The Witch and The Warrior (21 page)

Alex considered this a moment in silence. “You will rest now,” he said, rising from his chair.

“I have to see David,” Gwendolyn protested, her voice thickened with sleep.

“You will see him later. When you have rested.”

Too exhausted to argue, Gwendolyn sighed and pressed her face farther into the pillow. Alex watched as sleep quickly claimed her once again. She was tired and bloody and aching, but he assured himself he could wake her if he chose. He lifted a matted clump of black hair off her bruised cheek, then lightly traced his finger along the delicate contour of her jaw. He had seen more than his share of head wounds in battle and knew that hers was not serious. But the sight of her lying there, so small and weak and helpless, brought back memories of Flora. This was not illness, he reminded himself sharply.

This was an injury, and he meant to find out who or what was bloody well responsible for it.

         

The torch above the staircase leading to the bowels of the castle was lit, flickering oily patterns of light over the damp stone steps. Alex stood at the top of the stairs, trying to decide if the illumination was adequate. He was accustomed to the dark, having spent much of the past four years lying awake in the night, or sometimes wandering through the empty corridors, talking to Flora. Many of the steps had a dark scum growing on them, rendering them somewhat treacherous. If the torch had been out and someone who did not know the stairs well was hurrying down them, it was easy to understand how she might have slipped. If not for the fact that Gwendolyn was feared by the clan, coupled with her memory of a note from Morag, he might have simply ordered the stairs scrubbed and another torch bracketed to the opposite wall. Instead he slowly descended them, then ascended once more, carefully examining each step for something beyond the greenish black residue coating the surface.

On the fifth step from the top he found it.

A length of slender black twine lay hidden in slime. Alex fished it from the filthy muck and discovered it was attached to a small nail embedded in the mortar between the stones in the wall. The twine was made of perhaps a dozen or more threads braided together, rendering it fine but surprisingly strong. The length was not sufficient to span the width of the stairs, but the frayed ends suggested it had broken from a longer piece. He bent down and examined the opposite wall. There was the second nail, with its fragment of twine still dangling from it. The nails had been positioned at approximately ankle level, right at the edge of the step. The unsuspecting victim would not tread directly on the dark twine strung between the nails, but could not avoid catching her foot on it. Whoever had done this had not bothered to retrieve the nails after Gwendolyn was found. Either they were extremely careless or they wanted someone to find out that Gwendolyn's fall had not been an accident.

Alex angrily yanked the nails out of the wall and hurried down the steps, heedless of their slippery state. He strode swiftly along the passage leading to Morag's chamber and threw the door open.

“Good evening, Alex,” said Morag cheerily, unperturbed by his unexpected entrance. “Or should I say, good morning?”

She was standing at a long, scarred table cluttered with cracked jugs and jars of every size imaginable, pouring a thick brown liquid through a piece of green cloth, which was stretched over a jug. Her silver brows were furrowed and her gaze intent as she watched the filtering potion change from a murky brown to a creamy shade. Alex waited.

“Yes,” she finally said, her green eyes still fixed on her work, “I knew about the twine.”

“Who did it?” he demanded.

Morag set down the flask of brown liquid and sighed. “That I don't know. The vision was unclear, as so many of them are now. I could not see who had placed it there.”

“Is that why you left Gwendolyn a note in her chamber? To warn her of the danger?”

“You know I left no note, Alex. I do not know how to scribe.”

He nodded. “I thought perhaps you had someone write it for you.”

“No.”

He raked his hand through his hair, agitated. “There is someone in the clan who wants her gone.”

“There are many within the clan who want her gone,” Morag corrected him. She picked up the jug, grasped her staff, and moved toward the fire. “Surely this cannot surprise you.”

“I was hoping that even if they feared her, they would learn to tolerate her. For my son's sake.”

“Only for David's sake?”

“I brought her here to heal my son. That is all.”

Morag bent and began to pour the creamy liquid from the pitcher into a steaming cauldron. A thick, mossy foam rose from the pot, and the air grew spicy and sharp. She took a wooden spoon and slowly stirred the mixture. “Perhaps David is the reason you brought her here, Alex,” she conceded, “but he is not the reason you want to keep her here.”

“I have told her that once she cures my son she may go.”

“Because you had no choice. But even as you said it, you were not sure you meant it.”

“I want to know who is trying to drive Gwendolyn away, Morag,” Alex growled.

“Then you must watch her carefully. The witch's powers are great. There are many who would destroy them, and then there are those who would have them for their own.”

He needed no further warning. He strode purposefully toward the door, cursing himself for leaving Gwendolyn alone in her chamber. As he jerked the door open, he hesitated. “If her powers are so great, then why has she not healed David yet?”

Morag smiled. “Some things cannot be accomplished swiftly. Healing takes time.”

“So does dying,” replied Alex, not certain whether he was speaking of his son or himself.

         

He eased the door open quietly, as he used to when he would enter Flora's chamber, not wishing to disturb her if she slept.

She was gone.

