CHAPTER 6 #3
“Because people fear that which they do not understand,” pronounced an amused voice. “It is up to those who do understand to try to ease their anxiety. But that is a lesson you have not yet learned, have you, my dear?”
Gwendolyn turned to see Morag standing in the doorway.
The ancient seer was dressed in a voluminous robe of sapphire velvet, over which her long hair poured in a silver river.
One arm leaned against her elegantly carved staff, while the other was festooned with rumpled mounds of emerald, gold, and rich purple fabric.
“It seems you are in need of a gown,” Morag observed, her sea-green eyes sparkling as she entered the chamber. “These were among my favorites when I was about your age. It would please me to see them being worn once again.”
Gwendolyn arched her brows with suspicion. “How did you know I needed another gown?”
“ ’Twas just a feeling,” replied Morag airily, depositing her gifts on the bed. “Do you like them?”
Gwendolyn reached out and laid a tentative hand on the soft crush of fabric.
“They are beautiful,” she admitted, tracing the elaborate embroidery on one with her fingertip.
If these gowns had indeed been Morag’s when she was young, they must be over fifty years old.
But the fabric and stitching were scarcely worn, and the colors were brilliant, suggesting they could not possibly date from that time.
“I have always taken good care of my clothes,” Morag explained, as if reading her thoughts. “And as you will see, classic styling endures from one generation to the next.”
“I’ve always said the same thing,” remarked Clarinda, rising heavily from her chair to join Gwendolyn by the bed. “Which is a good notion when you come from a family of nine brothers and sisters,” she added wryly.
“I cannot accept these,” said Gwendolyn, running her hand reverently over the dry silk of the gold gown.
“Of course you can.” Morag waved a blue-veined hand in the air. “My days of wearing such slim garments are long gone, I can assure you. These gowns have been waiting for you.”
Gwendolyn paused, tempted. Then she shook her head. “It is too generous a gift. And I should hate for anything to happen to them,” she added, glancing at the shriveled black fabric lying in the hearth.
“A shame about that,” Morag remarked, not sparing a glance at the fireplace. “I thought you looked perfectly lovely in crimson. Perhaps I will find something similar for you in one of my chests. Until then, I think those will suit you very well.”
Gwendolyn hesitated. It would be wrong for her to accept these gowns, she realized.
She had not minded accepting MacDunn’s gown, because he had kidnapped her and was partly responsible for the fact that her own gown was in such a miserable state.
But Morag was offering this gift as a gesture of friendship.
Gwendolyn was not accustomed to such generosity and had no wish to feel indebted to her.
“A true gift is one which is bestowed with no expectation for something in return,” Morag pointed out.
Gwendolyn looked at her in surprise, disconcerted by the way Morag seemed to read her mind.
“You will wear the emerald dress today,” Morag decided. “It is wool and will protect you well when you go outside.”
“Gwendolyn can’t go outside today, Morag,” protested Clarinda. “It’s pouring rain. It has been ever since last night.”
Morag eyed Gwendolyn with amusement. “That’s because the rain complements her mood. If a witch doesn’t like the weather, then she should change it.”
Gwendolyn stifled her urge to smile. Evidently Brodick’s and Cameron’s story about the storm she supposedly conjured up on their journey here had made the clan think the weather was subject to her powers.
“I like the rain,” she declared, as if she were responsible for it.
“So do I,” chirped Morag brightly. “Washes the world clean and lets you start again.” She turned to make her way toward the door. “I think you’ll find, however, that the rest of the MacDunns are not quite so enamored with it.”
She laughed, a high, melodious sound that filled the chamber as she left.
“A terrible evil has invaded our clan.”
The MacDunns nodded solemnly as Lachlan made this dire pronouncement.
“I warned MacDunn not to fetch her,” said Reginald. “I told him a witch in our midst would only bring mischief.”
“The mischief I could live with,” Garrick assured them. “I don’t mind the odd flying pot, if that’s as far as it went.”
“Easy enough for you to say,” growled Munro. “Ye’re not the one who was chased clear across the courtyard before the thing swooped down and banged you on the bloody head! I’m lucky to have lived to tell the tale!”
“Do forgive, Munro, but being crowned by a pot seems an odd way for a witch to try to kill a man,” observed Owen. “Perhaps she was just making sport with you.”
Munro’s face reddened with outrage. “She turned my legs to stone so I couldn’t run away!” he bellowed. “ ’Twas an attempt to murder me, make no mistake!”
“Why should she want to murder you?” asked Reginald.
