CHAPTER 6
Someone was squeezing her hand.
Gwendolyn opened her eyes. David was sleeping peacefully, his breathing steady, his cheeks and brow pale but dry. She uttered a quick prayer of thanks, because she knew his recovery had little, if anything, to do with her care.
What troubled her was the possibility that she had somehow caused his seizure, as everyone in the clan seemed to believe.
She straightened her stiff back, then gently stroked the soft skin stretched across his knuckles.
It was possible, she supposed, that bathing the lad had exhausted his already weak body, or perhaps been too great a shock for his weak system.
But she had been careful to keep him from getting chilled, and he had seemed frail but steady when she tucked him into his bed and left him to speak with MacDunn.
What had caused David’s body to go into such a violent spasm?
she wondered. She recalled telling him that he must try to eat at least a little of his dinner as she left.
Evidently his attack had begun while he was eating, for the tray had been knocked to the floor when she returned.
Was there some mysterious growth or poison in his body that caused him to reject his food?
If so, what could she possibly do to cure it?
The first smoky ripples of morning light were filtering through the window, and rain was beating heavily outside, washing the world clean and scenting the air with the fragrance of wet earth and grass.
Concerned that the chamber might become overly damp, Gwendolyn rose, then stared in confusion at the warm plaid that slid down her body and puddled onto the floor.
The plaid had come from David’s bed, she realized, but she could not remember wrapping herself in it before she fell asleep.
Deciding she must have been too tired to recall, she scooped it up and draped it over David, taking care not to wake him.
Then she went to the fire and added more wood.
Once it was burning brightly, she took another quick glance at her charge and, satisfied that he was sleeping comfortably, she stole quietly out of the room.
The castle was eerily still as she hurried along the corridor and up the steps leading to her tower chamber.
She was glad she had awakened early, for she did not wish to encounter anyone until she had the opportunity to tidy herself and change her gown.
The tangled black waves leaking over her shoulders suggested that her hair must look a sight, and her already soiled, tattered gray gown was now wrinkled and water-stained from the soapy splashing during David’s bath.
She only had the crimson gown to change into, which seemed inordinately fine for the task of tending to David, but since she had no other garment, it would have to do.
The acrid scent of smoke greeted her as she approached the door.
Gwendolyn pushed the heavy door open to find the sealed chamber choked with a gray haze.
Exasperated, she went to the windows and threw them wide, then quickly scanned the room for the culprit pots of burning herbs.
But the billow of smoke was coursing from the hearth.
Gwendolyn approached it in bewilderment, wondering who would be considerate enough to enter her chamber so early in the morning and lay a fire, albeit a suffocating one?
As she drew closer she stared at the smoldering material lying in a forlorn heap upon the logs.
The fabric was charred beyond recognition, except for a small swath that had somehow managed to elude the heat and flames—a fragment of crimson wool edged in gold.
Bitter fury whipped through her. How dare the MacDunns enter her chamber and destroy one of her few precious possessions, and worse, one that their own laird had given to her?
The petty meanness of such an act was abominable.
She whirled toward the door, determined to find MacDunn and inform him of his clan’s contemptible behavior.
But she froze when she saw the note crudely speared to her pillow.
She moved toward it cautiously, her anger tempered by wariness. She withdrew the small wooden stake skewering a wrinkled sheaf of paper on which someone had written a message in a blunt, inelegant hand.
Make haste and leave, witch, before you suffer the unfortunate fate of your gown.
Gwendolyn fought to stifle the panic swelling in her chest. She knew this was no idle threat.
She had been here long enough to realize that the MacDunns’ loathing of witches was even greater than that of the MacSweens.
With the welfare of both their current and future lairds at risk, these people would have no qualms about lashing her to a post and setting fire to her, just as the MacSweens had done to her mother, and had tried to do to her.
What was amazing was that they were giving her warning.
The note fell to the floor, followed by the carefully whittled stake, which now seemed grotesquely appropriate.
