The Witch and The Warrior (22 page)

“I was feeling much better,” she told him defensively, “so I decided to visit David.”

Her discomfiture added to Alex's pleasure as he stood there watching her. She was perched on David's bed, her bare feet peeking out from the bottom of her thin chemise, untidily wrapped in a red and black plaid that kept slipping off the silky skin of her shoulders. The purple stain on her cheek seemed worse in the morning light, but perhaps it was because her impossibly pale skin made the bruise darker by contrast. She set down the cloth she had been using to bathe David's face and gently brushed back a wayward lock of his hair, as if wanting to make him more presentable for his father. Alex found himself moved by the gesture, and by the fact that the moment she had the strength to rise from her bed, her first thought was to care for his son. It had been the same with Flora, he reflected, in the early days of her illness, before her ever-weakening body finally entombed her in her bed.

He shoved the painful memory into the dark recesses of his mind.

“You are going to get a chill running around dressed like that,” he said brusquely. “You will return to your chamber and get back into bed at once.”

“But I'm not ill,” Gwendolyn protested, crossing the plaid modestly over her chest. “And I'm feeling much better.”

“You have had a bad fall. You need to rest.”

“Is that blood?” David asked, staring curiously at Alex's stained shirt.

“No—it's wine,” Gwendolyn quickly assured him. “I rested all night,” she told Alex, disliking the idea of being treated as if she were infirm. “I don't want to rest anymore. Besides, David needs me.”

“You will be of little use to him if you become ill with fever or suddenly faint dead away. You will rest today, and if you seem well enough tomorrow, then you may return to tending David.”

“Really, MacDunn, I am not nearly as fragile as you think. All I require is a hot bath,” she said, rising from the bed, “and I shall feel perfectly—”

Pain shot through her skull. She stifled a moan and sat back on the bed, cradling her head in her hands.

Within two strides Alex was kneeling before her. “What is it?” He cupped her chin with his hand. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Gwendolyn managed, although she was not entirely sure of that. “My head just hurts a little.” She closed her eyes, struggling to conquer her pain.

“Ned!” Alex called sharply.

Within an instant Ned appeared in the doorway.

“You will help Gwendolyn to her chamber at once and see that she returns to her bed and stays there.”

“I don't need any help,” Gwendolyn said stubbornly.

“You can either permit Ned to assist you or I will pick you up and carry you myself. The choice is yours.”

Gwendolyn shot him a disgruntled look. Realizing she had no choice, she turned to David and gave him a weak smile. “I will be back to see you this afternoon, David. Until then, I shall ask Clarinda to come and sit with you.”

David regarded her fearfully. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course I shall be all right,” Gwendolyn assured him, stroking his cheek. “I'm just a little tired.”

“When you come back, I will tell you the story about the giant who mashed up the eyes of warriors to make a spread for his oatcakes,” David offered. “That always makes me feel better.”

“What kind of ghastly stories have you been telling the lad?” Alex asked.

Gwendolyn cautiously rose from the bed and accepted Ned's arm. “Just a few silly tales,” she replied innocently. “As I'm sure you know, David likes his stories with a bit of blood and gore.”

Alex frowned. He had no idea what kind of stories his son preferred.

“Maybe you could sit with him until Clarinda comes, and David could tell you one,” she suggested.

“I will tell you one about the mighty Torvald,” David offered eagerly. “He is a powerful warrior like you, who lived far away in a land called—”

“I don't have time for storytelling,” Alex interrupted impatiently. “Already the morning is half wasted. I must lead my men in training.”

“Of course,” said Gwendolyn. “Perhaps another time. When you can spare a moment for less important matters.” Her voice was cool with disapproval.

Satisfied that both Gwendolyn and his son were safe for the moment, Alex quit the room, turning his thoughts to the upcoming challenge of a MacSween attack.

But all that morning he was plagued by the strange feeling that he had disappointed her, although he could not imagine how, or why it should matter to him.

