Lady Miracle by Susan King

Kilglassie,” she said. “Widow to Ibrahim Ibn Kateb of Bologna.”
    Gilchrist raised a brow in curiosity and looked at Diarmid.
    “I brought her here from Perth to examine Brigit,” Diarmid said. “She is a physician.”
    Again Gilchrist looked surprised. “A what!”
    “I was schooled in Italy,” Michaelmas explained.
    Gilchrist nodded, his dark hair swinging against his cheek. “Schooled in Italy and bred in Scotland. The Gaelic flows sweet as dew from your lips, my lady. Welcome.”
    She smiled. Diarmid cleared his throat. “She was raised in Galloway,” he muttered. “Of course she speaks the Gaelic well.” He bent down to pet one of the dogs who lay beneath the table.
    Michaelmas blinked at his surly tone, then looked up to see Angus enter the room, carrying a cloth-covered platter. Behind him, two women followed. A young girl held a clay jug, and a small, bent-shouldered woman, her hands filled with a stack of wooden cups, came behind her. The girl, perhaps sixteen years of age, kept her eyes downcast as she neared the hearth, her pretty cheeks bright; the old woman scowled, bleary-eyed, as she shuffled forward.
    Angus set the plate on the table and whisked back the cloth to reveal slices of beef and a pot of steaming porridge, and the women set the other things on the table. The dogs, smelling the food, sat up, and Diarmid admonished them to keep still.
    “Greetings, Dunsheen, and welcome to your guest,” the old woman said. “Cold meat and hot oats are all I could manage so late at night, but eat and drink your fill. I had Angus open a new tun of claret.” She peered at Diarmid, her white brows lowered over sharp blue eyes. “You need a bath and a shave,” she pronounced critically.
    Diarmid grinned. “Lilias, I see you are feeling well and full of spirit as usual.” He spoke loudly.
    “Well as can be, with my joint pains making me so irritable,” Lilias said. “I do not much like being woken after I’ve gone to sleep. But it is good to see you, and your guest.”
    “And you. Lilias MacArthur, I have brought Lady Michael of Kilglassie to visit, and to tend to Brigit.”
    “My lady,” Lilias said, bowing her head. “Angus told me who you are. I want to thank you for your skills those years ago. You saved my son’s life. We are honored to have you here.” Michaelmas blushed and smiled, and turned as the girl silently poured out cups of wine and handed them to Michaelmas and Diarmid. She was lovely in a quiet way, with light brown hair and pale blue eyes, clothed in brown, her build plump and lush, strong and tall.
    “Iona, thanks,” Diarmid said. “How do your brothers and sister fare?”
    “They are well, sir,” Iona said, blushing as if she were shy, lowering her eyes. “My father did not return with you?”
    “Mungo is on an errand, and will be here soon,” he said. She nodded and turned toward Gilchrist to hand him a cup of wine. He ignored her, suddenly absorbed in adjusting the tuning of his harp strings with a small wooden key. She set the cup beside him and left the room. Michaelmas glanced at him, and saw Gilchrist pick up the wine and watch Iona pensively, his cheeks stained as red as hers had been.
    Lilias leaned forward and peered at Michaelmas. “Your lady is a pretty thing, but wan-looking, and young.” She swiveled her sharp glance to Diarmid. “Is she a nun? Did you take her out of a convent?”
    “Out of a hospital, where she worked with the patients,” Diarmid said. “And she is a widow, not a nun,” he added loudly.
    “Such a young girl, a physician? Never,” Lilias said.
    “She is a book-taught physicus,” Gilchrist said, raising his voice. “Trained in Italy. She has come to look at Brigit.”
    “Italy?” Lilias blinked. “Is that in France?”
    “Italy is where the pope lives,” Angus nearly shouted.
    “We import spices from the Holy Land through Italian ports,” Diarmid said. “Your cinnamon sticks and pepper come through Italy, Lilias.