She must escape now, this morning, before these awful people had a chance to harm her.
MacDunn had promised to keep her safe, but not even he could control the misguided fears of his clan.
She was not guarded in the castle. It would be all too easy for someone to enter her chamber unnoticed, or capture her as she moved along a dark hallway, or slip poison into her food as it was carried from the kitchen.
The methods by which she might be killed were infinite.
She would not stay and give the MacDunns the opportunity to succeed where her own clan had failed.
“Oh, are you casting a spell?” asked a shy voice.
Gwendolyn inhaled sharply, trying to steady the pounding of her heart.
A young woman with hair the color of darkly polished wood stood in the doorway, balancing a tray precariously before the enormous expanse of her pregnant body.
Despite the rather startling roundness of her shape, Gwendolyn could tell by the slim arms holding the tray that the girl was normally quite tiny, leading her to believe that she was either carrying more than one child or the bairn was about to arrive momentarily.
“I thought you might be hungry,” the girl explained.
“I’m not,” Gwendolyn assured her tautly. Was this some ploy to poison her? Or did the MacDunns plan to drug her with some herb and then murder her as she slept?
“Well, I’ll just leave it here, then,” the girl said, waddling into the chamber and setting the tray down on a table.
“It’s early yet, but you might find your insides sorely empty later.
” She sighed and pressed her hand into the small of her back, massaging her aching muscles.
“Why are you burning your lovely gown?” she asked, regarding the fireplace curiously. “Is it part of some ritual?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know about this!”
The girl stared at her blankly. Then she spied the note lying on the stone floor. With considerable effort, she bent down and scooped it up. “Oh,” she murmured, scanning the message.
“You MacDunns have made it clear that you don’t want me here,” Gwendolyn observed coolly. “It’s obvious you’ll do anything to be rid of me.”
“That’s true for most of the clan,” the girl agreed, not looking overly troubled by the note. “The MacDunns are afraid you mean to harm wee David, and as you can see, they’re not the kind of folk who will just stand by and watch you do it. But I don’t believe you mean the lad any suffering.”
“Oh, really?” said Gwendolyn, unconvinced.
“At first I did,” the girl confessed. “But that was before I watched you tending him last night. I knew that a woman couldn’t care for a child with such gentleness and mean him ill at the same time.”
“Everyone in the clan believed his illness last night was my fault.”
“Not everyone,” corrected the girl, easing her bulky form into a chair.
Her straining gown rose slightly as she did so, revealing ankles and feet that looked uncomfortably swollen.
She laced her bloated fingers together over her stomach and regarded Gwendolyn calmly.
“MacDunn obviously didn’t, or he wouldn’t have let you near his son.
And I didn’t. David takes ill like that all the time.
He has for months now, since he first became really sick. ”
Gwendolyn hesitated. The girl seemed earnest, but Gwendolyn did not know if she should believe her. It was possible she had been sent by others in the clan to gain her trust and then use it against her.
“I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Elspeth the way you did,” the girl remarked, her pretty mouth curving into a smile. “I know I’ve never had the courage to do it, though I’ve wanted to often enough.”
“You have?” Despite her determination to remain wary, Gwendolyn was actually starting to like her visitor.
“Aye,” the girl answered. “Elspeth loves nothing better than to be in command, especially when people are sick and helpless. She believes illness is either the devil’s work or a punishment from God.
Whatever the reason, she says ’tis only through suffering and atonement that one can be made better.
That and lots of bleedings to leech out the evil and purify the body. ”
“Judging by the slashes on David’s arms, I would think the lad should be absolutely immaculate by now.”
“There’s many a time that bleeding has worked,” the girl pointed out. “But other times, when the poisons and evil have spread too far, not even a good bleeding can save a lost soul.”
She meditatively stroked her taut belly, as if soothing some ghostly pain. It was apparent to Gwendolyn that the girl spoke from experience. She found herself wondering what ailment had forced this young woman to endure Elspeth’s harsh ministrations.