Lady Miracle by Susan King

murmured pensively. The words, private thoughts, were out before she could stop them.
    His glance was lightning-fast and unsettling. “Is that your price?” he asked softly, ominously. “That fee I will pay. To whom shall I deliver my soul? Will you take it now, or in portions?”
    She stared at him, struck by the intensity she had uncovered with her impulsive remark. Giving her no chance to reply, he leaned forward and urged his horse to a gallop.

CHAPTER SIX
    They rode over rolling moorland and climbed steep, rocky slopes, pausing only once to sip clear water and eat the remaining oatcakes. White clouds sailed high before a bright sun as they climbed a long incline topped by oaks and alders. At the top, Michaelmas saw the jewel-like flash of a pool between the trees.
    She followed Diarmid through the woodland, hoping for a quiet rest beside the peaceful pool that shone between the trees.
    They dismounted beside the pool, which was divided nearly in two by a huge projecting rock. The water was surrounded by grassy inclines and thick trees. Nearby stood an ancient hazel, its branches covered not with tiny birds, as Michaelmas first thought, but with hundreds of fluttering, knotted rags.
    Several people, men, women and children, were gathered at the far side of the pool. Some dipped their hands or feet in the water, others knelt to pray at the pool’s edge, while still others tied cloth strips—prayer tokens—to the hazel branches.
    Diarmid walked toward the water’s edge, standing behind the shelter of the massive rock, out of sight of the others. He turned toward Michaelmas.
    “This is Saint Fillan’s Well,” he said. “You mentioned pilgrimage places. This one was along our way. I thought you might like to see it.”
    “I have heard of it,” she said, looking around. “Saint Fillan’s is a sacred pool, well-known. I understand that the king himself comes here to pray for health and guidance.”
    “He does,” Diarmid said. “King Robert has a skin condition with symptoms of weakness which recur without warning. Some say the attacks are God’s punishment for the burden of his sins.”
    Michaelmas looked up at him in surprise. “Dear Lord. I did not know. He comes here in hopes of healing himself?”
    He nodded. “But that has not happened. The disease always returns.” He kicked at the pebbles that lined the shore. “Robert Bruce has worked miracles enough for Scotland and deserves one for himself.”
    She did not answer, sensing an odd mood in him, harsh and bitter. Bending, she scooped water into her hands, letting it trickle back to its source like a cascade of liquid diamonds. She thought of her friend Jean, so ill and so ready to find her peace in heaven, and wanted to say a prayer on her behalf.
    “They say the water of a healing pool must be silvered,” she said, and put a hand to her belt; then she remembered that her small silken coin pouch was still in the wooden chest at Saint Leonard’s with her other things.
    She heard a small splash, and saw Diarmid toss a silver coin into the pool. “Let there be no obstacle to healing,” he said, his tone dry.
    “Thank you.” She cupped her hands and dipped them again, closing her eyes to murmur a prayer for Jean, an old Gaelic chant that she had learned as a child. As the water poured through her hands, she repeated the verses three times. Then she straightened and dried her hands on her cloak.
    Diarmid picked up a few pebbles and sticks and began to toss them into the glittering sunlit water. Michaelmas looked across the pool, where the other people chatted and prayed; a few settled down to eat a meal.
    “I hear miraculous healings sometimes happen in holy places such as this one,” she said.
    “Pilgrims come to such places because they believe the water has been blessed by a saint, or by divine power.” He tossed a twig into the water. “They silver the water with their hard-earned coin, and think that God is watching over them. But the