after
cam beul.
”

“Crooked mouth,” she repeated. “What of it?”

“It is a family trait. Clan Diarmid kin, through generations, often have a wry twist to the mouth. Brigit has the crooked smile of the Dunsheens. I do as well.” He grinned, mirthlessly, to show her.

“Ah,” she said, nodding, and returned a sweet ghost of a smile. Something inside of him flipped crazily, but he retained his somber expression. “The slant of Brigit’s lip is far more marked than yours,” she said. “And her left eyelid droops.”

“She is five years old,” he said. “She could not have had an apoplectic fit.”

“That would be unlikely,” she agreed. “But other diseases can cause similar symptoms. In an adult, lameness can occur when there is an excess of one humor or another. But children tend to be more balanced in their bodily humors and in their health. Usually lameness in children is caused by injury or an accident of birth, although there are diseases which can cause stiffness in the limbs and severe crippling, even death. Ibrahim treated such illnesses in the Holy Land and in Italy and France.” She paused, drawing her brows together in thought. “How long has she been like this, Diarmid? Was it evident at birth?”

He shook his head. “She was born a lusty child, strong and hearty.” He stopped, unwilling to say more. He looked at his hands, turning the left one, with its smooth scars, in the cool sunlight. A flashing image of the day, the moment, of Brigit’s birth rolled through his mind. He stilled its course.

“Until I brought her here, she fostered with her mother’s kin, as I told you,” he continued. “Mungo saw her a year past. He says she was fine and healthy then.”

“Someone surely knows what happened to her.”

He glanced away, fighting anguish and guilt. He would never forgive himself for leaving Brigit there. “The old grandmother told me that the child’s fostering parents died of a lung fever, which the child also had. Brigit survived, of course. But the old woman insisted that the fair folk stole the healthy child away and left a sickly, crippled girl in her place.”

Michael was silent for a long while. “A fever causing this? It is possible, but—until I have my medical treatises, I cannot be certain. There may be some information in there.”