“Who would do such a foul thing?”

The small gathering assembled in Ewan and Lettie's cottage regarded each other uneasily, troubled by Owen's question.

“ 'Tis one thing to burn a gown,” Reginald observed, “for no one is actually hurt. But if someone purposely tries to harm the lass, that is another matter entirely.”

“We don't know that it wasn't an accident,” argued Lachlan. “The witch might have been entranced in some evil spell, and as she was concentrating all her unearthly powers on slaughtering us as we sleep, she tripped.”

“Why would such a sweet lass want to kill us?” Owen asked.

“She isn't sweet,” Lachlan countered. “And she isn't fair, and she isn't young. Munro has already told us that she looks like a shriveled old toe.”

Owen scratched his white head, considering this. “How is it that Munro can see this but the rest of us cannot?”

“I have a gift,” Munro boasted.

“More like a curse,” observed Garrick, “if she looks that bloody awful!”

The clan members laughed.

“Maybe she fell because she was drunk,” suggested Farquhar. He took a deep swig of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She drinks, you know.”

“I've spent more time in her company than you, and I've never known her to take more than a cup of wine,” Clarinda countered impatiently.

“Those lower stairs are very slippery,” Robena pointed out. “It's easy to see how someone could have fallen down them—especially if the torch had gone out.”

“It couldn't have just gone out,” objected Quentin. “I checked the torches just yesterday and made sure they were all well oiled, with plenty of rag for burning. That torch had hours of light in it.”

“Perhaps there was a sudden gust of wind,” Robena suggested.

“From where?” asked Ewan. “There are no windows in that passage.”

“The witch must have stirred the air into a wind as she walked,” Lettie decided. “Haven't you noticed how strange the weather has become since she arrived?”

“It always rains when her mood is foul,” Lachlan grumbled.

“How do you know what her mood is?” wondered Owen.

“A wee drop of rain may be one thing, but I've never seen her extinguish a torch just by walking by it,” said Reginald.

“Did you see how upset MacDunn was when he found her?” asked Marjorie. “Sat with her like a man possessed, not letting anyone else near her.”

“Perhaps he is possessed,” said Lachlan. “No doubt that's part of her wicked plan!”

“It's the madness.” Clarinda sighed, shaking her head. “Poor man. Her lying helpless and still like that must have reminded him of Flora.”

“The witch looks nothing like Flora,” contradicted Robena sharply.

“But does MacDunn know that?” wondered Garrick. “Or is his mind playing tricks on him once again?”

“MacDunn knows the difference between a witch and his dead wife,” Marjorie argued. “He was only disturbed because the witch is his last hope to cure poor David.”

“But if his mind were sound he would realize she is killing David,” said Elspeth. “Plunging the poor lad into freezing baths, exposing him to drafts, and letting the poisons fill his body. Did you see the dreadful red bumps that rose on him the other day?”

“He has had those before, Elspeth,” Marjorie reminded her. “When he was in your care.”

“He should have been bled immediately for it,” Elspeth snapped. “He hasn't had a good bleeding since she arrived—I hate to think how tainted his poor flesh must be.”

“He actually seems a little stronger at times than he used to,” observed Clarinda. “I think Gwendolyn may be doing him some good.”

“If she strengthens him, it is only so she can sacrifice him to the devil,” Elspeth returned. “That is her plan.”

“What about this chap who arrived today from the MacSweens?” said Owen. “Does anybody know what message he brought?”

“Last I saw of him, he was sitting in the hall drinking with Brodick,” Quentin reported. “Don't know what became of him after that.”

“MacSween has no doubt sent him to declare war on us,” fretted Lachlan. “And tomorrow morning we shall waken to find we have been slashed to pieces as we sleep!”

“Do forgive, Lachlan, but if we are slashed to pieces, how will we waken?” asked Owen.

