Over the next few weeks, Bertha's condition seemed to worsen. Her coughing was more persistent and her appetite decreased rapidly. She could barely move without bringing upon her a fit of coughing that burned her throat and wracked her frail body. Even more worrying, the little drops of blood on Bertha's handkerchief were getting larger. Barliman and Bridie took turns caring for her so that each could get some sleep. Bridie studied Mildred's book endlessly and memorising the recipes that seemed most promising. Mildred visited as often as she could with some of her own homemade remedies and advised the family on alternative forms of treatment, such as fresh air, healthy meals and hygiene. But it was all for naught; Bertha only went from bad to worse.
One evening, Bridie was taking her turn to watch over Bertha while Barliman got some well-earned rest. It was now winter, the worst time of the year to be sick; colder weather and less fresh air. During these days, the fires in the inn were lit morning and night. Barliman and Bridie went out every day to collect firewood and the family wore their warmest clothes at all times. Bertha lay in bed with three thick blankets covering and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. A log fire blazed brightly in the hearth at the opposite end of the room.
"I shall suffocate in this heat," Bertha declared hoarsely.
"If you prefer, we could arrange for you to sleep outside," Bridie joked, burrowing deeper into her own woollen shawl.
Bertha shook her head. "Oh goodness, no! I shouldn't like to be out in this sort of weather. I had enough cold nights out in the wild when I…" she paused.
Bridie raised an eyebrow, wondering where her mother was going with this. "When you what?"
"Never mind," Bertha replied. She was silent for a moment, then her face lit up with a sudden smile, as if she had just recalled a pleasant memory. "That reminds me. Would you mind look under my bed, Bridie? There should be a large wooden box there."
Confused and curious in equal measure, Bridie got up from her seat and crouched beside the bed. Just as her mother had said, there was a long wooden box hidden underneath it. Bridie pulled it out and blew the dust off of the lid, sneezing as some of it wafted up her nostrils.
"Open it," Bertha instructed.
The rusted hinges of the box creaked softly as Bridie lifted the lid. The box contained some sort of large object wrapped in a cloth. Bridie pushed back the folds of material and gasped. Inside lay a longbow and a quantity of arrows.
"Oh, Mam," Bridie breathed.
"It was going to be your Yule present," Bertha explained. "But I thought you should have it now because you've done so much for me these past few months. Do you like it?"
The girl brushed her fingertips over the bow. It was engraved with intricate flowing patterns. The arrows rested in a beautiful leather quiver and the ends were tipped with green feathers. It reminded Bridie of the stories she had heard in her childhood. Stories of elf archers who lived in faraway forests and spent their days fighting the fierce beasts that lived there.
She smiled up at her mother. "I love it, Mam! But…where did you get this? Did your papa give it to you?"
Bertha hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, it was a gift from my father. He was a ranger, you see, and he taught me how to hunt and survive in the wild."
A realisation dawned on Bridie. "That's how you know so much about herbs! Where is he now?"
Bertha shifted in bed before breaking out into a coughing fit. Bridie immediately sprang up and filled a cup with some water from the jug that was kept on the bedside table.
"Thank you, darling," Bertha spluttered in between coughs as she accepted the cup and took several swigs.
Bridie carefully wrapped up the bow and quiver and shut the lid of the box again, reminding herself not to forget her gift when she went to bed that night. As she waited for her mother to recover, she suddenly recalled their conversation from several weeks ago and Bertha's odd remark about Bridie's father. It suddenly occurred to the girl just how little she knew about her mother. Bertha had never been one to talk about her past, but everyone assumed she was a very private person. Now, Bridie began to suspect that was only a single hair on the pony's mane, as it was said in Bree.
"After some hesitation, Bridie spoke up. "Mam…a little while ago you told me something odd."
"Did I, now?" Bertha replied.
Bridie nodded. "You said my eyes reminded you of Papa's. Except…except it wasn't Papa, if you follow me, but my real papa."
Bertha fiddled with the bedsheets, avoiding her daughter's gaze. "We sometimes say silly things when we are ill."
"But what did you mean when you said it, Mam?" Bridie persisted. "What did you mean by my real father?"
With a deep sigh, Bertha finally looked her daughter in the eyes. Perhaps it was time she told the girl where she really came from. Bridie wasn't getting any younger, after all, and if Bertha didn't tell her now, she might not get another chance.
"Very well," Bertha said with another sigh. She chewed her lip and a moment of silence passed before she spoke again.
