CHAPTER 5
A river of light stretched all the way to her bed and radiated through the rumpled blankets, warming her.
Gwendolyn sighed and closed her eyes, assuring herself it could not possibly be as late as the brilliance of the sun suggested. Burrowing deeper into the sheets, she tried to enter the hazy respite of sleep once more. Just a few minutes, and then she would rise and prepare her father’s breakfast.
The scent of baking bread filtered into her chamber. Frowning, she opened her eyes.
Despondence surged over her in a cold, black wave, washing away the drowsy shreds of languor.
Her father was dead. He lay deep within the ground, trapped forever in the darkness.
She would never hear his rumbling voice, or kiss his bearded cheek, or find comfort in his gentle presence again.
She was alone in the world, a prisoner and an outcast, feared and despised because she had been branded a murderess and a witch.
For a moment the pain was unbearable. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball, feeling small and afraid, like a helpless child.
She wanted to fall asleep again and awaken to find that the bitter realities of her life were nothing but a hideous dream.
But her mind was sharp and her body restless, rendering slumber impossible.
The sounds of the MacDunns going about their day slowly penetrated her despair.
She had to remain strong, she reminded herself.
She would never escape this place and have vengeance on Robert if she allowed herself to crumble.
That realization enabled her to master her anguish as she threw back her covers and padded across the cool stone floor to the window.
The sun was burning through the last gauzy veils of mist shrouding the mountains, telling her that the morning was advanced and the day was certain to be a fine one.
She filled the stone basin hewn into the wall of the tower with cold water from a jug that had been left in her chamber and quickly washed her face and hands.
Then she dressed in her drab gray gown, deciding the crimson one was too fine a garment to wear during the day.
Until her escape tonight she must act as if she were reconciled to her situation, and that meant assuming her duties as healer to David.
Although sleeveless and singed, her gray gown was still serviceable and seemed a more appropriate choice for the work of tending a severely ill child.
She searched through the chest at the foot of the bed and found a comb, which she dragged impatiently through the tangles in her hair.
She had no ribbon or scrap of cord to tie it back, so she left it to fall where it might, indifferent to the matter of her appearance.
She climbed down the narrow tower staircase and headed straight for young David’s chamber, praying her sickly charge hadn’t died during the night.
The stench of burning herbs filled her nostrils as she approached, and the air grew heavy and warm.
On reaching his door, she hesitated, preparing for the confrontation she would surely face if Elspeth was with the lad.
Reminding herself that she was caring for the boy by MacDunn’s order, she rapped firmly on the door.
No one answered, but she heard a muffled cough.
Encouraged by the fact that David might be alone, she lifted the latch and entered the dark room.
The fire was blazing away, and the containers of herbs were smoldering thicker than ever, rendering the hot, dank air almost noxious.
Clearly someone had been there earlier that morning tending these things, but David was alone at the moment, lying forlornly beneath a crush of heavy blankets and animal skins.
He was hacking and coughing against his pillow, sounding as if every hoarse breath might be his last. Anger streaked through Gwendolyn, obliterating her melancholy.
She might not have much experience in healing, but she could certainly see when a child was suffering.
Blinking against the stinging smoke, she managed a smile.
“Good morning, David,” she called cheerfully, heading straight for the windows. “My goodness, one would almost think your room was on fire, the smoke is so thick. Let’s see if we can’t clear it.”
She threw open the wooden shutters to all three windows, flooding the dingy room with light. Fresh air blew in with a soft gust, whirling the smoke around as it chased it out of the chamber.
David eyed her fearfully from the bed. “Elspeth and Robena won’t like that.”
“Probably not,” Gwendolyn agreed. “But don’t you hate lying in the dark breathing that horrible air all the time? I know I would.”
He hesitated, as if uncertain how to answer. “Elspeth says it is good for me, and my father says I must heed Elspeth.” He began to cough again.
“Well, that is about to change.” She picked up an iron rod beside the fire and poked at the logs to separate them, reducing their hot blaze. “If Elspeth’s methods are certain, then why are you so ill?”
