The clouds from earlier in the day had burnt off, or had blown towards the mountains. Colm wasn't sure which, but he was glad of the sunshine either way. In fact, outside the little cottage, the Shrouds didn't look as frightening as he had always thought them. They were just mountains covered in clouds and mist. Frightening to be lost in, surely, but a pretty bit of scenery when viewed from afar.
The land between the cottage and the mountains, or really in any direction from the cottage, was green and lush with grass, save for the apple orchard they had passed earlier. There ought to have been more animals, Colm thought. Sheep, horses, anything. Trees should have been growing here; they had been chopped down, but for what? It seemed a waste if such fertile ground was not used for farming or grazing herds of livestock.
He might have pondered this more had his head not been spinning with what had occurred in the cottage moments ago. He wished, desperately, for ink and paper, for writing the words down always helped him to organize his thoughts. Instead, he ignored the horses and turned towards the apple orchard, tapping his fingers against his leg.
What do I know? We came here to collect a person to bring to the castle. Sir Ardál had all but confirmed that King Odhran had ordered him to come. And it's not the woman, but the girl, Willow. Her daughter. That much was certain, even Colm didn't understand the reasoning behind it.
And Sir Ardál and the woman knew each other, not just as passing acquaintances, but as something deeper. The expression in her eyes when she had leaned forward and taken the knight's hands in hers...
Colm shook his head, willing the image to disappear. Even remembering the moment felt like an intrusion.
He ran his hand over the bark of one of the apple trees, eyes drifting upwards to the pale pink blossoms that hung from every branch. They had passed other orchards along the way, apple, peach, and cherry, but none had blossomed as vibrantly as this simple orchard in the middle of nowhere.
Ardál said they found them because of the apples.
Colm drew his hand back from the trunk of the tree as though he had been stung, recoiling so violently that one foot slid out from under him and he ended up lying on his back on the grass, staring up at the blossoms from the ground.
He groaned, pushing himself off the ground into a sitting position and rubbing his head. Nothing broken, nothing hurt.
The sound of footsteps approached from the cottage, and he spun around quickly. But it was not Sir Ardál or the beautiful woman; it was Willow, the girl, rushing over with a concerned look on her face.
"Are you hurt?"
Colm straightened up and shook his head. This was a chance to be gallant, he thought. Willow was clearly important in some way, even if he didn't know what that way was. Word that he had been bought from a horse trader had spread like wildfire through the squires and knights of the castle, and everyone had made up their minds about Colm after that. Here was a girl who, whoever she might be, had no notion of his upbringing or past. It was at least a chance to practice.
"Uninjured but for my pride," he said, bowing slightly as he had seen other knights do. Not Sir Ardál, of course; that man only bowed to the king, and even then it was an awkward and clumsy thing. Colm had never practiced the move, either, but surely a girl from an orchard cottage wouldn't know a knightly bow from a barely-practiced one.
"If you're sure." Willow shrugged and turned back towards the cottage, a small woven basket with strawberries hanging from her arm.
It's too early for strawberries.
He reached forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "You can't go back. They're talking."
Willow laughed, her dark brown hair swinging in the breeze. "Talking? It's hardly that important." She pulled against Colm's grip, but he held on tight. Willow scowled, tugging again.
"They sent me out. It's private." Something in Colm's voice must have struck her, because Willow stopped tugging against his grip and let her arms fall to her side.
"We'll wait, then." She shrugged again, then dropped to the grass underneath the apple trees, crossing her legs. "Come on, sit down and have some strawberries. They're delicious."
It's too early for strawberries.
Too many thoughts jostled and fought for attention in Colm's mind, and he could do nothing but obey. He sat down next to her, wishing that he could be as calm and relaxed as she seemed to be in this moment. She held out a strawberry, red and impossibly ripe, smiling at him. He reached forward to take it, and she pulled back suddenly, forehead furrowed with worry. "You are hurt. You've cut your finger."
He had forgotten the prick from the thorn. "What? Oh, it's nothing. Just got it from the bush where the horses are tied."
