The Witch and The Warrior (15 page)

“You evil witch—see what you have done to him?” hissed Elspeth. “I told you your ways would make him ill!”

Gwendolyn stared at David in shaken bewilderment. When she had left him alone just moments ago, he had been weak and tired, but relatively well. Now he was hunched over the bed, whimpering pitifully as he struggled to catch his breath. What could have brought on such an attack? Was it possible that the cool air and warm bath had been a shock to his delicate constitution and had therefore induced this reaction? The thought filled her with guilt. If her inexpert ministrations had reduced David to this awful state, then she should confess to her ignorance now and relinquish all responsibility for his care. Not because she feared MacDunn would punish her if the boy died—which the laird surely would—but because she could not bear the thought of being responsible for David's suffering.

“God alone knows what foul brew she has tainted his body with,” railed Elspeth as she reached under David's bed and withdrew a small wooden box. Its surface was battered and heavily scratched, suggesting long years of regular use. “The devil's work is as vile as it is powerful.” She set the box upon the table by David's bed and opened it. “But I am not afraid to fight you,” she assured Gwendolyn, withdrawing a small, black-stained blade. “I will not let you steal this lad's innocent soul.”

Gwendolyn watched helplessly as Elspeth bent over David's arm and began to slice through the fresh bandage Gwendolyn had carefully wrapped around it after his bath. She did not want Elspeth to bleed the child, but she was unsure how she could stop her. It was clear everyone in the chamber believed Gwendolyn had deliberately caused David this torment. But the lad had been suffering these violent bouts of illness long before she came here, she reminded herself desperately. David's chronic inability to retain food was the reason he was wasting away. It was entirely possible this episode was directly related to his illness and had nothing whatsoever to do with her care. Whatever the cause of his sudden vomiting, it was certainly not due to her tainting his body with evil spells and potions, as Elspeth seemed to believe. Therefore Gwendolyn could not see how bleeding the already weak child could possibly help him. David had told her he hated being bled and that he always felt sicker afterward. Determined to protect him from unnecessary suffering, she took a step forward and declared in a low, firm voice, “You will not bleed him, Elspeth.”

Elspeth hesitated over the half-peeled bandage and regarded her in astonishment. “How dare you try to give me an order! Do you think I will stand by and just watch him die?”

Gathering the frayed remnants of her confidence, Gwendolyn went over to the tub, wrung out a cloth in the tepid water, then moved purposefully toward the bed. “Thank you for tending David in my absence, Marjorie,” she said stiffly. “I will look after him now.”

Marjorie gripped the pot she was holding for David and glanced uncertainly at Elspeth.

“You won't go near him again, witch!” screeched Elspeth. “You've done enough devil's work already!”

“Perhaps it would be best if you left, Gwendolyn,” suggested Robena, eyeing her coldly from her position near the windows.

Refusing to be intimidated, Gwendolyn ignored Robena and met Elspeth's hostile gaze. “MacDunn,” she said, her voice remarkably even, “did you not bring me here to see if I could heal your son?”

A taut silence fell over the chamber, punctuated only by the thin sound of David's whimpering.

“I did,” Alex admitted.

“Then tell these women to stand aside, so I can continue with my work.”

There was a long, frozen moment in which Elspeth, Robena, and Marjorie regarded him expectantly. It was clear from their expressions that they believed he would settle the matter by ordering Gwendolyn to leave. Which, Alex had to admit, was his initial inclination.

He had been horrified to come in here and find his son so hideously ill. In that first moment, the possibility that Gwendolyn was responsible for David's condition had filled him with blinding rage. But when Alex looked at her, he had seen that her gray eyes were wide with dismay as she watched David suffer. It was hardly the look he would have expected from a witch who was purposely trying to harm his son. If Gwendolyn had somehow instigated this attack, she had done so unwittingly, he realized. Further reflection reminded him that episodes like this one, as appalling as they were, had not been uncommon for the lad these past few months. The ugly, raw slash marks scarring his thin little arms were testament to that. Therefore it was possible Gwendolyn's unconventional methods of healing were not the cause of his son's current condition.

