The Witch and The Warrior (9 page)

Gwendolyn turned to see yet another white-haired man burst into the hall.

“MacDunn, thank God you're back. You've got to do something about the frightful mess they're making of the castle,” he said, glaring at Owen and Lachlan. “You can't walk anywhere without stepping in slime, there's no light and even less air, and not even a man's private chamber is safe. The vapors in my room were so thick this morning, I thought I'd fallen asleep naked
in the bloody smokehouse!
”

“You're exaggerating, Reginald,” scolded a smiling woman with an ample bosom and neatly arranged gray hair, who entered the hall behind him.

“No, by God, I'm not, Marjorie,” Reginald returned. “And it's a sad day in a man's life when his very own wife tries to smoke him to death while he sleeps!”

Apparently untroubled by his anger, Marjorie bustled past the group of them with an armful of dried grasses, which she promptly heaved into one of the fireplaces. Fresh smoke began to spew thickly into the room.

“There, now, do you see?” demanded Reginald. “Day and night they've been at this. Burning and draping, stewing and sliming, until this castle and everything in it stinks like rotten herring. I tell you, it's enough to drive a man stark, raving
mad!
”

Owen's and Lachlan's eyes grew wide.

“Your pardon, MacDunn,” Reginald apologized hastily. “It was merely a figure of speech.”

“I know,” said Alex.

“Well, then, now that everything is ready, where is the witch?” asked Owen brightly, rubbing his gnarled hands together with anticipation. He looked around the room and frowned. “You did remember to bring her, didn't you laddie?”

“Yes,” Alex assured him. “I did.”

“Thank God,” said Reginald. “I would hate to think I had endured all of this for nothing.”

“Send the old hag in,” ordered Lachlan, who was carefully trying to avoid having any of his frothing potion spill onto his hand. “This elixir works best while it's still fresh.”

“She is already here,
” proclaimed a thin, crackling voice.

A hush gripped the hall as a ghostly apparition began to emerge from the thick shroud of smoke still swirling at the opposite end. As the specter drew closer, Gwendolyn saw it was actually an ancient old woman with a silvery veil of hair that seemed to float around her as she moved. She wore a magnificent robe of scarlet silk trimmed with gold, and walked with the assistance of a dark, elegantly carved staff. Though her carriage was bent and her body frail, a remarkable energy emanated from her, which seemed to dissipate the smoke as she moved through it. Her skin was pale and webbed by time, yet it had a softness and luminosity that Gwendolyn could not recall in any other woman of such advanced years.

On reaching Gwendolyn she stopped, leaned against her staff, and studied her a long, silent moment. Gwendolyn returned her scrutiny with deliberate calm. The woman's eyes were of the deepest green, and they sparkled with an intriguing combination of wisdom, merriment, and something more, as if she had seen more of life than she might have wished, but had yet to be conquered by it.

“You did well, Alex,” she finally stated. “She holds great power within her spirit. But you must treat her with care,” she added, her gaze still locked on Gwendolyn. “She is strong, but she has been injured. Her wounds have yet to heal.”

Gwendolyn controlled her urge to smile. How many years, she wondered, had this eccentric old woman fabricated fanciful stories and visions for the MacDunns? Of course it was to Gwendolyn's advantage that this seer had just proclaimed her a witch, for she sensed by the look on MacDunn's face that he respected the poor thing's opinion. However, Gwendolyn felt she needed to correct her on the matter of having been injured.

“I'm afraid I have no wounds,” she told her.

The old woman regarded her calmly. “Some wounds cut deeper than those of the flesh, my dear.”

Owen, Lachlan, and Reginald were now staring at Gwendolyn in slack-jawed astonishment.

“Good God, do you mean to say this comely lass is the witch?” sputtered Owen, appalled. “Why, she's barely more than a child!”

“I really think you're mistaken, Morag,” decided Reginald. “And no wonder. With all the smoke fogging this hall, it's a wonder you can even see her!” he added irritably.

“Here, lassie,” said Lachlan, smiling. “You must be parched after your long journey. Why don't you have a nice, long draft of this special drink I made just for you?” he invited, raising the effervescing concoction to her face.

