THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the original characters belong to me.

Rating: G – R, varies from chapter to chapter. This particular chapter is rated G.

Series: “Sons of Gondor”, a series of individual stories. Prequel to “Shadows of the Past”.

Archiving: Stories of Arda, my own website and Edhellond. Everyone else – please, ask first.

Pairing: Boromir/OFC, but most certainly not a romance.

Author’s notes:

A few warnings in advance might be in order. This is a bookverse story, focusing mostly on original characters. As everyone who has read “Shadows of the Past” knows how it will end, there is no much suspense left, I guess. There will be no canon characters up to Chapter 3 or beyond, although a few of them are mentioned regularly. The whole reason for writing this tale in the first place was that I wanted to take a look at how common folk lived in the late Third Age. Their names are simply made up or borrowed from medieval sources. As for month and day names, I let them use the Bree-version of the Shire calendar. It seemed plausible, as they are supposed to be the indigenous people of Gondor.

I tried to remain as true as possible to both Tolkien and what we know about the High Middle Ages. A great deal of research went into this tale – more than a year worth of it. I want to express my heartfelt thanks to the members of the Edhellond group, especially Isabeau of Greenlea, JastaElf, Jillian Baade, Lasse-Lanta, Nerwen Calaelen and Tolkanonms, for their invaluable help with medieval architecture, medieval clothing, mule and horse lore and many other topics. Without their selfless efforts, this story would never have come together.

Beta read by Lasse-Lanta, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine.

CHAPTER 1 – HOMECOMING

[Halabor, a small fishing town near Cair Andros, in the year 2996 of the Third Age]

Contrary to common belief – and despite their long presence in these lands – the Dúnedain were not the majority of Gondor’s population. When the first ships of Númenórë began to visit the southern coasts, they found a great number of indigenous tribes. Many of these people mingled with the Men of Westernesse thorough marriage, but even more of them remained in their own towns and villages, kept their own lands and customs, even though their leaders accepted the rule of the Dúnadan Kings and their successors, the Stewards.

Halabor, a small yet ancient fishing town on the western bank of the Anduin was an exception. The town opposite the southern end of Cair Andros had Lords that could trace their ancestors back to the foundation of Gondor. They belonged to the lesser nobility, granted, but they were of Númenórean blood nevertheless, and made their ancestry all due honour.

Originally, they hailed from South-Ithilien. The family settled near Pelargir in the last century of the Second Age and had extended lands in that province. During the Third Age, they were forced to retread westwards from the Anduin and to settle first in Lossarnach. Then, led by a Lord named Ostoher, they moved to the village Halabor and built a castle on a cliff reaching above the Great River – actually more a fortified noble house. But Ostoher also had the great ramparts built, which protected the town from the road’s side, the two gates and some other fortifications, so that his subjects could live in relative safety.

This happened roughly six hundred years ago, while Gondor was under Steward Barahir’s rule. For a considerable length of time, Halabor was a strategically important little town, and its Lords benefited greatly from this importance. Until Steward Túrin the Second, worried over the recent attacks by the Haradrim – attacks that culminated in the Battle of the Crossings of the Poros in 2885, which could only be won with the help of the Rohirrim and at the high cost of the lives of King Folcwine’s twin sons – decided to establish a garrison on the nearby isle of Cair Andros. In the same year (the year 2901) in which the secret refuge of Henneth-Annûn was established in Ithilien.

Unfortunately for Halabor, this caused a change in the major trade routes, so that traders turned away from the town and headed directly to Cair Andros thereafter. Halabor sank back to unimportance, and its Lords lost the major part of their incomes. The same held true for the saddle-makers, the weapon-smiths, the blacksmiths and many other guilds. The slow migration into economically better-supported areas began at this time and never truly ceased.

In the recent years only about seven hundred people lived still in Halabor, and those were mostly old men, widows, small children or crippled veterans of Gondor’s constant – although not voluntary – warfare. The only income of the people came from fishing and boat-making.  The fish of this reach of Anduin, where the arms of the Great River rejoined again at the southern end of Cair Andros and became as broad and calm as a small lake, were considered a delicacy, and the trade of the boat-makers was much sought after. Still, even the boat-makers often migrated to the big havens, to Linhir, Pelargir or Harlond, where they could work in the shipyards and support their families from afar with the coin they earned.

