The Witch and The Warrior (12 page)

“Well, now, lassie,” began Owen, breaking the awkward stillness, “I'm wondering if you know a witch named Fenella.”

Gwendolyn shook her head.

“Come, now, surely you have at least heard of her?” he persisted. “She was an ugly old thing, with a singularly nasty disposition, which was unfortunate, because she was a sorceress of immense power.” He began to chuckle. “When I was a lad, a friend of mine mocked her behind her back. He was just a silly boy and meant no harm, but Fenella punished him by making his ears and nose ridiculously large, so that he would learn what it was like to be the victim of taunts. You're sure you don't know her?”

“Why would she know her?” asked Lachlan impatiently. “Fenella was as ancient as a rock when we were lads. She died long before this lass was born.”

“We don't know how old this witch is,” pointed out Owen. “Perhaps she is using her powers to maintain a youthful appearance. Why, just look at Morag. She is nearing eighty and doesn't look a day over sixty-nine.”

A splash of color appeared on Morag's cheeks. “Thank you, Owen. It isn't sorcery that maintains my youthful appearance, but a special cream I have developed.”

Reginald eyed Gwendolyn curiously. “Are you using your powers to look as you do?”

Gwendolyn shook her head.

Owen looked disappointed. “Then I guess you're too young to know Fenella. Ah, well, no matter.”

“Here, lassie,” invited Lachlan, raising the ewer beside his cup, “I've a wonderful wine here you must try.”

Alex raised a brow and regarded him sternly.

Lachlan huffed with frustration and set the ewer down.

“MacDunn mentioned that you were sentenced to be burned at the stake,” began Reginald conversationally.

Gwendolyn nodded.

“A nasty piece of business, that,” remarked Reginald. “As a warrior, I'd much rather die with a sword in my belly.” He speared a chunk of meat with his dirk. “Clean and simple.”

“I don't know what's so clean about having your bowels carved out of you,” observed Lachlan, his thin mouth puckered with distaste. “It sounds perfectly ghastly to me.”

“Do forgive, Lachlan, but I believe it's better than being trussed to a post and having someone set fire to you,” Owen reflected, reaching for a serving of salmon. His elbow accidentally knocked Lachlan's ewer, sending it onto its side. A thick brown liquid oozed from it. Everyone at the table watched in fascination as the substance began to smolder, then rapidly burned an enormous hole in the cloth covering the table.

“Honestly, Lachlan, you don't know what you're doing when it comes to potions,” Morag scolded. “You really must stop making them.”

“I just need practice.” He glanced sheepishly at Alex. “I was certain I had it right this time.”

“I'm sure you did,” agreed Alex, struggling for patience. “But I would prefer it, Lachlan, if you would refrain from concocting special drinks for Gwendolyn while she is here.”

Lachlan lowered his eyes to his food. He looked so defeated, Gwendolyn found herself almost feeling sorry for him.

The meal continued in awkward silence. Gwendolyn managed to eat a little from the mountain of food MacDunn had piled in her trencher, but every bite seemed to lodge in her throat. Finally, unable to bear the strained atmosphere a moment longer, she rose from the table.

“I am tired,” she murmured. “Please excuse me.”

Without waiting for MacDunn's approval, she turned and walked slowly toward the stairs, affecting a cool confidence that completely belied the misery clutching her heart.

She had to escape before the boy died.

There was no question that he would die, she realized, staring out the window at the black sky. No one seemed to know what ailed him, and since Gwendolyn was neither a healer nor a witch, she did not see how she could possibly help him. If anything, her lack of experience in these matters might hasten his demise, a possibility that alarmed her. MacDunn had warned her she would be punished if the boy worsened or died. Although he had not specified what form that punishment would take, she had no desire to find out. Given the hostility that greeted her this evening in the great hall, the MacDunns might well decide to burn her.

She trembled, remembering her terror as flames lapped at her gown.