Alex snatched the goblet from Lachlan and hurled its contents into the hearth. The fire exploded into a blinding ball of flames, forcing all of them to shield their eyes as they stepped back.

“Really, Lachlan, I wish you would leave the potions to me,” Morag chided. “You don't know what you're doing.”

Gwendolyn stared blankly at the thick timbers in the fireplace, which were rapidly dissolving beneath the smoldering sludge of Lachlan's elixir.

“If she's really a witch, the potion wouldn't have harmed her!” Lachlan protested.

“I don't know, Lachlan,” Owen mused. “That brew seems awfully potent.”

“I think the lass must have us under some kind of spell,” said Reginald, “that makes us think she looks like that, when in fact she is really a hideous old bat. Which is not to say that all old women are hideous, Morag,” he quickly qualified.

“Why are you saying that to me?” demanded Morag, clearly incensed. “I'm not old.”

Alex glanced at Gwendolyn. She seemed to be holding up remarkably well, considering that after escaping being burned at the stake, his own clan now seemed determined to both suffocate and poison her. Her expression was composed as she watched the elders heatedly arguing about when, exactly, one could be considered old. For a moment he thought she might actually see the humor in this ludicrous reception.

Then he noticed that her hands were clutching her gown again, as if searching for something to hold on to.

He moved to stand beside her, so close her bare arm nearly grazed his. “This is Gwendolyn, formerly of the Clan MacSween,” he announced. “She is the witch I went to find. When we reached the MacSween holding, we discovered she had been tried by her clan for witchcraft and was sentenced to be burned at the stake,” he explained, purposely omitting that Gwendolyn had also been accused of murder. He saw no merit in alarming his people more than necessary. “When my offer to purchase her was rejected, I decided to save her, thereby raising the ire of the Clan MacSween. I am afraid we may experience trouble from them in the future.”

“Are you saying we're at war with the MacSweens, laddie?” demanded Owen incredulously.

“Because of this comely witch?” added Lachlan, looking at Gwendolyn in outrage.

Alex nodded.

The little group absorbed this information in shocked silence. Only Morag seemed undisturbed.

“Well, I call that splendid!” Owen declared, suddenly beaming. “It's been years since we MacDunns were involved in a good clan war.”

“I don't know what's splendid about it,” Lachlan grumbled sourly. “We're all likely to be split open and disemboweled where we stand.”

“I'll just fetch my sword and shield,” said Reginald. “Those crafty MacSween devils could strike at any moment.”

“I don't think we need to worry about an attack today,” Alex said. “We encountered a few of them on the way home and they were quickly taken care of. It will be a while before a new force can make its way here—if Laird MacSween decides he wants to pursue the matter.”

“Oh, he will have to pursue it, laddie,” Owen assured him. “It's a matter of honor. After all, you've stolen his witch.”

“Are you sure she is a witch, Morag?” asked Lachlan, studying Gwendolyn suspiciously. “She doesn't seem bothered by all this smoke.”

“Cameron, Brodick, and Ned can all attest to her powers,” Morag replied. “Can't you?”

“Aye,” said Cameron, nodding. “One night during our journey here, she whipped the spirits into a fair frenzy, she did.”

“I've never seen anything like it,” added Brodick. “One minute there was a raging storm, and the next minute the night was as still as can be.”

“Really?” Owen was clearly impressed. “Can you do that for us now, lassie?”

“I can't see how that will be of any use to us,” remarked Lachlan, frowning. “Creating a storm in the middle of a perfectly adequate day.”

“But it would be amusing,” said a silky voice.

The woman who entered the hall was smiling, but as her eyes fell upon Gwendolyn her mouth tightened slightly, as if she had unexpectedly tasted something bitter. She quickly recovered, however, and proceeded to make her way across the room. She was exceptionally attractive, with thick honey-tinted hair that spilled down her lushly curved body. Her movements gave the impression of unhurried grace, but Gwendolyn sensed her pace had more to do with the fact that all eyes were upon her, and she was very much enjoying the attention.

“Welcome back, Alex,” she murmured, stopping directly in front of him. “We have missed you.” She frowned at the tattered bandage circling his otherwise naked chest. “Were you badly injured?”

“No, Robena,” he assured her. “ 'Tis barely a scratch.”

