Lady Miracle (The Celtic Lairds Series, Book 2)

By Susan King

Desperate to save his ailing niece, Highland warrior Diarmid Campbell seeks out the young woman he once saw perform a healing miracle on a battlefield. But when he finds her--now a trained physician--she denies her gift.

Undeterred, Diarmid carries the stubborn beauty off to his Highland stronghold. Yet as the captive lady reveals her deepest secret--and the warrior opens his closed heart--a perilous enemy emerges to threaten them. Soon they must rely on each other--and a miracle only love can bring...

REVIEWS:
"Fast-paced, action-packed, enthralling romance." ~ Romantic Times Book Club

"Masterful plotting, compelling love story--and more. Extraordinary brilliant storytelling." ~Publishers Weekly (*starred review*)

THE CELTIC LAIRDS, in series order
The Angel Knight
Lady Miracle
The Forest Laird

THE SCOTTISH LAIRDS, in series order
Taming the Heiress
Waking the Princess
Kissing the Countess

THE CELTIC NIGHTS, in series order
The Stone Maiden
The Swan Maiden
The Sword Maiden
Laird of the Wind

THE BORDER ROGUES, in series order
The Raven's Wish
The Raven's Moon
The Heather Moon

OTHER TITLES by Susan King
The Black Thorne's Rose

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Feb 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781614178323

Book preview

Lady Miracle

The Celtic Lairds Series

Book Two

by

Susan King

National Bestselling Author

LADY MIRACLE

Reviews & Accolades

Fast-paced, action-packed, enthralling romance.

~ Romantic Times Book Club

Susan King casts a spell like a sorceress—her books always enchant.

~ Patricia Gaffney, New York Times bestselling author

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-832-3

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Copyright © 1997, 2015 by Susan King All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Dedication

For our own little selkie

Prologue

Galloway, Scotland

Summer, 1311

She walked among the wounded like sunlight gliding through shadow. Mists over the field obscured the bodies of those who had fallen in that morning's battle, but Diarmid Campbell saw the young girl clearly. He watched her, his fingers still as they gripped the scalpel, his attention captured for an instant.

Her pale gown and golden braids shimmered in the light as she moved through mist and mud. She looked ethereal and graceful as she bent toward a wounded man and touched his brow.

She was like an angel come to find the dying souls, Diarmid thought, and shook his head to clear his battle-weary mind. No blessed vision on this cursed field, he thought; just a fair, slight young girl carrying a basin of water and some bandaging cloths. She must have come with the local women to help in the aftermath of the battle between English and Scots.

Diarmid wiped the back of his hand, red with other men's blood and his own, over his sweaty brow. He bent again to examine an arrow wound in a Highlander's shoulder.

The man grimaced. A beardless lad doing the work of healing women? he asked in Gaelic. I saw you fight, lad. That you clearly can do, and your brother with you. But this—?

I have not yet reached my majority, Diarmid said, but I did study with the infirmarian at Mullinch Priory. I have repaired hundreds of wounds more serious than yours.

Then do the work and be quick about it.

Diarmid grasped the wooden shaft, took a breath, and swiftly yanked out the embedded iron tip. As the man gasped, Diarmid drenched the fresh wound with wine from a flask. Then he readied a silk thread and a needle of gold, cleansed them and his fingers in a trickle of wine, and stitched the flesh together. Wrapping the shoulder with linen strips torn from the man's shirt, he looked up.

"Change the bandage often and pour wine or uisge-beatha over it when you can, he said. And pour yourself a dram now and then, too." The Highlander nodded his thanks.

Diarmid stood, swiping again at blood that seeped from a cut over his left eye. He would ask Fionn to stitch it closed for him, though his brother had no gentle hand. For now, he must ignore that, and the aching gash on his left forearm, his own injuries received in the battle.

He ignored, too, the fear that he did not know enough about treating wounds, the fear that he could cause worse, even death, through error or ignorance. He walked across the field, resisting the fatigue that dragged his steps.

He had not treated hundreds of battle wounds, although he had told the Highlander so to reassure him. He had learned herbal lore and the ways of the body in illness and injury from a capable infirmarian. But Brother Colum had had scant experience with battle wounds, and had died before Diarmid had absorbed all that he wanted to know about healing and the body.

Most of what he had learned since had been gleaned through experience in grim circumstances outside the peaceful monastery. Over the past year while fighting beside fellow Highlanders for King Robert Bruce, Diarmid had routinely helped the wounded. Despite his youth, he now had a reputation as a capable surgeon. Necessity was a demanding teacher.