But what if they were?

“Laird MacDunn is not fooled by your lies, witch,” Elspeth announced, interpreting Alex's silence as a victory for her. She removed a small, filthy basin from her box and positioned it beneath David's arm.

A faint mewl of protest came from his son, piercing Alex's indecision.

“Your concern for my son's welfare pleases me, Elspeth,” he began. “I know you want nothing more than for David to be strong and well…”

Elspeth cast a triumphant look at Gwendolyn, her tarnished blade poised over David's arm.

“…which is why I must ask you to stand aside.”

Elspeth's expression dissolved into stunned disbelief.

“Really, Alex, you can't mean that,” protested Robena. “Just look at the lad!”

David's retching had ceased for the moment, and he had collapsed weakly against his pillow. The warm blush Alex had witnessed earlier when Gwendolyn was bathing his son had vanished, leaving the lad's sunken cheeks even paler than the linen upon which his damp hair rested. His breath was coming in tiny, shallow puffs, as if it hurt to draw in more air than was absolutely necessary. At that moment, it was difficult to believe the boy could possibly survive the night.

If he dies,
Alex thought,
so will I.

Alex lifted his gaze to Gwendolyn. Her expression was contained, but he sensed that was because she chose to guard her emotions in front of the others in the chamber. A small crowd of clan members had gathered just outside the door. They were watching him in silent dismay, no doubt thinking his order was yet another indication that their laird was truly mad.

She is a condemned witch and a murderess,
Alex reminded himself harshly.
My son's life means nothing to her. If she could somehow benefit from his death, she would not hesitate to kill him.

But he found himself recalling the tenderness of Gwendolyn's touch as she held his son in her arms, the softness of her voice as she spoke lightly to him, the gentle concern that seemed to infiltrate her very being when she was with the lad. Alex stared at the dark blade poised over David's bloodless arm, and struggled with his decision. He was a warrior and a laird, not a healer. He could not pretend to know about the wisdom of cool air and baths, or foul potions and stinking hot air and endless bleedings.

All he knew for certain was that his son was dying and no one had been able to save him.

“You women stand aside,” he commanded, praying to God he was not making the wrong choice, “and offer Gwendolyn whatever assistance she may require.”

Everyone stared at him, dumbfounded. Even Gwendolyn appeared startled.

“I implore you, Laird MacDunn,” pleaded Elspeth, “you must not let this devil's whore near him!”

“I have given you an order, Elspeth.”

She clutched her small blade in her fist and regarded him helplessly.

“Really, Alex, you must listen to reason,” protested Robena.

“I am not accustomed to having my orders challenged, Robena. If you do not wish to assist Gwendolyn, then you may leave.” His voice was dangerously low.

Robena opened her mouth as if to argue further, then apparently thought better of it and clamped it shut.

“I will not stay and be part of this,” Elspeth said, her voice shaking. She tossed her bloodstained knife and basin back into the box and hurried toward the door. “May God have mercy on the poor lad's soul.”

“What about you, Robena?” demanded Alex. “Do you choose to stay and assist Gwendolyn, or leave?”

Robena did not hesitate. Humiliated by Alex's brusqueness in front of other members of the clan, she picked up her skirts and quit the chamber.

“You may also leave, Marjorie,” Alex offered.

“If I may, MacDunn,” Marjorie began, still holding David's chamber pot, “I would like to stay and help.”

A gasp of surprise erupted from the clan members crowded in the corridor.

Alex nodded. “Gwendolyn, tell Marjorie what you require and she will see to it.”

Gwendolyn thought quickly. “A fresh set of bedclothes and a nightshirt,” she began, anxious to have David clean and comfortable once more. “That chamber pot should be emptied and rinsed out very well, and I would like a pitcher of clean drinking water and a cup. I will also need a new length of linen to bind his arm again.”

