The Witch and The Warrior (19 page)

Alex glanced uncertainly at his clan. Given their profound animosity toward Gwendolyn, he was not sure he wanted any of them going off alone with her.

“Cameron will accompany you,” Clarinda announced. “Won't you, my sweet?”

“Aye,” said Cameron, lumbering over to Gwendolyn.

Without a word, Ned flanked her other side.

“You can't be thinking of going out now, lassie,” Owen protested.

“Why not?” wondered Gwendolyn.

“Why, it's pouring rain,” Reginald told her. “Practically a flood.”

“But of course, you know that,” added Lachlan accusingly.

“The rain is about to stop,” Gwendolyn said, gesturing to the windows. “Look—the sun is coming out.”

The clan watched in astonishment as the rivulets coursing down the windows suddenly stopped, and a brilliant wash of sunlight appeared.

“Good God,” murmured Owen, awestruck. “Did you see what the lassie did?”

“I call that splendid!” remarked Reginald enthusiastically. “Could you make the winter a little warmer this year? I find the cold makes my joints stiff.”

“How do we know the weather has really changed?” Lachlan pointed out cryptically. “Maybe she has cast a spell on all of us, to make us
think
that it's no longer raining.”

“That sun is warm, Lachlan,” Owen said, turning his wrinkled cheek toward the light. “If I'm just imagining this, then it's a damn fine trick!”

“It is not a trick,” Gwendolyn assured them, heading toward the corridor with Cameron and Ned.

Cameron pushed open the heavy front door and cautiously stepped outside, looking as if he did not quite trust the sudden fairness of the day. Gwendolyn blinked as she stepped into the golden glare of sunlight. She wondered why no one else had been able to see that the weather was about to change. Obviously the MacDunns' attention had been focused elsewhere. She recalled the sudden storm that had erupted in the woods when she had pretended to conjure a spell, and nearly found herself smiling.

The weather was being remarkably cooperative.

C
HAPTER
7

“…and with those brave words the mighty Torvald whacked his blade down on Mungo's neck, closing his eyes against the hot spray of blood as Mungo's head rolled forlornly away from his twitching body.”

“And then what happened?” David asked, enthralled. “Did Mungo get up and continue to fight without his head?”

“He tried to,” Gwendolyn responded. “But as he fumbled blindly for his fallen sword, the mighty Torvald drove his blade deep into his gut, then wrenched it up in one powerful motion, splitting him open like a rotten, stinking melon.”

“Oh, my, Gwendolyn,” said Clarinda, looking queasy, “that's a truly horrid tale!”

“That's nothing,” scoffed David. “You should hear the one she tells about the monster who lives in the loch. He swallows people whole and has them live inside his black, slimy stomach as he slowly digests them. Sometimes they spend years in there, with their flesh rotting off—”

“I don't think Clarinda is up to hearing that one, David,” interrupted Gwendolyn. “Perhaps another time.”

“It's just a story,” he assured Clarinda, deciding she was taking it a little too seriously.

“I'm afraid my tolerance for such grisly tales is not what it used to be.” Clarinda sighed, returning her attention to the tiny gown she was stitching. “Perhaps once this bairn is out and I don't feel like
I
just swallowed something whole, you can try telling it to me again.”

“Is that what it feels like?” asked David, suddenly fascinated. “Like you're the monster and the bairn is some helpless creature you ate?”

Clarinda laughed. “I suppose that's one way of describing it. But more often I feel like the bairn is eating me, and growing so large in the process. I don't know how I'll be able to accommodate it another minute!”

“How much longer do you think it will be, Clarinda?” asked Gwendolyn.

“I'm not sure.” She gently stroked the rigid swell of her belly. “Another few weeks, I should think. But you never know—sometimes they are in a great hurry to arrive, and other times they like it so much where they are, you start to think they'll never come out.”

“Does it hurt?” David asked. “Being all swollen like that?”

“No. It feels wonderful. Here.” She rose from her chair and waddled over to him. “Lay your hand against it and you'll feel the bairn moving.” She sat beside him, grasped his little hand, and laid it firmly against her abdomen.

David frowned. “I don't feel anything.”

