The Witch and The Warrior (31 page)

“I'm fine, Gwendolyn,” he assured her. “Please take me around once more.”

His cheeks were rosy and his blue eyes clear as he leaned forward and patted the neck of his horse. At first Gwendolyn was worried that the exertion would prove too much for him, but the fresh air and excitement of sitting astride a horse for the first time had infused him with a boyish energy she had not seen in him before.

“Very well,” she relented. “But this is the last time. After this we are going to sit on the grass with Ned and have our lunch.” She began to slowly lead the small horse in a circle at the very back of the courtyard, out of sight from where MacDunn was training with the men. “I can scarcely believe you have never been on a horse before, David. You are a natural rider.”

“Do you really think so?” His face was beaming with pride.

“Absolutely. Don't you agree, Ned?”

“He looks fine up there,” replied Ned, whittling a long stick.

“We shall have to ask your father to give you riding lessons,” said Gwendolyn. “Perhaps, if you are still feeling well enough, you could start tomorrow.”

David's face fell. “My father won't allow it.”

“Why not?”

“My father doesn't want me to ride.”

“That is because you have been very ill. As long as you are feeling better, I'm certain he will be pleased to help you learn. Every father wants his children to learn to ride.”

David shook his head. “My father has never allowed me to ride a horse, even before I got sick. He said I might fall and hurt myself.”

“Well, of course you would fall. Falling is part of learning how to ride. You get all of your falling done in the beginning, when you are just learning, and then you don't fall anymore.”

“But my father doesn't want me to fall. He says I have a weak constitution and I might break my brittle bones.”

“I don't believe you have anything wrong with your bones,” said Gwendolyn, slightly exasperated with MacDunn for leading the boy to think there was. “And as for your constitution—”

“Hold there, lass!” shouted Reginald, suddenly appearing around the side of the castle. “I'm coming!” He shielded his eyes with his arm and trekked purposefully toward her, followed by an agitated group of MacDunns.

“What is it, Reginald?” she asked tautly. “Is something wrong?”

“Aye, there's something wrong, all right,” Reginald told her, his white-browed eyes puckered into slits. “That sun is so bright I can barely see you! How am I supposed to protect you with my eyes burning out of my head?”

“Now, lass, 'tis good to see that you are feeling better,” added Owen, squinting at her through his steepled hands, “but could you not fade the light just a wee bit? It's harsh for an old man who doesn't go out much.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Lachlan, joining them. “You never go outside at all.” He suddenly noticed David and the horse. “Good Lord, get that lad off that colossal beast! He will fall and smash his brains in!”

“David is fine, Lachlan,” Gwendolyn assured him. “He is not about to fall, and even if he did, this horse is so small, he would only bruise himself a little.”

“Bruise himself a little?” sputtered Reginald, incredulous. “The lad is so weak, his neck will snap like a dry twig!”

“The very height of that creature is enough to make him faint!” added Owen.

“Actually, David feels quite well today,” Gwendolyn informed them. “And he enjoys being on the horse—don't you, David?”

“Aye,” said David, nodding. “I feel just fine.” He smiled at the anxious group assembled before him. “Would you like to see me ride around the courtyard?”

“No!” everyone burst out.

David's smile instantly melted.

Gwendolyn sighed. “Very well, then.” She moved to help David dismount.

“Of course we want to see you ride, David,” said Clarinda suddenly. “Show us what you have learned today.”

David regarded Gwendolyn uncertainly. She nodded.

Turning his attention back to the group, David straightened his back. “You must sit tall when you are on a horse,” he informed them, his blue gaze serious. “And you must hold on with your legs and pay attention to the rhythm of the horse, so that you learn to move with her. And you must pat her and praise her often, so that she knows you are her friend. You are not forcing her to go where you want,” he told them earnestly, “you are both riding there
together.
”

The cluster of MacDunns stared at him, speechless.

“Very good, David,” praised Gwendolyn. “Now let's show them how well you ride.” She began to lead his horse across the grass.

“Good Lord, have you ever heard the lad say so much?” asked Owen, astonished.

“Never,” remarked Lachlan, equally bemused. “I always thought he was too timid to utter more than a word or two.”

“So how is it that he is suddenly chattering away like an old woman?” said Reginald, leaning on his sword.

“And why is he out here riding, when just a few days ago he was nearly dead?” wondered Ewan.

“I thought he was supposed to be starving to death,” added Munro, scratching his head. “He doesn't look starved to me.”

“It is witchcraft,” said Robena angrily. “She has cast a spell on him to make him seem well, when in fact he is dying.”

“I don't believe that, Robena,” interjected Marjorie. “If Gwendolyn could make him appear well through witchcraft, then why didn't she do so the day she arrived and be done with it?”

“Marjorie has a point,” Reginald allowed.

“Then how do you explain the fact that she has been starving David for days, yet he has the strength to go riding?” Robena challenged.

“She hasn't starved him,” Marjorie countered. “She has limited what he can eat.”

“And she has spent many long hours talking with him and telling him marvelous stories,” added Clarinda, watching as Gwendolyn and David made a slow, steady circle on the grass. “That's why David has become better at expressing himself.”

The little group watched in silence as David happily followed Gwendolyn on his horse.

“Well, I call that splendid!” declared Owen suddenly. “Absolutely splendid! Lass!” he shouted, shuffling toward her. “Do you think you could cure my hands?”

Gwendolyn stopped and regarded the elder in confusion. “Pardon?”

