The Witch and The Warrior (28 page)

“The beast most certainly did,” Isabella replied, still annoyed at having been ordered to return to her seat on the opposite side of the courtyard. “And he said if I so much as breathed he would carve my head off and trample it beneath the dung-filled hooves of his horse.”

David considered this a moment. “It would be a lot of work to cut off someone's head with a dirk. In Gwendolyn's stories the warrior uses either a sword or an ax.”

“I suppose he might have resorted to his sword once I had collapsed onto the ground,” Isabella speculated. “But not until after I had suffered the most terrible pain, my last vision being of him seated on his mount high above me, his mouth twisted in an evil smile as he watched my blood flow like a river of scarlet around me!”

“That's good!” exclaimed David. “Do you tell stories?”

“Certainly not,” she replied, insulted.

“But you would be wonderful at it! Just like Gwendolyn.”

Isabella regarded him uncertainly a moment, then realized he was actually complimenting her. “Do you really think so?”

“You certainly have a colorful way with words,” Clarinda observed, adding another neatly fletched arrow to the enormous stack beside her chair.

Isabella looked pleased. “Why, thank you, Clarinda. You're very kind.”

“Maybe you could come to my chamber tonight and tell me a story,” David suggested. “I'm sure Gwendolyn won't mind, since you are a friend from her clan.”

“Did Gwendolyn tell you that?” asked Isabella, surprised.

“Of course,” said David, although in fact he could not recall her exact words. “We watched you arriving from my chamber window, and she told me who you were. I was not allowed to come outside to greet you, of course, because I'm sick.”

“You seem quite well today,” Isabella noted.

“I have been feeling better since Gwendolyn stopped feeding me.”

“She stopped feeding you?”

“It's part of a spell,” he explained. “To help me heal.”

“She does feed him,” interjected Clarinda, “but only certain foods in limited amounts.”

“Don't you get hungry?” Isabella asked.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But today she let me have a little bowl of porridge with my bread, and if I am still feeling well tomorrow, I may have one slice of apple.”

“That spell would never work for me, I'm afraid,” said Clarinda, giggling. “With this bairn growing so large, I now eat more than Cameron!”

“I'm a little hungry myself.” Isabella sniffed the air, frowning. “MacDunn should really speak to the men in the bake house. They are burning the bread to cinders.”

“Fire!”
shouted Cameron, pointing suddenly with his sword. “In the west tower!”

Alex stared in horror at the black cloud spewing from the shuttered windows of Gwendolyn's chamber. He lowered his gaze to where she had been sitting with David, expecting to find her there.

And then he began to run.

         

Smoke was pouring from the bottom of the door. Alex's heart clenched as he jerked up the latch. The heavy door didn't budge. He slammed his shoulder against it, grunting with effort. As the door gave, a searing cloud blasted from the chamber, choking him. Coughing violently, he stumbled inside. The room was dark except for the brilliant flames dancing on the bed, feasting ravenously upon an unmoving mound. Paralyzing fear overwhelmed him. His voice raw with despair, he called her name. He clenched his fists as he stared helplessly at the blazing pyre, blinking against the acrid sting of the smoke. He had failed her. He had saved her from fire once before, but it didn't matter. Ultimately the flames had found her. He sank to his knees and moaned, fighting to grasp the taut threads of his sanity, which were threatening to snap as he watched the flames consume her.

Suddenly there was a muffled cough.

Startled, Alex rose to his feet. “Gwendolyn!” he shouted, searching the foggy darkness.

There was another cough, a tiny, birdlike sound, which was enough to guide him to her.

His eyes streaming from the terrible smoke, he staggered past the burning bed and found her in a crumpled heap upon the floor. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her tightly against his chest, then ran with her from the blazing tomb.

“Jesus, Alex!” said Brodick. He raced forward to take Gwendolyn from him as a dozen men carrying buckets of water surged into the chamber to battle the flames.

“I will carry her,” Alex rasped, gripping her even tighter.

“Clear the staircase!” commanded Cameron, waving the men who were crowding it back down. “Make way!”

Alex hurried down the staircase with his precious burden, acutely aware of how small and fragile she was as he held her within his arms.
She will not die,
he told himself fiercely, racing along the corridor.
She cannot.

“Dear God, Alex, is she dead?” cried Robena, appearing suddenly in the hallway. Her face was pale with shock.

“No,” he replied harshly. “She is alive.”

Robena regarded him in silent sympathy, as if she thought his madness made him unable to accept the truth.

And then Gwendolyn coughed again.

“Take her into my chamber,” Robena offered, swiftly regaining her composure. “I will tend to her.”

Alex did not stop, but continued along the corridor toward his chamber.

“Alex, you cannot take her into your chamber,” Robena protested. “It isn't seemly!”

He kicked open his chamber door. “I don't give a goddamn whether it is seemly or not,” he growled. “She is mine, and I will bloody well look after her!”

He went inside and laid Gwendolyn gently on the bed. She was making horrible choking sounds, fighting to rid her lungs of smoke.

“Easy, now,” Alex soothed, helping her as she struggled to sit up. “Breathe slowly, Gwendolyn. Easy.”

Gwendolyn couldn't respond, for her chest and throat were drawn tight, making it difficult to inhale even the tiniest breath. She hacked and gagged, certain she was going to drown any moment in the vile, burning phlegm that was rising in her throat.

Suddenly she threw herself over the side of the bed and vomited.

“Elspeth must bleed her,” said Robena as Elspeth marched through the doorway.

“Her body must be purged,” agreed Elspeth.

“You won't touch her, Elspeth!” said Clarinda fiercely, waddling in behind them. “You only mean to harm her!”