Marjorie immediately left to see to these things.

Alex watched as Gwendolyn went to his son and gently began to wipe his face with her warm cloth. “There, now, David,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “I need you to sit up a little so I can take off your nightshirt,” she instructed as she peeled back the soiled bedding.

David moaned weakly. Gwendolyn eased him up into her arms, then held him steady as she gently began to remove the garment. Suddenly she hesitated. “I believe your son is entitled to some privacy, MacDunn,” she said, glancing at the crowded doorway.

Her concern for the boy's modesty surprised him. None of David's previous healers had thought anything of exposing him naked before an audience, perhaps believing him too ill to either know or care. But David was ten, and although he might be too sick to protest, he was certainly old enough to feel embarrassed before a gaping crowd of onlookers.

“Return to your business,” Alex ordered, moving toward the door. “You will be informed if there is any change in my son's condition.”

With obvious reluctance, the clan dispersed. MacDunn cast a final glance as Gwendolyn pulled off David's shirt. The lad's shoulders and ribs were tautly covered with milky white skin. If this sickness didn't kill him soon, then his son would simply die of starvation. Unable to bear the thought, he retreated into the corridor and closed the door.

Marjorie returned a few minutes later to help Gwendolyn finish stripping the bed, then took away the soiled linens. Once David was lying comfortably beneath clean sheets, Gwendolyn gave him some water to rinse his mouth and bound his injured arm once more. She then added more wood to the fire and opened one of the shuttered windows, inviting sweeter air into the chamber.

“How do you feel, David?” she asked softly, moving toward the bed.

He did not answer. His wan face lay pressed against the pillow, and his breath was coming in deep, slow pulses, telling her he had fallen asleep. Whatever had caused his terrible bout of vomiting seemed to have passed, for the moment at least. Gwendolyn brushed a silky curl of red hair off his forehead. His brow was cool and dry. It was not fever, then, that had reduced him to this pitiful state. She thought she should try to get him to drink some water to replace the fluid his body had lost, but decided it could wait until he awakened. Given how unexpectedly this attack had come on, she did not want to leave his side, in case he suddenly became ill again. She also feared Elspeth might decide that she knew better than her laird when it came to healing, and return to secretly bleed David when he was unattended. Unwilling to permit such an assault, she dragged her chair closer to the bed, sat down, and lay her warm hand protectively over his slender fingers, preparing to watch over her charge through the night.

         

Darkness had thickened to a charcoal cape as Alex slowly made his way along the corridor to his son's room. There was only one surviving torch to illuminate the grim passage, and its oily flicker was leaking a shallow pool of red-orange light onto the stone floor. He was not surprised to find the corridor empty. He had given an order to his clan, and although they might question his grip on his senses, they still respected him enough to obey.

If David died, his senses would abandon him completely and he would no longer warrant that respect.

He paused before entering the chamber, trying to summon the courage he needed to face the sight of his dying son. It had been the same with Flora, he reflected painfully. Each time he had gone to visit her, he hesitated outside her door, begging God to have miraculously given her the strength to overcome her illness during his absence. He had not thought that his request was selfish. After all, Flora had been everything that was good, and pure, and fine. If for some reason a life had to be sacrificed from this castle, then it should have been his own. Alex's life had been far from virtuous, for he was a man and a warrior, and had given little thought to his soul's salvation when in the throes of passion and battle. Of course his clan needed him, but he had felt that if he died another would be found to act as laird while his precious wife raised his son to manhood. Flora had to live, because she was the only woman he had ever known who could love absolutely, without question or reservation, and he wanted his son to know that love. But God had ignored his pleas. Each time Alex had entered Flora's chamber, he found her a little weaker, a little farther beyond his hold, like a shadow slipping from the last filmy threads of daylight.