The Witch and The Warrior (16 page)

How ironic that he needed this moment to muster his strength, while his son so bravely endured the constant torment of illness. Sometimes he felt he should tell the boy how unbearably proud he was of him. But he knew if he spoke to the lad with such unguarded tenderness, his heart would break completely and he would be reduced to an unstoppable flood of tears.

Better to remain silent and at least give the appearance of being strong.

He lifted the latch and cautiously eased the door open. The stench of sickness was gone, replaced by the cool breath of rain-washed air floating through the open window. Only a single candle remained burning, and the fire had waned to a glowing pile of pink and gray embers, which emitted some heat but contributed little to the dusky veil of light. Alex moved reluctantly through the gloom, dreading the sight of his child. The lad's small form lay still beneath the neatly arranged blankets, pale and frozen, a tiny, perfect corpse laid out for burial. David did not moan or shiver, did not even cause the blankets to stir with the weak rhythm of his breathing.

He could not, because he was dead.

Grief spewed up from the pit of Alex's belly, the same raw anguish he had battled so hard the night Flora had died, when he had felt his mind snap like a dry piece of kindling. It was more than he could bear, he realized, dragging his leaden feet across the stone floor, to lose the only other person he really loved, this sickly child who was his last link to Flora. He knew his weakness was pathetic and unmanly. Life was a battlefield—there were scores of men who suffered losses far more hideous than his, yet somehow managed to get on with the grim business of their lives. But those men had not known what it was to share their life with a woman such as Flora, and therefore could have no comprehension of the gaping wound her death had left. And that wound was now torn wider, until there was nothing left that merited his struggle to hold his fractured mind together.

Gwendolyn had fallen asleep in a chair beside David, her slender hand holding his, unaware that her patient had escaped her earthly grasp. Alex stared blankly at her, feeling none of the rage or blame he had thought he would experience if his son died while under her care. She had done what she could. Perhaps, given more time, her unorthodox methods might have helped the lad. If anyone was to be blamed, Alex realized harshly, it was himself, for waiting so long before fetching the witch and bringing her here.

A faint sigh erupted from the chalky face resting on the pillow. Startled, Alex shifted his gaze. His son regarded him with dull, glazed eyes, still overwhelmed by illness, but unmistakably alive.

“David?” Alex whispered.

David stared at him in confusion, as if struggling to recall where he was, or perhaps trying to make some sense of why his father was at his bedside in the middle of the night. Ultimately exhaustion defeated his concern. His eyelids fluttered down and he turned his head, leaving his hand securely guarded in Gwendolyn's grasp.

Hope shot through Alex like an arrow, draining away the worst of his grief. His son was alive. He took a deep breath, cleansing himself of the fear that had nearly paralyzed him. As long as David lived, Alex could go on. He gazed restlessly about the room, feeling the need to help expedite his son's recovery, but uncertain what he should do. The fire was too low, he decided. He carefully arranged several logs on it, then prodded them until they were wrapped in brilliant flames. Satisfied that this would keep the room adequately warm for the rest of the night, he returned to steal a final glance at his sleeping child. But it was Gwendolyn who commanded his attention as he approached.

She had huddled into the chair, with one bare arm still extended so she could hold on to David, and the other crossed tightly over her chest, as if trying to find some heat. The inky silk of her hair flowed over her shoulders and rippled down her back, but it was an insufficient cloak against the damp night breeze flowing through the open window. She looked small and vulnerable as she sat curled there, her skin nearly as ashen as his son's, her pale brow etched into a deep line of worry. Even in sleep she found no respite, Alex realized, feeling an unbidden affinity toward her.

He removed the folded plaid at the foot of David's bed, opened it, and gently arranged it around her, enveloping her in its soft warmth. And as he bent close and inhaled the clean, summer-sweet fragrance of her, he found himself once again overwhelmed with desire. He longed to reach out and wrap his arms around her, to lay her down on the floor and ease himself beside her and draw her close, as he had that first night she lay shivering on the ground. His body hardened as he remembered the velvety crush of her slight form pressing against him, the sweet warmth of her mouth as he plundered it with his tongue, the glorious shivering sound she made as he pressed his lips to her breast.

Appalled that he could have such lascivious thoughts in the presence of his dying son, he turned abruptly and left the room, wondering if his grip on his mind was more tenuous than he realized.

C
HAPTER
6

Someone was squeezing her hand.

Gwendolyn opened her eyes. David was sleeping peacefully, his breathing steady, his cheeks and brow pale but dry. She uttered a quick prayer of thanks, because she knew his recovery had little, if anything, to do with her care.

What troubled her was the possibility that she had somehow caused his seizure, as everyone in the clan seemed to believe.

