A word of thanks for HawaiiBill and A7inchPhildo for their comments and support.
Warning: this story features a priest who errs from the straight and narrow. If you find this offensive, do not read further.
For nearly 250 years the Witches' Hammer (the Malleus Maleficarum was published in 1487) was the guidebook for the witch hunters. Open hunting season was declared on women, especially herb gatherers, midwives, widows and spinsters. Women who had no man to supervise them were of course highly suspicious.
It has been estimated that between 100.000 and 200.000 people, overwhelmingly women, were burned or hanged during the witch-craze.
Deirdre nearly stumbled as she hastened along. The path was barely visible and wound in steep curves around the mountainside. She wore sturdy boots, but the loose gravel made the going tricky. Even though she knew this mountain like the back of her hand, she still had to be careful.
The wind whipped her long skirts around her legs, at times lifting them up and getting them snagged on the thorn bushes that grew everywhere. It was cold on the mountainside. Although it was almost spring, this high up there was still snow to be found and right now, the sky was a bleached grey. Deirdre was sure it would be snowing again.
With a puff she climbed over a big square piece of rock and dropped the haversack inside the cave. Turning around she knelt on top of the rock and peered down. The cave was just below the top of the mountain and from her threshold she could oversee most of the path, the part that wound through the low brush. Lower down, where the trees grew, the path was obscured from her view, but that was okay. She could see enough to get early warning of visitors. There were none, she saw with relief.
Satisfied that she was safe for now, Deirdre jumped down. She picked up the haversack and entered the real entrance, a narrow tunnel that lead to a huge cavern. Once inside she sighed in pleasure. The fire in the back was still glowing a soft red and the small flow of water provided a murmur that always made her happy.
The big cavern looked more like the hall of a mansion than a cave dwelling, and Deirdre often felt a sense of wonderment. She had found the cave by accident when she had been running from the priests for the first time. Scared and cold she had crawled inside the tunnel, only venturing deeper inside the mountain after she had come back from the village the next week.
Since then, many years had passed - she guessed close to ten - but she had never seen any evidence of another human being visiting the place, apart from ... him. Right now she had been living here permanently for almost five years. The priests of the Inquisition had been getting more and more fanatical, so it was no longer safe for her to remain in the village.
She had lived on the outskirts of the little hamlet, but it had been too close anyway. Although most people made use of her extensive knowledge about the healing powers of plants and herbs, most of them shunned her in public. It had been only a matter of time before the black-robed, hooded men of the church picked up the rumors about a 'witch'. Deirdre shivered with the thought of those ruthless bigots. She knew very well what would happen to her if she were ever caught.
It had been painful to leave her house behind. Her mother had died there, not long after teaching Deirdre everything she knew herself. She had warned her daughter to be careful, to be discrete with her knowledge as if she had known how bad things would get in only a matter of years. Deirdre had to leave everything behind, so nobody would guess she had disappeared on purpose. The only things she took with her were the old herbarium and the clothes on her back.
Deirdre had often thought how odd it was, to have a fully furnished place to live in at the moment you were forced to flee your own home. He had lived there, but had left without a trace. The place didn't feel evil or haunted, however. In fact it felt more welcoming than anything else. It got dirty like a normal house; it got cold in the winter, and stayed nice and cool in the summer. There was a storage place for food, but she had to replenish that herself. No magic there to fill the sacks and jars.
While she had been remembering all that had led up to her being here right now, she had unpacked the haversack. She stored the potatoes, onions and carrots that had been left at the foot of the old oak. There had even been half a side of pork. She smiled, no doubt a gift from that farmer who had called her to help his wife with a difficult delivery. They would not risk their necks for her, but most villagers relied on her skills rather than the prayers of the black robes, and up till now, the village had kept quiet about her.
Further down the trail, near the edge of the timberline, she had created a kind of calling post for her services. The ancient oak tree, with its massive trunk and gnarled limbs was the perfect place to leave messages and gifts for the herb wench. Sometimes her help was needed urgently and some farmer came searching for her up in the mountains. That's why she had spun a thin thread in a dodgy corner of the path, so the tiny bells attached to them could warn her in time. Nobody knew there was this cave and she liked to keep it that way. To those who came seeking her knowledge, it always seemed as if she popped into vision around the next corner.
Deirdre poked the small fire at the back of the cave and settled in the big chair next to it. The chair was so big; she could easily draw up her legs and tuck her skirts around her bare feet. She had left her boots at the end of the tunnel, so the soft furs and carpets that covered the rock floor stayed clean. Before she came back up the mountain, she had already looked through the messages left for her but there had been nothing really urgent. The miller's wife wanted new ointment for her baby's rash, the old man living with his daughter on the other side of the village was suffering from painful joints again, a young woman asked her for something to relieve her monthly cramps, nothing that couldn't wait. She'd fix the ointments and the potion and take them down in the morning.
The flames from the little fire danced and painted red and orange patterns across the walls. Deirdre stared into them and felt her mind drifting towards her favorite fantasy. One day, one day she would find someone who would not be afraid of her. A man who would understand there was nothing mysterious about her knowledge. The big violet eyes had a dreamy look and her hands twisted the deep black curls that framed her face.
A deep sigh escaped her as she tried to imagine who would be idiot enough to fall for her. One hand trailed down the front of the purple shirtwaist and then the second as well. They caressed the skin that was left bare by the heart-shaped neckline. Her full breasts strained against the tight fabric as she lightly passed her palms over the stiffening nipples and she arched her back. Deirdre closed her eyes as her hands teased her breasts, then unbuttoned the shirtwaist and freed her breasts from their confinement. The heat traveled through her body in waves, sending tingling sensations from her nipples to her clit and back up again. Her legs slipped to the ground. Her left hand was still caressing her pink nipples, but the other had traveled down to hitch up the black and white stripped skirt with the purple underskirt. Her fingers lightly danced across the soft skin of her thighs, tantalizing herself by not quite touching her pussy.