Henderch the Brave, who was now standing in the watchtower of Rollo’s Gate (the north-eastern entrance of the town), was one of these people. A native of Halabor, he had been a fisherman and a boat-maker as his father and grandfather before him. At the age of twenty-four, he went to Linhir to become a master of his trade and to support his elderly parents, as the Lords of Lebennin paid their shipwrights rather handsomely. When his parents died, and Rhydderch, his younger brother – one of the boatmen of Cair Andros – was slain in a bloody skirmish with Orc raiders, nothing held him in Linhir anymore. He went to Minas Tirith, joined Gondor’s army and served in the garrison of Osgiliath for eight years.

After a crippling injury damaged his right shoulder so badly that he could neither fight nor work as he used to, he returned to Halabor. At Lord Orchald’s request, he took upon himself the difficult task of organizing the defence of the town.

Lord Orchald, as his sires before him, made great efforts to attract war veterans, as Wardens, the voluntary town guards made up of local men who had their own trade and family to care for, were no longer enough protection. The Lord gave the sorted-out soldiers abandoned houses and privileges, in exchange for setting in Halabor, marrying one of the widows and defending their town as well as they might. Since the Lord had been a renowned and respected warrior himself, quite a few men followed his call. All the Wardens still needed was an able leader. And in Henderch, they had finally found that leader.

The Chief Warden had only returned to his hometown half a year past, on the third day of Solmath⁽¹⁾. Finding the house of his parents in the Old Port of the Fishermen too big to dwell in alone, he sold it to the widow Dorlas, Old Craban’s daughter – the midwife of the town, who needed a place of her own – and moved to the House of the Wardens. This spacious, two-floor structure was imbedded in the town wall on the other side of Rollo’s Gate and served as a kind of garrison for the unwed Wardens who had no close kin in town or did not want to live on their own. It had a shared kitchen and dining room, a small armoury, sleeping chambers, a smithy in the cellar and even a stable, which could be entered through a wide, trellised gate, next to the gateway.

The outer wall of the House of the Wardens was covered with evergreen: ivy, woodbine and other creeper plants. In the bright days of Mede⁽²⁾ it was a pretty sight, and Henderch felt more at home here, surrounded by his comrades, than he could ever have felt in the long-abandoned house of his parents. He had become accustomed to garrison life in Osgiliath. In this way he could also keep an eye on the most vulnerable part of the town: the road along the western bank of the Great River.

Although the strong ramparts protected it against attacks coming from the land, the town was still dangerously open to the river in the ports. Only the Lord’s castle had fortifications of its own to shield it against an attack from the waterside. Thus the easiest entry for any enemy was through the Steep Path – a narrow street, leading from the Old Port of Fishermen directly to the Marketplace. And once the enemy got there, the fate of the town would have been sealed. The castle could hold out alone for a little longer, but the townhouses, built from cheap, small stones – small enough for a man to hold them in his cradled hands – and wooden beams would have no chance against either Orcs, or Easterlings. Therefore, while the Wardens had only two guards at Nurria’s Gate (the south-western entrance), they always kept double watch in the North.

Henderch liked second watch. It began always in the third hour in the morn and lasted ‘til the ninth hour in the afternoon⁽³⁾. It was the warmest time of the day, and since he had been shot in the shoulder with that Southron arrow last Wintring⁽⁴⁾, his shoulder always felt strangely cold. Sometimes this affected his whole right side, laming his sword-hand at the most inconvenient moments. No matter what the healers tried, nothing seemed to help, although young Lord Boromir had not shied from the effort to send him to Minas Tirith, to the Houses of Healing. But not even Ioreth, the wise-woman of Imloth Melui was able to help him. Thus Henderch had no choice but leave the army and return home with his generous discharge.

Sunshine seemed the only thing that truly helped, which was the reason why Henderch so frequently volunteered for second watch. The upmost chamber of the watchtower could become very hot in the summer, especially in the dark blue gambeson worn by all Wardens, and the steel gorget covering their neck and the top of their chest and shoulders could literally glow when exposed to too much direct sunlight. The other Wardens – especially the local ones who never fought in the army – often complained about this, but Henderch did not mind. The hot metal – almost burning his skin, even though the quilted cloth of his gambeson – felt so good on his ever-cold shoulder like the near-forgotten touch of his mother’s hand.

Glancing down to the Steep Path again (a keen-eyed man could see from one end of the small town to the other one without effort from his vantage point), the Chief Warden detected a lonely figure coming up swiftly from the Old Port, taking two steps at once in his hurry. It was a lanky young man, wearing a leather torso armour (the sort that was riveted with small metal plates, preferred to full mail here) over his fine, forest-green skirt. His dark breeches and knee-high, fine leather boots spoke of a noble – and wealthy – background. He also wore a white, sleeveless surcoat over his armour, from the finest, thin wool, with the emblem of the Lords of Halabor on his back, a sword-belt with the matching sword attached to it, but surprisingly, also one of those rolled hats with a piece of fine cloth draped over one shoulder that had become so fashionable in the court of Dol Amroth lately.