“God gave me a weak constitution—like my mother.”
He said it tonelessly, with neither anger nor self-pity. Gwendolyn suspected this explanation for his failing health had been drummed into him from the time he was very young.
“Is that all?” she scoffed. “For a moment I thought it was something serious. If weakness is what ails you, then we must work on making you strong. But I cannot see how you will get better lying in the dark, breathing foul air that would fell even the heartiest of warriors.”
She proceeded to carry the smoldering jars of herbs out into the hallway. By the time the last container was removed, the warm breeze puffing through the windows had almost cleared the chamber, and David’s coughing had subsided considerably.
“Elspeth will be angry that you did that,” he warned.
“I’m sure she will be,” agreed Gwendolyn, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “But your father has asked me to help you get better, and my methods are not the same as Elspeth’s.”
His face froze. “Are you going to cast an evil spell on me?”
“What a ridiculous idea,” she scolded. If she was to care for this lad, even just for today, it was important that she gain his trust. “I’m not going to do anything of the sort, David. All I want is for you to get better.”
He studied her as she approached him, as if wondering whether or not to believe her.
The room had cooled considerably, but David’s face was still beaded with sweat, and the linen of his pillow was damp.
Gwendolyn lay her hand against his brow, then frowned at the mound of blankets and skins pinning him to the mattress.
“Would you like me to remove some of these blankets?”
He regarded her with surprise. “I’m very hot,” he confessed, “but Robena says I’m not allowed to disturb my coverings.”
“I will deal with Robena,” Gwendolyn told him, peeling away the heavy layers of wool and fur.
She suspected they had not been aired for weeks, for the smell of smoke and sweat and sickness clung to them.
Once she had stripped the bed down to a sheet, she selected two relatively fresh blankets, which she arranged neatly over him.
As she positioned his thin arms on the soft wool, she noticed one of them was bandaged with a strip of bloodstained cloth, while the other was heavily etched with small, ugly gashes at various stages of healing.
These were the cuts Elspeth and the other healers had made when they bled him, she realized.
She recalled Robena telling MacDunn that the boy had been bled both yesterday and the day before, to release the poisons from his body.
She frowned at the marks, wondering if it was wise to bleed a child so frequently.
“There, now,” she said, giving a final tuck to the corner of the blankets. “Are you warm enough?”
He nodded.
“Good. Have you eaten anything today?”
“I’m not hungry.”
His face was gaunt and his body thin, suggesting that his illness had eroded his appetite for some time.
Gwendolyn recalled MacDunn telling her that David’s affliction had begun as a stomach ailment.
MacDunn had also said that the boy had had trouble keeping food in him, until finally he could scarcely eat at all.
“You cannot get better if you don’t eat,” Gwendolyn remarked, pulling a chair over to the bed and seating herself. “Your body needs food to get strong.”
The lad regarded her with weary indifference. No doubt he had been told this many times before. “I feel too sick to eat.”
“Does your stomach hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does it hurt now?” she persisted, trying to better understand his symptoms.
“No.”
“Do you have pain anywhere else?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders. “All over.”
Gwendolyn thought about this a moment. “Piercing pain, like an arrow shooting through you, or an overall ache?”
“An overall ache.”
“Do you ache now?”
He nodded.
“Do you ever feel any better after Elspeth has bled you?” she asked curiously.
His blue eyes widened. “I don’t want to be bled today,” he whimpered.
“I have no intention of bleeding you,” Gwendolyn quickly promised him. “I was just wondering if it has ever made you feel better.”
He shook his head. “It hurts when she cuts my arm, and I always feel sicker afterward. But Elspeth says you don’t feel the good of a bleeding right away. And I would rather be bled than purged. Being purged is awful.” He wrinkled his nose in revulsion.
Gwendolyn considered this a moment. In truth, she had no experience with bleedings and purgings, although she knew these practices were common among healers.
But the hatch marks on David’s arm indicated he had been bled often.
If his condition hadn’t improved in spite of this, and if it made the poor lad feel even sicker, then why continue to do it?