Panic gripped him. He spun about and descended the tower steps two at a time, trying to think. She must have staggered away on her own, confused and disoriented, and fallen again. Either that or whoever wanted her gone had grown even bolder and decided to abduct her from her chamber. Alex cursed his carelessness in leaving her alone. He had vowed to keep her safe, yet it seemed he could not protect her even within the walls of his own castle.

“Cameron! Brodick! Ned!” he shouted, storming down the hallway.

Ned silently slipped from the shadows and appeared in a thin shaft of early morning light.

“Gwendolyn is missing again,” Alex said, the ferocity of his tone masking his fear.

“She is with David. I followed her there.”

Alex nodded brusquely, as if he might have expected that.

“There you are, Alex,” Brodick called out, hurrying down the corridor with Cameron at his side. “We've been looking all over for you.”

“What is it?”

“A missive from Laird MacSween,” said Cameron, handing him a stiff scroll of paper. “A messenger arrived a few moments ago. He is awaiting your response.”

Alex impatiently broke the crimson seal and unraveled the document.

MacDunn,

Your gift was most generous, but I cannot permit you to keep her. Her freedom was won at too great a cost, to say nothing of how you have dishonored my clan. I implore you: Send her back, or I shall be forced to declare war on you.

MacSween

The civilized plea made it clear that Laird MacSween had drafted this document himself. Had Robert composed it, the tone would have been far more menacing. Although Alex had hoped the chest of gold and the apologetic letter he had sent would soothe the MacSweens' ire, Laird MacSween was absolutely right to give him this ultimatum. Alex had stolen one of his clan members, obstructed MacSween justice, and killed a number of warriors, all while he was a guest of the clan. Laird MacSween might believe Alex was mad and therefore not entirely responsible for his actions, but that did not mean they could go unpunished.

“Is he thanking you for your gift?” Brodick asked dryly, sensing there was trouble ahead.

“He thought it was considerate of me to send it,” Alex replied, “but he wants her back anyway.”

Cameron's expression brightened. “So it's war, then, is it?” “Not for as long as we can delay it,” Alex mused. “The clan is unhappy enough about Gwendolyn's presence without thinking she is causing war. Her fall yesterday proves there are those here who would be only too happy to deliver her back to the MacSweens themselves.”

Brodick eyed him in disbelief. “Surely you don't think someone in the clan would purposely harm her?”

“Someone gave her reason to be on those stairs and then made certain she fell.”

“By God,” growled Cameron, “when I catch the cowardly dog who did it, I'll tear him to pieces!”

“What do you want us to do?” Brodick demanded.

“She is never to be left alone,” Alex instructed. “Ned, you will take the first shift of watching her, then Cameron, then Brodick. Whoever is trying to harm her may attempt to do so again. I want to make damn sure they don't get the opportunity.”

“She won't like that,” Ned said. “Being watched all the time.”

“She won't know,” Alex countered. “You will be as discreet as possible. That way whoever wants to drive her away may reveal themselves to us unintentionally.”

“What about the MacSweens?” asked Cameron. “Are you going to send a message back?”

“Not right away. Brodick, tell the courier I am indisposed and cannot respond at this time. Allude to the idea that I have gone temporarily mad and there is no telling when I will be lucid again. Invite him to wait and join you in a meal. Then get him drunk and put him in the stables to sleep it off. We will delay his departure for as long as possible, and then we will give him a message that will make MacSween think we want to avoid war at all costs and have every intention of sending Gwendolyn back.”

“Are you worried we may not be able to best the MacSweens in battle?” Brodick asked.

“I have no doubt the clan will fight to protect our holding, but I'm not certain how much they will be willing to sacrifice for the sake of a witch. Best to avoid the attack for as long as possible.”

“Then this messenger isn't going anywhere today,” Brodick announced, smiling. “And not tomorrow or the next day, either.”

“Good,” said Alex. “Cameron, you will take stock of our weapons. Order a sufficient supply of new arrows made, have all the swords, dirks, and spears sharpened, and tell the men to assemble at once for early morning training. I will be with you shortly.”

Brodick and Cameron set off to carry out his orders, while Ned slipped back into a dark niche in the corridor.

Alex inhaled deeply, once again preparing himself for whatever his son's condition might be, then quietly opened the door to his room.

“…so I bounced down the stairs like Mungo's head,” Gwendolyn said as she gently bathed David's face with a wet cloth. “It must have been quite a thing to watch!”

“Was there blood?”

“Gallons of it. I thought for certain I was going to drown.”

His blue eyes widened in pure horror.

“Actually, not that much at all,” she quickly amended, realizing that David did not enjoy gore so much when it concerned real life. “I barely scratched my head.”

David regarded her dubiously. “Then what's that awful stuff in your hair?”

Gwendolyn self-consciously raised her hand to her sticky hair. “Why—there was a puddle of slimy muck on the floor, and I'm afraid I rolled right into it. When your father found me, he didn't know whether to take me to my chamber or toss me in the well!”

“In retrospect, I think the well would have been a better choice.”

Gwendolyn then hastily drew up the plaid that had fallen around her waist and draped it around her shoulders. She regarded Alex guiltily, like a child who had been caught disobeying an order.