“I shall find the scurvy knave and serve him his bowels for breakfast!” declared Reginald fiercely. “Let's see what the MacSweens think of that!” He reached for his sword, frowned, then checked between his spindly calves to see if it had somehow slipped behind him. “That's odd, I was sure I had it with me.”

“I doubt Brodick would share a jug with someone who was about to attack us,” said Ewan reasonably. “MacSween likely sent the messenger to thank MacDunn for his gift. Why else would Brodick be treating him like a guest?”

“If he's a guest, then why hasn't he been introduced to the rest of us?” wondered Garrick.

“Perhaps MacDunn has forgotten about him,” suggested Lettie. “He was very preoccupied today.”

“He was absorbed with readying the clan for battle,” said Lachlan, “because he knows we are about to be slain!”

“MacDunn always seems a little preoccupied,” Clarinda pointed out. “It is because he is listening to Flora.”

“If the MacSweens attack, then we shall have to fight them. It is as simple as that,” declared Reginald.

“I say we just give them the witch and be done with it,” said Lachlan. “No point in sacrificing our lives for a sorceress who is just going to kill us anyway.”

“MacDunn would never permit us to do such a thing,” protested Marjorie. “He still believes she can heal his son.”

“And maybe she can,” added Clarinda. “Sometimes David actually seems to be getting better.”

“That's splendid!” declared Owen enthusiastically.

“And other times it is clear he is dying,” said Elspeth.

Owen's expression fell. “That's terrible.”

“I believe we need to be patient,” proposed Reginald. “If the lass somehow manages to cure David, then perhaps MacDunn will recover from the melancholy that has claimed him since the lad first fell ill.”

“He has been melancholy for four years now,” Clarinda argued. “Ever since his Flora died.”

“There have been times when he has been happy,” countered Robena.

“Happy?” repeated Owen. He frowned, considering. “He has pieced his mind back together relatively well, and he certainly has been a dedicated and hardworking laird. But I've known the lad all his life, and I would not say he was happy.”

“His mind is cracked,” added Reginald. “If David dies, it will be broken completely. We will lose him forever.”

“Then we must let Gwendolyn do what she can to save David,” said Clarinda firmly. “And let us make sure no more accidents happen, either to her or to her gowns.”

“The lass is right,” decided Owen. “We shall bide our time awhile longer, for the sake of MacDunn and the lad.”

“And if David dies as a result of the witch's care?” demanded Elspeth.

“Then we must send her back to the MacSweens,” said Lachlan firmly, “and tell them to burn her.”

C
HAPTER
8

“I hurt.”

Gwendolyn paused in her story and regarded David with concern. “What do you mean?”

He sat up, then flopped restlessly back against his pillow. “I mean I hurt.”

“Where?” she persisted, trying to understand him.

His small brow furrowed with irritation. “Everywhere,” he replied shortly, as if he thought it was obvious. “My back, my legs, my arms—everything hurts.”

Gwendolyn drew down the plaid and sheet covering him and gently lifted his arm. “Does this hurt?” she asked, slowly moving the twiglike limb from side to side.

“No.”

She bent the arm at the elbow, then opened it again. “What about this?”

“No.”

She eased him onto his stomach, placed her hands on his back, and began to lightly massage the bony surface. “Does it hurt when I rub your back?”

“No,” he murmured, sighing into the pillow. “It feels better.”

Gwendolyn pressed a little harder, making slow, firm swirls over the narrow swath of his back. Not an ounce of excess flesh padded the tight cage of his ribs, and each bone formed a hard ridge that resisted the soothing motion of her touch. Gradually she shifted her hands to his shoulders, his neck, his arms, and finally his legs, kneading his aching flesh with firm gentleness, bringing movement and blood back to the stiff muscles. David did not complain of pain as she touched him, but instead his body gradually relaxed, indicating he found relief in her ministrations.

It did not surprise her that his body was aching. After being a prisoner in this bed for so many months, it was inevitable that his muscles and limbs would start to weaken and pain him. Her mother's notes had strongly advocated that the body required fresh air, sunlight, and, if a patient was well enough, a reasonable amount of exertion. Too little activity, her mother had warned, was as debilitating as depriving the body of food.