"It happened a long time ago, when I was a much younger woman. I was about twenty-one at the time, I think. I had spent all my childhood up here in the north. When I was growing up, I often heard stories of magical, faraway lands. Of adventures and battles. It had always been my wish to visit those places, and now that I was grown up I intended to do just that. Well, after a year travelling, I soon came to a city called Minas Tirith in the land of Gondor. The White City, they called it, because the walls and buildings were built entirely out of white stone. And it was there that I met your father. Your true father. He was a soldier. An excellent one, at that, and a true gentlemen, not to mention extremely handsome. I would always tend his wounds when he returned from battle; he wouldn't allow any of the other healers to do it. Over time, we fell in love and began to court in secret. However, we could not keep our courtship secret for much longer because, after another year, I discovered that I was carrying his child. You, Bridie."
Bridie's jaw dropped. "What happened?" she asked. "Was my father angry?"
"Angry?" Bertha repeated. "Oh no. In fact, he was overjoyed. It was his own father we had to worry about. He was a powerful man, you see, and was very strict about who his son chose as a lover. He would never allow his son to court a woman of lower rank than him. So, of course, we didn't dare tell him."
"But how did you manage to hide the fact that you were with child?" Bridie questioned further. "I mean, when you started showing, surely folk would have noticed."
Bertha laughed humourlessly. "Do you think we did not consider that? Of course, we had to prepare for such an eventuality. So, when it started to become clear that I was with child, your father took me to a secret hideout outside of Gondor, and that was where I gave birth to you." Bertha smiled as the memory of her daughter's birth filled her mind. "That was the happiest day of my life, when you came into the world. And as for your father, he was as merry as a child on his birthday. For two years you and I lived in that hideout, and your father visited as often as he could. Until…" She became silent and a tear escaped from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Until what? Please, Mam, go on," Bridie urged.
Bertha brushed away her tear and shook her head. "I don't know how he found out or from whom. All I know is that somebody we trusted betrayed us." Her lip trembled and her eyes became glassy as she continued. "I can still remember that awful day. Soldiers came to the hideout and dragged us into the city. Your grandfather was furious and sent us into exile."
"How terrible!" Bridie exclaimed. "Didn't my father do anything to stop it?"
"Your father didn't know. He and the rangers were away on an errand at the time. There was nobody to help us. It was only thanks to a kindly old healer named Ioreth that we did not perish in the wild. She gave us a horse and what provisions she could find in such a short amount of time. When we left, I was so afraid for the both of us. I didn't want to lose you, nor did I want to die out in the wild. And I didn't dare return to my home. As much as I loved my family, I feared they would be just as angry as your grandfather when they found out what had happened. But I had nowhere else to go. To this day, I don't know how I found my way to this place, but I'm so very grateful that I did. Barliman was ever so kind. He gave me a room and a job and said we were welcome to stay for as long as we wished. As time passed, Barliman and I came to like each other. We weren't exactly in love but we became good friends. So, eventually, this inn became my new home."
The story came to an end and Bertha let out a deep, relieved sigh, as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Bridie, meanwhile, was speechless. The girl could scarcely believe what she had just heard. She felt she was finally beginning to get to know her mother, almost as if they were acquaintances rather than close relatives. But there was still one question remaining.
"What was my father's name, Mam?"
Bertha began to speak but was interrupted by a cough, followed by several more, turning into yet another coughing fit. However, this one seemed to show no signs of stopping. Concerned, Bridie gently rubbed her mother's back as she had done before. Bertha was now sitting upright, doubling over with coughing. She clasped her throat and leaned back against the pillow, gasping for breath. Now Bridie was starting to panic. This couldn't be good.
"Papa!" Bridie called out. "PAPA! Come quick!"
The door burst open as Barliman charged into the room. Immediately he realised what was happening. "Stay here with your mother, lass!" he told Bridie. "I'll get Mildred!" And with that he sprinted downstairs and out into the winter night, not even bothering to take his coat.
Bridie did as she was told and sat with her mother, rubbing her back and trying to comfort her as the older woman continued to cough and wheeze. Tears streamed from Bridie's eyes as she held Bertha close, desperately trying to comfort her, reminding her mother how much she loved her.
Bridie continued to do so even when the coughing and wheezing ceased.
Even when her mother's body became cold and limp.
Even when Barliman returned with Mildred in tow and the old woman sadly declared that it was too late. That there was nothing she could do.
That night, Bridie curled up on the bed next to mother's body, sobbing into her shoulder and whispering that she loved he and she always would, even though she knew her mother couldn't hear. She would never be able to hear anything again.
That night, there would be no more coughing and no more homemade medicines. They were no use to Bertha now.