The witch's shoes

Dochia looked at the dark smudges on physician's hand, relief and dread warring within her.

She was relieved the dirty and inept court physician will not touch Duncan while dread coursed through her seeing his head shake. Duncan was beyond his knowledge, and the physician made it clear he will not survive the night.

She wiped the sweat on his brow and cleaned once more the red angry gash on his shoulder. The seriousness of Duncan's wounds hit her when the physician refused her entry in the hospital. At least, he let them rest in the nearby small plaza.

It was bustling with people and traveling merchants peddling their wares. She resolved to stay here until... She couldn't think of it, there must be something she can do, anything.

She lifted her head when the surrounding chatter dimmed to a low murmur. She looked surprised at the beautiful woman, clad in a colorful skirt and a yellow shirt with sleeves almost touching the ground. Her step was graceful, her feet undoubtedly helped by the most unusual boots. Almost translucent, their color was an eerie tan, matching the skin on her face. As she approached, she was startled to see that what it looked like an ivory necklace was in fact made of unusual bones. Oh God, she thought, human bones.

Then she heard the whispered comments:

"They say she eats them. She rips their skin off and makes gloves. God, look at the flesh eater's new shoes."

Dochia looked again at Duncan, his breath now labored and tears stung her eyes as she shifted to wipe his damp brow with the wet rag. The soft click of her armors reminded her of her ruse and she willed her tears back as knights don't cry.

She heard the physician state in a commanding voice:

"Don't let her near, my lord. She will kill him and rob his grave for his skin. "

As he saw the woman approaching, he hurried toward the hospital door. The rest of the crowd made a large circle around her cart and stared curiously.

Dochia held her breath as the woman approached her to whisper in her ear:

"I can save him my lady, come with me. I live over the wood in a clearing on the lake’s shore."

Dochia's thoughts warred again. If the woman was unholy as the villagers said, Duncan's soul was at stake, as was his life. He was a God fearing man, could she bear saving his life through sorcery? The woman was surely a witch, as she saw through her ruse when nobody did, and he was now beyond help. Would he forgive her when he found how was his life saved at the cost of his soul?

She looked at Duncan and knew he will not see tomorrow. The salves she tirelessly applied for the last two days seemed of no effect. Her moments with him passed before her eyes: the self-confident smile thrown over his shoulder after the humbling but lifesaving lesson in the lists, the brooding bass of his voice asking Miklos to release her. She remembered the passion in his eyes pledging his love when he wound the checkered cloth around their hands. 

She jerked her head. "This is it, the handfasting; he still believes in the olds ways; he might yet forgive me." she thought silently.

She hung onto that small hope and raised questioning eyes at the woman.

"Meet me beyond the gate as fast as you can, my lady. We have little time." The woman turned and walked out unperturbed, a path clearing through the crowd in her wake, only to close behind her.

Dochia took advantage of the crowd's curiosity and gently drove the cart to the gate. Once outside she pushed the horses as fast the little carriage allowed until she spotted the slender figure of the woman across the heath, close to the forest's edge. She turned and followed her, driving the cart on the narrow path cutting through the forest to a cozy hut in a clearing on the shore of a lake. The serene blue sky, and the  flowers cheerfully dotting the grass were at odds with the turmoil in her heart.

"It is too late to move him, take the carriage inside the stable and wait for me there. You can stable the horse, there is plenty of hay there."

Dochia did as she was bid, and not long after she saw the woman carrying a bowl containing a soupy liquid. She startled when she noticed mold floating in it.

"My name is Flora, my lady. My mother was a gypsy and my father... It's not important. I learned the healing arts from my mother. Sometimes the mold is good, as I noticed it can heal hopelessly festered wounds.  He must drink the whole bowl, be careful not to spill it."

Dochia took the leather flask from her belt, dumped its contents and carefully poured the moldy soup into it. She then proceeded to make him drink, slowly, the contents of the flask while mopping the sweat from his brow with cold water. In the morning, when all the moldy soup was gone, Flora came and thoroughly cleaned up the wound, burning its edges with a heated iron.   

Dochia spent the day in anguish, worried by his thrashing and mumbling, but by the evening, he was cool to the touch.

"You're not a witch. And your shoes..." Dochia raised her eyes at Flora in silent gratitude and question.

Flora laughed, without mirth and looked at her pointedly:

"My lady, people's fear and prejudice are weapons mightier than your sword. My shoes are kidskin, tanned in a way only few know about. I'd wager after the show today no one will dare to come close to my hut. And this is what I want." she sighed and turned before Dochia could see a lone tear falling down her cheek.