The Witch and The Warrior (33 page)

Isabella's wailing finally ended as Gwendolyn and David approached the laird's table. Gwendolyn was aware that every clan member was staring at her, wondering how she dared show her face after MacDunn's enraged outburst in the courtyard. She endured their scrutiny with practiced indifference. Not one of them had risen to her defense when MacDunn had raged at her earlier that day. The MacDunns had pretended to trust her by asking her for help, but when their laird unjustly accused her, they had remained silent. She should have expected nothing less, she realized bitterly. To them she was a witch, and a witch was not worthy of defense. She had learned that lesson well when her own clan had sentenced her to burn for murdering her own father.

If not for David, she would leave this place tonight.

The lad had not wanted to dine with his father in the great hall, for MacDunn had intimidated his son sufficiently this afternoon to make him tremble at the mere suggestion of it. But Gwendolyn had been gently persistent, and David finally relented. It was time MacDunn realized that the boy he had sired was not made of glass.

Or stone.

MacDunn's expression was hard as they approached, and for a moment Gwendolyn feared he might order them from the hall forthwith. She laid her hands upon David's small shoulders, holding him steady as they faced his father.

“Good evening, MacDunn,” she said, her voice cool. “David is feeling well tonight, and I thought you might enjoy the pleasure of his company. With your permission, I have told him he may stay as long as he doesn't tire himself and he limits his supper to what I have told him he may eat.”

Alex stared in amazement at his son. The lad was freshly bathed, and his flame-colored hair was still damp and curling about his neck and forehead, as Flora's hair once had. David's cheeks and nose were kissed by sunlight, and a handful of freckles that Alex had never seen before were scattered across his customarily chalky skin. Gwendolyn had dressed the lad in a handsome saffron shirt and a green and yellow plaid that was a miniature version of his own, and had even supplied him with a little dirk to strap to his waist. His son bore little resemblance to the sickly child he had watched deteriorate these past few months.

A fragile spark of joy ignited within him.

“Join me,” Alex commanded gruffly. When he saw David hesitate, he realized his error. He drew out the empty chair beside him and patted it. “Here.”

David looked inquiringly up at Gwendolyn. She nodded. Releasing her hands from his shoulders, she watched as the boy hesitantly mounted the scarlet-draped dais and seated himself beside his father.

“Well, that's what I call splendid!” Owen burst out. “So nice to see the lad seated beside his father—don't you agree, Lachlan?”

“Aye,” said Lachlan with uncharacteristic agreement. “Very nice.”

“The lad looks to be half starved,” remarked Reginald. “Your pardon, Gwendolyn,” he quickly added. “Didn't mean to suggest you've been starving the lad. No, indeed. 'Tis clear to everyone in this hall that you've done wonders for the boy. Simply wonders. A bit more meat on his bones, and he'll be ready to train with the warriors. You'd like that, laddie, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, sir,” said David, his blue eyes flickering with pleasure.

“Well, then, eat.” Reginald shoved a platter of greasy roasted meat toward him.

“No, David,” said Gwendolyn. “You don't want to be sick tonight, do you?”

David shook his head.

“Then we will stay with our meal of apples, bread, and a little broth. Tomorrow we will try something new.”

Alex waited for his son to protest.

Instead the lad obediently reached for a chunk of bread.

Gwendolyn nearly smiled. Although she had known the sight and aroma of so many different platters of food would be tempting, David was far more excited by the fact that he was dining in the great hall with his father.

“I shall leave you, then, David,” Gwendolyn said. “I will return later to fetch you for bed.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Alex.

“To my chamber.”

“Have you dined this evening?”

“I am not hungry.”

“You will eat something,” he ordered, disliking the fact that she was leaving. “You will become ill if you do not.”

“I am not hungry, MacDunn,” she repeated firmly.

“Nevertheless, you will eat.”

“No, MacDunn,” she returned, her voice taut. “I am not your prisoner, nor am I one of your clan. You cannot order me to eat, nor can you order me to stay in this hall against my wishes. Do you understand? You may direct me when it comes to the care of your son, but only I decide how I care for myself. And if I become ill, that is entirely my affair, not yours.” She turned and began to walk away.

“Gwendolyn.”

There was a faint pleading in his tone that made her pause. She turned and regarded him questioningly. “Yes, MacDunn?”

Alex hesitated. He knew she was angry with him. Until this afternoon, he had always defended her, at least in front of his people. But today he had forsaken her. He had accused her of being reckless with his son, when all she had ever tried to do was help the lad. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't possibly do it in front of his entire clan. That would only reinforce their belief that his outburst had been unwarranted and that he was not in control of his emotions.

Which he wasn't.

“Do stay, lass, and at least have a cup of wine,” Owen suggested. “I was just about to do a wee bit of dancing.”

“Yes, stay, Gwendolyn,” said Isabella. “You can sing with me.”

“I don't sing,” murmured Gwendolyn, her eyes never leaving Alex's.

Alex regarded her intently.
Forgive me.

She stood there a moment, her gaze locked with his, oblivious to the others in the hall.

And then she climbed the dais and seated herself in the chair he offered.

         

Alex stood in the shadows, listening.

A strange emptiness had overwhelmed him as he watched Gwendolyn and David leave the great hall, their hands clasped tightly together. Duty demanded that he remain and discuss the pending MacSween attack with his clan, and he had felt oddly resentful that he could not follow them. The moment it was possible for him to leave, he had made his way to the corridor outside David's chamber. There he had found Ned standing by the doorway, sharpening a stick as he listened through the heavy wood to Gwendolyn spinning yet another gruesome tale for David. Alex had offered to relieve Ned and watch over Gwendolyn himself for a while. Ned assured him it wasn't necessary. Alex had to practically order his warrior to leave.