She straightened her stiff back, then gently stroked the soft skin stretched across his knuckles. It was possible, she supposed, that bathing the lad had exhausted his already weak body, or perhaps been too great a shock for his weak system. But she had been careful to keep him from getting chilled, and he had seemed frail but steady when she tucked him into his bed and left him to speak with MacDunn. What had caused David's body to go into such a violent spasm? she wondered. She recalled telling him that he must try to eat at least a little of his dinner as she left. Evidently his attack had begun while he was eating, for the tray had been knocked to the floor when she returned. Was there some mysterious growth or poison in his body that caused him to reject his food? If so, what could she possibly do to cure it?

The first smoky ripples of morning light were filtering through the window, and rain was beating heavily outside, washing the world clean and scenting the air with the fragrance of wet earth and grass. Concerned that the chamber might become overly damp, Gwendolyn rose, then stared in confusion at the warm plaid that slid down her body and puddled onto the floor. The plaid had come from David's bed, she realized, but she could not remember wrapping herself in it before she fell asleep. Deciding she must have been too tired to recall, she scooped it up and draped it over David, taking care not to wake him. Then she went to the fire and added more wood. Once it was burning brightly, she took another quick glance at her charge and, satisfied that he was sleeping comfortably, she stole quietly out of the room.

The castle was eerily still as she hurried along the corridor and up the steps leading to her tower chamber. She was glad she had awakened early, for she did not wish to encounter anyone until she had the opportunity to tidy herself and change her gown. The tangled black waves leaking over her shoulders suggested that her hair must look a sight, and her already soiled, tattered gray gown was now wrinkled and water-stained from the soapy splashing during David's bath. She only had the crimson gown to change into, which seemed inordinately fine for the task of tending to David, but since she had no other garment, it would have to do.

The acrid scent of smoke greeted her as she approached the door. Gwendolyn pushed the heavy door open to find the sealed chamber choked with a gray haze. Exasperated, she went to the windows and threw them wide, then quickly scanned the room for the culprit pots of burning herbs. But the billow of smoke was coursing from the hearth. Gwendolyn approached it in bewilderment, wondering who would be considerate enough to enter her chamber so early in the morning and lay a fire, albeit a suffocating one? As she drew closer she stared at the smoldering material lying in a forlorn heap upon the logs. The fabric was charred beyond recognition, except for a small swath that had somehow managed to elude the heat and flames—a fragment of crimson wool edged in gold.

Bitter fury whipped through her. How dare the MacDunns enter her chamber and destroy one of her few precious possessions, and worse, one that their own laird had given to her? The petty meanness of such an act was abominable. She whirled toward the door, determined to find MacDunn and inform him of his clan's contemptible behavior.

But she froze when she saw the note crudely speared to her pillow.

She moved toward it cautiously, her anger tempered by wariness. She withdrew the small wooden stake skewering a wrinkled sheaf of paper on which someone had written a message in a blunt, inelegant hand.

Make haste and leave, witch, before you suffer the unfortunate fate of your gown.

Gwendolyn fought to stifle the panic swelling in her chest. She knew this was no idle threat. She had been here long enough to realize that the MacDunns' loathing of witches was even greater than that of the MacSweens. With the welfare of both their current and future lairds at risk, these people would have no qualms about lashing her to a post and setting fire to her, just as the MacSweens had done to her mother, and had tried to do to her.

What was amazing was that they were giving her warning.

The note fell to the floor, followed by the carefully whittled stake, which now seemed grotesquely appropriate. She must escape now, this morning, before these awful people had a chance to harm her. MacDunn had promised to keep her safe, but not even he could control the misguided fears of his clan. She was not guarded in the castle. It would be all too easy for someone to enter her chamber unnoticed, or capture her as she moved along a dark hallway, or slip poison into her food as it was carried from the kitchen. The methods by which she might be killed were infinite. She would not stay and give the MacDunns the opportunity to succeed where her own clan had failed.

“Oh, are you casting a spell?” asked a shy voice.

Gwendolyn inhaled sharply, trying to steady the pounding of her heart. A young woman with hair the color of darkly polished wood stood in the doorway, balancing a tray precariously before the enormous expanse of her pregnant body. Despite the rather startling roundness of her shape, Gwendolyn could tell by the slim arms holding the tray that the girl was normally quite tiny, leading her to believe that she was either carrying more than one child or the bairn was about to arrive momentarily.

“I thought you might be hungry,” the girl explained.

“I'm not,” Gwendolyn assured her tautly. Was this some ploy to poison her? Or did the MacDunns plan to drug her with some herb and then murder her as she slept?

“Well, I'll just leave it here, then,” the girl said, waddling into the chamber and setting the tray down on a table. “It's early yet, but you might find your insides sorely empty later.” She sighed and pressed her hand into the small of her back, massaging her aching muscles. “Why are you burning your lovely gown?” she asked, regarding the fireplace curiously. “Is it part of some ritual?”

“Don't pretend you don't know about this!”

The girl stared at her blankly. Then she spied the note lying on the stone floor. With considerable effort, she bent down and scooped it up. “Oh,” she murmured, scanning the message.

