The Witch and The Warrior (17 page)

Gwendolyn watched her worriedly a moment, wondering what she should do if Clarinda suddenly fell ill. But Clarinda just swallowed and helped herself to another piece of cheese and a thick slice of meat, suggesting that her pregnancy gave her a good appetite and the food was uncorrupted.

“I am rather hungry,” Gwendolyn confessed. She perched herself on the edge of the bed and began to nibble on a slice of apple. “I'm sorry if I seemed rude when you came in. It's just that it was rather a shock to find my gown in the hearth. Do you have any idea who might have left that note for me?”

“It could have been any number of people,” Clarinda replied, shrugging. “The MacDunns have a long tradition of fearing witches, fairies, kelpies, and other evil spirits. And, of course, since MacDunn's wife died, we have had to be particularly careful about keeping evil away.”

The mention of MacDunn's wife gave Gwendolyn pause. Perhaps her delicate health could lend some clue as to what was wrong with David. “What did MacDunn's wife die from?”

“Some say she died because she had a weak constitution,” replied Clarinda. “But she seemed fit enough when MacDunn first brought her here as his bride. 'Twas after David was born that Flora began to fare poorly. Twice more she grew round with child, and both times the poor bairns died, born far too soon to live even an instant.” She laid her hands protectively over her swollen stomach. “After the second one, she complained of a terrible pain and was too sick to rise from her bed. MacDunn was overcome with worry, so he sent for the finest healers in the land, who came from as far away as Scone. Great, conceited brutes they were, assuring MacDunn that there was no illness they had not seen. They bled her and purged her and leeched her, and forced her to drink all kinds of stinking potions. But Flora just grew weaker and weaker.”

Gwendolyn felt a surge of pity for the woman. She had no doubt Flora suffered miserably.

“Of course, Elspeth also tended her during her illness,” Clarinda continued. “She firmly believed 'twas evil spirits robbing her of her health, and said we all had to help her drive them away. Poor Flora continued to ail for nearly a year. And then she finally died. Some say it was her own sadness that destroyed her, because of the two wee bairns she lost.” She circled her palm over her belly. “I suppose that's possible,” she conceded. “But Flora adored MacDunn and the son she already had. I can't see how any woman with a wee child would let herself die if she had any choice in the matter. And Flora also worried terribly about what would happen to MacDunn if she died.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are some men who tolerate their wives well enough,” Clarinda explained, “but they would not be overly tormented if they lost one and had to find another. Life for a woman can be short, especially since the duty of childbearing has been left to us. I think many men realize this and guard their feelings accordingly.”

Gwendolyn considered this. There had been a number of MacSween women who had died either during or shortly following childbirth. It was not uncommon to find their grieving husbands married again a few months later—especially if the infant had survived. It was not love that inspired these swift unions, but the simple practicalities of life. The child needed a mother, the man needed a wife.

“MacDunn's feelings for Flora ran far deeper than that,” Clarinda continued. “The longer her illness continued, the more absorbed he became with her, until he could barely attend to his responsibilities as laird. When Flora finally died, MacDunn was devastated. And that,” she finished quietly, “is when the madness claimed him.”

“What happened?” asked Gwendolyn.

“He raged a long while. Screamed at both God and the devil at the top of his lungs, calling them the most hideous names and uttering all kinds of terrible threats. He was taunting them, you see, because he wanted them to take him as well.”

So this was the pain MacDunn carried deep within him. On several occasions Gwendolyn had glimpsed a raw anguish in his eyes, but she had not understood its source. And now his precious son, who was his only surviving bond to the memory of his wife, was dying as well. The cruelty of it was almost unfathomable.

No wonder he had risked himself, his closest warriors, and the security of his clan to steal Gwendolyn and bring her here.

“How long did his rage last?”

“It never went away,” Clarinda replied. “He just learned to control it better, so that we couldn't see it so well. But then he began to act in a strange manner and we knew our laird was not the same.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “What did he do?”

“For nearly a year he drank himself into a stupor every night. That in itself might not seem extraordinary, but none of us had ever seen MacDunn drunk before. He was a proud man, and intensely aware of his duties. A drunken man is not fit to be a warrior, or a father, or a laird, and MacDunn knew this. He would lock himself up in his chamber, or mount his horse and disappear for days at a time, drinking and completely neglecting his duties to his clan, to say nothing of his son. And then,” she added quietly, “people heard him talking to Flora.”

“His dead wife?”

She nodded. “He would have long conversations with her, at all hours of the day and night. We hoped it was just his grief trying to find a way out and that eventually it would pass. But it didn't. Every time someone went to his chamber to consult him on some matter, he would order them away, saying that he was not to be disturbed when he was talking to his wife.” Her expression grew sober. “We knew then that madness was claiming him. And soon word of it reached other clans, and they began to call him Mad MacDunn.”

“Does the clan still think he is mad?”

Clarinda hesitated. “About a year after Flora's death, something happened that caused MacDunn to stop drinking to excess. He continued to talk to Flora, but he was so much better in almost every other way, no one minded. After all, maybe she really is hovering over him, answering him back. For a time it seemed MacDunn was practically sound again, although of course he had changed. But then David fell ill. Once again MacDunn sent for the best healers he could find, and once again they were unable to cure the lad. Finally he sent them away. We all fear that if the lad dies, it will be more than MacDunn can bear.”