Today, his skills were in demand. An English patrol had routed the small band of Highlanders, including Diarmid, leaving many Scots injured or dead on the damp ground. Some were Diarmid's own Campbell kin. He and his brother Fionn, thank the Lord, had been spared.

He had done his best to help, but he could not save every wounded man there. A quick hand, a keen eye, a little training were not enough against the power of death. He pushed a hand through his tangled brown hair in mute frustration.

Ahead, he saw the young girl again. She glowed like pale sunshine in the mist, a fragile thing, too innocent and pure to be in this sad, bloody place. As he watched, some of the wounded men called to her or stared as if she were a saint come down from heaven.

Diarmid had no such illusions. The monks of Mullinch had believed in miracles, but they had been sheltered men. At nineteen, Diarmid knew the harshness of the temporal world. He had been educated by monks, but his father had trained him to be a warrior and a landowner. He had witnessed death and devastating injury and had dealt them himself. Wielding a broadsword was as easy for him as using a scalpel.

Just now he wanted to use neither. He thought of Dunsheen Castle in the western Highlands, proud on its green isle surrounded by water and mountains. His new role as laird there was challenge enough. His kin, tenants, herds, his late father's trade business all needed his attention now. He dreamed of being at Dunsheen, and he longed to sail a sleek galley ship on trading voyages, too. But those things would have to wait while this war raged.

Others moved through the fog too, including Scotsmen, and a few women who had come with a priest to offer help. A wounded man's cry echoed, chilling his soul.

The young blond girl knelt in the mud and leaned forward to cleanse a man's arm. She had a serene, assured way, as if the rawness of it all did not frighten her. Diarmid stopped to watch.

If angels exist, they look like her, a voice murmured behind him.

Angels are rare on battlefields, brother, Diarmid said.

Fionn Campbell nodded, his profile handsome, framed by brown hair. Diarmid knew, from images in streams and polished steel, that he and his younger brother resembled each other.

We have no time to contemplate, Fionn said. Come look at Angus MacArthur. His leg wound is bleeding heavily.

Diarmid followed his brother to kneel in the grass beside Angus, their father's cousin. The older man groaned as Diarmid examined a deep wound in the thigh, made from the wide sweep of a broadsword. Angus had been his father's gille-ruith, his runner; the man's legs were strong as iron. But the blade had bitten deeply into tight muscle, nearly cleaving the bone.

Frowning, Diarmid wadded the cloth that Fionn handed him and pressed it against the gushing wound. When he saw little improvement, he glanced at Fionn.

Steady his leg, he directed. If an artery is torn, we must attempt to repair it.

Fionn supported the thigh while Diarmid probed gently in the wound. Soon you should tend to your own wounds, he told Diarmid. The gash in your arm is bleeding through the bandage, and that cut over your eye has opened again.

Later you can sew them both shut for me.

You risk your life twice in one day, then. Ask that small angel to tend them for you.

Diarmid huffed a flat, humorless laugh and worked silently. Angus Campbell passed out with a heavy sigh, and though that made Diarmid's work easier, it increased his concern.

I wonder who she is, Fionn said, looking across the field. She has a sweet way. I will need a wife soon. A fair one who could tend to my battle wounds would be a blessing.

Diarmid concentrated on applying pressure, but the folded cloth grew red far too quickly. I need a strip of linen and some help pressing on the wound, quickly!

Fionn tore a piece from the hem of his own shirt and handed it to Diarmid, who wrapped the cloth high on Angus' leg, twisting it and holding it tight. If I cannot stop the flow— he stopped. The outcome was obvious. Brother Colum did not teach me enough before he died. He loosened the bandage, tightened it again. Pressure will do, and a tight band. Some herbs ease bleeding, but I have no simples or potions here. I should have brought some herbs with me.

We did not know that an English patrol would attack us out here. We thought it was safe enough in this part of Galloway. But there is no trusting the English. Will the blood band work?

I will make it work, Diarmid said fiercely. After a moment, he nodded. It seems to be slowing, thank God. He lifted the wineskin that hung at his belt, pulled the wax stopper free, and trickled wine over the wound. Hold the leg, he told Fionn.

He readied the needle with more silk and dribbled wine over it, and began to pull together the deepest layer of muscle. Blood pooled freely, making it difficult to see what needed repair. Leaning over his patient, he did not notice that a slight figure knelt beside Fionn. When he glanced up, he saw the girl.

