The Witch and The Warrior (2 page)

“…And because of these
unholy
activities, the fact that you bear the unmistakable mark of the devil on your person, and finally, the
vile
murder of your
own father,
a crime so
fiendish,
it could only be work of a filthy
whore
who lies with the
devil…
” ranted Laird MacSween, emphasizing as many words as possible for dramatic effect.

MacDunn studied her a moment, idly twirling his apple on his sparkling dirk, no doubt wondering if she was really capable of committing all the dreadful deeds of which she stood accused. She glared back at him, wondering for what base purpose he had sought to purchase her. His expression remained bland, but there was an intensity to his gaze that was strangely incompatible with his fatuous, lean-witted manner. His scrutiny was unnerving. It made her feel as if he were penetrating the protective shield of her anger, searching for the real woman beneath. A ripple of heat coursed through her, rendering her oddly breathless. MacDunn regarded her another few seconds, then suddenly dropped his gaze to his apple and resumed pecking at it, as if she no longer merited his attention.

Shaken and humiliated, Gwendolyn looked away.

Laird MacSween continued to read the list of charges against her. The MacSweens listened with rowdy enjoyment, regularly interrupting to hurl some crude insult at her. It seemed everyone in her clan was crammed into the courtyard to witness her death, from the tiniest of infants to the frailest of elders. Judging by their fiercely righteous expressions, it was clear they believed they were merely carrying out God's will on this day. She scanned the crush of faces, vainly searching for a scrap of pity or compassion. But the MacSweens had feared and ostracized her for as long as she could remember, and there was no one she could call a friend, who might feel empathy for her. She did, however, notice another stranger, whom she assumed was a warrior of Mad MacDunn's, as he sported the same dark green and yellow plaid. He was a huge bear of a man, with long, fiery red hair and a thick red beard. His considerable bulk had enabled him to force his way through the crowd and he now stood just below the platform, swaying drunkenly as he lifted a bucket of ale to his mouth. The dark brew sloshed down his face and chest, soaking his shirt and plaid before it dripped onto the ground. Finally, when it appeared his enormous body could absorb no more, he lowered the bucket, wiped his mouth with his arm, and expelled the most resounding belch Gwendolyn had ever heard.

The crowd roared with laughter, causing Laird MacSween to pause and regard them in confusion.

“Your pardon, MacSween,” apologized the warrior thickly. “ 'Tis an exceptionally spirited ale.” With that he raised the bucket and began to drink once more.

Disgusted, she shifted her gaze, only to notice another MacDunn warrior perched in the second-floor opening of a window, his slim legs dangling against the castle wall. This slight fellow was almost elfin compared to his burly clansmen, and only the light brown growth upon his cheek assured Gwendolyn he was actually a man and not a boy. Though he had managed to procure a most enviable seat, he appeared uninterested in the drama playing before him in the courtyard and was absorbed, instead, in whittling a stick.

Another MacDunn warrior with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard leaned casually against the outer wall, shamelessly flirting with Laird MacSween's daughter, Isabella. Clearly he held Isabella enchanted. He leaned inappropriately close to her, his lips nearly grazing her hair as he whispered something into her ear. She raised her hand to her throat in feigned shock and giggled prettily. Gwendolyn watched her with irritation. As Laird MacSween's only daughter, Isabella did not have a worry in life beyond what gown she was going to wear that day and which of her many suitors she might ultimately decide to wed.

Meanwhile, while Mad MacDunn and his boorish warriors were engaged in coy seduction, crafting toys, or getting blinding drunk, Gwendolyn awaited her death by burning at the stake.

“…therefore the
devil
within her
must
be sent back to the fires of
hell,
so she can no longer unleash
death
and
destruction
on this clan,” finished Laird MacSween.

“Burn the bloody bitch!”

“Quickly, before she casts more of her evil upon us!”

“Burn her, burn her, burn her…” The chant rose like a prayer, until the entire clan was demanding her death.

