The River Wife: A Tale of Bard the Bowman

The Mystery of the River Maiden

A candle trembled on the sill over the bed built into the far wall. Bard built up the roaring fire in the kitchen, filling the house with heat, while Sigrid and Tilda put one of their mother's old shifts on the strange woman. Sigrid covered her with two quilts that she had warmed by the hearth.

"Her hair," Tilda breathed, smoothing the long strands over the straw pillow. If the strange maiden stood, it would reach past her hips. "Da, are you sure she's not a elf?"

Sigrid tucked the hair back from the girl's ear before their father could respond. "See? Elf ears are peaked. Her ears are rounded like ours. But Da, there is something else..."

Bard brushed the wood chips from his patched tunic as he walked over to the bed. Sigrid lifted one of the girl's hands from under the quilt. "Look at her wrists."

Grotesque scars accented deep bruising around her forearms. He had not noticed them yet. He gently tucked her arm under the blanket with a frown.

"There are the same markings on her ankles..." Sigrid whispered, her forehead creased with worry. "Da, it looks like she was..."

"Shackled." He smoothing a hand over his mouth then crossed his arms over his chest, studying the mystery sleeping in his bed. "Where is your brother?"

The door flew open. Bain bounded in with the doctor close on his heels. Roald had been seen at that same bedside many times. He had been there to help bring each of Bard's children into the world. And he had comforted Astrid as she slipped into the comforting arms of death. Bard swallowed hard. His throat knotted up at the sight of the old apothecary kneeling at the bedside as he had the night Astrid died.

"I found her where the river meets Long Lake, coming out of the wood," Bard explained without being asked.

Roald checked her pulse and pulled back her eyelids. "Has she spoken?"

Bard cleared his throat. "No."

He felt badly for the bold faced lie, but her first words to him felt irrelevant. Also, he was reluctant to recall them. They left him unsettled as did the memory of her grey, staring eyes, hooking his very soul with their strange vulnerability. 

"I can't imagine how she got there," Bard said swiftly, moving to the end of the bed and gripping the post. 

"Seems like you found her just in time. There is no fever, no infection. She is young and healthy, perhaps twenty and six years of age. But she sleeps deeply. I fear..." Roald stood and gave the children a wary glance.

"Sigrid," Bard directed, nodding towards the door.

Obediently, Sigrid herded her siblings outside. She gave the young woman in the bed one last curious glance. The latch clicked shut. Bard turned back to the doctor.

"What do you think?"

"Perhaps there is more at work here than the physical," the doctor ventured, his even toned, gravelly voice not losing it's strength with age. "Let me examine her for another moment."

Bard paced towards the fire. He did not sit, he couldn't. He stood rigid, bracing a hand on the rough hewn mantle. Pieces of fine crockery lined the shelf. His wife had inherited them when they wed. They gleamed free of dust in the warm glow. Sigrid took excellent care of her mother's belongings. Someday they would be her own.

"What? What did you say, my child?" The doctor spoke.

Instantly disturbed from his thoughts, Bard strode over to the bed. Her eyes were closed, but she was mumbling. He couldn't hear her from where he stood. The doctor leaned over her mouth.

"What is she saying?" Bard asked.

"She is saying... snow. Snow, winter, boat." The doctor smirked up at him. "Man."

The corner of Bard's mouth lifted in a faint smile. "That doesn't give us much for clues."

"Perhaps not. But this poor creature has suffered." Roald moved away from the bed. "I'm sure you saw the marks on her wrists and ankles."

"Yes..."

"They are from days of wearing irons. The soles of her feet are cut and bruised, as though she was driven barefoot for many leagues."

"Are there any other wounds?"

"None that I can see. But there is a rather large bump on the back of her head as though she was hit. Perhaps she fell or struck a rock in the water while she was in the river." Roald turned her onto her side and lifted her hair to show the injury.

"Wait, what is that?" Bard pointed towards the back of her shoulder, the space below her neck that had been hidden by her hair. 

Roald's bushy eyebrows drew together as he tugged the edge of her collar down. He hissed a hard breath. "Poor, poor creature."

Bard blinked down in horror. The young woman had been branded. With hot iron, her skin had been burned with a three pronged circle.

In heavy silence, Roald made her more comfortable on her back and tucked her under the blankets. Blowing out the candle, he drew the curtains. The two men gravely walked back into the warm glow of the kitchen.

"That was a symbol of the orc holding in the north," Roald finally spoke.

Bard handed him a cup of ale. "I know it. I've seen it."

"She was once a captive of orcs. Something like that..." Roald shook his snowy head. "She might never be... healthy again. In body perhaps, but not her mind."

"What do I do with her?"

"Let her sleep. As long as needed. I do have a small hope. Did you say that you found her outside the Mirkwood?"  

Bard took a drink of his own ale to soothe his nerves. "Aye."

"I don't suppose you've heard tell of a stream in those woods that can make a person forget? It's only a legend, but I've met some that have seen it. If you remain in the current long enough, you will sleep for days and forget everything about your former life. There is a chance that this young woman fell into such a stream."

"I hope for her sake that you are right," Bard said, draining his cup. "Thank you for coming, Roald."

As he reached into his pocket to pay him, the doctor shook his head and pressed a hand to the bargeman's upper arm. "Please. You are like family. And I fear the news that I gave you is no good. You are the best of men to take the poor maiden under your roof."

Bard bid the kind doctor good night at the door and called his children inside.

"What did Roald say?" Sigrid asked.

"She is healthy and young so she may pull through yet," Bard said with a pained smile. He didn't dare tell his children of the pain that she had suffered. He wanted to shield them from the cruelty of the world as long as he could. "She is resting."

Bain popped a piece of dried fish in his mouth, giving the bed a side glance. "So what do we do with her?"

Bard jutted out his jaw in thought. "We let her sleep."