“You have to be patient. Wait.”

“You're stomach is awfully hard.” He gave her a tentative poke. “I thought it would be soft and squishy, like Alice's.”

“Alice doesn't have a bairn inside her,” Clarinda explained, smiling. “She just likes to eat.”

David suddenly gasped in horror and snatched his hand away. “Something moved in there!”

“That's the bairn,” Clarinda said, trying not to laugh. “It's all right. Here, maybe it will move again.” She took his hand and pressed it against her a second time. “There, now—it's kicking me—can you feel that?”

David felt her pulsing belly in shock. “Doesn't that hurt?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, it just feels a little strange. Here, Gwendolyn, you come and feel it.”

Gwendolyn looked at Clarinda in surprise. She had never felt a pregnant woman's belly. In fact, she could not recall ever actually touching another woman. She supposed she must have been hugged and held by her mother, but her mother had been burned at the stake when Gwendolyn was only four, and Gwendolyn could barely remember her. From that day forward her father had cared for her, and as she endured the escalating ostracism of the MacSweens, he grew to be her only friend. None of the MacSween children were permitted to play with her, and so there had never been another girl with whom she could laugh or share secrets. All her life she had told herself she didn't care. But sometimes, when she lay awake at night, she felt alone and despised, and she wondered why she was doomed to spend her whole life being shunned by others. Surely this was why Clarinda's invitation confounded her so. After a lifetime of being feared and rejected, it seemed unfathomable that a woman might invite her to lay her hand against her womb and feel the precious life stirring inside her.

Clarinda was laughing now. “Hurry, Gwendolyn. The bairn is kicking up quite a fuss.”

Despite her reticence, Gwendolyn found herself moving over to the bed and seating herself beside Clarinda.

“Here,” said Clarinda, taking Gwendolyn's hand and holding it against the bulge of her body.

David was right, Gwendolyn realized. Clarinda's belly was far harder than she had expected. It felt like a great, smooth dome, not muscular, but firm and taut, as if there was an enormous pressure pushing against it.

“Oh,” she gasped, startled by the sudden thump against her palm. “What was that?”

“A foot, I think,” said Clarinda, laughing again. “Or maybe a fist. 'Tis difficult to know.”

“It's quite strong,” marveled Gwendolyn, tentatively pressing her hand against Clarinda once more.

“Aye. This one is strong, like its father. I only hope I can do a fair job of bringing it into the world.”

“I'm sure you'll do just fine, Clarinda,” Gwendolyn said encouragingly.

“Aye, I'm sure I will.”

“How does the bairn breathe in there?” David wondered, frowning. “Is there a hole to let air in?”

“Until it's born, it breathes like a fish in water—it doesn't need air,” Clarinda explained.

David yawned. “Does it have gills?”

“I hope not,” she exclaimed, “or Cameron might have a word or two to say about it!”

The three of them giggled.

“I think you should rest now, David.” Gwendolyn adjusted his blankets over him. “And I am going to make you a special broth for dinner.”

“I'm not tired,” he protested, stifling another yawn.

“Very well.” Gwendolyn moved back to her chair. “You lie there quietly and I will tell you another story.”

“I'm leaving,” announced Clarinda, waddling toward the door, “so make it as gruesome as you wish.”

“Tell me the one about the great two-headed serpent,” suggested David, wearily closing his eyes, “who swallows two maidens at the same time and gets them stuck in his throat.”

“All right,” said Gwendolyn, certain she would not be even half through the tale before David was asleep. “Once, in a land far away, there lived a giant serpent, who had not one, but two terrible heads. A great monstrous beast he was, covered in thick green scales as hard as armor, with four eyes as yellow as fire and two slimy forked tongues that could grab a man by his head and legs and tear him in two….”

Her voice was hushed as she spun her macabre tale, lulling David to sleep with her tone, if not her words. Gwendolyn watched with amusement as the lad struggled to stay awake, occasionally lifting his heavy lids to look at her, as if to demonstrate that he was still listening. But just as the serpent was wrapping its slimy tongue around one of the screaming maidens, exhaustion conquered David. Gwendolyn continued to talk for another minute, until his steady breathing assured her that his sleep was deep. She gently swept a fiery lock of hair off his white cheek, then settled back in her chair to watch him awhile.

