The Witch and The Warrior (40 page)

Gwendolyn looked at Isabella in surprise. “How do you know that story, Isabella? I have only told it to David and Clarinda.”

“I—I must have heard it somewhere else,” she stammered.

Gwendolyn reflected on this in confusion. The mighty Torvald was a character her father had created exclusively for her, and that particular tale was one they had made up together during one of their many walks in the mountains. She could not imagine how Isabella could possibly have heard it.

“Do tell it, Gwendolyn,” prodded Lettie, pulling her chair closer to the bed. “It sounds like a wonderful tale.”

“Very well.” She settled herself beside Clarinda. “Long ago, in a land far beyond the edge of the ocean, there lived a magnificent warrior of extraordinary strength and courage, who was known by all as the mighty Torvald….”

Afternoon slowly melted into evening, but the circle of women scarcely noticed. Gwendolyn spun the fiercest, most glorious tales she could think of, trying her best to distract Clarinda from her advancing pain. When the contractions grew stronger, she held Clarinda's hand and spoke encouragingly to her, telling her to hold fast just a little longer, and promising her that it was nearly over. And when Clarinda would collapse against the mattress and whimper that she could not bear any more, Gwendolyn would gently massage the hard, aching swell of her belly, while Isabella sponged Clarinda's face with cool water and Marjorie and Lettie spoke about what a wonderful experience it was to finally hold your very own child in your arms. More candles were lit, keeping the chamber bright, and outside the rain continued to pour, so that the air was fragrant with the sweet tang of wet heather and pine.

“…that's it, Clarinda, you're doing just splendidly,” said Gwendolyn, supporting her friend's shoulders as Clarinda heaved and strained to free her child from her body.

“I can see more of the head!” announced Marjorie excitedly. “Oh, my,” she said, laughing, “what a lot of hair!”

“Let me see,” said Isabella, who had thus far avoided looking anywhere near where the child was to emerge. She cautiously moved to the end of the bed, then stared at the dark, wet crown of the baby's head in shock.

And fainted dead away.

“Let's hope she manages to stay awake for her own child,” quipped Gwendolyn.

“Come, now, Clarinda, you're almost there,” said Lettie. “Another few pushes, and it will slip right out.”

“I can't,” sobbed Clarinda, sagging back into Gwendolyn's arms. “I just can't.” She closed her eyes and began to weep, overcome with pain and exhaustion.

Marjorie regarded Gwendolyn with alarm. “She mustn't stop now—”

“Look at me, Clarinda,” Gwendolyn commanded. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

Clarinda regarded her dully. “Forgive me, Gwendolyn.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Gwendolyn told her sternly. “You are doing a wonderful job, and you are not about to give up now, do you hear? Now look at me—summon every shred of strength you have left and push, do you hear? Push!”

Clarinda closed her eyes. “I can't.”

“You can, and you will,” Gwendolyn informed her, using the same implacable tone she had heard Alex use when training his warriors. “We've come this far, and in another minute you'll see your bairn, but you have to work a little longer. Now take a deep breath—that's good—you're strong, Clarinda, stronger than the mighty Torvald, do you hear? Now push, and scream as loud as you can!”

Clarinda obediently pushed. And screamed. And screamed some more.

“That's it!” shouted Marjorie, elated. “Here it comes! Oh, my, Clarinda, it's a girl! Oh, she's just beautiful!”

A tiny, mewling cry filled the air as the door crashed open and Cameron burst into the chamber, his expression wild with terror.

“It's a girl, Cameron,” Gwendolyn told him triumphantly, still cradling Clarinda in her arms. “A tiny, perfect lass.”

Cameron stared in awe at the gray, slime-coated creature that Marjorie was holding up for him to see. His gaze moved to Clarinda, who managed a trembling smile, and then to the bloody, unfamiliar fluids soaking the linens between Clarinda's legs.

And then the fearless warrior's eyes rolled up into his head and he joined Isabella on the floor.

         

Gwendolyn leaned back in her chair and watched the soft play of candlelight flickering over David's cheeks. Her back and shoulders ached, and her hands were stained with purple bruises, the result of Clarinda's agonized clutch. Weary beyond measure, she closed her eyes.

Thank you, God, for keeping Clarinda and her new daughter safe.

After little Eveline's arrival, Gwendolyn and the other women had made Clarinda clean and comfortable while they all marveled over the sheer perfection of her child. They had repeatedly counted the bairn's tiny fingers and toes, and touched the soft thatch of red hair fringing her forehead, and unanimously declared that she was by far the comeliest child any of them had ever seen. Clarinda had shone with pleasure and quietly thanked them all, saying she could never have managed without them, and that although she had decided she would not be having any more children, she would happily recommend their services to the other women in the clan. And Marjorie had laughed and said she used to feel the same way after each of her bairns was born, yet somehow she managed to produce six of them. Finally Isabella awakened, so of course they had to unwrap Eveline and marvel at her fingers and toes and arms and legs once more, and Clarinda assured Isabella that she felt quite well, despite how she may have appeared earlier. The chamber had been aglow with feminine laughter and warmth, and Gwendolyn had felt strangely content, bonded to these women by the wonderful journey they had taken together that day.

Finally Cameron groaned and rose from the floor, rubbing his head. He sheepishly apologized to the women for fainting, and attributed it to the fact that he had not eaten that day, assuring them that it took much more than a little blood to bring him to the floor. Marjorie had tried to soothe his pride by telling him that childbirth was a woman's business and that men were best left to their battles. Then the women had discreetly excused themselves, leaving the new father and mother to stare in tender wonder at the child they had created.