"That's a whitethorn. The cuts bleed for ages." She held out her hand to Colm. "Here, let me see."
"It's fine. And why do you even have a plant like that in your yard?"
Willow shrugged. "Mother says it's a piece of the old forest. This whole area," she gestured widely, "was part of the Redwood Forest, but it was cut down around when I was born. The whitethorns never grew that large in the forest because the trees shaded them too much. But when they came and chopped down all the trees, the whitethorn survived. So we keep it to remember the forest." She opened and closed her outstretched hand. "Come on, it'll only be a moment."
Colm acquiesced with a sigh, placing his hand in hers. She had rough hands, like Colm's. His were rough from cleaning saddles and horse tack that Sir Ardál rarely used, and he wondered briefly how hers had gotten to that stage if all she was doing was picking strawberries and apples.
Willow leaned her head close to his finger, inspecting the cut. "See, the cut's not bad. But the whitethorns have a little bit of a poison in their sap that leaks out of the thorns, and it makes the wound not close up properly."
"I should tie the horses elsewhere, then."
Willow laughed again. "Horses have sense enough not to get pricked by a whitethorn, unlike boys from the castle."
The heat rose in Colm's face when she laughed at him. Well, how am I supposed to know that? I've hardly been around forests in the castle. And they shouldn't have a tree like that in their yard.
While he stewed in embarrassment, Willow leaned forward again, laying one finger and then another on the cut. She softly hummed, a wordless tune. She wrapped her hand gently around his finger and then pulled away with a smile. "See? All is well."
The bleeding had stopped. Colm brought his thumb close to his face. Not only had the blood stopped, but the skin where the thorn had pricked him had closed over, leaving no trace that he had ever been injured. He squinted, bringing the thumb closer and turning it at different angles to seek out the place where the mark should have been. But there was no mark; it was gone.
"What did you do?"
"Oh, I'm not really supposed to talk about it," Willow replied, drawing back. "But I suppose if my mother trusts Aron, then I ought to trust you."
She doesn't trust him. She said we're coming to steal you. Colm swallowed back the words.
Willow made a fist with only her thumb extended out to Colm. When it came closer to him, he saw it: one tiny mark, exactly where he had been pricked by the thorn on his own thumb. There was blood smeared on her hand, but no blood came from the wound itself.
Sir Ardál's words rang in his ears.
We're going witch-hunting.
Willow didn't seem to notice his response, or if she did, she was unperturbed. "Now, you still have the poison from the whitethorn in your thumb. So don't get that chopped off for the rest of the day, or you might bleed out and I wouldn't be able to fix that." She laughed, leaning her head back and staring up at the sky between the branches of the apple trees.
Colm stared at her, his mouth gaping open and closed like a fish gasping for water once it had been pulled from a stream. A witch. She's a witch.
He had an image of what a witch was supposed to be: a frightening woman with long, black hair and silver eyes, wrinkles on her forehead and a scowl permanently etched on her face as she spat and cursed at passersby.
This ordinary-looking girl, sitting in her linen shift in an apple orchard while the sun shone down and apple blossom petals lazily drifted in the wind, a basket of strawberries by her side... She met none of the requirements he had imagined. And yet she had healed his still-bleeding finger with a few words and a touch.
Birds sang as they flew overhead, perching in the apple trees. The horses cropped the grass with their teeth. The world was at peace, here in this corner of the kingdom.
Colm turned away from Willow and retched until his stomach was empty.
"Are... Are you okay?" She leaned towards him, one hand resting gently on his back.
Colm slapped the witch's hand away and stood. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth, as if to wipe away the taste of the bile that rose in the back of his throat. "I'm fine," he lied. "I... I need to see Sir Ardál."
"But you said we can't go in? They'll come out when they're done, I'm sure," Willow said with a smile. "We can go to the well to get to you water to wash yourself with."
Colm stepped backwards, towards the cottage. His voice shook. His heart pounded in his ears "No. No. I need to talk with him now."
And with that, he turned and ran towards the cottage as fast as his feet could carry him.
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