Lady Miracle (16 page)

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 quiet 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.

She touched his scarred thumb. “Have,” she insisted. “You could help him. Rebreak the leg, and set it again—”

“That is a great risk,” he said. “I lack the skill for it. And you lack the physical strength. Besides, Gilchrist would never agree to it.” He moved his hand away. “You must think the Dunsheen Campbells a collection of weaklings and grotesques, Mistress Physician.” His droll tone had an underlying sharpness.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I see strength and beauty in each of you.”

He looked puzzled. “Gilchrist is handsome, I know, and Brigit is a pretty child—”

“Gilchrist has the face of an angel,” she agreed. “And Brigit too. But it is the protection and caring they have here that is most beautiful.” Diarmid listened in silence. “I heard you tell MacSween that you refuse to put Brigit in a convent,” she said. “And I saw how angry you and Arthur were when he made remarks about Gilchrist, and about your sister, who seems to have some difficulties. I hope you do not mind me overhearing that,” she finished in a rush.

He shook his head. “I am glad you listened. I want you to consider going to see Sorcha. I know you are angry with MacSween, but I think you can help her.”

She frowned. “Would you set me two miracles to perform, when I have asked but one task of you?” she asked, her tone more curt than she meant.

He held up a hand. “Peace. I just want you to see Sorcha, and help her however you judge best. I know it is difficult for you to go there, but I do not trust the old midwife that Ranald has hired for her. Sorcha needs a younger woman, a friend. That is all I ask. A few days of your time to encourage her. We all worry about her.”

She was touched, as she had been at other times, by the caring and kindness that she sometimes glimpsed in him. He truly loved his kin. And he asked for her expertise this time.

“I will think on it,” she said. She would consider all the implications of going to Glas Eilean later.

“My thanks,” he said quietly.

She nodded, and lifted her hands to tuck the blanket around Brigit. “I want her to walk as much as you do,” she murmured.

“No one can want it as much as I do,” he said fiercely.

“I have seen lame and crippled people treated as if they were less than dogs,” she said. “In many cities in Europe, they live in the streets and beg for food. They are spurned and forgotten, and left to die by those who should show them mercy.” She took Brigit’s limp fingers from her mouth and tucked them under the covers. “My husband Ibrahim tried to help such beggars regain their strength. Some of his colleagues praised him as a Good Samaritan. Others criticized him for a fool.”

“Was he a Saracen, your husband?”

“Ibrahim was from the Moorish part of Spain,” she said. “His mother was a Christian and his father a converted Saracen. He studied medicine and astrology in Istanbul as a young man, and later came to Bologna to practice medicine and to lecture at the university. I met him there.”

“He was your teacher?” he asked, sounding surprised.

She nodded. “He taught anatomy, diseases, and astrology. He also wrote treatises on medical matters—perhaps you have read them. Ibrahim Ibn Kateb was his name.”

He shook his head. “I have read few medical texts. He must have been much older than you.”

“Old enough to be my grandfather, actually,” she answered. “He chose me, along with a male student, to become his assistants. Ibrahim took us both into his home to teach us. I stayed to help him in his practice.”

“And to marry him.”

She looked away as if to protect her secrets. Diarmid’s gaze was too direct, too keen. “Ibrahim was very kind to me,” she said. “He encouraged me and taught me much of what I know.”

“Was he aware of your healing abilities?”

She could not meet his gaze. “He was—he believed that the healing incidents were a sign that I was meant to be a physician. Ibrahim urged me to trust in empirical sciences, and to rely on what I learned through reading and experience. He...felt it was wise for me to abandon my healing abilities.” And she felt safe, just now, saying no more about what Ibrahim had done for her.

“How long were you married?”

“Four years. He died just over a year ago. His heart was not strong—although he did not let me know that until nearly the end.” She bit her lip and looked away.

“You miss him,” Diarmid said gently. “You loved him.”

She shrugged, a vulnerable admission of her affection for Ibrahim. “I admired his kindness, his knowledge. He would have known what to do for Brigit.” She looked up, uncomfortable with the direction of his probing, ready to change the focus. “And what of you?” she asked.