As Gwendolyn stared at their snarling faces, she understood the utter despair her mother must have endured on the day she was executed. But her mother had suffered more, for she had died leaving an anguished husband and a tiny daughter. At least Gwendolyn left no one behind. Her father was dead and was therefore spared the horror of watching his child die as her mother had died before her. There was some solace in that, she assured herself, fighting the tears that stung her eyes.

“Light the fire,” commanded Laird MacSween, striving to be heard above the chanting crowd.

The clan raised their arms in the air and cheered.

Two men stepped forward bearing torches. Gwendolyn's breathing grew shallow. She braced herself against the stake.

Please God, let me faint before the flames begin to devour my flesh.

She hurled one last, hate-filled look at Robert. He lounged back in his chair and regarded her with something akin to triumph, but she knew his victory was hollow.

You'll never have the jewel now, you bastard.

The first torch began its descent. Terror gripped her, but she willed herself not to whimper.

One guard smiled as his torch hovered just above the dried grasses and branches. “Away with you, witch,” he snarled. “To the fires of—”

She waited for him to say
hell,
but all that came out was a stifled groan. Gwendolyn watched in confusion as his eyes widened, then rolled upward. With a sigh, he collapsed heavily onto the ground, the jeweled hilt of a dirk protruding from his back, his fallen torch abandoned in the branches.

The other torchbearer stared at his dead partner in shock. Then he tossed his torch onto the arid nest at her feet.

The red-haired, drunken warrior at her left heaved his bucket of ale over it, extinguishing the flames. Then he slammed the pail hard onto the guard's head, spun him around, and gave him a solid kick to his backside, sending him flying into the crowd of astonished MacSweens.

“What's happening?” demanded Laird MacSween, straining to see through the crowd. “Is that red-haired fellow truly so drunk—”

“Stop him!”
roared Robert as Mad MacDunn began to gallop toward the stake. He sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair.
“Stop MacDunn!”

The flames from the first torch had spread hungrily through the branches untouched by ale and were now lapping at the hem of Gwendolyn's gown. The bear warrior leaped onto the platform and hacked at the ropes binding her to the stake as Mad MacDunn thundered forward on his horse, his great broadsword raised high in warning to anyone foolish enough to get in his way. The astonished MacSweens obligingly parted, realizing he truly was mad, or perhaps thinking this was some terrible feat of magic Gwendolyn was working. As MacDunn reached the burning platform, Gwendolyn felt the last rope give way. She started to fall, but the enormous warrior easily lifted her off her limp legs and threw her onto MacDunn's horse.

“Hold on to me!” commanded MacDunn. He jerked her arm forward around his waist.

One of Robert's men was racing toward them, his sword aimed at the chest of MacDunn's horse. “You'll not get away so easy, MacDunn,” he swore, drawing back his blade.

An arrow sliced through the air and neatly punctured the warrior's back. Gwendolyn glanced up to see the elflike warrior in the window positioning another sharply carved arrow against the string of his bow.

“Surround them!” shouted Robert, jumping from the dais and running toward his own horse. “Don't let them escape!”

MacDunn began to thrash mercilessly with his sword at the advancing crowd, forcing them to part as he urged his horse toward the gate. Gwendolyn clung to him, her arms wrapped around his waist, aware of the power emanating from him as his muscles shifted and flexed beneath her hands. His plaid was soft against her skin, but the body it covered was rock-hard, and she leaned closer, drawing courage from his strength.

Someone grabbed her leg and began to drag her off the charger.

“MacDunn!” she cried.

MacDunn turned and drove his sword into the man, then swiftly pulled the dripping blade out and speared another MacSween who had been about to hack his ribs open with an ax. The man crashed heavily against MacDunn's horse, causing the animal to rear. Gwendolyn began to slide backward. MacDunn's hand clamped painfully onto her arm and held her fast as he continued to use his other arm to hack at anyone daring to come near them.

“Hold on!” he commanded furiously.

In that instant Gwendolyn saw another of Robert's warriors taking aim at MacDunn with his bow and arrow. Suddenly remembering the sharp stone hidden in her hand, she hurled it through the air. The warrior howled and dropped his weapon, then raised his fingers tentatively to the ugly cut leaking blood just below his eye.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered MacDunn.