The combination of practical armour and latest fashion would have looked silly on most people, but the young man somehow managed to wear them with an ease that made them look natural. He also managed to run up the Steep Path like a ten-year-old lad, despite his armour and the somewhat confining elegance of the rest of his clothes.

Henderch shook his head tolerantly at the young man’s antics – in the glowing heat of near ninth hour, it was decidedly unreasonable to run around in full armour… and up the Steep Path, of all streets of the town – but he could not suppress a fond grin. Young Master Herumor – nay, it was Lord Herumor now – the late and only child of Lord Orchald, had returned from Dol Amroth but a few days ago, and people were so happy to have him again that they would gladly overlook some youthful folly on his part.

The Heir of Halabor had served four years as an esquire in Prince Imrahil’s court, and though he never wanted to become a Swan Knight (he was sorely needed at home, after all), even Master Andrahar, the stern and heavy-handed Armsmaster of the Prince spoke of him with satisfaction. A greater praise was hardly imaginable for a young man under Andrahar’s hand, and every Warden was very proud of their young Lord – even if he tended to wear silly-looking hats.

Herumor darted across the now-empty Marketplace, down the Street of the Bakers, and finally reached Rollo’s Gate where he seemed to be heading. He touched his fist to his heart to pay his respects to the patron of the Gate, whose roughly hewn stone statue stood in a small niche over the arch. The Lord and his family, following Dúnadan beliefs, did not truly believe in Rollo or Nurria, the Lord of Fire and Smithcraft or the Lady of the Pastures, whom their subjects frequently asked for protection, but they respected the common folk’s beliefs. As Lord Orchard once explained with a shrug, in his eyes Rollo and Nurria were just the local names for Aulë and Yavanna, so what harm could be done by a little respect?

Henderch, raised in the Old Faith like almost everyone in town, found nothing wrong with that. ‘Twas better to find what could be shared than seek what would divide the nobles from Westernesse and the common folk. Any household divided in itself was doomed to fall. Lord Orchald and all his sires had always been like fathers to their subjects, and in few towns could one find so little quarrel between old and new burghers as in Halabor.

The Chief Warden watched his young Lord hurry up the narrow stone stairway that led to the watchtower and stepped back towards the western wall to leave enough space for the heavy oak door to open. With more than one person up here, things could become a little crowded.

A moment later the door swung up indeed, and Lord Herumor stepped into the hot upper chamber with an ease that revealed that he was well used to such uncomfortable places. Having served his years in Dol Amroth honourably had made a hardened warrior of the cheerful, lively child Henderch remembered. The young man might still be inexperienced, but he was now ready to make his own experiences – and, so Henderch hoped, to live to tell the tale.

He had grown into a comely young man during those years, too. While Henderch counted as a big man among the common folk, young Herumor was almost a head taller, dark-haired and grey-eyed as his Dúnadan ancestors, his youthful face already showing the strong features of his father. Although his mother came from Lossarnach, from Lord Forlong’s family, he most definitely took after his father.

“Master Henderch,” he said with that easy smile that had not changed since his childhood, “may I have a word with you?”

“Why, certainly, my Lord,” answered the Chief Warden, a little surprised. “What can I do for you?”

“’Tis not about me,” Herumor shrugged. “I come from the Old Port… where I just had a most moving conversation with Old Craban.”

Henderch eyed the fine clothing of his young Lord doubtfully. Aside from his most fashionable hat and spotless surcoat, Herumor was also wearing a bag-sleeved, thin cotton shirt, with tiny silver bells scattered across one sleeve. Not the sort of clothes one wore while visiting the simple home of a fisherman. Even if one was a fine young lord.

“You went to Old Craban’s cottage in that shirt, my Lord?”

“Nay, I met him in the Square House, where his daughter lives,” grinned Herumor; then he became serious again. “You are sidestepping, Chief warden. You know well enough what I wish to speak with you about, do you not?”

Henderch sighed. “Aye, my Lord, I know. But you must understand… Súrion has no place among the Wardens.”

“Why not?” asked Herumor calmly, his chin set in that stubborn manner Henderch could still remember from earlier. The Chief Warden rolled his eyes.