The hour was late and most of the castle was now asleep, save for the warriors standing guard in the towers. Fortunately, the rain was still pouring down with great force, and there was little concern that Robert would attack tonight. David's brow was cool and dry, his breathing steady and deep, so there was no reason for Gwendolyn to linger in his chamber. Yet she remained, watching over him as he slumbered, vainly trying to steel her heart to the unbearable knowledge that tomorrow she would leave him.

When MacDunn first brought her here, he had ordered her to heal his son. Gwendolyn had reluctantly agreed, coolly bartering David's life in exchange for her own freedom once he was healed, a feat which she did not believe could be realized. At the time she had wanted nothing more than to escape the MacDunns and seek her vengeance on Robert. And now David was well and her time to leave had finally come.

She thought her heart would break from the pain of it.

When had she begun to care so deeply for this sweet child? she wondered bleakly. At what moment had his life become so much more important than her own? She gazed down at him with a love that was absolute—a powerful, motherly devotion she had never anticipated. Gwendolyn had not experienced the joy of bringing a new life into the world. But she had taken this dying child and labored long and hard to make him well, to heal his starving flesh and nourish his soul. And in those hours and days and weeks he had quietly captured her heart, binding her to him as surely as if he were part of her. He was not of her flesh, but her love for David was as powerful as the love of any caring mother for her child. All her life she had been accused of being a witch, and she had wondered why God would allow people to torment her so. But now she understood that God had had a reason to label her. Had she not been believed to be a witch, MacDunn would never have brought her here to save his dying son. David would have died, and she would never have known what it is to love a man and a lad to the very depths of her being. She inhaled a ragged breath as she skimmed her fingers across the softness of David's freckled cheek, down to the sweet little dent in his chin that was a gift from his father.

And then she picked up a candle and left the room, fearing if she stayed a moment longer, she would begin to weep and never stop.

“I thought I would find you here,” said MacDunn, emerging from the dark shadows of the corridor. He frowned. “Are you ill?”

“I am tired.” Gwendolyn bowed her head as she quickly brushed away her tears. “That is all.”

He studied her a moment. “Between standing on the parapet in the freezing rain and then spending all day and night helping Clarinda to give birth, it will be a miracle if you don't develop a burning fever and take to your bed for a month.”

“I never get sick, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn replied wearily. “I've told you that often enough.”

“Even so, you need to sleep. I am escorting you to your chamber, and you are to rest tomorrow morning—is that clear?”

Far too exhausted to argue, Gwendolyn nodded. MacDunn offered her his arm, and she laid her hand lightly against it as she walked with him along the torchlit hallway.

“I have heard that you were invaluable in helping Clarinda to birth her daughter,” he said.

“Clarinda did the hardest work.”

“That is usually the case when it comes to childbirth,” Alex acknowledged, trying not to smile. “But according to Marjorie, you kept Clarinda's spirits high and managed to keep her strong when she felt she could bear no more.”

“Most of us can bear more than we think we can. Especially when we have no choice.”

“That is true. But it is an uncommon ability, to make others believe that. It is what enables a good leader to keep his men fighting, when all they want is to lay down their swords and die.”

“Had Clarinda been lashed to the bed as Elspeth had planned, she and her bairn might well have died,” declared Gwendolyn, feeling fresh anger overwhelm her. “Did Elspeth tell you I ordered her to leave the chamber?”

He nodded. “She also said you threatened to transform her tongue into a snake,” he added, giving her a mildly disapproving look. “It is not like you, Gwendolyn, to threaten others with your powers.”

“I believe her having a snake for a tongue would be an improvement. It would make her open her mouth less.”

“Regardless, I would prefer you not inflame Elspeth's distrust of you by making such threats. Most of the clan has gradually come to accept you, and if you are patient, eventually Elspeth will accept you as well.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. She had no time to be patient, and she feared that when she was gone, other women would be at the mercy of Elspeth's vile methods. Before she left, she had to make sure that MacDunn would put an end to Elspeth's cruelty.

“Did you know that Elspeth binds laboring mothers to the bed as they writhe in agony, so that they cannot adjust their bodies to better birth their children?” she demanded. “You are a man and might think that is necessary, but Marjorie has birthed six children, and she assures me it is not. Lettie told me she hated being bound when she bore little Gareth, that it made her feel like a prisoner. And then Elspeth tells laboring women their pain is God's punishment for their sins, and that they mustn't scream, but they must endure it in silence, making them feel like they have sinned if they utter a sound. And if something is wrong with their child, or it is born dead, she blames the poor mother, as if the agonized woman could have somehow prevented it!”

For a moment Alex was too appalled to speak. He knew little about the business of childbirth, but what Gwendolyn had just described was utterly obscene. Elspeth had tended Flora during all her births, and two of those children had been born dead. Not once had Flora made any suggestion to him that she had been mistreated by Elspeth during her ordeal. Perhaps his gentle wife had been too naive to understand the atrocity of her treatment. Or perhaps the painful shock of the bairns' deaths had obliterated all memory of being trussed like an animal and told that she was responsible for her child's death. A terrible guilt enveloped him, coupled with a sudden, searing pain that seemed to cleave right through his skull.

“I—I did not know this,” he stammered, wondering how such a thing could have been kept from him. “No one told me.”

“Most women are far too embarrassed to ever discuss such a delicate matter with their laird, or even their husbands,” Gwendolyn explained. “And then of course many must believe Elspeth is right and that they must simply endure her horrid methods. But whatever the reason for their silence, you must speak with Elspeth. You are laird of all those women who have suffered, and those who will continue to suffer in Elspeth's care. It is your responsibility to protect them from such barbarous treatment.”