Well over a week had passed since the MacDunns had burned her gown. Since that day she had devoted herself entirely to caring for David. When she wasn't looking after him, she would venture into the woods with Cameron and Ned, scouring the ground for various herbs, roots, and bits of leaf and bark that her mother had described in her writings. Once she had accumulated a selection, she would return to her chamber and spend hours grinding, drying, steeping, and mixing—transforming them into powders and potions that she had memorized from her mother's notes.

She had administered several of these elixirs to David, but so far the results had been far from encouraging. Although he might fare better for a few hours, or perhaps even a day, inevitably he would grow ill once again, his thin body wracked with painful spasms and vomiting. Twice now he had also suffered a skin ailment of red, itchy bumps, which made him sorely uncomfortable. The first time Gwendolyn saw the welts appearing, she panicked, thinking she had accidentally caused them with her potions. But Marjorie and Clarinda assured Gwendolyn that David had suffered these puzzling skin conditions before, and that although they were unpleasant, they usually went away within a day or so. Gwendolyn had bathed David in cool water and applied a drying paste of finely crushed oatmeal to his skin, which eased his itching and seemed to heal the sores.

She believed he was faring a little better now that he was breathing fresh, clean air and wasn't being bled and purged night and day. But he was still frighteningly thin and weak, and every day his inability to retain food caused her increasing alarm. Her mother's notes had stressed that a body could not be strong unless it consumed sufficient quantities of healthy food, so Gwendolyn had tried to build David's strength by giving him things laden with the richness of milk, eggs, cheese, meat, and fish. Although the lad had no appetite, he bravely tried to please her by eating them. Sometimes the meal stayed down, but more often David became violently ill, leaving Gwendolyn to wonder if she was helping him or hurting him by making him eat.

If the clan still believed she was the cause of his suffering, no one openly accused her of it. In fact, most of the MacDunns simply avoided her. It was clear they still feared her, for they quickly left a room or scurried down the hall if they saw her approaching, especially if it was dark or stormy outside, which made them wonder at her mood. But for the most part the clan seemed to have accepted her presence as a necessary evil. Only Clarinda, Marjorie, and Morag did not seem concerned that she was about to cast some hideous spell over them. Of course Morag fancied herself as a seer and probably thought that since she had not foreseen Gwendolyn harming her, there was no danger in their relationship. Marjorie was devoted to David, and although she was uncertain of Gwendolyn, she had made it clear that she wanted to help tend the lad. Clarinda, however, was a mystery.

Clarinda was the only person who not only showed no fear of her, but actually seemed to enjoy her company. Every afternoon she waddled into David's chamber and sat with them, chatting away as she carefully stitched some tiny gown or miniature stocking. Although Gwendolyn enjoyed her company, she was not so foolish as to let herself think that Clarinda actually considered her a friend. People didn't make friends of witches, because witches were inherently wicked and could never be trusted. But Clarinda's gentle, warm presence was like a ray of light in the otherwise gloomy castle, and Gwendolyn found herself looking forward to sharing her days with both David and Clarinda.

MacDunn, however, was another matter.

She had scarcely seen MacDunn since the day she found him addressing his clan in the great hall. She was relieved that their paths rarely crossed. Her body still stirred from the memory of being held hard against him, his mouth plundering hers as she wrapped her arms around him. She could not account for her shockingly wanton behavior when she was alone with him, both in the forest and in his chamber. No man had ever dared touch her, no doubt fearing she might suddenly transform him into a toad or cause his manhood to shrivel up and fall off, as she had boldly threatened Brodick.

Her childhood isolation had effectively crushed any illusions that she might marry someday and have a family. No man would ever want her as a wife. And she could not bear the thought of sentencing an innocent child to an existence like hers, forever tormented as the progeny of evil. Men's lack of interest had suited her fine. It was better to live chaste and alone, where she had no one to worry about but herself. Once she had agonized over the fate of her father if something happened to her. Now there was no one who would mourn her passing, no one who would even shed a tear at her demise. It was a lonely realization, but it was also somewhat liberating.