“Other than your body hurting, how are you feeling today, David?” Gwendolyn asked, working her hands along the thin length of his calf.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Is your stomach bothering you?”

“No.”

“Does your chest ache?”

“No.”

“Do you feel tired?”

“I'm tired of lying in bed,” he complained. “I'm tired of doing nothing.”

That seemed a good sign to Gwendolyn. She continued to massage him, considering. Finally she asked, “How would you like to go outside today?”

He turned onto his back and regarded her in confusion. “Outside of this chamber, or outside of the castle?”

“Why, outside of the castle, of course. It's a fine, bright day, and even I find myself growing weary of being inside since my fall. We'll bundle you up nice and warm, and I'll ask Cameron to carry you into the courtyard. I'll even bring a basket of food, and we can sit on the grass and have some lunch. A little fresh air and sunshine will do us both a world of good.”

A glint of pleasure lit his eyes, but he still regarded her doubtfully. “My father won't like it,” he warned.

“Your father has entrusted me with your care,” Gwendolyn returned. “And I believe you will benefit from a small excursion from this chamber. If we see him, I shall make him understand.”

She began to rifle through the neatly folded garments in the chest by his bed, searching for something to dress him in. She was not entirely certain MacDunn would support her decision to take David outside, but if the lad fared well enough, she did not think his father would deny him the pleasure of being outdoors.

Within a half hour David was dressed, wrapped in a heavy woolen plaid, and comfortably ensconced in Cameron's strong arms. Gwendolyn followed the burly warrior and her charge down the staircase, carrying a large basket in which she had packed fresh milk, several wedges of cheese, some cold meat and fish, and some boiled eggs. She was hoping the fresh air and modest exercise would help to stimulate David's weak appetite.

“Great God in heaven!” sputtered Owen, staring at the trio in astonishment. “Do forgive, my dear, but what in the world are you doing with that sickly lad?”

“We're going outside to get some fresh air, Owen,” Gwendolyn replied. “Would you care to join us?”

“You can't!” protested Reginald, clearly horrified. “MacDunn would never permit such a thing.”

“But he did.” She was only stretching the truth a bit. MacDunn had given her the authority to care for his son however she saw fit. Today she saw fit to take him outside.

“That's a heavy-looking basket,” Lachlan observed, eyeing it mistrustfully. “What heinous things are you planning to do to the lad?”

“I was thinking of feeding him, Lachlan.”

“I think you had best wait until MacDunn returns from inspecting the southern border,” Owen fretted, rubbing his gnarled hands together. “Yes, I'm quite certain that's the best thing to do.”

“But we don't know when he'll return and the sun is shining brightly now,” Gwendolyn pointed out. She pushed open the heavy front door, letting a brilliant shaft of light into the dark foyer.

The three elders gasped in shock and raised their hands to their eyes.

“By God, she's blinded me!” Lachlan bellowed. “The witch has burned my eyes!”

“And mine as well!” shouted Reginald. “They're melting in their sockets!”

“It's only sunlight,” Gwendolyn assured them, wondering when they had last ventured out of the gloom of the castle. “It cannot hurt you.”

The three elders hesitated, then slowly lowered their hands and blinked.

“She's right,” Reginald decided after a moment, immensely relieved. “I can see again!”

“But there are spots everywhere,” said Owen, gazing about in fascination. “Like large colored balls.” He swatted at the air, trying to capture one.

“The witch has cast a spell on us,” Lachlan insisted, grinding his fists into his eyes. “I know it!”

“You will be fine, Lachlan,” Gwendolyn promised. “The spots will disappear in a moment.” She stepped outside, leaving Cameron and David to follow.