“What? My marriage or my teacher? They are not one and the same,” he added wryly.

She wanted to know about his marriage, but sensed he would hold his secrets back, just as she had kept hers from him. “Where did you learn the art of surgery?”

He combed his fingers through Brigit’s hair, golden strands curling around his hand. “My father sent me to Mullinch priory in the Isles when I was thirteen,” he said. “I was not the eldest. My older brother ran with Wallace and died in battle when I was in the monastery. My father wanted one of his sons to master letters and languages and something of civilization. I studied Latin, French, mathematics, philosophy, and so on, learning them faster than the monks could teach me. The rest of my time should have been filled with prayer and meditation, but I preferred to throw rocks and perfect my hand-grappling skills with some of the other students. I considered myself a warrior, and no scholar or monk.”

She smiled. “The ram, ruled by Mars the warrior,” she said. “Eager for a fair fight, and eager to win. Such lads are keenly intelligent, but often too impatient to be scholars.”

He cocked a brow at her, amused. “Ah, is that what it was? I wish you could have told the prior of Mullinch that. You might have spared me a few punishments.” She laughed. His returned grin was fleeting and slanted, and caused her stomach to flutter oddly.

“Were you punished and dismissed?” she asked.

“The prior decided that I should do penance for my violent urges by treating illnesses and injuries in the infirmary. The infirmarian took me under his tutelage. He owned two books on
materia medica
and a volume of Galen, which I pored over until I had memorized them. But Brother Colum was old and died when I was nearly sixteen. I left Mullinch and pledged myself in service to Robert Bruce, and ran with his Highland warriors. Shortly after that, my father died and I became Dunsheen’s laird.”

“When I saw you, you were young, but already a fine surgeon.”

He shrugged. “Only an empiric surgeon, without true book-learning and academic instruction as you have. But I learned a great deal through necessity, added to the basics that I had learned at Mullinch.”

“And now?”

He looked away. “I am done with that part of my life.”

She tilted her head. “I do not believe that.”

“Do you not? Is this the hand of a capable surgeon?” He waved his left hand in the shadows.

“It is a gifted hand regardless,” she said firmly. The look he cast toward her was dark. She saw a warning there, as if she trod unsafe ground. “Just look at what your touch has done. Brigit is asleep.” She lightened her tone deliberately.

“Ah, well.” He smiled, resting his long fingers beside hers on Brigit’s back, so close that Michaelmas could feel the subtle heat. “That we did together.” He tilted his head. “Now tell me why you decided to become a book-trained physician. That is an unusual education for any woman, let alone a Scotswoman. Was it because of your healing gift?”

She smiled ruefully. “I once saw a young surgeon save a man’s life on a battlefield,” she murmured. “From that day on, I wanted to do what he did.”

He frowned. “Do not jest with me.”

She shook her head. “I mean that. I watched you that day, and carried the memory of it with me for years. You were so skilled, so compassionate. I never forgot what you did.”

“But you were the one—” Then he half laughed. “We each value that memory, it seems, for different reasons.”

“Value it? I cherished it,” she whispered. “I thought about it for years, Diarmid. My healing gift was wondrous but unpredictable. What I saw you do was masterful, based on skill. I wanted to be able to do that, too.”

Diarmid shifted his fingers over hers, the almond oil slippery and warm between them. “Michael,” he murmured. “Thank you.” He held her hand for a moment, while her heart beat an odd rhythm. Then he let go too quickly. “How did you come to attend an Italian school?”

“I have a friend from childhood, Will MacKerras—his mother married my great-uncle John. Will attended Oxford and then went to Bologna to study canon law. When he came back to Kilglassie to visit his mother and stepfather, he told me about the young women who studied alongside the men there. He said that they earned their certificates as physicians equal to the male students. I knew that Oxford and Paris would never admit a woman, so I begged Gavin to let me go to Italy. Finally he agreed and Will escorted me there the next year. I lived there eight years in all,” she added. “My life took directions that I would never have dreamed. Ibrahim was well-respected. I could not have had a finer mentor.”

“You had a good marriage?” he asked.

“We were suited in many ways. Not in all,” she finished quietly. She looked up, the next question burning within her.