Tomorrow night while the clan slept she would slip out of the castle, steal a horse, and escape into the surrounding woods. Next she would make her way back to the MacSween lands and retrieve the stone. And then she would find Robert and kill him. The thought invigorated her weary spirit somewhat, so she lingered over it, imagining the different methods she could use. Poison was an option, but it would have to be a foul enough concoction that would cause him great pain, burning him from the inside out. Perhaps she should ask Lachlan about his recipes. Stabbing was another good possibility. She imagined Robert's stunned expression after she had buried a blade deep into his chest. It would be a sweet moment, watching his life drain out of him and knowing that he threatened her no more.

Once her father's death was avenged, she would leave the MacSween lands and find a place where she could live in peace. The thought of being by herself, with no one to fear her or taunt her, was immensely appealing. She would find a plot of land and hire someone to build her a small cottage, where she would keep a cow and a few chickens. Of course, these things would require some form of payment. At dinner she had noticed the goblets used at the laird's table were of silver, and some were even studded with jewels. She decided that she would take a few valuable objects from the castle before she left.

A vague sense of guilt wrapped around her as she recalled her pledge to MacDunn that she would try to heal his son. It seemed a shameless betrayal to break her word to the man who had thrice saved her life. But it would be worse to stay and pretend she could heal the boy, when in fact she might only be further jeopardizing his already precarious health. She did not wish to be the cause of the lad's death. Once she was gone, MacDunn would return the boy's care to the clan's healers, and they would do the best they could for him, she assured herself, blowing out the candles beside the bed.

But as she lay back against the cool sheets and closed her eyes, she found herself remembering David's pale, sweat-soaked form buried in a casket of blankets, struggling to breathe in the unbearable heat and stench of his room. And it was deep into the night before she finally escaped into the waters of sleep, still tormented by the thought of his suffering.

C
HAPTER
5

A river of light stretched all the way to her bed and radiated through the rumpled blankets, warming her.

Gwendolyn sighed and closed her eyes, assuring herself it could not possibly be as late as the brilliance of the sun suggested. Burrowing deeper into the sheets, she tried to enter the hazy respite of sleep once more. Just a few minutes, and then she would rise and prepare her father's breakfast.

The scent of baking bread filtered into her chamber. Frowning, she opened her eyes.

Despondence surged over her in a cold, black wave, washing away the drowsy shreds of languor. Her father was dead. He lay deep within the ground, trapped forever in the darkness. She would never hear his rumbling voice, or kiss his bearded cheek, or find comfort in his gentle presence again. She was alone in the world, a prisoner and an outcast, feared and despised because she had been branded a murderess and a witch. For a moment the pain was unbearable. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball, feeling small and afraid, like a helpless child. She wanted to fall asleep again and awaken to find that the bitter realities of her life were nothing but a hideous dream.

But her mind was sharp and her body restless, rendering slumber impossible. The sounds of the MacDunns going about their day slowly penetrated her despair. She had to remain strong, she reminded herself. She would never escape this place and have vengeance on Robert if she allowed herself to crumble. That realization enabled her to master her anguish as she threw back her covers and padded across the cool stone floor to the window. The sun was burning through the last gauzy veils of mist shrouding the mountains, telling her that the morning was advanced and the day was certain to be a fine one.

She filled the stone basin hewn into the wall of the tower with cold water from a jug that had been left in her chamber and quickly washed her face and hands. Then she dressed in her drab gray gown, deciding the crimson one was too fine a garment to wear during the day. Until her escape tonight she must act as if she were reconciled to her situation, and that meant assuming her duties as healer to David. Although sleeveless and singed, her gray gown was still serviceable and seemed a more appropriate choice for the work of tending a severely ill child. She searched through the chest at the foot of the bed and found a comb, which she dragged impatiently through the tangles in her hair. She had no ribbon or scrap of cord to tie it back, so she left it to fall where it might, indifferent to the matter of her appearance.