“And now MacDunn has brought a witch here to heal his son,” Gwendolyn supplied. “And that makes the clan question the stability of his mind even more.”

“Because people fear that which they do not understand,” pronounced an amused voice. “It is up to those who do understand to try to ease their anxiety. But that is a lesson you have not yet learned, have you, my dear?”

Gwendolyn turned to see Morag standing in the doorway. The ancient seer was dressed in a voluminous robe of sapphire velvet, over which her long hair poured in a silver river. One arm leaned against her elegantly carved staff, while the other was festooned with rumpled mounds of emerald, gold, and rich purple fabric.

“It seems you are in need of a gown,” Morag observed, her sea-green eyes sparkling as she entered the chamber. “These were among my favorites when I was about your age. It would please me to see them being worn once again.”

Gwendolyn arched her brows with suspicion. “How did you know I needed another gown?”

“ 'Twas just a feeling,” replied Morag airily, depositing her gifts on the bed. “Do you like them?”

Gwendolyn reached out and laid a tentative hand on the soft crush of fabric. “They are beautiful,” she admitted, tracing the elaborate embroidery on one with her fingertip. If these gowns had indeed been Morag's when she was young, they must be over fifty years old. But the fabric and stitching were scarcely worn, and the colors were brilliant, suggesting they could not possibly date from that time.

“I have always taken good care of my clothes,” Morag explained, as if reading her thoughts. “And as you will see, classic styling endures from one generation to the next.”

“I've always said the same thing,” remarked Clarinda, rising heavily from her chair to join Gwendolyn by the bed. “Which is a good notion when you come from a family of nine brothers and sisters,” she added wryly.

“I cannot accept these,” said Gwendolyn, running her hand reverently over the dry silk of the gold gown.

“Of course you can.” Morag waved a blue-veined hand in the air. “My days of wearing such slim garments are long gone, I can assure you. These gowns have been waiting for you.”

Gwendolyn paused, tempted. Then she shook her head. “It is too generous a gift. And I should hate for anything to happen to them,” she added, glancing at the shriveled black fabric lying in the hearth.

“A shame about that,” Morag remarked, not sparing a glance at the fireplace. “I thought you looked perfectly lovely in crimson. Perhaps I will find something similar for you in one of my chests. Until then, I think those will suit you very well.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. It would be wrong for her to accept these gowns, she realized. She had not minded accepting MacDunn's gown, because he had kidnapped her and was partly responsible for the fact that her own gown was in such a miserable state. But Morag was offering this gift as a gesture of friendship. Gwendolyn was not accustomed to such generosity and had no wish to feel indebted to her.

“A true gift is one which is bestowed with no expectation for something in return,” Morag pointed out.

Gwendolyn looked at her in surprise, disconcerted by the way Morag seemed to read her mind.

“You will wear the emerald dress today,” Morag decided. “It is wool and will protect you well when you go outside.”

“Gwendolyn can't go outside today, Morag,” protested Clarinda. “It's pouring rain. It has been ever since last night.”

Morag eyed Gwendolyn with amusement. “That's because the rain complements her mood. If a witch doesn't like the weather, then she should change it.”

Gwendolyn stifled her urge to smile. Evidently Brodick's and Cameron's story about the storm she supposedly conjured up on their journey here had made the clan think the weather was subject to her powers.

“I like the rain,” she declared, as if she were responsible for it.

“So do I,” chirped Morag brightly. “Washes the world clean and lets you start again.” She turned to make her way toward the door. “I think you'll find, however, that the rest of the MacDunns are not quite so enamored with it.”

She laughed, a high, melodious sound that filled the chamber as she left.

“A terrible evil has invaded our clan.”

The MacDunns nodded solemnly as Lachlan made this dire pronouncement.

“I warned MacDunn not to fetch her,” said Reginald. “I told him a witch in our midst would only bring mischief.”

“The mischief I could live with,” Garrick assured them. “I don't mind the odd flying pot, if that's as far as it went.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” growled Munro. “Ye're not the one who was chased clear across the courtyard before the thing swooped down and banged you on the bloody head! I'm lucky to have lived to tell the tale!”

“Do forgive, Munro, but being crowned by a pot seems an odd way for a witch to try to kill a man,” observed Owen. “Perhaps she was just making sport with you.”

Munro's face reddened with outrage. “She turned my legs to stone so I couldn't run away!” he bellowed. “ 'Twas an attempt to murder me, make no mistake!”

“Why should she want to murder you?” asked Reginald.

“Because she knows I can see beneath her comely appearance,” explained Munro.

Owen's eyes grew wide. “Are you saying the lass doesn't really look like that?”

“She's as old and ugly as a withered toe,” he replied. “With horrible, knobby growths all over her face!”

“I knew it!” burst out Lachlan, gleefully rubbing his bony hands together. “Tonight I shall begin working on a new potion, which will reveal her true, wizened self!” He scrunched his white brows together in confusion. “Did you say she looks like an old toe?”