Lady Miracle (4 page)

“Sickness helps us overcome sin,” Father Anselm said. “Physicians are the instruments of God’s forgiveness. Only the most skilled
men
“—he emphasized the word—“are worthy to be God’s healers. Women commit errors through vain, impulsive, and inconstant natures.”

“Offer your female gifts of compassion and service, and leave the rest to men,” Agnes said.

Father Anselm scowled. “I heard that when you were in Italy, you laid your hands upon an ailing woman and called upon the power of God to come through you as divine healing. That deed brought charges of heresy upon you there.”

“That was years ago. The charges were cleared.”

“The name ‘Lady Miracle’, which you encourage among the patients, reveals your vanity,” the prioress said. “Only God can perform miracles. Anything else is sin.”

“How can healing be sinful?” Michaelmas asked. Her heart beat hard as she resisted the fear stirred by memories of her experiences in an Italian court. Ever since, she had been careful to touch patients only to examine them. Ibrahim had warned her never to use her healing gifts, and to rely only on her medical skills. He had urged her to abandon her gift for her protection.

And she had. Reviving the accusations was hurtful. She had tried to forget her past.

“Perhaps you believe yourself a saint,” Mother Agnes remarked acidly.

“No more than you,” Michaelmas said angrily. “I thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” She whirled and walked away, trembling.

The tall Highlander stood in the outer doorway as she approached. His height and breadth, his sheer powerful presence, blocked her exit. But she kept on advancing.

Her gaze rose to meet his eyes. They were the color of storm clouds. His glance pierced and held hers. Then he merely angled in the doorway to allow her passage.

She pushed past him silently, her shoulder brushing solid chest. His smelled of maleness and woodsmoke, of fresh air; it was a robust blend of strength, comfort, and, oh God, freedom.

Michaelmas stalked into the courtyard, black wool flapping around her as she moved rapidly across the yard. Fisting her hands, she headed into the wind, feeling as if it gave way.

“She’s overbold for a nun,” Mungo remarked after the woman glided past them.

“She’s no nun. Her brother said she was a widow.”

“Widows take vows. Well, go speak to her. We have a long ride home.” Mungo tapped a foot impatiently. “Though she looks a fearsome little wench. She makes me quake. I would be afraid to ask her the way to Perth, much less would she come to Dunsheen with us.”

“She is just angry—they are not treating her well here,” Diarmid said as he watched Lady Michael cross the yard, her clothing flapping with the fury of her retreat. She shoved at some bedsheets hanging on ropes and disappeared behind them.

He recalled, eleven years earlier, a slip of a girl kneeling in the mud and chaos of a battlefield. He hardly saw that child in the outspoken, temperamental woman out in the yard. But he would have known her eyes, blue and deep as a summer loch, and he knew the hair under her veil would be pale as moonlight.

“Go on, man,” Mungo urged. “I’ll wait here.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall.

Diarmid strode through the courtyard toward the flapping laundry.

Michaelmas yanked another clean, dry sheet off of the rope and folded it. She fumed as she grabbed, and thought of what she should have said to the prioress and the priest in her defense.

“I was a fool to come here,” she muttered. But she had believed that the English master physician and the hospital corporation of priests and surgeons would respect her knowledge and her education. However, outside of Italy, she might never be viewed as a
physicus
. Unlike in England and France, women in Italy were allowed to study in universities and were awarded status as full physicians. But they were not regarded as equally anywhere else.

She kicked the basket and stretched for another sheet. Somehow—perhaps through a letter to the clergy in Bologna—Father Anselm had learned about the trial, so long ago in Italy. She breathed hard against those ugly memories. Ibrahim had assured her it would never happen again. But Ibrahim was not here to protect her this time.

She folded the sheet vigorously, fighting tears. Fine, she would go live with Gavin and her mother and relinquish her dream of practicing the learned arts in Scotland. The hospital corporation and physicians guild had denied her a license, offering membership as a sister of the barber-surgeons’ guild instead. She would pull teeth, stitch cuts, and let blood.