“You MacDunns have made it clear that you don't want me here,” Gwendolyn observed coolly. “It's obvious you'll do anything to be rid of me.”

“That's true for most of the clan,” the girl agreed, not looking overly troubled by the note. “The MacDunns are afraid you mean to harm wee David, and as you can see, they're not the kind of folk who will just stand by and watch you do it. But I don't believe you mean the lad any suffering.”

“Oh, really?” said Gwendolyn, unconvinced.

“At first I did,” the girl confessed. “But that was before I watched you tending him last night. I knew that a woman couldn't care for a child with such gentleness and mean him ill at the same time.”

“Everyone in the clan believed his illness last night was my fault.”

“Not everyone,” corrected the girl, easing her bulky form into a chair. Her straining gown rose slightly as she did so, revealing ankles and feet that looked uncomfortably swollen. She laced her bloated fingers together over her stomach and regarded Gwendolyn calmly. “MacDunn obviously didn't, or he wouldn't have let you near his son. And I didn't. David takes ill like that all the time. He has for months now, since he first became really sick.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. The girl seemed earnest, but Gwendolyn did not know if she should believe her. It was possible she had been sent by others in the clan to gain her trust and then use it against her.

“I've never seen anyone stand up to Elspeth the way you did,” the girl remarked, her pretty mouth curving into a smile. “I know I've never had the courage to do it, though I've wanted to often enough.”

“You have?” Despite her determination to remain wary, Gwendolyn was actually starting to like her visitor.

“Aye,” the girl answered. “Elspeth loves nothing better than to be in command, especially when people are sick and helpless. She believes illness is either the devil's work or a punishment from God. Whatever the reason, she says 'tis only through suffering and atonement that one can be made better. That and lots of bleedings to leech out the evil and purify the body.”

“Judging by the slashes on David's arms, I would think the lad should be absolutely immaculate by now.”

“There's many a time that bleeding has worked,” the girl pointed out. “But other times, when the poisons and evil have spread too far, not even a good bleeding can save a lost soul.”

She meditatively stroked her taut belly, as if soothing some ghostly pain. It was apparent to Gwendolyn that the girl spoke from experience. She found herself wondering what ailment had forced this young woman to endure Elspeth's harsh ministrations.

“My Cameron says you have the power to take away pain,” continued the girl conversationally. “He says that on your journey here, you conjured up some spirits and asked them to soothe that scratch on his great thick head. Is that so?”

Gwendolyn stared at her in astonishment. “You're Cameron's wife?”

“Aye,” returned the girl, amused by Gwendolyn's surprise. “I'm Clarinda. Most people think such a big brute of a man should be married to a giant.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “I may be small, but I've both the temper and the will to match wits with any man, big or scrawny. Besides, my Cameron may be a great lion of a warrior, but when it comes to his wife, he's as gentle as a lamb.”

Gwendolyn thought back to Cameron slashing his way through Robert's warriors as he fought to rescue her from the MacSweens. At the time she had likened him to a ferocious bear. But Clarinda was right—with that great mane of fiery hair, he was actually closer to a lion.

“So, is it true, then?” Clarinda persisted, clearly intrigued. “Can you take away pain?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. It occurred to her that Clarinda was probably worrying about the delivery of her child. Gwendolyn did not want to mislead her into thinking she could shield her from the suffering inherent to childbirth.

“Sometimes,” she replied carefully. “It depends on how severe the pain is—and my spells don't work all the time.”

Clarinda pondered this, absently stroking her enormous belly. “That's a wonderful power, the ability to ease suffering,” she remarked. “Especially since some healers seem only capable of inflicting more. I suppose it's all in God's hands, really. When He decides your time has come, He takes you, and that's that.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but Gwendolyn detected a thread of sadness.

“Often that's true,” she agreed, sympathetic to the girl's fear. “But sometimes, if you fight really hard, He may change His mind and let you stay awhile longer.”

Clarinda stared silently into space. And then she suddenly blinked and gave herself a small shake, banishing whatever thoughts had induced her melancholy. “Are you hungry yet?”

Gwendolyn glanced suspiciously at the tray. The sight of cold sliced meat, dark bread, cheese, and an artfully arranged flower of apple slices suddenly reminded her of the hollowness of her stomach.

“Lachlan had no chance to slip any of his potion into it,” Clarinda assured her teasingly. “Here,” she said, helping herself to a large chunk of cheese, “I'll take a bite myself.”

“Wait!”

Clarinda regarded her with surprise.

“Someone may have tainted the food without your knowledge,” Gwendolyn explained anxiously. “You mustn't eat it.”

Clarinda smiled. “I don't believe a witch who meant the clan harm would mind having someone drop dead while tasting her food for her,” she observed. “But I prepared this tray myself, Gwendolyn, and I know it's fine.” With that she popped the chunk of cheese into her mouth.