Gwendolyn noticed the gown the woman wore was cut low and a shade too tight, so that the fabric strained over the pale swell of her breasts. But it was neither faded nor worn, suggesting that this clinging fit was intentional. For some reason this observation irritated her. She had an overwhelming desire to grab a swath of plaid and cover her.

“So this is the witch,” observed Robena, turning toward Gwendolyn. She smiled, but her smile did not quite reach her eyes. She stared at Gwendolyn's naked arms, recognizing that the fabric of her torn gown matched MacDunn's bandage. Now that she was closer, Gwendolyn could see a fan of fine lines under her eyes, betraying her age to be closer to thirty than she had previously thought. “You poor thing,” she cooed, taking in Gwendolyn's disheveled appearance. “You look half starved. Alex, did you not feed this child on your journey here?”

Her tone was playfully chastising, but Gwendolyn sensed there was something about her appearance that displeased Robena.

“She will eat well enough now that she is here,” Alex replied. “How is my son?”

A pall fell over the room. The clan members eyed each other uncertainly, not knowing how to answer. Only Morag's expression remained serene.

“His condition remains unchanged, Alex,” Robena volunteered, her voice soft with regret. “I managed to get him to take a little food last night, but his body quickly rejected it. Elspeth said it was the poisons in his body that caused this, and so she bled him last night, and then again this morning. He is now resting quietly in his chamber.”

Alex absorbed this information in silence. The report was no different than what he had expected. That was why he had brought the witch here. And the news could have been far worse. They could have said his son was dead.

“I will see him now,” he announced, striding toward the staircase at the far end of the hall. “The rest of you, see if you can't do something about cleaning up this mess. I dislike having my hall smell like a putrid cavern.”

Robena picked up her skirts and rushed to follow him. Suddenly Alex stopped and looked expectantly at Gwendolyn. “Are you coming?” he asked impatiently.

The trio made their way up the staircase and along a dim, torchlit corridor. The air grew heavier and staler as they continued, and by the time they stopped in front of a wooden door, Gwendolyn felt she could scarcely breathe. Even Robena had produced a dainty linen square from her sleeve and raised it to her nose, so she could better tolerate the stifling smoke. Alex hesitated a moment, his enormous hand gripping the iron latch, as if steeling himself for what lay on the other side of the door. Finally he lifted the latch, swung the heavy door open, and went inside.

The chamber was dark, hot, and airless, as the windows were shut tight and a fire roared in the hearth, even though the day outside was warm. The acrid haze produced by countless pots of smoldering herbs was so thick it made the great hall seem almost breezy in comparison. But there was another smell to the room, a close, sour odor of sickness. A few dripping candles cast a feeble glow into the gloom, allowing just enough light for Gwendolyn to make out a bed piled high with blankets and animal skins. A lean, spindly armed woman was bent over the pile, briskly arranging yet another covering. On seeing Alex, the woman straightened and gave him a respectful nod.

“Welcome back, MacDunn.” She cast a confused glance at Gwendolyn. “Is this the witch?”

Alex nodded. The woman's expression hardened.

“Forgive me, m'lord,” she began, her tone far more acquiescent than the rigid set of her pinched face, “but your son is quite weak just now and I really don't think—”

“She will see him now, Elspeth,” Alex interrupted firmly.

Elspeth pressed her lips together, as if trying to contain whatever argument she wanted to give her laird. Realizing she had no choice, she moved away from the bed.

Alex stepped toward it as if he were approaching a coffin. Summoning all of his courage, he looked stonily at the thin, ashen face of his son. If not for Elspeth's certainty that the lad was resting, he would have thought he was dead. David's skin was white and bloodless, his cheeks gaunt, his eyelids as thin and fragile as paper. Alex swallowed hard, fighting the despair threatening to engulf him. First his beloved Flora, and now his only son. What had he done, he wondered desperately, to make God loathe him so? Overwhelmed by the sight of his child laid out like a corpse, he raised his eyes to Gwendolyn, silently imploring her to help.

Gwendolyn stared at MacDunn. It was as if she were looking upon him for the first time. Instead of the powerful mad laird, a man who feared nothing and found amusement by instilling fear in others, she suddenly saw a man in unbearable pain.