The Witch and The Warrior (32 page)

Alex listened. The laughter had now become animated shouting. How the hell was he supposed to train with all this noise?

“Practice your swordplay,” he ordered, striding angrily toward the gate.

He entered the courtyard and was surprised to find it completely empty. Following the noise around to the side of the castle, he discovered an enormous crowd of MacDunns sitting on the grass at the back corner of the courtyard, eagerly listening to Gwendolyn tell them a story.

“ ‘Surrender your weapon,' commanded the mighty Torvald, his own sword flashing like a streak of silver before him, ‘or you will die.' ‘I will never surrender to you,' hissed the terrible MacRory, ‘for it is you who is about to die. Even now, you can barely stand for all the blood that flows from you.' ‘I may die,' Torvald agreed, ‘but you will die first.' And the terrible MacRory lowered his sword and laughed. ‘Ha! I shall slice you into pieces and feed you to the wolves,' he promised, ‘and then I will brutally murder your wife and children.' ‘Never!' roared Torvald. And with that he rushed toward MacRory, blood gushing like a river from his neck, his left arm severed but for the slenderest thread of flesh. ‘Die, foul knave!' he cried. Summoning the last of his strength, the mighty Torvald drove his sword deep into MacRory's stomach, skewering him like a rabbit for the spit of a fire.”

The MacDunns stared at her, spellbound.

“What happened then?” asked Lachlan, breaking the silence. “Did the mighty Torvald live?”

“Of course he lived,” interjected Reginald. “What kind of a bloody story would it be if he died?”

“I can't see how he would survive all those terrible wounds,” mused Owen. “Surely he must have bled to death.”

“He didn't bleed to death,” Marjorie countered. “After that he probably crawled down the mountain and came to an old woman's cottage, and she took him in and healed him.”

“How could he crawl with his throat slit and one arm about to fall off?” demanded Ewan.

“Maybe the old woman was out walking on the mountain and she found him and took him to her cottage,” suggested Lettie.

“He would have been dead long before he could get there,” scoffed Lachlan.

“No, he wouldn't,” argued Munro. “After all, he is the mighty Torvald. He is strong enough to endure anything.”

“He can't survive having his neck slashed and his arm sliced off,” objected Farquhar.

“He could if he got help quickly,” countered Clarinda.

“No old woman in a cottage could save a man with those kinds of injuries!” said Lachlan, almost shouting now.

“She could if she were a witch,” Ned suggested quietly.

The group instantly fell silent, considering this.

“Aye,” said Owen finally, pleased that Ned had solved the problem. “She could if she were a witch.”

Alex stared at his clan incredulously. But for a few, his people openly despised Gwendolyn. The incident on the stairs and in the tower made it eminently clear that they wanted nothing more than to be rid of her. So why the hell were they clustered around her like enraptured children, listening to her tell these ridiculous tales?

“Father!” David called, suddenly noticing him, “Gwendolyn let me ride a horse!”

Alex blinked. “She what?”

“I rode a horse,” David repeated, his little voice bright with pride. “All by myself.”

“And a fine job he did of it, too,” Owen said. “Reminded me of you as a lad, Alex.” He frowned. “At least I think it was you.”

“The lad looked right splendid up there, MacDunn,” added Reginald. “Straight as an arrow.”

“You put him on a horse?” Alex demanded. The look he gave Gwendolyn could have frozen fire.

“David was feeling quite well,” she said, “so I thought it would be good for him to—”

“To what?” interrupted Alex, his voice harsh. “Fall and break his neck?”

“He wasn't going to fall, MacDunn.” Gwendolyn rose to face him. “I had the horse on a lead, and David was only—”

“He is too weak to be on a horse!” Alex thundered furiously. “He could have collapsed suddenly and broken his skull, or been trampled beneath the animal's hooves! Or the exertion could have reduced him to another hideous bout of sickness, as it did the day you so carelessly took him beyond the walls! For God's sake,
are you trying to kill my son?
”

Gwendolyn regarded him woodenly, determined not to let him see how his condemnation of her in front of the clan wounded her. For a brief, impossible moment, as the MacDunns sat crowded around her on the sun-warmed grass listening to her tales, it had almost seemed as if they were coming to accept her. It had been strange to have so many people eager to share her company—strange and new and utterly wonderful. And in less than an instant MacDunn had shattered all that. The MacDunns would never accept her now, she realized dully. Their laird had just made it painfully clear that he did not really trust her himself.

“Come, David,” she said quietly, extending her hand to him. “Your father would prefer that you rest now.”

David slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it hard. It was a small, silent gesture, but Gwendolyn took some comfort from it. Avoiding the gazes of the MacDunns, she turned and quickly led David back to the castle.

         

The great hall was unusually quiet that evening.

Alex focused his gaze on the battle plans laid before him, trying to ignore the silent, furtive glances his clan kept shooting his way. He knew they were thinking he had acted unreasonably this afternoon. He also knew they feared this meant his madness was raising its talons once more. No doubt they were wondering how deeply the monster would take him this time, and for how long.

He wished to God he knew himself.

He had felt it clawing at him from the moment he pulled Gwendolyn from the fire. Not that his madness had ever really left him—he was honest enough with himself to admit that. But for some time now he had been able to keep it more or less at bay, like a snarling wolf that has been forced into a corner. Since the fire he had felt that wolf inching forward. The pain in his head had become more and more frequent, his fleeting bouts of sleep more shallow and disturbed.

Worst of all, he could no longer speak to Flora.