“My hands,” Owen repeated loudly, holding the gnarled appendages up to her. “They ache something fierce these days—particularly when the weather is foul. Not that I blame you for that,” he quickly assured her. “You had every right to be upset. Horrid thing, to be nearly burned. Simply ghastly. Glad to see you're feeling better, even if this sun is blinding. Can you cure them?” He turned his hands over to display his pasty, wrinkled palms.

“I—I don't know.” Was Owen actually asking her for help?

“It's just that you've done such a grand job with the lad, I thought a pair of old hands might be easy to fix.” He stared at them a moment, then sighed. “No matter, my dear. I've almost grown accustomed to the pain. Just a part of being old and useless, I suppose. Do forgive.” He began to turn away.

“Owen.”

He turned and regarded her hopefully.

“I will make a warm liniment for them,” she offered. “It must be massaged into the joints three times a day.” She glanced at his stiff, blue-veined fingers. “If you like,” she added hesitantly, “I can rub it in for you, so you don't make them ache even more from the effort.”

“A liniment, you say?” He sounded disappointed. “Don't you want to purge my bowels? Or cast a spell?”

“I will cast a spell, if you like,” Gwendolyn said, sensing that he wanted something more dramatic than a simple liniment. “But you must use the liniment as well or the spell won't work.”

“What about my bowels?”

“Let's wait and see how we do with the liniment,” Gwendolyn suggested.

“And the spell,” Owen reminded her.

“And the spell.”

“Excellent!” He turned to the others and shouted excitedly, “The witch is going to cast a spell on me to cure my hands!”

The group gasped with awe.

And then they hustled forward, surrounding her.

“My belly twists into a bluster after I eat,” Reginald complained. “Can you make a spell that will cure that?”

Gwendolyn regarded him blankly. The MacDunns had never concealed the fact that they feared her and wanted to be rid of her. Why were these council members suddenly trusting her to cast spells on them?

“If you can cast a spell on Owen, I don't see why you can't cast one on me,” added Reginald, feeling slightly injured by her hesitation.

“I can try,” said Gwendolyn. She suddenly recalled a special drink her mother's notes had recommended for simple stomach distress. “But there is a potion I will make that you must drink with it.”

“As long as it isn't like the foul concoctions Lachlan makes,” Reginald replied. “I'd hate to burn a hole in my gut.”

“There's nothing wrong with my potions,” barked Lachlan, offended.

“Nothing wrong with them if you're already dead,” muttered Reginald.

A terrible coughing cut short their banter. “This bloody cough has been plaguing me for weeks,” Ewan reported, thumping himself on the chest. “Do you have a spell for that?”

“I may,” allowed Gwendolyn, thinking of her mother's honey drink for coughs. “And there is a hot brew that works with it.”

“By the end of the day I'm so groggy, I barely make it to my cottage,” complained Farquhar. He paused to take a hefty draft of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Can you cast a spell for that?”

“Now, let's not keep the lass standing here holding this horse,” said Owen. “Why don't we sit down over there on the grass?”

“What's in the basket?” asked Munro. “I'm hungry.”

“I'm afraid it's nothing much,” Gwendolyn replied. “David is eating only the simplest of foods. Today we are having bread with honey and apples.”

“That sounds wonderful!” said Clarinda. “I'm starving.” She began to waddle toward the basket, with the rest of the group following.

         

“Aim higher!” shouted Alex. “Release together—now!”

A flurry of padded arrows sailed high into the air, making a slow, graceful arc before pummeling the warriors below.

“Bloody hell!” said Cameron, lowering his sword to rub his head. “Those things smart!”

“That is one of the hazards of having a big head, my friend,” teased Brodick. “Perhaps we should find a bucket for you to wear.”

“You'll be needing a helmet more than me,” scoffed Cameron. “I'd hate to see that pretty face of yours marred.”

“I think Brodick might welcome a scratch or two on his cheek,” joked Garrick. “Maybe if he weren't so comely, Isabella might leave him alone for more than a minute.”

“More like she would be weeping all over him,” snorted Quentin. “The lass does enjoy a good cry.”

“I say she'd fly into one of her rages and swear to disembowel the poor chap who dared touch Brodick,” predicted Cameron. “She has a colorful way with words, that one does.”

“Really?” said Brodick, his brows raised in surprise. “I hadn't noticed.”

The warriors laughed.

“I'm delighted you find preparing for battle so amusing,” snapped Alex. “Do you think you could spare me your attention a little longer, or shall we just sit and entertain each other while the MacSweens attack?”

His men regarded him in astonishment.

“Your pardon, MacDunn,” said Brodick stiffly. “We will not speak again.”

His friend's uncharacteristic formality told Alex that his attitude was unreasonable. He instantly regretted his mocking words, but could not possibly take them back. To do so would suggest weakness, and he could not afford to be weak. An army of MacSweens was about to attack, to try to take Gwendolyn and Isabella away. Despite his clan's loyalty to their laird, he had no idea how hard they would fight to protect these two unwelcome guests. Given how they longed to be rid of Gwendolyn, he could not believe they would put up much resistance. He had vowed to keep her safe, but Alex could not defend her against an entire army by himself.

The thought unnerved him.

Pushing the thought aside, he ordered, “We will resume the attack on the south wall. Assuming Robert comes with a minimum of two hundred men, we will need archers stationed on the battlements at approximately every eight feet. They will be able to hold off the MacSweens for a few minutes, but once the attackers have positioned their ladders—”

A shout of laughter exploded into the air.

“I require your complete attention!” he snapped.

“It isn't the men,” Cameron said. “The laughter is coming from the bailey.”