CHAPTER 10 #4
“So how is it that he is suddenly chattering away like an old woman?” said Reginald, leaning on his sword.
“And why is he out here riding, when just a few days ago he was nearly dead?” wondered Ewan.
“I thought he was supposed to be starving to death,” added Munro, scratching his head. “He doesn’t look starved to me.”
“It is witchcraft,” said Robena angrily. “She has cast a spell on him to make him seem well, when in fact he is dying.”
“I don’t believe that, Robena,” interjected Marjorie. “If Gwendolyn could make him appear well through witchcraft, then why didn’t she do so the day she arrived and be done with it?”
“Marjorie has a point,” Reginald allowed.
“Then how do you explain the fact that she has been starving David for days, yet he has the strength to go riding?” Robena challenged.
“She hasn’t starved him,” Marjorie countered. “She has limited what he can eat.”
“And she has spent many long hours talking with him and telling him marvelous stories,” added Clarinda, watching as Gwendolyn and David made a slow, steady circle on the grass. “That’s why David has become better at expressing himself.”
The little group watched in silence as David happily followed Gwendolyn on his horse.
“Well, I call that splendid!” declared Owen suddenly. “Absolutely splendid! Lass!” he shouted, shuffling toward her. “Do you think you could cure my hands?”
Gwendolyn stopped and regarded the elder in confusion. “Pardon?”
“My hands,” Owen repeated loudly, holding the gnarled appendages up to her.
“They ache something fierce these days—particularly when the weather is foul. Not that I blame you for that,” he quickly assured her.
“You had every right to be upset. Horrid thing, to be nearly burned. Simply ghastly. Glad to see you’re feeling better, even if this sun is blinding.
Can you cure them?” He turned his hands over to display his pasty, wrinkled palms.
“I—I don’t know.” Was Owen actually asking her for help?
“It’s just that you’ve done such a grand job with the lad, I thought a pair of old hands might be easy to fix.
” He stared at them a moment, then sighed.
“No matter, my dear. I’ve almost grown accustomed to the pain.
Just a part of being old and useless, I suppose. Do forgive.” He began to turn away.
“Owen.”
He turned and regarded her hopefully.
“I will make a warm liniment for them,” she offered. “It must be massaged into the joints three times a day.” She glanced at his stiff, blue-veined fingers. “If you like,” she added hesitantly, “I can rub it in for you, so you don’t make them ache even more from the effort.”
“A liniment, you say?” He sounded disappointed. “Don’t you want to purge my bowels? Or cast a spell?”
“I will cast a spell, if you like,” Gwendolyn said, sensing that he wanted something more dramatic than a simple liniment. “But you must use the liniment as well or the spell won’t work.”
“What about my bowels?”
“Let’s wait and see how we do with the liniment,” Gwendolyn suggested.
“And the spell,” Owen reminded her.
“And the spell.”
“Excellent!” He turned to the others and shouted excitedly, “The witch is going to cast a spell on me to cure my hands!”
The group gasped with awe.
And then they hustled forward, surrounding her.
“My belly twists into a bluster after I eat,” Reginald complained. “Can you make a spell that will cure that?”
Gwendolyn regarded him blankly. The MacDunns had never concealed the fact that they feared her and wanted to be rid of her. Why were these council members suddenly trusting her to cast spells on them?
“If you can cast a spell on Owen, I don’t see why you can’t cast one on me,” added Reginald, feeling slightly injured by her hesitation.
“I can try,” said Gwendolyn. She suddenly recalled a special drink her mother’s notes had recommended for simple stomach distress. “But there is a potion I will make that you must drink with it.”
“As long as it isn’t like the foul concoctions Lachlan makes,” Reginald replied. “I’d hate to burn a hole in my gut.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my potions,” barked Lachlan, offended.
“Nothing wrong with them if you’re already dead,” muttered Reginald.
A terrible coughing cut short their banter. “This bloody cough has been plaguing me for weeks,” Ewan reported, thumping himself on the chest. “Do you have a spell for that?”
“I may,” allowed Gwendolyn, thinking of her mother’s honey drink for coughs. “And there is a hot brew that works with it.”
“By the end of the day I’m so groggy, I barely make it to my cottage,” complained Farquhar. He paused to take a hefty draft of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Can you cast a spell for that?”
“Now, let’s not keep the lass standing here holding this horse,” said Owen. “Why don’t we sit down over there on the grass?”
“What’s in the basket?” asked Munro. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing much,” Gwendolyn replied. “David is eating only the simplest of foods. Today we are having bread with honey and apples.”