“How dare you!” Elspeth's eyes seethed with outrage. “That you could say such a thing, after the care I gave you when you brought that dead child into the world!”

“Oh, aye,” Clarinda responded caustically, “and all the while I screamed in torment as I labored to birth her, you told me 'twas God punishing me and I should bear it quietly, and when my poor bairn was strangled, you told me that I had angered God with my sins and my lust, and so he took my babe as punishment! 'Twas fine care, indeed!”

“Clarinda and I will tend to her,” announced Marjorie, who had also entered the room. “We don't need your help, Elspeth.”

“MacDunn,” Elspeth said firmly, “you cannot allow—”

“Get out!” shouted Alex. “All of you!”

The women stared at him, startled.

“Out!”
he roared, moving menacingly toward them.

They turned and scurried from the room.

Alex slammed the chamber door, blocking out the curious clan members who had gathered in the corridor. They were shocked by his behavior. No doubt they would spend the rest of the day debating whether or not he was going mad again.

Perhaps he was.

Gwendolyn had stopped retching and was lying limp on the bed, coughing. Alex wet a cloth, seated himself beside her, and began to gently wash her face.

“Take a deep breath, Gwendolyn,” he ordered quietly, sponging her smudged cheeks and lips with the cool water. “That's it…slowly…now let it out. Very good. Now breathe in again.”

He continued to murmur soothing words to her as her breathing gradually steadied. When her chest was rising and falling with relative ease, he fetched her a cup of water.

“Rinse your mouth and spit into this basin.” He pulled her up once again and held her hair back, making sure none of the black silk fell near the bowl. Gwendolyn leaned weakly against his arm, took the cup from him, and obediently rinsed her mouth.

“Now take a few small sips of water. It will help ease the burning in your throat. Very good,” Alex soothed. “Your gown is blackened by the smoke. Let me help you take it off.”

Far too miserable to be concerned with modesty, Gwendolyn raised her arms and permitted Alex to unlace the back of her gown and pull it up over her head, leaving her clad only in her chemise. He tossed her gown onto the floor, quickly removed her shoes and stockings, then drew back the coverings on his bed and laid her against the clean sheets.

“Feel better?” he asked, carefully laying a plaid over her.

She nodded, then winced with pain.

Alex gingerly ran his fingers over her head. Gwendolyn flinched as he grazed an enormous swelling on the crown. His expression contained, he studied the blood staining his fingers. If Gwendolyn had fainted as a result of the smoke, she would not have fallen on the crown of her head.

Someone had struck her and left her to die in that fire, he realized harshly.

He bent down and began to clean up the vomit on the floor, trying to gain control of his rage. Mopping up sickness was a task he had grown well accustomed to in the long months he cared for Flora. In the beginning he had every healer he could find at her bed, but toward the end, when it was obvious she was going to die, he refused to let any of them near her, preferring to care for her himself. Scrubbing the worn stones helped him to clarify his thoughts. God had denied both Flora and his son the blessing of adequate health, and for all Alex's rage and determination, ultimately there was little he could do to protect them. But it wasn't God who had trapped Gwendolyn in her chamber and set the bed afire.

It was one of his clan.

“Can you tell me what happened, Gwendolyn?” he asked, setting the cloth and basin aside.

“I—I'm not sure,” she rasped.

He moved a chair closer to the bed and seated himself. “Was your chamber on fire when you went in?”

“No. I remember it was very dark, because the shutters were closed. But that was strange, because I never close them.”

Which meant whoever started the fire had closed them first, Alex realized. Either they had wanted to contain the smoke to make it more deadly, or they were trying to ensure that no one noticed the haze escaping from the tower until it was too late. The rage within him intensified. “What happened then?”

“I went over to the window and tried to open the shutters. But it was difficult. I moved to another one and couldn't get it to open, either. And then—” She stopped suddenly, remembering.

“And then what?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. She knew the MacDunns feared and despised her. They had never made a secret of it. But although she was not welcomed by them, this past week she had allowed herself to believe that they had at least accepted her presence. She had been wrong, she realized, swallowing thickly. The MacDunns wanted to destroy her, just as her own clan had.

“Who struck you, Gwendolyn?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“You have a bleeding lump on the top of your head,” he explained, “which you couldn't have received by falling to the floor. And when you previously fell down the staircase,” he added reluctantly, “you were assisted by a strategically placed length of twine.”

Shock stripped the last trace of color from her face.

“Morag never sent you that note,” he continued grimly. “She does not know how to scribe.”

She considered all this a moment before quietly asking, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I was afraid that you might leave,” he explained, apologetic. “And I needed you to stay—for David's sake. So I ordered Cameron, Ned, and Brodick to guard you.”

So that was why one of them was always near. Gwendolyn had thought the warriors were watching her to make certain that she didn't run away. Instead they were trying to protect her.

“Unfortunately, this afternoon you slipped out of the courtyard while all three were engaged in training,” Alex reflected in frustration. “We didn't realize you were gone until we saw the smoke.”

“You should have told me, MacDunn.”

She was right, he realized. Perhaps if she had known, she would have taken greater care. “Did you see who struck you, Gwendolyn?”

She shook her head. “It was dark and whoever did it was behind me. When I woke up, the chamber was on fire and you were carrying me.”

She closed her eyes, fighting the misery surging through her. Whether by fire at the stake or in her chamber, or breaking her neck falling down some stairs, there would always be those who wanted to kill her. It was inevitable as long as people believed she was a witch. And she would never be able to convince the MacDunns that she wasn't. Ironically, she had accepted the role to save her life. She clutched the blanket, feeling lost and afraid.