“My Lord, that lad has the mind of a small child! He needs guidance from Old Craban in almost everything!”

“Not when it comes to fighting, he does not,” said Herumor. “Have you tried him?”

“Of course I have! He has the strength of an ox, that much is true, but he cannot hold a sword straightly. Not to mention learn how to use it.”

“I believe that,” Herumor nodded. “But have you tried his skill with the battle axe?” Seeing Henderch’s baffled look, he nodded. “He does not have the right build for a sword. But I have seen the axe-bearers in Uncle Forlong’s household, and I have seen Súrion splitting a huge beam with a single heave. I do think that he could be an asset with the axe… or with one of those heave spears that Uncle’s footmen wield.”

That made Henderch think for a moment, and Herumor, seeing that his words had hit home, kept arguing.

“Think about it, Master Henderch! A lad as big and strong as Súrion would be an Orc-bane with a battle axe in his hands.”

“Mayhap,” Henderch was still not willing to give in… not entirely. “But will he follow orders? Can he remember what he has to do?”

“He is a little slow to understand things,” admitted Herumor. “The one who trains him will have to be slow, too… and patient. Yet I am certain that it would be worth the effort.”

“Mayhap,” repeated Henderch doubtfully. “Yet where shall I find someone who not only can wield a battle axe but is also willing to teach such a difficult pupil?”

“You have already found him,” a deep, thickly accented voice said, and Mogh the Dunlending entered the guardroom.

Short, broad and swarthy, even compared with the Chief Warden, Mogh did not look very trustworthy at first sight. With his strong jaw, shaggy brown hair and small, dark eyes, he had some unpleasant resemblance to a wild boar, even in his Warden uniform. But Henderch had fought with him often enough to know he could trust the Dunlending with his life.

“You would be willing to train the lad?” he asked, a little surprised, as Súrion most likely hailed from Rohan, and Rohirrim and Dunlendings had been sworn enemies for at least five hundred years. Ever since Steward Cirion called the Northmen to Gondor’s aid and gave them the green fields of Calenardhon, which the Dunlendings considered as theirs.

Mogh shrugged. “’Tis not his fault that he is one of the Forgoils⁽⁵⁾. ‘Sides, there is a good chance that my people killed his parents eighteen years ago. Those were unruly times – only the old gods know how such a small child managed to escape.”

“It could have been Orcs,” said Herumor, but Mogh shook his head.

“Nah… Orcs would have caught him and eaten him. ‘Tis no matter, though. If the lad needs to wield an axe, I shall show him how ‘tis done. We could use his strength on the walls, should things turn ugly.”

Henderch still looked a little uncertain, but as the two teamed up against him, there was no way out of the argument. He shrugged.

“Very Well. Speak to the lad. See of what he is capable. We need every strong arm that we can use – and if he turns out a good fighter, we can have him for a long time. Or so I hope.”

Mogh nodded. “Will do. And you should go and rest now. ‘Tis beyond the ninth hour. My watch has begun.”

Henderch grinned and clasped the Dunlending’s forearm in warrior fashion. Then he and his young Lord left the watchtower.

“I am going to the Drunken Boat for a late lunch,” said the Chief Warden. “Would you care to join me, my Lord, or have you eaten already?”

Herumor laughed. “Master Henderch, I am barely beyond my eighteenth summer. I can eat in every hour of the day. Besides, who would say nay to Mistress Pharin’s cooking?”

“I thought the fine cuisine of the Prince of Dol Amroth has spoiled you, my Lord,” replied the Chief Warden, half-jesting. “They say Prince Imrahil has the finest table in the entire of Gondor. They say, not even the Steward could best him when it comes to good food and noble wine.”

“That may be true,” agreed Herumor, with a mischievous wink of his eye. “I still would not give all the wonders of his kitchen for one single meal at Mistress Pharin’s table. My father spent years begging her to come to the castle as head cook, but alas! she was never willing to give up her tavern.”

“How fortunate for us, lesser people,” grinned Henderch.

They swiftly walked up the Street of the Bakers to the Marketplace, where the most important buildings of the town were situated. The Town Hall, for instance – a two-floor house, traditionally built with a ground floor of stone and two upper floors of darkened wood-beams. This was where the remaining guilds had their meetings, where the scribes of Lord Orchald worked and where the Lord’s seneschal kept his office. As the Lord rarely intervened with the daily life of his subjects in peacetime, the Town Hall had come to great importance for them.