Be gone, he told her curtly.

Let me help. Her voice was light and young, and she spoke in Gaelic, as he did. A mix of voices floated over the field: Gaelic, English, French, the priest's Latin. He understood them all.

You can do nothing here, he said. He drew the needle in and out, in and out. Then he swore softly as the silk slid from the needle and the bleeding worsened. He would have to find the opening in the artery or Angus would die. He rethreaded the needle and instructed Fionn to loosen and tighten the blood band.

The girl leaned forward and laid her slender hands over the gaping, ugly slash. She drew in a deep breath.

Girl, stop, Diarmid snapped. I need to work—

Hush. Give me a moment. A firm, quiet command. Small and slight beside them, she spoke like a queen. Eyes closed, back straight, she lifted her delicate golden head to the dreary, misted light.

She looked like a shining sword, beautifully shaped, hilted in gold and bladed in silver. Flawless, strong, an angel come to earth. Diarmid stared in astonishment.

Then he recovered his wits. Angus's wound required urgency, not awestruck dreaming. He reached out to lift the girl's hand away—then stopped.

Heat radiated from her fingers. She seemed to be praying in a meditative trance, eyes closed, hands cupped over the wound. Her fingertips were staining deep red.

Holy Mother of God, Fionn breathed.

The girl withdrew her hands, set them in her lap. Diarmid looked at the wound, raised the needle to begin hasty work.

But the gushing flow had slowed considerably. He could easily see the slice in the artery. Silent, unsure what had happened, he had not time to wonder. He repaired the tear while Fionn heated the tip of a dirk to cauterize the sealed artery. When that was done, Diarmid closed the rest of the wound, easing the muscle layers together with his stitches. He focused on what he saw, what he must do, and finished the task. Finally he accepted a cloth that the girl handed him and wrapped it around Angus's leg.

He looked at her. She waited, her bloody hands in her lap. He will live, he said.

She nodded, vulnerable, her delicate head and neck like a flower on a stem. She rose to her feet, then wavered unsteadily.

Diarmid stood too, taking her arm to offer support. What was it you did for him? Prayer?

Her wide eyes were blue as a summer sky and fringed with lashes. Innocent, youthful, yet there was wisdom there, as if an old soul looked at him. Something like that.

What is your name? he asked. I am Diarmid Campbell of Dunsheen.

Michaelmas, she said. I am Michaelmas Faulkener.

He frowned at the odd English name. He knew an English knight by that surname, who was now one of Robert Bruce's most loyal advisers. Do you know Gavin Faulkener?

She nodded eagerly. He is my half brother! I came out here with my mother and our priest to help. Our castle is but a mile from here. I must go. My mother will be looking for me.

Diarmid let go of her arm. She felt so fragile. "Micheil, he said in Gaelic, unfamiliar with her English name. Michaelmas. Ah, he said. You are named for Saint Michael's Mass, the feast day on the twenty-ninth of September?"

She nodded. Aye. But Michael will do.

Tell me what you did. I have never seen the like.

You're hurt. She reached up and touched the cut above his eye gently. He felt her fingertips tremble against his brow.

He looked down at the pale golden crown of her head and felt heat cover his wound, like sunlit warmth. A moment later he felt heat throughout his body, too, as if he sat by a fire.

The girl took her hand away, and the heat with it. He touched the cut and saw only a thin line of blood on his finger. The ache had diminished. He looked at Fionn, who watched intently.

Sweet Mary, Diarmid breathed. Girl, how do you come by such a gift?

My mother is calling me, she said, as a voice sounded from afar. I must go.

Michael— Diarmid reached out, but she stepped away.

A stocky priest walked toward them, accompanied by a slender, dark-haired woman who called out the girl's English name. Michaelmas!

The girl looked up at Diarmid. You must never tell what you saw me do, she whispered. My family knows, and our priest. No one else can know. Promise you will not speak of it.

Diarmid frowned, nodded. You have the word of the laird of Dunsheen.

And his brother, Fionn added.

God keep you, Dunsheen, she said, and ran lightly over the muddy field, lifting her skirts high, her thin legs nimble as she skimmed the tufted grasses. She was, he realized, just a child.

What just happened? Fionn asked. I feel as if I've been struck by lightning.

Diarmid did too. He watched as the girl greeted the woman and the priest and walked away with them.

We've seen the making of a saint, brother, Fionn continued. "Ach, she will not wed me or any man. She'll become a nun, that one, and be beatified one day."

