The Witch and The Warrior by Karyn Monk Page A

dislike having my hall smell like a putrid cavern.”
    Robena picked up her skirts and rushed to follow him. Suddenly Alex stopped and looked expectantly at Gwendolyn. “Are you coming?” he asked impatiently.
    The trio made their way up the staircase and along a dim, torchlit corridor. The air grew heavier and staler as they continued, and by the time they stopped in front of a wooden door, Gwendolyn felt she could scarcely breathe. Even Robena had produced a dainty linen square from her sleeve and raised it to her nose, so she could better tolerate the stifling smoke. Alex hesitated a moment, his enormous hand gripping the iron latch, as if steeling himself for what lay on the other side of the door. Finally he lifted the latch, swung the heavy door open, and went inside.
    The chamber was dark, hot, and airless, as the windows were shut tight and a fire roared in the hearth, even though the day outside was warm. The acrid haze produced by countless pots of smoldering herbs was so thick it made the great hall seem almost breezy in comparison. But there was another smell to the room, a close, sour odor of sickness. A few dripping candles cast a feeble glow into the gloom, allowing just enough light for Gwendolyn to make out a bed piled high with blankets and animal skins. A lean, spindly armed woman was bent over the pile, briskly arranging yet another covering. On seeing Alex, the woman straightened and gave him a respectful nod.
    â€œWelcome back, MacDunn.” She cast a confused glance at Gwendolyn. “Is this the witch?”
    Alex nodded. The woman’s expression hardened.
    â€œForgive me, m’lord,” she began, her tone far more acquiescent than the rigid set of her pinched face, “but your son is quite weak just now and I really don’t think—”
    â€œShe will see him now, Elspeth,” Alex interrupted firmly.
    Elspeth pressed her lips together, as if trying to contain whatever argument she wanted to give her laird. Realizing she had no choice, she moved away from the bed.
    Alex stepped toward it as if he were approaching a coffin. Summoning all of his courage, he looked stonily at the thin, ashen face of his son. If not for Elspeth’s certainty that the lad was resting, he would have thought he was dead. David’s skin was white and bloodless, his cheeks gaunt, his eyelids as thin and fragile as paper. Alex swallowed hard, fighting the despair threatening to engulf him. First his beloved Flora, and now his only son. What had he done, he wondered desperately, to make God loathe him so? Overwhelmed by the sight of his child laid out like a corpse, he raised his eyes to Gwendolyn, silently imploring her to help.
    Gwendolyn stared at MacDunn. It was as if she were looking upon him for the first time. Instead of the powerful mad laird, a man who feared nothing and found amusement by instilling fear in others, she suddenly saw a man in unbearable pain.
    She looked down at the pallid, sweat-soaked head lying still on the damp pillow. She guessed his son’s age to be about nine, certainly no more than ten, though his illness might have delayed his growth. He had a delicacy of structure that reminded Gwendolyn of an eggshell, fine and white and smooth, and she feared if she laid her hand against his feverish brow he might suddenly shatter. His breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible—and no wonder, she thought angrily. The terrible heat and stench corrupted what little air remained in this dreadful chamber.
    â€œHe can barely breathe—could we not open a window?” she suggested, looking hopefully at MacDunn.
    â€œNo,” interjected Robena. “The boy is weak and vulnerable to drafts.”
    â€œHe must be kept warm,” Elspeth added firmly. “A sudden chill could kill him.”
    Gwendolyn bit back her response that between the raging fire and the suffocating mound of blankets and furs, there was little chance of the lad