A veil of stinging smoke was spewing from the bake house. There was also a sour, earthy aroma fouling the yard, the source of which became clear as Gwendolyn watched young Eric emerge from the stables and heave a shovelful of fresh manure and urine-soaked straw onto the enormous brown mountain he was building. The hot smell of livestock and the garderobes that emptied along the walls of the castle added another element to this amalgamation of scents, creating a stench that was quite overpowering.

“This won't do,” she informed Cameron. “Let's walk over to the crest of that hill, where we can sit down and enjoy our meal amongst the grass and flowers.”

Cameron shook his head. “MacDunn won't like us taking the lad beyond the castle walls.”

“I can't stay here,” David protested, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “It smells like a dragon's rotting entrails.”

“You're absolutely right,” Gwendolyn agreed, marching toward the gate. “We shall have to remember this disgusting smell for one of our stories, David. Come on, Cameron. I promise we won't go far.”

The MacDunns working in the courtyard stopped and stared at them in surprise as Cameron reluctantly followed Gwendolyn to the gate.

“Stop her!
Stop the witch!”

Gwendolyn turned to see Elspeth racing toward them, her pinched face twisted with fury.

“Take the lad back to his chamber at once!” she commanded. “He is far too ill to be outside!”

“Cameron, would you be kind enough to carry David to the other side of the wall and wait for me there?” requested Gwendolyn.

Once she was certain David and Cameron were well away, she turned and confronted Elspeth with cool authority. “David is in my care now, Elspeth,” she said firmly. “MacDunn has told you this.”

“You will kill him,” Elspeth hissed. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. Despite what you may believe, I am trying to heal him. A little air and sunlight will do him good.”

“He will catch a chill and die, just like his mother.”

“David is not his mother. Her illness began when she lost two bairns. Whatever killed her is not what is ailing David.”

“It doesn't matter. He shares his mother's delicate constitution.”

“How do you know?”

“One need only look at him. But of course, that is something you couldn't understand. He is the very image of her!”

“The fact that he resembles his mother does not mean he shares her physical frailties,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “David is also of MacDunn's flesh and blood, and MacDunn is powerful and strong.”

“You may have fooled MacDunn with your talk, witch, but you cannot fool me. Your evil clings to you like a terrible caul!”

Gwendolyn flinched inwardly. It was clear Elspeth hated her, and Gwendolyn knew she could do nothing to change that. Long years of being feared and loathed by the members of her own clan had taught her that such deeply rooted animosity could never be overcome.

“Believe what you will, Elspeth. It does not change the fact that I have come here to try to heal David, not to harm him.”

With that she turned and walked through the gate, struggling not to let Elspeth's harsh words further erode her already vulnerable composure.

         

“…and that cloud over there is a stout little man with an enormous belly,” Gwendolyn continued, shading her eyes against the sun as she studied the sky. “Actually, it looks somewhat like Munro. Do you see him, David?”

He did not answer. Gwendolyn glanced at him and saw he had fallen asleep.

“I see it,” said Cameron. “But I'm thinking it looks more like my great round ball of a wife.”

“That's a very gallant observation,” Gwendolyn remarked wryly. “I shall be sure to tell Clarinda you said so.”

“She won't mind,” Cameron said, pillowing his head in his enormous hands. “She's too happy to finally have a bairn inside her again to take any notice of her shape.”

Gwendolyn regarded him in confusion. Clarinda had never mentioned having another child. “Again?”

He nodded. “We had a bairn over two years ago—a wee girl. She died as Clarinda labored to birth her—strangled on her own cord.”

So this was why Clarinda often seemed troubled as she stroked her belly, Gwendolyn realized.
I only hope I can do a fair job of bringing it into the world,
she had said. Gwendolyn had assumed Clarinda was merely expressing her concern as a young woman about to bear her first child. But Clarinda had been heavy and round once before, had laid her hand against the firm swell of her stomach and laughed at the movements of the bairn inside her, and had waited excitedly for the day she would be able to hold her beloved babe in her arms.

Instead she had given birth to a baby without life.

“How horrible for her,” Gwendolyn murmured.