The Bonny Swan: Tales Retold, #3

By Pamela Sherwood

What did the river bring?

Felice, the miller's daughter, has a gift for healing. So when she and her father pull a grievously injured girl from their millpond, Felice nurses her back to health. But her new patient has a past she cannot remember—and secrets that haunt her dreams. Seeking to unravel the mystery, Felice and her family find themselves entangled in a web of intrigue, deception, jealousy… and murder.

 

Inspired by the traditional ballad "The Twa Sisters," The Bonny Swan is the third entry in the Tales Retold series. There's more than one road to Happy Ever After…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela Sherwood
• Release date: Feb 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215296493

Book preview

Chapter 1

Itook it for a swan at first: a long white shape that alternately floated and bobbed in the current. They often find their way into my father’s millpond, especially during nesting season, as the gentler waters pose less of a threat to their eggs than the river. I’ve grown rather fond of swans, in spite of their bad tempers—especially after nursing an injured cob back to health a few years ago. He’s come back twice with his mate since then, so I watch for him every spring.

But swans don’t wear shoes or golden girdles—as I saw when she drifted closer.

Father! I shouted. Come quick! There’s a drowned woman in our pond!

The mill-wheels stopped almost at once, then he came at a run, his hook in hand. Within minutes—though it seemed longer—we were pulling her onto the bank.

Little more than a girl by the looks of her, close to my own age, and slender, though the limp weight of her nearly pulled my arms from my sockets. The dead always seem heavier than the living.

I bit my lip, gazing down into her pale, perfect face. Is there any chance—?

Father started to shake his head, but something in my own face must have changed his mind because all he said was, Turn her over, Felice, and we’ll see.

Together, we rolled her onto her stomach, pressed hard on her back to see if we could drive the water from her lungs. Father’s hands were very strong and mine were flexible from kneading our bread every day, so between us, we kept up a constant rhythm and pressure.

We’d just about given up hope, when we heard a rasping intake of breath, followed by a great retching cough, then water gushed from her mouth. Father and I immediately redoubled our efforts until she had rid herself of it all.

Then she fainted, but when we rolled her onto her back again, we could see the slight rise and fall of her breast and hear the wheeze of her lungs as she drew in air instead of water.

Father sat back on his heels, ran a hand through his greying hair. Let’s carry her inside. Your mother will know what to do next.

Mother always knew what to do next. Within minutes of our arrival, she had the girl carried to a bed and dispatched my younger brother to fetch the doctor, who lived half a mile away. Then, she and I carefully removed the girl’s wet clothes and set them aside.

Whoever she might be, she must have come from a family of means. A merchant’s daughter, perhaps? I mused as I folded her shift, woven of a finer linen than any we could have afforded. Or even, a lord’s daughter?

Her gown was more costly yet—silk brocade, Mother said knowledgeably—although the water had quite ruined it, along with her shoes of gilded leather. The golden comb in her hair and the embroidered girdle that had cinched her narrow waist, however, were in far better condition, and the rings on her fingers—two simple gold bands and another, more elaborately wrought one, set with a red gemstone—were also undamaged.

But her hands themselves… I winced over the snagged and broken fingernails, the raw scratches and gouges showing an angry red on her fair skin. However she had come to fall in the water, she had clearly fought to get out of it. And that wasn’t even the worst of it…

She may lose that arm, Father said heavily, breaking the silence.

I bit my lip, but did not disagree. I’d seen enough broken bones to tell that the girl’s left forearm was fractured in at least two places, and there was a ragged gash between wrist and elbow that still bled sluggishly through the bandage Mother had wrapped loosely around it. But she’s so weak. If the doctor cuts off her arm…

We’ll do our best to build up her strength, Mother laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. Poor little soul, she added, looking down at the girl. I wonder how she came to such a pass.

"I wonder if anyone will come searching for her, Father said. If she’s from a rich family, I reckon they’ll miss her soon enough."

Well, rich or poor, she’ll need careful nursing if she’s to win through. Mother set the last of the girl’s clothes aside. There’s no telling when she’ll regain her senses but we should have soup or tea laid by for when she does.

There’s that chicken we stewed last night, I remembered. I can start some broth from that.

Good thinking, Felice, Mother approved. Her smile turned knowing, even indulgent. Looks like you have another swan with a hurt wing to tend.

I could feel myself blushing, but chose to make a dignified exit.

The broth was simmering on the hob when the doctor arrived. Mother had warmed some bricks and set them at the girl’s feet, then covered her with blankets.

She had not awakened by then, nor did she rouse when the doctor examined her. But he said that her heartbeat was steady and her lungs sounded clearer than they might have, given how close she’d come to drowning. He was less encouraging about her arm, though he did his best to splint it and put a poultice on the wound. The girl moaned faintly as he set the bones, but remained insensible. A mercy, given her injuries, the doctor said, but he examined her head next, probing with gentle fingers. There was a sizable lump towards the back, he reported, though he could not say whether she had sustained the blow before or after she had gone into the water.

Whichever it was, this might be the reason why she hasn’t yet regained her senses, he finished, straightening up from the bed.

Is there anything in particular we should do for that? Mother asked.

The doctor pursed his lips in thought. "A cold compress, perhaps. If she rouses at all, ask her questions to determine whether she is in her right mind. As for the rest, keep her warm and still. She should have liquids, if you can get her to swallow any. Boiled water with honey, broth, herbal tea. I will leave you tincture of willow bark to ease any fever or pain. And you already have what you need on hand to make another poultice for that arm.

If she takes the lung fever, or if any of her injuries worsen, send for me at once.

Mother and I took turns sitting with the girl, who remained unconscious throughout. We did manage to spoon some broth into her, propping her on pillows and stroking her throat until she swallowed.

Contrary to expectation, she did not take the lung fever, but on the second day, her temperature rose and her skin grew flushed and hot. Removing the bandage and poultice revealed our worst fears: the wound on her arm had become infected.

The doctor returned with new instructions, which we followed to the last detail for the next few days. But despite our efforts, the infection continued unabated—the wound red and oozing, the flesh growing discolored. Finally, fearing for his patient’s life, the doctor made a decision: the arm must go.

My stomach roiled at the prospect, but I stayed to help Mother dose the girl with poppy syrup to dull the pain and keep her quiet. Then she and Father ordered me out of the room—and I confess, I was not sorry to go, though I stayed close by, just in case I was needed.

I could not say how long the surgery took, but the door opened at last and Mother stepped out.

It’s done, and she’s resting now, Felice, she told me gently. Do you wish to see her?

I went