Finally Ned had relented, but only after making Alex promise to listen well so he could tell him how the story ended.

“…and then the mighty Torvald raised his sword into the glare of the sun, cleverly blinding the giant snake as he hurled his dirk at him with his other hand. The dirk flew deep into the monster's hideous yellow eye, and the creature screeched in agony as boiling hot blood gushed from the wound, scorching the very grass upon which he writhed….”

Gwendolyn certainly had a remarkable ability to tell stories, Alex reflected. He wondered what kind of tales Flora had told the lad before she became ill. Somehow he couldn't imagine his gentle wife spinning the ghastly narratives Gwendolyn fabricated. Of course David had been much younger then and would probably not have enjoyed such chilling tales. When had he developed this fascination with blood and gore? he wondered. After Flora's death and his own descent into madness, Alex had not had time to pay attention to the lad's changing fancies.

“…and with those words the mighty Torvald cast the beast's dark, shriveled heart into the sea, where it fell to the bottom like a stone and lay forever in the slimiest of muck, too hard and bitter for even the hungriest of fish to nibble upon.”

There were a few hushed words that Alex couldn't make out, and then a small giggle. He pressed his ear against the door, straining to hear. He wanted to go inside, but he could not bring himself to do so, knowing that whatever warm moment the two were sharing would be shattered the instant he appeared. An easy familiarity reigned between Gwendolyn and his son, which was something Alex had never enjoyed with the lad.

The memory of David's tiny palm pressed against his returned, achingly sweet and sad. How had that helpless bairn suddenly become the handsome, confident lad who sat so proudly beside him tonight in the hall?

The door opened and Gwendolyn appeared, carrying a candle.

“Oh,” she said, looking startled, “did you come to say good night to David?”

Her pale skin was warmed by the glow of the flame she carried, making her look unusually radiant.

“Is my son asleep?” Alex managed to ask.

“Almost.” She opened the door a little wider so he could see.

A trio of candles was flickering beside the bed, veiling the chamber in hazy gold. No hint of sickness fouled the air, but instead the fragrance of heather and pine was drifting through the windows and mingling with the faint tangy scent of soap. David lay curled upon the bed, breathing deeply, his red hair flickering against the white of his pillow. Alex took a tentative step closer, not wanting to waken the lad. The boy sleepily rubbed his eye, then left his hand loosely fisted beside his face. It bore scant resemblance to the tiny palm Flora had once pressed into his, but it remained the diminutive, soft hand of a child. If Alex reached out and held it, he would still wonder how it could ever grow to be as large and rough as his own.

Somehow he found comfort in that.

He turned and indicated to Gwendolyn that he was ready to leave.

“Where is Ned?” she asked, searching for him in the corridor.

“I dismissed him for the evening.”

She looked at him curiously.

“He was tired.”

She made no comment. Together they proceeded in silence down the hallway.

When he stood before the corridor to her chamber, Alex hesitated. He had not entered this room since the night Flora died. Behind this door were a thousand agonizing memories from which he longed to escape. His heart began to pound and tighten in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Open it,
he commanded silently.
Now.

His arms stayed leaden at his sides.

He was a coward, he realized bleakly. Only a coward could be so terrified of an empty chamber. Scores of other men had lost their wives, or even several wives, and they didn't end up babbling endlessly to themselves or becoming afraid to enter a chamber in their own bloody castle. He wanted to leave, to retreat to a dark corner and drown himself in drink until his mind was cloudy and his fear trifling. Then, perhaps, he might try to breech this portal again. But he could not permit Gwendolyn to enter the room alone, lest some menace awaited her inside.

He contemplated telling her to wait while he fetched someone else to escort her across the threshold.

Open it, goddammit. It is just a chamber.

Summoning his nerve, he roughly jerked up the latch and entered the oppressive blackness. He inhaled a cautious breath, searching the air for some trace of the misery he knew lingered here. The sun-washed scent of heather and grass filled his nostrils, the same as they had in David's chamber. But he was not fooled by the superficial fragrance. Flora's misery had seeped into these walls, and the chamber would reek of suffering and death until the very stones of the castle disintegrated.

He would be dead long before that hour came.

Gwendolyn entered and began to light the candles in the chamber. Little by little the darkness faded, until finally the chamber was suffused with honeyed light. The furniture was different, Alex realized numbly. Of course it would be. He had ordered everything removed after Flora's death, and stored deep within the bowels of the castle. Except for her bed. That cursed prison he had ordered burned, in a feeble attempt to exorcise the memory of her lying trapped within it.

Unfortunately, the memory remained.

He turned his gaze to the simple construction of polished oak that now graced the center of the room. A neatly arranged plaid of red and blue was spread over it, and something pale lay upon the pillow. Curious, he moved closer. A heavy, smooth bone, more than two hand spans in length, lay nestled upon the soft wool.

“What is this?” he asked, picking it up. “A charm for one of your spells?”

Gwendolyn approached him slowly, staring at the bone. She reached out and took it from him, then ran her fingers lightly over the dry surface. “It is a bone from the leg of a horse,” she said quietly. “It is used as a talisman against evil.”

Alex frowned. “Are you using this to cure my son?”

She shook her head. “Someone has left it here hoping it will drive me away.” She turned the bone over, studying it. “It is said that horses are related to the Celtic goddess Epona, and therefore have special powers—”