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The final pilgrim to travel in our entourage was a bard, you could say. She was a sturdy woman of a unique sort. She rode a fine chestnut mare and vehemently refused to wear the usual apparel of women. It was obvious she was good at her job because of the fact that she had money to join the men on this journey and was unaccompanied. She brought only the bare minimum of things, excluding of course her numerous musical instruments. I needn’t point out the rarity of her circumstances, I should think. Only to say that all of her stories were told in song, which will not be recounted here, and many on the pilgrimage thought her the most needing of penance.

“I knew a girl once who was as fair as fresh snow. Never had she been tainted by the harshness of life, and her naivety was her greatest attribute, and her biggest weakness. Day after day men were paraded in front of her, or more accurately, her father. Finally he chose. A powerful man who was as terrifying as he was rich. The girl begged and pleaded with her father. Her instincts were screaming that this marriage would bring nothing but torture. But the father was to busy counting his new pigs and sheep, and his ears were distracted by the jingling of a newly full purse. Her new husband was a horrid man, spiteful and cruel. Day by day he took joy in her suffering. Her life filled with the corruption of an imprisoned soul, and every day she grew cooler until the snow was no longer pure and beautiful, merely cold and hateful.

“The torture continued for 3 years, and her new son was only protected from his father by the love of his mother. And she began to fear the day when she would no longer be there to protect her child, for she knew she couldn’t live this way for much longer. And just when she thought there was nothing left to fear, this constant threat berated her heart, and she was broken.

“And her husband finally proved her fear true. And silent as a mouse fearing the cat’s wrath she crept into the room where he lay, spent from his night at the tavern. And she smiled a sweet smile as she put an end to her fear.

“She played the part of mourning widow extraordinarily well, and no one suspected a thing. And she lived the rest of her days well, caring for her son. The sun still rose and set everyday without her husband. And the corruption of a soul is not always the person’s own fault. Is it still injustice to defend what is yours, or is the law irrefutably law? Thou shalt not kill.”