oatcake.
Michael grunted softly, sucked in a breath and sat up. Her hair, gold spun with silver, hung limp in her eyes; when she shoved it back, it slid down again. She smiled faintly, glancing at him and away. Diarmid pinched back a smile. Half awake, her natural temperament unguarded, she had an innocence that was far more appealing and natural than the indignance she had showed him the previous day.
“I must have been tired last night,” she said, her voice thick and a little hoarse. She looked around, frowning. “I do not recall stopping here. Where are we?”
“Dunsheen is a full day’s ride to the west, two in poor weather. And I doubt you remember stopping,” he added. “You nearly fell off your horse in exhaustion before set of sun. I carried you here.”
She ran her fingers through her tousled hair, then stood, gathering the plaid around her. She seemed to hesitate. Diarmid understood what she needed.
“Over the hill will do,” he said, turning the cakes. “None there to see you but a few cattle, and no herder.” She nodded and walked up the hill to disappear over its rounded crest.
Diarmid removed the griddle from the fire and set it on a rock so that the cakes could cool. He went down the hill to the narrow stream at its base, and drank, filling a skin flask with fresh water before returning to the campfire.
Michael descended the slope, passing him wordlessly. He watched as she knelt by the stream, rinsed her face, and rose to her feet. The first rays of dawn gilded the top of her head like new gold, and glinted along the length of her hair as she deftly made two plaits and bound them over her ears. Then she wrapped the headdress over all, and Diarmid felt a sense of disappointment, as if a light had been extinguished.
Diarmid scratched his whiskered chin, aware that he too needed to wash, and more, needed a shave and clean clothing. He took one of the hot oatcakes and bit into it deeply. When Michael came near, he gestured toward the food with one hand, his mouth full.
She sat demurely, arranging her black skirts around her before choosing a cake. Nibbling at it with even white teeth, she chewed slowly. He wondered if the food was too coarse for her tastes, or too ill prepared.
Diarmid finished his cake quickly, and devoured a second in the time it took her to nibble through half of hers. He wiped his hands on his plaid and looked at her.
“If you do not care for oatcakes, I am sorry,” he said. “I had only that. A simple meal, quick and easy to carry.”
She swallowed. “The cake is good,” she said. “And I am glad you did not use blood in the mix.”
He lifted a brow. “You know that trick?”
She nodded as she broke off a small piece. “I am from Galloway. The people there are more Highland than Lowland. I have probably eaten as many oatcakes as you have.” She popped the bit into her mouth and chewed.
He tilted his head slightly. “I would have thought you were accustomed to fine-milled white bread, roast swan, and new ale every morning. And rosewater to wash your fingers, and linen napkins for your mouth.”
She wrinkled her nose, and swallowed again. “Oats and water will do fine, thank you,” she said. “Finely milled bread lacks grit to aid digestion. Roast swan is greasy and can cause gout and stomach-ache when eaten too often, and new ale every morning can ruin the liver. And Highland water is excellent for hand washing as well as drinking.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “I nearly forgot. You are indeed a physician.”
“I am,” she said. “And the best guarantee of health is a careful diet. If everyone were careful how they ate, there would be far less work for physicians. You should avoid cattle blood in your oats, Dunsheen. Animals can carry bad humors in their blood, just as humans can.”
“I will try to remember that,” he murmured. “So they taught rules of diet in this Italian school you attended? What else?”
“Anatomy,
Michael grunted softly, sucked in a breath and sat up. Her hair, gold spun with silver, hung limp in her eyes; when she shoved it back, it slid down again. She smiled faintly, glancing at him and away. Diarmid pinched back a smile. Half awake, her natural temperament unguarded, she had an innocence that was far more appealing and natural than the indignance she had showed him the previous day.
“I must have been tired last night,” she said, her voice thick and a little hoarse. She looked around, frowning. “I do not recall stopping here. Where are we?”
“Dunsheen is a full day’s ride to the west, two in poor weather. And I doubt you remember stopping,” he added. “You nearly fell off your horse in exhaustion before set of sun. I carried you here.”
She ran her fingers through her tousled hair, then stood, gathering the plaid around her. She seemed to hesitate. Diarmid understood what she needed.
“Over the hill will do,” he said, turning the cakes. “None there to see you but a few cattle, and no herder.” She nodded and walked up the hill to disappear over its rounded crest.
Diarmid removed the griddle from the fire and set it on a rock so that the cakes could cool. He went down the hill to the narrow stream at its base, and drank, filling a skin flask with fresh water before returning to the campfire.
Michael descended the slope, passing him wordlessly. He watched as she knelt by the stream, rinsed her face, and rose to her feet. The first rays of dawn gilded the top of her head like new gold, and glinted along the length of her hair as she deftly made two plaits and bound them over her ears. Then she wrapped the headdress over all, and Diarmid felt a sense of disappointment, as if a light had been extinguished.
Diarmid scratched his whiskered chin, aware that he too needed to wash, and more, needed a shave and clean clothing. He took one of the hot oatcakes and bit into it deeply. When Michael came near, he gestured toward the food with one hand, his mouth full.
She sat demurely, arranging her black skirts around her before choosing a cake. Nibbling at it with even white teeth, she chewed slowly. He wondered if the food was too coarse for her tastes, or too ill prepared.
Diarmid finished his cake quickly, and devoured a second in the time it took her to nibble through half of hers. He wiped his hands on his plaid and looked at her.
“If you do not care for oatcakes, I am sorry,” he said. “I had only that. A simple meal, quick and easy to carry.”
She swallowed. “The cake is good,” she said. “And I am glad you did not use blood in the mix.”
He lifted a brow. “You know that trick?”
She nodded as she broke off a small piece. “I am from Galloway. The people there are more Highland than Lowland. I have probably eaten as many oatcakes as you have.” She popped the bit into her mouth and chewed.
He tilted his head slightly. “I would have thought you were accustomed to fine-milled white bread, roast swan, and new ale every morning. And rosewater to wash your fingers, and linen napkins for your mouth.”
She wrinkled her nose, and swallowed again. “Oats and water will do fine, thank you,” she said. “Finely milled bread lacks grit to aid digestion. Roast swan is greasy and can cause gout and stomach-ache when eaten too often, and new ale every morning can ruin the liver. And Highland water is excellent for hand washing as well as drinking.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “I nearly forgot. You are indeed a physician.”
“I am,” she said. “And the best guarantee of health is a careful diet. If everyone were careful how they ate, there would be far less work for physicians. You should avoid cattle blood in your oats, Dunsheen. Animals can carry bad humors in their blood, just as humans can.”
“I will try to remember that,” he murmured. “So they taught rules of diet in this Italian school you attended? What else?”
“Anatomy,
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