She climbed down the narrow tower staircase and headed straight for young David's chamber, praying her sickly charge hadn't died during the night. The stench of burning herbs filled her nostrils as she approached, and the air grew heavy and warm. On reaching his door, she hesitated, preparing for the confrontation she would surely face if Elspeth was with the lad. Reminding herself that she was caring for the boy by MacDunn's order, she rapped firmly on the door. No one answered, but she heard a muffled cough. Encouraged by the fact that David might be alone, she lifted the latch and entered the dark room.

The fire was blazing away, and the containers of herbs were smoldering thicker than ever, rendering the hot, dank air almost noxious. Clearly someone had been there earlier that morning tending these things, but David was alone at the moment, lying forlornly beneath a crush of heavy blankets and animal skins. He was hacking and coughing against his pillow, sounding as if every hoarse breath might be his last. Anger streaked through Gwendolyn, obliterating her melancholy. She might not have much experience in healing, but she could certainly see when a child was suffering. Blinking against the stinging smoke, she managed a smile.

“Good morning, David,” she called cheerfully, heading straight for the windows. “My goodness, one would almost think your room was on fire, the smoke is so thick. Let's see if we can't clear it.”

She threw open the wooden shutters to all three windows, flooding the dingy room with light. Fresh air blew in with a soft gust, whirling the smoke around as it chased it out of the chamber.

David eyed her fearfully from the bed. “Elspeth and Robena won't like that.”

“Probably not,” Gwendolyn agreed. “But don't you hate lying in the dark breathing that horrible air all the time? I know I would.”

He hesitated, as if uncertain how to answer. “Elspeth says it is good for me, and my father says I must heed Elspeth.” He began to cough again.

“Well, that is about to change.” She picked up an iron rod beside the fire and poked at the logs to separate them, reducing their hot blaze. “If Elspeth's methods are certain, then why are you so ill?”

“God gave me a weak constitution—like my mother.”

He said it tonelessly, with neither anger nor self-pity. Gwendolyn suspected this explanation for his failing health had been drummed into him from the time he was very young.

“Is that all?” she scoffed. “For a moment I thought it was something serious. If weakness is what ails you, then we must work on making you strong. But I cannot see how you will get better lying in the dark, breathing foul air that would fell even the heartiest of warriors.”

She proceeded to carry the smoldering jars of herbs out into the hallway. By the time the last container was removed, the warm breeze puffing through the windows had almost cleared the chamber, and David's coughing had subsided considerably.

“Elspeth will be angry that you did that,” he warned.

“I'm sure she will be,” agreed Gwendolyn, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “But your father has asked me to help you get better, and my methods are not the same as Elspeth's.”

His face froze. “Are you going to cast an evil spell on me?”

“What a ridiculous idea,” she scolded. If she was to care for this lad, even just for today, it was important that she gain his trust. “I'm not going to do anything of the sort, David. All I want is for you to get better.”

He studied her as she approached him, as if wondering whether or not to believe her. The room had cooled considerably, but David's face was still beaded with sweat, and the linen of his pillow was damp. Gwendolyn lay her hand against his brow, then frowned at the mound of blankets and skins pinning him to the mattress.

“Would you like me to remove some of these blankets?”

He regarded her with surprise. “I'm very hot,” he confessed, “but Robena says I'm not allowed to disturb my coverings.”

“I will deal with Robena,” Gwendolyn told him, peeling away the heavy layers of wool and fur.

She suspected they had not been aired for weeks, for the smell of smoke and sweat and sickness clung to them. Once she had stripped the bed down to a sheet, she selected two relatively fresh blankets, which she arranged neatly over him. As she positioned his thin arms on the soft wool, she noticed one of them was bandaged with a strip of bloodstained cloth, while the other was heavily etched with small, ugly gashes at various stages of healing. These were the cuts Elspeth and the other healers had made when they bled him, she realized. She recalled Robena telling MacDunn that the boy had been bled both yesterday and the day before, to release the poisons from his body. She frowned at the marks, wondering if it was wise to bleed a child so frequently.