She missed dear Ibrahim. She could not do this alone. She no longer had the protection of his name and reputation. Her husband had provided, in their sunny apartments in Bologna, a haven of books and stimulating discussions between a student and a teacher, and later the equal respect of a professional colleague, and of an affectionate husband. He had never told her that she would not find that kind of peace and freedom elsewhere.

Nor had he told her that he was ill enough to die.

She blinked away tears of frustration and yanked another sheet from the rope above her head. “I wish I had never come here. I am treated like a servant here,” she muttered. She pulled another sheet off line, folded it, snatched at one more. And shrieked.

The tall Highlander stood in front of her. Startled, she dropped the linen on the ground. “What do you want?” she demanded harshly.

He tipped a brow silently, and bent to retrieve the fallen sheet.

“Give me that,” she said, snatching it away, shaking, folding. She dropped it into the basket and looked up. “Why did you follow me? Be gone from here.”

His lopsided, fleeting grin had a curious softening effect on her irritable mood. “But I came for you.” His voice was compelling, fluid, deep.

“You want a servant? I am not she.”

“I want a healer.”

She stopped. “Healer? I am not what you want. Find someone else.”

“I understand you are a trained physician,” he said.

“I cannot practice medicine here. Go away.”

Gray and clear, his eyes were like the silvery clouds behind him. His hair, rich brown, tangled and in need of trimming, whipped about his head and shoulders in the breeze. He gazed down at her steadily, strong and determined. Confident, too. He was clearly not going away.

“You would be a fine physician,” he mused. “I want you to come with me.”

“Who are you? Did Gavin ask you to do this?”

“He did not. I am Diarmid Campbell of Dunsheen.”

She gasped in recognition, recalling a battlefield near Kilglassie Castle. She had been thirteen when she had seen a young Highlander repair a wound in a man’s leg. She remembered his capable hands and his concern for the man’s welfare. She remembered how she had admired his skill. He had called her
Micheil
in a tender way that she had liked.

And he had seen her lay hands on the wound and staunch the blood. He knew about her gift. Her heart lurched uneasily.

The slender young surgeon she recalled had matured into a handsome man with a wild, barely restrained power that was more than muscular. His steel-colored eyes, his quiet voice, were commanding, even intimidating. There were tiny creases around his eyes and mouth. Over the years he had hardened, changed. They were strangers, but one moment still bonded them.

She looked away, busying herself with the laundry. “Ah. Greetings, Dunsheen.”

“We met long ago,” he said. “Do you remember?”

She folded a towel. “You are a surgeon, are you not? I was very young.”

“Surely you recall more than that.”

Panic squeezed her chest. She had strived for years to keep her gift secret. “Diarmid Campbell, laird of Dunsheen”—she spoke haughtily to subdue her fright—“what medical service do you need? Is your wife with child? Do you have an elderly parent in need of examination? In the town there is a physician and many barber-surgeons.” She was babbling. The man was a competent surgeon himself, and had no need of the guild.

“I have an ailing child,” he said. “You will help her.”

“A child?” She glanced at him. Much of her study involved the diseases and conditions of childhood. “Is the child fevered, or injured? Did you bring the child here?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “She is at Dunsheen. She cannot walk, though she is five years old.”

She frowned. “Was it a birth injury, or was she hurt?”

“Neither. She has been seen by a physician and herb-wives. None has helped her, and none know what causes the ailment. You will look at her.”

“Bring her here. I will examine her. Secretly,” she added.

“I cannot bring her here. You will come with me.”

“If Dunsheen is not far, I could—”

“It is in Argyll, in the western Highlands.”

She stared up at him. “I cannot travel there with you!”

“You can. You will. I want her made whole again.”

“No physician can guarantee a cure!”

“That is not why I came for you.” His keen gaze held hers. “I need a miracle of you.”

Michaelmas stared up at him. “A—what?”

“A miracle.” He said the word simply. Expectantly.

“A what?” she asked once again. Michael blinked up at him as if he were mad, or as if she were distinctly hard of hearing.

“A miracle,” he said patiently. He saw, in her pinkening cheeks and the awareness in her blue eyes, that she knew exactly what he meant. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for her agreement.