“That sounds wonderful!” said Clarinda. “I’m starving.” She began to waddle toward the basket, with the rest of the group following.
“Aim higher!” shouted Alex. “Release together—now!”
A flurry of padded arrows sailed high into the air, making a slow, graceful arc before pummeling the warriors below.
“Bloody hell!” said Cameron, lowering his sword to rub his head. “Those things smart!”
“That is one of the hazards of having a big head, my friend,” teased Brodick. “Perhaps we should find a bucket for you to wear.”
“You’ll be needing a helmet more than me,” scoffed Cameron. “I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours marred.”
“I think Brodick might welcome a scratch or two on his cheek,” joked Garrick. “Maybe if he weren’t so comely, Isabella might leave him alone for more than a minute.”
“More like she would be weeping all over him,” snorted Quentin. “The lass does enjoy a good cry.”
“I say she’d fly into one of her rages and swear to disembowel the poor chap who dared touch Brodick,” predicted Cameron. “She has a colorful way with words, that one does.”
“Really?” said Brodick, his brows raised in surprise. “I hadn’t noticed.”
The warriors laughed.
“I’m delighted you find preparing for battle so amusing,” snapped Alex. “Do you think you could spare me your attention a little longer, or shall we just sit and entertain each other while the MacSweens attack?”
His men regarded him in astonishment.
“Your pardon, MacDunn,” said Brodick stiffly. “We will not speak again.”
His friend’s uncharacteristic formality told Alex that his attitude was unreasonable.
He instantly regretted his mocking words, but could not possibly take them back.
To do so would suggest weakness, and he could not afford to be weak.
An army of MacSweens was about to attack, to try to take Gwendolyn and Isabella away.
Despite his clan’s loyalty to their laird, he had no idea how hard they would fight to protect these two unwelcome guests.
Given how they longed to be rid of Gwendolyn, he could not believe they would put up much resistance.
He had vowed to keep her safe, but Alex could not defend her against an entire army by himself.
The thought unnerved him.
Pushing the thought aside, he ordered, “We will resume the attack on the south wall. Assuming Robert comes with a minimum of two hundred men, we will need archers stationed on the battlements at approximately every eight feet. They will be able to hold off the MacSweens for a few minutes, but once the attackers have positioned their ladders—”
A shout of laughter exploded into the air.
“I require your complete attention!” he snapped.
“It isn’t the men,” Cameron said. “The laughter is coming from the bailey.”
Alex listened. The laughter had now become animated shouting. How the hell was he supposed to train with all this noise?
“Practice your swordplay,” he ordered, striding angrily toward the gate.
He entered the courtyard and was surprised to find it completely empty. Following the noise around to the side of the castle, he discovered an enormous crowd of MacDunns sitting on the grass at the back corner of the courtyard, eagerly listening to Gwendolyn tell them a story.
“ ‘Surrender your weapon,’ commanded the mighty Torvald, his own sword flashing like a streak of silver before him, ‘or you will die.’ ‘I will never surrender to you,’ hissed the terrible MacRory, ‘for it is you who is about to die. Even now, you can barely stand for all the blood that flows from you.’ ‘I may die,’ Torvald agreed, ‘but you will die first.’ And the terrible MacRory lowered his sword and laughed. ‘Ha! I shall slice you into pieces and feed you to the wolves,’ he promised, ‘and then I will brutally murder your wife and children.’ ‘Never!’ roared Torvald. And with that he rushed toward MacRory, blood gushing like a river from his neck, his left arm severed but for the slenderest thread of flesh. ‘Die, foul knave!’ he cried. Summoning the last of his strength, the mighty Torvald drove his sword deep into MacRory’s stomach, skewering him like a rabbit for the spit of a fire. ”
The MacDunns stared at her, spellbound.
“What happened then?” asked Lachlan, breaking the silence. “Did the mighty Torvald live?”
“Of course he lived,” interjected Reginald. “What kind of a bloody story would it be if he died?”
“I can’t see how he would survive all those terrible wounds,” mused Owen. “Surely he must have bled to death.”
“He didn’t bleed to death,” Marjorie countered. “After that he probably crawled down the mountain and came to an old woman’s cottage, and she took him in and healed him.”
“How could he crawl with his throat slit and one arm about to fall off?” demanded Ewan.
“Maybe the old woman was out walking on the mountain and she found him and took him to her cottage,” suggested Lettie.
“He would have been dead long before he could get there,” scoffed Lachlan.