CHAPTER 5 #3
Alex raised a skeptical brow.
“After hearing about her devilish ways, I went upstairs to confront the witch myself,” began Lachlan, assuming control of the narrative. “But as I stood outside the chamber door, I could hear a dreadful moaning sound, like a thousand tortured souls screaming in agony.”
Owen frowned. “Do forgive, Lachlan, but you never mentioned that to me,” he objected. “You just said you could hear something, but you weren’t sure what it was.”
“That’s because I didn’t want to frighten you,” snapped Lachlan, irritated at having his account contested. “Had I told you everything, you would have run screaming from this castle, never to return.”
“I most certainly would not!” huffed Owen, indignant. “It takes more than a few ghostly cries to frighten an old warrior like me! Why, I’d have fetched my sword and told the witch to cease her nonsense at once or I would be forced to slice her to pieces.”
“You can’t slice a witch to pieces,” Reginald objected. “Their bodies are like iron.”
“If you prick them with a needle, they don’t bleed,” supplied Marjorie. “And they don’t feel any pain.”
“That’s only if you prick them where the devil has left his mark,” qualified Garrick, who was one of Alex’s younger warriors. “But sometimes that mark is invisible,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, “so you have to prick them all over.”
“The only way to destroy them is to burn them,” said Ewan, another of Alex’s men.
“It seems a shame to burn the lass,” Owen reflected sadly. “She’s very comely.”
“Perhaps we should just send her back to the MacSweens and let them burn her,” suggested Reginald.
“I haven’t finished telling my story,” complained Lachlan.
Alex sighed.
“Let’s see, now—there was the moaning of a thousand tortured souls…
” Lachlan muttered, trying to remember where he was, “oh, yes, and then the witch began to chant, in a low, ghastly voice that sounded nothing like her own. And that’s when I knew Satan himself possessed her and I had best get away before he decided to come after me as well! ”
The clan members nodded sympathetically, clearly thinking Lachlan had done all he could.
“Is that everything?” inquired Alex blandly, wondering just how much of this nonsense he was expected to believe.
“Not quite,” said Robena, anxiously twisting the linen square she held. “A short while ago Gwendolyn came down and ordered that a bathing tub be carried into David’s room and filled with water. Garrick and Ewan were afraid to disobey her, so they saw to it.”
Alex straightened, suddenly concerned. “Does she not understand how dangerous a bath could be for him?”
“I told her that plunging the lad into freezing water would kill him,” said Elspeth. “But she just laughed and said you had given her the power to do as she wished with him.”
Alex stormed across the hall, the pounding in his head all but forgotten as he went to see just what the hell this witch was doing to his son.
“…Oh, great ruler of the darkness, I offer as a sacrifice this innocent soul, if you will in turn reward me with your unearthly powers—”
Alex roared with rage and charged into the chamber, flashing his sword menacingly before him.
Gwendolyn and David regarded him in startled bewilderment.
“Good evening, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn managed, trying to steady the terrified pounding of her heart. “Is something wrong?”
Alex regarded her blankly.
She was kneeling on the floor beside a metal tub, her hands buried in a whipped froth of lather as she gently washed David’s hair.
His son’s thin cheeks were rosy from the heat of the steaming water, and the lad’s gaze was remarkably bright and alert.
Warm summer air gusted through the open windows, but the tub had been carefully positioned before a crackling fire in the hearth, ensuring that David was in no danger of getting chilled.
Silver puddles of water sparkled against the stone floor, and Gwendolyn’s black hair and ragged gown were damp, suggesting that there had been some playful splashing before Alex entered.
No hint of sickness or misery fouled the air, instead the room smelled wonderfully clean and fresh, like soap and flowers.
Every surface had been scrubbed, and small vases bearing colorful blossoms had been arranged throughout the room.
The bed had been moved from the far corner of the chamber over to the windows, where David could study the stars at night and feel sunlight graze his face in the morning.
“I—I came to see if all was well,” Alex stammered, feeling like an idiot.
“Gwendolyn is telling me a story about an evil sorcerer who turns himself into a dragon and tries to burn up a kingdom,” David reported, peering at his father over the rim of the tub.