She spun away to crease the sheet she clutched. “I am sorry your daughter has been injured. If you will bring her here to Saint Leonard’s—”

“I will not,” he said. He had no time to explain to her who Brigit was, or what the child had suffered. That would come later. “I will not have her poked or lanced or bled any further. I came here for you,
Micheil
. Only you can help her now.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” she said, her voice brittle. “Speak to Master James. He will be here in the afternoon to see the patients.” She pushed through the fluttering row of sheets and towels.

He followed her with one long step and grasped her arm, spinning her so that her skirt swirled around her and her veil drifted over her cheek. She shook its folds back, lifted her head, and faced him. Her eyes were vivid blue.

Sheets and towels shifted around them in the wind, scented with lye, lavender and cold air. The white walls enclosed them intimately. Michael gazed up at him, her breath heaving softly. “Let go of my arm,” she said.

“I came here for you,” he said. “Only you can help Brigit.”

“Any competent physician can help her. You do not need me.”

“I do need you.” He felt a desperation that he was loathe to show.

“You have medical knowledge yourself,” she argued.

“Not enough. I have examined her as thoroughly as I know how. But I can find no injury, no illness, only withered limbs.”

She sighed. “Some there are who were never meant to walk,” she said gently. “God works his will—”

He huffed impatiently. “Give me no lectures. Brigit will be well. You must see to it. You must,” he added, unable to stop the soft plea. He still held her slim wrist in his hand, and could feel her rapid pulse beneath his fingers. She shook her head and tried to pull away, but he held her, firmly.

“Let me be!” she burst out.

He had not anticipated adamant refusal. He had expected a gentle young woman who would quietly agree. He had expected a saint. But she had a surprising dash of warrior spirit in her. “Lay hands on her, Michael,” he said. “You can heal her.”

“What you demand is heresy. You are a madman!” she snapped. “The frenzied patients are kept in another building. I will have someone escort you there!” She jerked away from his grip. “Now leave me be!” Turning, she shoved at the laundry that blocked her way. Sheets flapped all around her as she pushed through.

Diarmid stepped after her, and watched her walk toward the common hall. She passed Mungo, who leaned against the wall. He straightened in surprise as she whisked past him.

She stepped over the shadowed threshold, and glanced back toward Diarmid. He held the white linens curtain-like and watched her as she turned away and disappeared into the building.

Best to leave her alone for now, he told himself. She would think about his request. He would come back later and speak to her again. She might deny her ability, but they both knew what she could do.

He had failed Brigit once before. He could not fail her again. If he had to drag the little widow back to Dunsheen cursing and kicking, he meant to do it.

Candlelight illumined the corner of the common room where Michaelmas sat by Jean’s bed. Sounds of breathing, both restless and peaceful, filled the large, dim chamber. The hour was late, since the bell for matins had chimed long ago.

After giving doses to the patients who needed medications and ointments, she had checked the surgery patients again. One man was still fevered, and she would watch him carefully, but the rest seemed content. With few exceptions, the patients in the common hall were elderly and infirm rather than seriously ill, and so the hours after midnight tended to be quiet.

She sighed, leaning her back against the wall as she sat on a wooden bench beside Jean’s bed. As she watched golden candlelight flutter over the walls, she heard Jean stir restlessly. Michaelmas glanced at her, then relaxed when she was sure that the old woman slept soundly.

After supper, when Jean had complained of pain in her chest and arm, Michaelmas had been glad that she had agreed to sit with the patients in the night hours. Marjorie or Alice would come later, but for now she wanted to watch Jean more closely.

She closed her eyes and listened to the quiet sounds around her. Varied snores mingled with the rush of the outside wind. Across the room, one of the Highlanders mumbled in Gaelic in his sleep, and grew quiet.

The soft language reminded her of Diarmid Campbell. She had thought of him often, astonished and alarmed by his impossible demand of her. He knew the secret that she guarded. If Father Anselm or the prioress discovered it, they could bring charges of heresy against her again. She could not endure that, particularly in her own homeland.