“There, now,” she said, giving a final tuck to the corner of the blankets. “Are you warm enough?”

He nodded.

“Good. Have you eaten anything today?”

“I'm not hungry.”

His face was gaunt and his body thin, suggesting that his illness had eroded his appetite for some time. Gwendolyn recalled MacDunn telling her that David's affliction had begun as a stomach ailment. MacDunn had also said that the boy had had trouble keeping food in him, until finally he could scarcely eat at all.

“You cannot get better if you don't eat,” Gwendolyn remarked, pulling a chair over to the bed and seating herself. “Your body needs food to get strong.”

The lad regarded her with weary indifference. No doubt he had been told this many times before. “I feel too sick to eat.”

“Does your stomach hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does it hurt now?” she persisted, trying to better understand his symptoms.

“No.”

“Do you have pain anywhere else?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “All over.”

Gwendolyn thought about this a moment. “Piercing pain, like an arrow shooting through you, or an overall ache?”

“An overall ache.”

“Do you ache now?”

He nodded.

“Do you ever feel any better after Elspeth has bled you?” she asked curiously.

His blue eyes widened. “I don't want to be bled today,” he whimpered.

“I have no intention of bleeding you,” Gwendolyn quickly promised him. “I was just wondering if it has ever made you feel better.”

He shook his head. “It hurts when she cuts my arm, and I always feel sicker afterward. But Elspeth says you don't feel the good of a bleeding right away. And I would rather be bled than purged. Being purged is
awful.
” He wrinkled his nose in revulsion.

Gwendolyn considered this a moment. In truth, she had no experience with bleedings and purgings, although she knew these practices were common among healers. But the hatch marks on David's arm indicated he had been bled often. If his condition hadn't improved in spite of this, and if it made the poor lad feel even sicker, then why continue to do it?

“I don't think you should be bled again for a while,” she decided. “But your body cannot get well if you do not eat, so that is something you must try to do, whether you are hungry or not.”

“Eating makes me feel worse,” he protested.

“But eventually it will make you feel better,” she countered. “So when you eat you must think of all the things you love to do when you are well, like riding and swimming, and spending the day hiking in the mountains.”

“I'm not allowed to do those things.”

“You're not?” she said, amazed. “Why not?”

“I'm not allowed to tire myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a weak constitution,” he repeated. “Like my mother.”

“I see,” said Gwendolyn, although in fact she did not. From the time she was a little girl, she and her father would find happiness in the pine scent of the woods, or the bracing feel of a cold wind blasting against a mountain. Her father had loved the glorious beauty of nature and encouraged Gwendolyn to know it and embrace it as a friend. Perhaps he foresaw that as she got older, she would have no friends among her clan.

“Well, then, what things do you enjoy doing?”

David thought for a moment. “I like listening to stories.”

“So do I,” Gwendolyn admitted enthusiastically, pleased that they shared this in common. “My father was a wonderful storyteller. When I was a little girl we would sit together by the fire and he would tell me tales about terrible dragons and savage warriors. Does your father do that?”

“My father is laird.”

Gwendolyn regarded him blankly.

“A laird has many duties to his clan,” he elaborated. “He doesn't have time for telling stories.”

She supposed that might be true. “Then who tells them to you?”

“My mother used to. Before she got sick and went to live in heaven. And Elspeth does, sometimes,” he added. “But hers are not the same.”

No,
thought Gwendolyn acidly,
I'm sure they're not.

“If you like, while I am here, I will tell you stories,” she offered.

A spark of pleasure lit his eyes. “Really?”

“Most of the stories I know are scary, though,” she qualified, sensing this would appeal to him.

“I like scary stories,” he assured her eagerly.

Gwendolyn cast him a doubtful look. “Are you sure? I don't know. Maybe I should just tell you the one about the beautiful princess who lived in a magnificent pink flower, with petals as soft as feathers—”