“Really?” Alex sheathed his sword, then stole a sheepish glance at Gwendolyn. Her expression had cooled, telling him she had guessed why he had charged in here waving his weapon like a madman.
“Perhaps you would like to stay and listen to the end of the story,” she invited politely.
Alex hesitated. A palpable change had fallen over the room.
It was as if Gwendolyn and David had been safely ensconced in their own private little world and he had cracked it open and blasted them with freezing air.
For a moment the need to stay and be a part of it was almost overwhelming.
But he was acutely aware of the fact that he was an outsider.
Alex had never been actively involved in his son’s physical care.
He had certainly never participated in something as intimate as his bathing.
And storytelling was a recreation for women and children, he reminded himself impatiently, not for a laird who had the welfare of his entire clan weighing heavily on his shoulders.
“I have a number of urgent matters I must attend to,” he assured them, although at that precise moment he could not think of one. “I merely wanted to see how my son was faring.”
Gwendolyn nodded. She was certain the clan had been downstairs filling MacDunn’s head with all kinds of dreadful tales about what she was doing to the lad. The surprise on MacDunn’s face when he stood staring at them indicated he had expected to find the child half dead.
“Gwendolyn says I can watch the stars from my bed,” David chirped, breaking the awkward silence. “She says the stars have special healing powers that will help me get better. And she says my mother is up there, watching over me as I sleep.”
Alex looked at Gwendolyn with uneasy surprise. Did she know he studied the sky each night, searching for Flora’s star? That he desperately clung to the belief that his wife’s spirit was all around him, watching over him? Had she guessed the root of his madness?
She returned his gaze steadily, her gray eyes veiled, betraying no hint of her thoughts.
“He must not stay in the bath too long,” Alex said gruffly, feeling ill-at-ease. “He might get cold.”
“Are you ready to come out, David?” Gwendolyn asked.
“I guess so.”
“Lean into my arms, then,” she instructed, easing him back, “so I can rinse your hair.”
Alex watched as his son lay in the cradle of Gwendolyn’s arms and allowed her to pour a jug of fresh water over his head.
She handled the lad tenderly, taking care that no soap slipped into his eyes and making sure that the dark slick of his hair was well rinsed before she helped him out of the tub.
David looked as thin and fragile as a twig when he stood on the floor and let Gwendolyn wrap a warm towel around him.
He was too weak to stand without her support.
Alex’s heart clenched.
“I wish to speak with you in my chamber,” Alex informed her. “Once you have the lad dried and settled in his bed.”
“Very well.” Gwendolyn playfully draped a second towel over David’s head so that he was completely cloaked in fabric. “Why—where did he go?” she sputtered, sounding completely bewildered. “That’s very strange. I know he was here just an instant ago—do you see him, MacDunn?”
Alex frowned. He was totally unfamiliar with the games of children and had no idea how to respond.
“David, you’re being very naughty,” Gwendolyn scolded with mock severity. “Stop being invisible at once.”
A muffled giggle emanated from the ghostly little figure standing before her.
The unexpected, sparkling sound filled Alex with such emotion that he turned and fled the chamber—for it was a sound that he had long forgotten, and never imagined to hear again.
Gwendolyn knocked hesitantly on the scarred wood.
“Enter.”
Inhaling deeply, she lifted the latch and stepped inside.
MacDunn’s chamber was large, as befitted a laird, but it was dimly lit and sparsely furnished, suggesting its occupant either enjoyed austerity or took little notice of his physical surroundings.
A massive bed of dark wood occupied one end, which had no doubt been specially constructed to accommodate MacDunn’s unusual height.
There was a small table beside the bed, bearing a candelabra, and a simply carved chest for MacDunn’s belongings positioned at its foot.
A more substantial table and a heavy chair occupied the center of the room, on which a few more candles wavered.
MacDunn himself stood before an enormous hearth of roughly hewn stone, his hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated the low fire spilling golden light into the chamber.
There were no tapestries gracing the walls to add color to the room or warm the stone, but there were several large windows framing the silver-flecked night.
Perhaps, Gwendolyn reflected, the view of the mountains and the sky during the day was sufficient to mitigate the oppressively dreary environment.
“You wished to speak with me?”