She's better off in a convent, if what we saw is real.

Real? You should see the cut over your eye. It looks like it's been healing for days. We've seen a saint, man.

Perhaps. Diarmid touched the spot over his eye. Her family is wise to protect her. If others witness what she can do, she could be named a saint—or a heretic.

Pray that her family keeps her hidden. Fionn clapped his hand on Diarmid's shoulder. But you should have asked her to tend to your arm. Now you have only me to sew it for you.

Diarmid shot him a wry glance. Let me find some strong wine first. He glanced across the field again. The girl had disappeared into the mists, but he would not forget her. She had shown him a golden miracle on this bloody field.

Chapter 1

Scotland, the Western Highlands

Spring, 1322

The cry echoed again, eerie in the darkness. Diarmid straightened in his saddle, alert, thinking it must be some small, young creature lost or hurt, though the wistful cry made him think of the legends of the fairies, the daoine sìth or fair folk, said to inhabit so many of the hills in the Scottish highlands. He rode on, and heard a whimper nearby.

Halting the horse, he glanced at the surrounding hills beneath a half moon. No one else would be out here on a chill night, under scudding clouds threatening rain. Surely it was the wind. He urged his sturdy black horse forward.

Years had passed since he had come this way, but this was Sim MacLachlan's land, and the man's small castle was nearby. MacLachlan and his kin would not be expecting the laird of Dunsheen, but would offer a seat by the hearth, food, a dram. Highland hospitality would prevail. After attending to the matter that brought him here, Diarmid planned a night's sleep and a ride back to Dunsheen in the morning.

He shifted the reins to his left hand, but the cool air made his weaker hand ache again. The keening sound came again, louder now, sliding along his spine like ice water. The horse whickered and slowed, and Diarmid placed a hand on the dirk in his belt. What was that sound?

The next cry came from the direction of the low hill beside the road. He dismounted in the moonlight and climbed the slope. At the crest, a bundle of rags fluttered in the wind, and something moved beneath them, whimpering. Diarmid went forward, crouched low.

A child sat there: a small, slight thing, shivering under ragged folds, its pale hair in a tangle. It stared up at him, then scuttled away, using scrawny arms to slide backward. It did not run. The creature stared at him. Its eyes were light, its face elfin. Was this indeed a child of the fair folk—the fairies? But the wobbling lower lip was so human—this was a child, lost and frightened, a little girl clutching a ragged plaid around her, her hair all tangled golden curls.

She sobbed out, and the small sound stirred Diarmid to the soul. He hunkered down. Are you lost, little one? he asked gently. She shook her head mutely, scuttled backward. Not lost? How is it you are out here alone? Where is your mother or your father?

Silent, she only shivered in the cold wind.

Here, he said, drawing the plaid closer around her. He held out a hand. Come, I will take you home to your kin. Tell me where to find them. He stood, beckoned.

She held up her thin arms, a trusting gesture. She wanted him to lift her up.

"Ach, you're that tired, hey." He bent down and picked her up. She might have been a sack of feathers. He began to descend the slope. The child rode in his arms like a moonbeam, weightless, fragile, silent. She tilted he head against his shoulder.

What is your name? he asked. She watched him with somber eyes. I am Diarmid.

I heard a wildcat, she whispered.

It cannot harm you now, he replied. I am here.

I waited for you. I was cold, she added plaintively. And then you came.

He frowned. No one expected him here. He had ridden out to visit the girl-child fostered in Sim MacLachlan's household. He remembered a pretty, sturdy toddler with blond curls and the impish, crooked smile of the Dunsheen Campbells. This little one was fair and young, but far more delicate a child than that one would be at her current age.

Sim MacLachlan, who had the safekeeping of his niece, Brigit Campbell, kept Fionn's orphaned daughter well. Diarmid had left her in the care of Sim's wife as an infant, and paid a handsome fee each year to keep her fostered and happy there.

The girl looked up at him. Are you the king?

King of Scots? I am not. He almost smiled.

"King of the Daoine Sìth, she said. They are my kin. I am a changeling child." She said it casually, as if she told him the color of her hair, or the number of her toes.

He stopped. On this moonlit night, he could almost believe that of the waif. But the pressure of her little arms around his neck, the unwashed odor of her hair, her fragile weight were real—and alarming. Something was very wrong here. You are what?

Old Morag says my kin are the fair folk. She is Simmie's old grandmother, she added.

