As she turned to leave, Domhnall remained where he was, staring once more at the map and at the thin line between protection and surrender.
Trust, he thought grimly, had just been invited back inside his walls.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Morning had not yet settled into itself when they rode out. Mist still clung low to the ground, silvering the grass and softening the dark lines of the woodland ahead. The air smelled of damp earth and pine resin, sharp and clean in a way the castle never was. Birds stirred overhead, with their calls threading through the quiet like a promise the day had not yet decided to break.
Domhnall rode beside her. He was, as always, silent and watchful. Guards moved ahead and behind them in loose formation, scattered enough not to draw the eye, yet close enough that Margaret felt their presence even when she did not see them. Steel whispered softly now and then, leather creaked, a horse snorted and was hushed.
She did not mind the escort. This was different from confinement. This was purpose.
“This way,” she said, already moving.
Domhnall followed without question. The woodland opened gradually, with paths narrowing and widening again as though the land itself were deciding how much to reveal. Margaret’s attention sharpened. She noted the slope of the ground, the way water gathered and ran and the places where shade lingered longest. When they reached a narrow rise between two stands of oak, she slowed.
There,she thought.
The pass curved away to the left, subtle enough that one might miss it without knowing what to look for. This was the path that Annabel had mentioned, explaining exactly where she would find it. In a few days’ time, if all went as planned, she would walk it again.
She said nothing. She only marked it carefully in her mind and moved on.
“This is good ground,” she said aloud instead. “See how the soil stays damp but nae waterlogged? That’s where ye’ll find woundwort and comfrey.”
She knelt without ceremony, allowing her fingers to brush aside leaves with practiced care. Her hands moved with confidence, distinguishing what could heal from what could harm. She murmured names under her breath, more habit than need.
Domhnall crouched nearby, watching with a focus that made her acutely aware of him again.
“Foxglove grows farther in,” she said without looking up. “Near running water. But we must be careful with it.”
“Aye,” he confirmed. “Too much will stop the heart.”
She glanced up, feeling surprised. “Ye ken that?”
“I have buried enough men,” he replied evenly. “One learns what kills as well as what saves.”
Something in his tone quieted her for a moment. Then she smiled faintly and returned to her task.
“Help me,” she said, gesturing him closer. “Hold these.”
She placed a small bundle of flowers into his hands. They were delicate, pale, and utterly at odds with his size. The contrast nearly made her laugh.
He looked down at them, then back at her. “Like this?”
“Aye,” she replied, warmed by the sight. “Gently. They bruise easily.”
He adjusted at once, and she watched as his large fingers closed with surprising care. “They look… fragile.”
“They are,” she agreed. “And stubborn. Much like people.”
That earned her a look. She moved deeper into the shade, pointing out leaves, roots, stems. He listened. He also asked questions, and sometimes, he even offered an observation that showed he understood more than she expected. Other times he looked faintly baffled, holding blossoms like they might leap from his grasp.
“Ye look as though ye’ve been handed a newborn,” she teased.
“I would trust a blade more,” he replied dryly.
They worked easily after that, with her leading and him following, with the guards a distant presence moving like shadows between trees. Sunlight climbed higher, burning away the mist and warming her skin as she filled the satchel at her side.
By the time she straightened again, most of what they needed had been gathered. Comfrey and yarrow lay neatly bundled, foxglove was wrapped with care, and leaves and roots sorted with quiet precision.
