The River Wife: A Tale of Bard the Bowman

Charity

The stranger whipped around. He blinked over at her in shock and she stared back in the same manner. He was a man in the prime of his life, though silver touched his temples. Strong, masculine features weathered a little by care and age were accented by a mustache and light beard. His eyes were large, dark, and expressive. He cocked his head to the side, mouth parting in shock.

Without a word, he turned back to the man and stepped outside, firmly closing the door behind him. She jumped a little at the sound. Their voices could still be heard.

"The Master cannot hold it against me for showing charity to a wounded woman."

The unseemly man with the one eye chuckled. "Charity. Is that what they call it these days?"

"Be gone. If you have any more questions about her, tell the Master to come to me. For now, she stays at my house. My children and I are caring for her."

"Very well. Don't be surprised if you hear from us."

The stranger scoffed. "I won't."

Retreating footsteps sounded down a stairwell outside. The door creaked open to reveal her boatman. He studied her like a man under a spell.

"You have children?" She asked, breathlessly, feeling dizzy again.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Three. A boy and two girls."

"Where are they now?" She scanned the room with wide eyes.

"Asleep."

"Yes, of course. Where am I?"

"You need to sit, you've been asleep for a long time." 

He moved forward with a cautious gait as though she were a wounded animal in a wood. Cradling her elbow with quiet hands, he led her towards a chair by the fire. After she sank down, her legs aching, he tucked her into the coat that she had worn on his boat. She pulled it up around her cheeks, breathing in the scent of smoke and salt.

He handed her a cup of water. "Drink this."

"Thank you," she murmured before taking a sip. "I am hungry."

"Hungry? Yes, of course," he blurted, rising from where he crouched beside her. He cut off a slice of bread on the table and wrapped her hand around it. "Please. You haven't had anything to eat since I brought you here."

"Where am I?" She repeated.

The man pulled another chair over and sat beside her. "You are in Lake-town. I found you on the banks of the Forest River coming out of Mirkwood. Do you remember?"

She squinted into the firelight, her thoughts a muddle of water, snow, and words. Simple words. Like winter, boat. And him, the man before her. 

"What is your name?"

"I am called Bard."

"Bard."

"Yes." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What is your name?"

"I cannot..." her head ached with the effort. "I do not know."

"Don't push yourself. All is well. You have plenty of time, there is no rush," he spoke as though he were talking to a child.

"You told the one eyed man outside that I am here because of... charity?"

He cleared his throat, his kind eyes cutting towards the fire. "Yes, I had to tell him something."

She searched her memory, but found nothing. "What is charity?"

"It is showing kindness towards someone who needs it the most."

"I suppose that would mean me." The corner of her mouth lifted in a sardonic half-smile. She glanced back to find his eyes on her once again. "And I suppose that is what you may call me."

He sat up. "Call you?"

"I cannot remember my name. But I must be called something." Her sigh faded into a sad chuckle. "You may call me Charity."

Bard nodded, jaw jutting out thoughtfully. "Very well. Charity."

Silence descended between them, broken only by the fire dying in the hearth. He continued to study her with rapt interest. She couldn't blame him. She baffled even herself. He straightened his posture and rose to his feet.

"May I help you back to bed?"

Taking her hand, he helped her from the chair. Her leg collapsed under her, but he caught her by the waist before she could fall. With strong, decisive hands, he held her as he led them towards the bed. She missed the warmth of his palms against her as soon as she was under the covers. His steady touch had brought a sense of security to her. 

"Good night," he said. He would not meet her eyes.

Pulling the blanket up to her chin, Charity watched him as he closed the curtain. The silhouette of his sturdy figure retreated towards the kitchen. She closed her eyes as she heard him throw another log on the fire.

Fire. Kitchen. Warmth.

She gave on last weary glance towards the window. The candle sputtered, but still burned. Clouds covered the stars now.

Candle. Night. Bed.

Bard.