“Because she knows I can see beneath her comely appearance,” explained Munro.
Owen’s eyes grew wide. “Are you saying the lass doesn’t really look like that?”
“She’s as old and ugly as a withered toe,” he replied. “With horrible, knobby growths all over her face!”
“I knew it!” burst out Lachlan, gleefully rubbing his bony hands together. “Tonight I shall begin working on a new potion, which will reveal her true, wizened self!” He scrunched his white brows together in confusion. “Did you say she looks like an old toe?”
“If she really wanted to murder you, then why are you still alive?” persisted Reginald, unconvinced.
“It takes more than one scrawny witch to do away with this MacDunn,” Munro boasted. “Besides, this head is as hard as rock.” He cracked his beefy fist against his skull, then winced.
“I can’t believe MacDunn risked war with the MacSweens to bring her here,” fretted Lachlan. “An army is probably on its way to butcher us as we sleep! How am I supposed to get my rest at night?”
“Those cowardly MacSweens are no match for us,” Reginald scoffed.
“Laird MacSween is a spineless fool. Let them come,” he declared, reaching for his sword, “and this is what they’ll meet!
” He groped at his empty belt a moment, then frowned and lowered his gaze to search for his weapon, as if he thought it might be hiding somewhere in his plaid. “That’s odd—I’m sure I had it with me.”
“It’s David we have to worry about at the moment,” Elspeth interjected. “His illness last night leaves no doubt that the witch has come to destroy him.”
“Strange weather we’ve been having since she arrived,” noted Owen, staring in sudden fascination at the rain-slick windows. “Before she came here, the days were fine.” He scratched his white head, trying to remember. “Or was that last summer?”
“There’s many a peculiar thing happening since the witch arrived,” added Letitia, a pretty girl with dark, curly hair. “Last night my wee Gareth cried all night, and normally he’s as quiet as a mouse.”
“For God’s sake, Lettie, ’twas just last week he screamed every night until dawn,” countered Ewan, her husband. “Nearly drove me daft.”
“He was cutting a tooth,” Lettie returned defensively. “But it’s all through now. There was no cause for him to shriek so last night.”
“Except to keep his neighbors awake,” grumbled Quentin, who lived in the cottage next to them.
“I heard an eerie howling last night,” said Garrick, changing the subject.
“That was Lettie’s bairn,” joked Quentin, causing the clan to laugh.
“ ’Twas a screech not of this world,” Garrick countered. “I was searching for my dog Laddie in the storm, but the screaming froze my blood, so I ran home, bolted the door, and prayed to God for mercy.”
“And then what?” prodded Reginald, who had finally given up trying to find his sword.
Garrick shrugged. “I drank a pitcher of ale and fell asleep.”
“Exactly how many pitchers had you drunk before you heard this screeching?” demanded Lachlan suspiciously.
“Two or three,” he confessed.
“Did you ever find your dog?” Owen asked.
He shook his head. “Witch took him for one of her spells.”
Everyone gasped in sympathy.
A long, loud belch resounded through the hall, followed by the bang of an empty cup against wood.
“The ale is off,” Farquhar reported, wiping his dripping mouth on his sleeve. “I can barely drink it.” He blearily grabbed a pitcher and filled his cup to overflowing again.
“I’ve noticed that,” agreed Quentin. “Ever since the witch came. And the meat has been burned every night, as well.”
“It most certainly has not!” huffed Alice, the cook.
“Now, I’m not saying it’s your fault, Alice,” Quentin swiftly assured her. “It’s just that since the witch arrived, things have been a little charred—which is entirely her doing,” he added meekly, “not yours.”
“If it was so awful, then why were you cramming your mouth last night like it was an empty sack?” she demanded testily.
“I think we can agree that there have been many peculiar occurrences here since the witch arrived,” interrupted Lachlan.
“Even MacDunn has been acting strangely,” commented Robena.
“The witch has cast some spell over him,” Elspeth concluded. “That’s why he allowed her to stay with David last night, when he should have locked the evil shrew in a dungeon!”
“MacDunn always acts strangely,” Reginald pointed out. “You can’t put much weight in that.”
“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Lachlan. “He’s been a little odd since Flora died.”
Owen sighed. “Broke his heart, it did. And cracked his mind in the process.”
“He hasn’t been talking to her again, has he?” asked Marjorie worriedly.
“No,” drawled an ominously low voice. “I haven’t.”
Awkward silence gripped the clan as Alex entered the hall. Cameron, Brodick, and Ned followed him, their expressions hard with disapproval.