Sim MacLachlan? he asked. A sense of dread filled him. Reaching his horse, he bent to set the child on the ground for a moment. Her arms tightened around his neck.

Do not let go, she said. I cannot walk.

Suddenly he was aware of the limp drape of her legs over his arm. Are you hurt?

I have a curse on me. Morag says I am a changeling. She is a wise woman.

I hardly think so, he growled.

She said if I stayed out here, all would be well.

He narrowed his eyes. Old Morag left you out here alone?

She nodded. "I am to wait for the daoine sìth to come for me. And here you are. She tilted her head. You are tall and strong, like a king."

He huffed. "I am no sìtheach come for you."

"Ach, she said, nodding wisely, you are." Her quick smile was elfin.

That slanted little grin struck him to the heart. Carefully, he set her at the front of his saddle and swung up behind her.

Someone had abandoned this child, believing her to be a changeling—a weakling fairy child switched for a healthy human one—in this case perhaps because she was fragile and had some trouble in her legs. The idea of such cruelty and ignorance chilled him—and the thought of who she might be made him tremble with dread and anger.

Taking the reins, the child in his lap, he looked down. Tell me your name, he said.

"Brighid, she said. Brigit. It means strength."

Brigit Campbell? His voice was barely above a whisper. He saw then that her moon-colored eyes were surely gray, like his, his sister's, Fionn's too. Now he saw the ghost of his brother's face in her small countenance. Fionn's daughter, Diarmid's own charge since his brother's death, looked up at him.

Shock coiled into rage as he realized that his niece had been mistreated. And he felt the burden of remorse and guilt, for he had promised to protect Fionn's child as if she were his own. As for those he had trusted with the task—

Where is Sim MacLachlan? he growled.

Simmie is dead. They are all gone, but for Old Morag. She took me to her little house.

I am your kin, Brigit. Your uncle, Diarmid Campbell of Dunsheen. He drew a deep breath. You will come to live with me now. But first I want a word with Morag.

Her house is on the next hill, Brigit said. But she will be sleeping.

Then we will wake her up, he said fiercely, and urged the horse ahead.

* * *

September, 1322

The wild brilliance of dawn faded into morning as Diarmid rode beside Mungo MacArthur, his friend and gille-ruith. They headed toward home, past the lavender shoulders of the distant mountains to the western coast and Dunsheen Castle, far from these border hills where King Robert's army clustered. He and Mungo had been with the king's raiding force for months, and now were finally riding westward. Diarmid would have agreed to almost any request if the task he took on brought him home. Owing fealty and service to the crown, either knight service or the loan of his fast multi-oared galleys, he had chosen to personally report to Robert Bruce.

Now he cantered quickly, but Mungo, used to running wherever he went as Dunsheen's runner, was less sure on a horse and lagged behind. You are in a hurry, Dunsheen, he panted when he caught up.

We have an errand in Perth before we can go home.

Mungo grunted. You seem certain this woman in Perth will come with you to Dunsheen.

She will, he said. She has the soul of a saint. She will not refuse my request.

Ah, the laird of Dunsheen eagerly leaves his games of war for the sake of a small child.

Diarmid gave him a wry look. You have four children, man, he said. Would you not do anything you could for them? I thought so. Brigit has improved little since I found her that night. I thought rest, good food, herbal doses and a good home would help her regain strength.

Mungo sighed. The herb-wives, even the physician you hired have all said the same. She will not walk, Dunsheen, he said gruffly. Accept it as fate.

One woman said she would waste away to nothing, Diarmid said bitterly. Another said she will not survive another year and should be left in a convent. And the physician, he added, the educated man, wanted to amputate her legs so the weakness would not spread. I will not listen to any of that.

No one knows what caused this for her, and no one knows how to treat it. Even you, with your medical knowledge.

I will see her healed. She is my responsibility, Diarmid growled. He would find a way. She was his niece, his ward, the soul of the promise he had made to his brother and had not kept.

"Is this fierceness because Brigit believes you are the king of the daoine sìth, and capable of magic?"

In part, he admitted. She has too much faith in me, I trow. And I can refuse her nothing. I am lost each time she smiles at me. And he had made an impulsive promise to the child that he had to keep. Brigit wanted magic. She believed in it, and in him. And he, desperate, had agreed.

He sighed, wishing the brisk wind could blow away all the troubles that sat on his shoulders. He needed peace in his life; he had only turmoil of late. Now king and crown made more demands of him, and would challenge his honor in the bargain. But he had a sworn duty to his king as a Highland laird.

