A Knight Amid Thorns
Laurel O'Donnell
Chapter Four
The sun was setting as Ella approached the small shack. She had ridden the entire day, escorted by an elderly knight named Sir Tristonay, who now waited by the horses to accompany her home. He had not expressed his unease or displeasure, but the way he stood staring at the shack with a furrow in his wrinkled brow, his gray mustache turned down in a frown, and his hand on the pommel of his sword, said volumes.
Ella moved to the shack, eyeing it cautiously and with some doubt. A witch? She didn’t believe in witches, but there were enough stories to make her hesitate. Witches could turn you into stone; witches could cast spells on you. All fabrications she didn’t believe, but that came to mind nonetheless. Finally, she drew herself up and called, “Good eve!”
When no one answered, she stepped up to the door. “Good eve,” she called again. She swiped the cotton fabric covering the doorway aside and peered inside. A table stood in the middle of the room; herbs and bottles lay in piles on the top. A stone and mortar dish rested near the bottles. A hearth filled the wall behind the table. A small black cauldron bubbled over the warm fire.
Ella stepped hesitantly into the room. Against a wall beside the hearth was a large shelf of pottery jars. A small mattress lay against the wall to the right.
She heard a noise behind her and spun.
A middle-aged woman with long blonde hair was entering the cruck. She carried a bucket with two hands.
“Good eve,” Ella greeted. Instinctively, she rushed up to her. “Please let me help.” She eased the bucket from her hands.
“Ahhh. Thank you,” the woman said.
Ella’s gaze swept her. She was just a woman. This was no witch. “Where would you like it?”
“Near the hearth.”
Ella carried the bucket to the hearth. As she set it down, something within the bucket sloshed. She looked down to see what appeared to be red liquid inside. Was that blood? She was glad the bucket was on the floor because she would have dropped it in shock otherwise. “What is that?”
“I should ask you…what are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Ella wiped her hands on her dress. “I’ve come to ask you some questions.”
“Questions?” The woman looked up at her.
For the first time, Ella saw her white eyes behind the strands of blonde hair that hung over her face. She was blind! No wonder villagers thought she was a witch and were afraid of her! Compassion filled Ella. She was no witch. She was an outcast. Ella quickly looked away. “About Graden Dumount.”
The silence stretched.
Ella finally glanced at the woman again to find her staring at her. The woman reached her hands forward until they touched the end of the table. She felt along the table using it as a guide to the stone and mortar. Then she turned and walked toward the hearth.
Ella looked around the room, noticing only one straw mattress. “Do you live here alone? Do you have help?”
The woman chuckled. “I doubt anyone would live with me. Most are too afraid to even visit.” She moved directly to the cauldron and began to stir it.
Ella scowled, not liking her answer. The woman was alone and helpless if robbers happened along.
“You have questions?” the woman prompted.
Ella walked to the table, scanning it. Leaves, herbs, and plants all lay in piles on the table. “Many years ago, did Graden Dumount come to you for help with his ailing father?”
“Many have come to me for help. Just as you are doing. I cannot remember all of them.”
“He would have been a young boy then. Maybe twelve summers.”
She paused her stirring of the cauldron to consider this quietly. “Aye. Yes! He came. Just a child, really. Thin. He smelled of rain.”
“What did you give him?”
The woman turned to her. “Why do you want to know? His father recovered, didn’t he?”