His conversations with his wife had grown increasingly intermittent since he had brought Gwendolyn here. He had assured himself that was because he was so weary at night, but it was a lie, for sleep was elusive. And after he had forced himself upon Gwendolyn, savagely taking her in the same bed where he had spent so many tender nights with his beloved wife, he had been filled with a shame so overwhelming he could no longer bring himself to speak with Flora at all. What could he say to her? he wondered bitterly. What feeble apology could he possibly offer? He had betrayed his wife, whom he had sworn to honor forever.

“I hear David was up on a horse today,” Morag remarked, breaking the heavy silence that entombed the room. “How did he fare?”

No one answered.

“He fared extremely well,” Owen said after a moment. “Sat up there like a brave young warrior.”

Morag smiled. “Evidently he takes after his father. Did he fall?”

“The horse wasn't moving fast enough for him to fall,” snorted Reginald, glancing pointedly at Alex. “Gwendolyn had wisely put him on old Duff. That beast hasn't trotted since before David was born. But just to be safe, Gwendolyn led the horse by a rope.”

“He still could have fallen off,” objected Robena. “He might have been killed.”

“Even if he had fallen, he wouldn't have hurt himself,” scoffed Lachlan. “He would have just been a little bruised.”

“Falling is part of learning to ride,” added Ned, repeating Gwendolyn's words. “Everyone knows that.”

“It was a dangerous thing to do,” said Robena. “The witch has no right to take such risks with David.”

“She is trying to kill him,” added Elspeth. “I've told you that.”

“Putting a lad on a horse seems a strange way to try to kill him,” observed Owen.

“That means every one of us here was nearly murdered by our parents,” joked Cameron.

Alex kept his gaze lowered to his papers and said nothing. What the hell was the matter with his clan tonight? he wondered. His son was too weak to ride, and that was the end of it. He refused to be part of this discussion.

The hall fell silent once again.

“It's awfully quiet in here,” chirped Isabella, apparently oblivious to the tension stifling the vast room. She turned to Brodick, who was seated next to her. “Why doesn't your clan have musicians play during dinner?”

“MacDunn doesn't like it,” he replied shortly.

“We used to have music,” reflected Owen. “A few years ago, there was music and dancing almost every night in this very hall.” He smiled, remembering. “In those days, I was something of a dancer.”

“You were dreadful,” interjected Lachlan. “You looked like a badger hopping on hot coals.”

“That was the dance,” replied Owen, insulted. “It required one to move one's feet up and down rather quickly. Of course, not being a dancer yourself, Lachlan, you wouldn't know that.”

“I'd love to see it,” said Isabella.

“No, you wouldn't,” Lachlan assured her.

“If there were music, I'd be happy to show you, lass,” said Owen, ignoring him.

“Thank God there isn't any,” muttered Lachlan.

“In my clan, we always had musicians playing when we dined,” Isabella reflected. “It made the evening more pleasant. Don't you think some music might make this evening more pleasant, Brodick?”

“It couldn't make it worse,” he grumbled.

“Exactly,” agreed Isabella, failing to recognize his sarcasm. She stood and tapped her goblet to gain the clan's attention. “Does anyone here have an instrument they could play?”

“Alas, my pipes have been stowed away for over nine years.” Ewan sighed. “I doubt I could get anything but screeching from them now.”

“And how would that be different from what you used to play on them?” teased Lettie.

“Anyone else?” Isabella asked.

No one answered.

“Well, then, I guess I shall have to sing,” she decided. “It won't be quite the same without accompaniment, but I shall do my best.” She thought for a moment. “This song is about a warrior who is tormented by the loss of his one great love—”

“That sounds a wee bit grim,” interrupted Reginald. “Do you know anything livelier?”

“Do forgive, lass, but I can't dance to a song about some forlorn warrior,” Owen said. “I need something I can stomp my feet to.”

“Very well,” said Isabella, trying to think. “I have it!” she declared suddenly. “This one is about a maiden who kills herself when she learns her lover has betrayed her.”

“Are you sure it's lively?” asked Owen, looking doubtful.

“It's slow at the beginning,” Isabella admitted, “but it picks up a fair bit toward the end when they're burying her.”

“All right, then, lass,” said Reginald. “Sing away.”

Isabella inhaled deeply, then proceeded to fill the hall with her dreadful voice. Alex winced, clenched his jaw, and finally gathered his plans and rose from his chair, unable to endure the dreadful shrieking any longer.

At that moment Gwendolyn appeared at the base of the stairs, her head held high as she studied the room, his son standing nervously beside her.

She was draped in a gown of deepest black, which was intricately embroidered with luminous silver thread. The dark fabric scooped low over the creamy swell of her breasts, making her skin appear even paler than usual, and the long sleeves clung tightly to her slender arms, emphasizing her fine structure. The ebony fall of her hair poured across the white satin of her shoulders like a silken cape, shimmering in the torchlight. She seemed almost ethereal as she stood there, a mysterious, fragile specter from another world, and as Alex drank in her beauty he was almost afraid she might suddenly vanish. He watched as Gwendolyn gave David a reassuring smile and took his hand, offering his son strength and comfort as they faced the enormous gathering.

It was a small, silent gesture, almost unnoticeable were Alex not watching them so carefully, and yet he found himself profoundly moved by it. Flora had loved to hold David's hands when he was a babe, marveling at each little finger with its wee, wrinkled knuckles, laughing over the impossibly tiny pink shells of his nails. And then she would ask Alex to hold out his hand, and she would press his son's diminutive palm against his enormous one. It had felt like a velvety soft blossom floating upon his callused palm, and Alex would stare at it in fascination, wondering how anything so tiny and fine and perfect could possibly grow to resemble the hard, rough-skinned hand that held it.

He had not held his son's hand for years.