He looked down at his left hand, fisting it, flexing the stiff fingers, feeling the ache in the ugly scarring there. At least this the king gave me allows me to return to Dunsheen. I was reluctant to agree, but Sir Gavin Faulkener convinced me to help. I trust his judgment.

Interesting that the Englishman is among Bruce's closest advisors now. Bruce has many strong men around him with true hearts and clever minds. You as well, Dunsheen.

It is a privilege, and poses difficult choices. He shoved his fingers through his unruly brown hair. But I agreed to watch for treason in my own sister's husband, though Ranald MacSween claims utter loyalty.

He holds Glas Eilean, island and castle, for the king, and guards the seaward entrance to the Isles with much dedication, seems to all. Why would the king suspect he is false?

Has his reasons, I suppose. But if Ranald is a traitor, my sister will suffer for it too.

Sorcha will not be blamed. We would not allow that.

She will suffer in other ways, Diarmid said sharply. But I have no choice. English ships barricade the waters on the western coast and cut off Scottish trade routes. The Highland people are dependent on exports. My own galleys have engaged in sea warfare, and now we can only trade through Irish ports. And the king heard from an English source that Ranald is less than loyal. Glas Eilean is a key sea fortress. If there is a plot in the western Isles to harm Scotland, it must be exposed.

Then we will watch MacSween for the king.

Lately Bruce granted Glas Eilean's charter to Gavin, who then gave it to his sister hoping to attract a strong Highland lord as her husband. Gavin cannot oversee Glas Eilean himself.

Ah. MacSween will be furious! Who is Faulkener's unmarried sister?

A widow. Michaelmas is her name, Diarmid said.

The woman in Perth? Mungo gaped at him. The one who helped my father when he was wounded on a battlefield?

The very one. She owns Glas Eilean now.

What a fine mess. Mungo shook his head. Now I see why you want her at Dunsheen. Does Gavin know you are wed already? You cannot marry this girl.

I cannot, so I suggested one of my brothers for his sister. She might hold a key to the king's situation, but she held another key, too, one that could fulfill Diarmid's vow to a child.

Magic. The only true magic he had ever known had been in this lady's hands, and he meant to find her. She has become a skilled healer. Gavin says she had some medical training in Italy, and that she was wed and widowed there.

Yet another healer. Mungo sighed.

Just so. Come ahead. Diarmid cantered toward Perth, where an angel dwelled.

Chapter 2

No sunshine once again, Michaelmas thought, and sighed. She had spent nine years in Italy, and often longed for warm sun. Standing in the doorway of the hospital building, holding a stack of clean, folded sheets, she lifted her face to the autumn breeze. The hems of her widow's black surcoat and gown fluttered around her feet, and the air ruffled the linen wimple that framed her face.

Lady Michaelmas, bring the sheets inside. An imperious female voice cut into her thoughts. The sisters have stripped the beds to be remade.

I am coming, Mother Agnes. Michaelmas turned, but something caught her attention. In the distance, where blue hills encircled a glen, she saw two riders. She watched their progress for a moment, recognizing the wrapped plaids of Highlanders. Their sturdy mounts headed toward the hill on which the small hospital complex stood.

Saint Leonard's Hospital, enclosed within a stone wall, overlooked a river and glen. Michaelmas often noticed new arrivals come by that route. The master physician came every few days and the apothecary rode in once a week from nearby Saint John's Town, which some called Perth. Most of their visitors were those in need of medical help or the charity of beds and food.

As for the two riders, Highland men sometimes came here, especially those wounded in the raids that King Robert and his army sometimes made against the English in this area. The taller of the two men rode a black horse and moved with singular grace and rhythm, dark hair loose, posture strong and proud even from a distance. He did not look wounded. His companion rode more awkwardly, and possibly was in need of treatment.

But regardless of her medical training, she would not be permitted to treat them. The prioress, priest and master physician had agreed on that. She tended patients—but only in secret.

Lady Michaelmas, we are waiting! Mother Agnes called.

She turned quickly. Coming!

Close the door! Master James does not like his patients to be exposed to the outside air!

Michaelmas shut the door, then hurried along the aisle formed by twenty-four beds, twelve to each side, in the common hall. In a corner of the wide room, Mother Agnes watched her with a pinched expression, spoke to two novices with her, and then left by another door.

Michaelmas breathed out a sigh of relief. A few elderly patients, lying paired in the beds, reached out toward her as she