Gwendolyn sensed he was impressed, but he wasted no time thanking her, for they had nearly reached the gate.

“The gate!” bellowed Robert, who by now had mounted his own horse and was thundering toward them.
“Close the bloody gate!”

The MacSweens surged toward the gate, each one clamoring to get there first. This resulted in a great deal of tripping, cursing, and ultimately wrestling among themselves. From the corner of her eye, Gwendolyn could see both the bear warrior and the elf were now mounted and racing toward the break in the curtain wall.

She leaned into MacDunn and pressed her face into the warmth of his plaid.

Thank you, God.

The wooden portcullis crashed to the ground.

Having reached the end of the courtyard, MacDunn was forced to abruptly halt his horse. The snorting animal reared once more.

“You really must be mad, MacDunn,” Robert called out scornfully as he rode up to them, “to attempt such a ridiculous abduction.”

It was over, Gwendolyn realized. For some reason these men had risked their lives to save her, but they had failed. Now they would all be killed.

“I am sorry,” she said to MacDunn, her voice ragged. “You shouldn't have tried. Now you will all die.” She eased her grip on his waist, preparing to slide off his charger and meet her fate.

His hand clamped firmly over her wrist, holding her to him.

“I really think you should open the gate and let us pass, MacSween,” said MacDunn pleasantly, ignoring Robert.

Laird MacSween, who had not ventured from his honored seat on the dais, looked uncertainly at Robert.

“I don't believe you quite understand your situation, Laird MacDunn,” drawled Robert, his tone heavily mocking. “Permit me to enlighten you. You are surrounded by my warriors.”

MacDunn lifted a brow in surprise. “Forgive me. I was under the impression that your brother was laird.”

“He is,” Robert conceded stiffly, “but
I
lead the MacSween army. And by my estimation, there are but three of you against hundreds,” he added, gesturing to his clan.

“You are right,” agreed MacDunn, not sounding overly concerned. “But if you do not permit us to leave, I am afraid we will have no choice but to kill her.”

Gwendolyn gasped and tried to wrench her hand away. MacDunn tightened his grip, holding her fast.

Robert regarded him in disbelief. And then he threw back his head and laughed. “This is your threat to me?” he sputtered. “By God, it seems you really are light in the head. Kill her, then, MacDunn, if it pleases you. You will merely be saving me the trouble.”

“Really?” said MacDunn. He appeared genuinely perplexed. “I would have thought you were fonder of her than that.”

Robert's amusement increased. “I care nothing for her,” he assured MacDunn. “Do what you will.”

MacDunn contemplated this a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, then. Kill her, Brodick.”

Gwendolyn squirmed to get down, but MacDunn did not release his iron grip.

“Papa!”

Everyone turned and gasped. Isabella was seated on a horse in front of the same MacDunn warrior who moments earlier had been making her breathless with desire. Her need for air seemed even greater now, but that obviously had something to do with the dagger he was pressing to her throat.

Laird MacSween's wife stood, screamed, then fainted dead away.

“Are you sure you want her dead, MacDunn?” asked Brodick. “She's rather comely.”

“I don't want her dead at all,” MacDunn assured him. “Robert does. He doesn't care for her.”

“Release her!” snarled Robert.

“Really, Robert, I wish you would make up your mind,” said MacDunn. “You just finished telling me I should kill her.”

“You know bloody well I wasn't talking about Isabella!”

“Then who would you like me to kill?” asked MacDunn, trying to be patient.

“Papa, do something!” pleaded Isabella.

Laird MacSween opened his mouth to speak but was instantly cut off by his brother.

“What can you possibly want with this witch?” Robert's expression was reserved, but Gwendolyn knew he feared MacDunn had somehow learned of the stone. Affecting a more persuasive tone, he added, “Surely you must realize that by stealing one of our clan, you risk war.”

“I am mad,” replied MacDunn, shrugging. “Mad men do mad things. Besides”—he tilted his head toward the blaze now raging around the stake—“I thought you were finished with her.”

“She is evil,” Robert persisted gravely. “And a murderess. You cannot take her, MacDunn. She must be killed or she will destroy you and your people.”