On the other side of the Marketplace, opposite the Town Hall, stood Mistress Pharin’s tavern. It was a simple stone house with an upper floor of wood, just like almost every other one in the town, and with a wooden gallery stretching across the upper floor. That gallery could be reached though a wooden staircase, if the members of the family did not want to go through the tavern. The balustrades were seamed with long, narrow wooden boxes full of flowers. It offered a lovely sight.

The two men, however, aimed straight at the tavern door, which stood wide open. On the right side of the door a sign was swinging – a half-sunk boat among high waves – and over the door the name of the tavern was painted in large, faded golden letters: “The Drunken Boat” by Mistress Pharin.

They stepped in and found themselves in a surprisingly large room with long, oak tables and matching benches, most of them already taken. The place filled with townsfolk, but they found a smaller one in a corner, where only Hirwas, one of the younger Wardens was sitting with a mug of good ale.

They sat themselves at his table – although Hirwas seemed more than a little uncomfortable, sitting so casually with their young Lord – and Henderch looked around to see if he could find one of the maids who worked here. But he did not need to make the effort. Mistress Pharin had already noticed them, and was now coming from the kitchen in person to greet them.

She was tall for a woman of the common folk, of the same height as Henderch, and carried herself with he pride and dignity of a queen. Despite her seventy-five years, her ruddy face was still smooth, her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and, as Henderch knew very well, she was still able to carry half a slaughtered swine on her shoulder. Every inch on her voluptuous body was pure strength. She wore a simple blue gown and a white apron, the sleeves rolled up on her strong arms. Her snow-white hair was twisted into a tight bun and covered with a small, laced cap to keep it from her face.

In her youth, she had been a stunning beauty, at least according to Old Craban, who, indeed, was old enough to remember. She had many suitors, even officers from Minas Tirith, and a scribe from Lossarnach, but she married late. She wanted to become a healer, but as the seventh child of a shoemaker, she could never afford an apprenticeship. For that, she would have had to leave Halabor, and though she often accompanied her father to the fairs of other towns, she was not allowed to travel alone.

Thus, when she finally married, she chose Andróg, the head scribe of the Town Hall – one of the few Dúnedain whose family had lived in Halabor for several generations. Andróg’s parents – the original owners of the Drunken Boat – were mortified, as they hoped for a more proper wife for their firstborn, preferably one from their own kind. But, at least how Old Craban liked to tell the tale, Andróg was mad with love, and swore that he would never marry anyone else, he would rather leave town with his chosen one. So the parents gave in, albeit reluctantly, after two years of constant quarrel.

Shortly after the wedding the innkeeper died and his widow moved to Lossarnach, to her younger son, who had his own tavern in Lord Forlong’s town. Andróg had no talent, nor desire to run the Drunken Boat – he was a scholarly man – so the resolute Pharin took it over for him. She had been a good cook all her life, she could deal with people (no drunk was foolish enough to disobey her twice), and, despite the fact that she raised two children at the same time, the Drunken Boat had flourished ever since.

“Greetings, young Master,” the silver-haired matron smiled, wiping her hands in her apron and blithely ignoring the fact that she should have addressed Herumor as ‘my Lord’. “What would be your pleasure?” She laid a hand on Henderch’s shoulder for a moment, showing that she had noticed him, too.

Like everyone else, she spoke the local dialect of Westron, but with a stronger accent than most. Although she had married a Dúnadan, she remained proud of her ancestry and taught her children and granddaughter the same pride.

“My pleasure would be to try your cooking, as always,” replied Herumor with a laugh. “What can you offer today?” For Mistress Pharin prepared only a few selected dishes every day. If someone did not find the offer palatable, they could always look for another tavern – not that that ever happened.

The matron gave the young Lord one of her famous, dimpled smiles. “Just the simple food of the common folk, young Master. Gehalbirte ayer with cabbage polenta, fish in sweet and sour onion sauce…”

“What sort of fish?” interrupted Herumor; after four years of seafood, he suddenly felt a great appetite for the fresh water fish of his home.

Mistress Pharin obviously still did not like being interrupted by some young snot. Not even if said young snot was the only son of their Lord.

“Why, Omble Knight, of course,” she replied tartly, arching a patrician eyebrow. “With all the hungry mouths to stuff since the Wardens eat at my table, I cannot take any fish under six and ten pounds in these days. Now, we also have hattes, filled with minced pork,” here she shot a meaningful look at the young Lord’s fancy hat, ”benes yfried and connynges in grauey.”

“Rabbit in broth,” explained Henderch to the young Lord who got a little lost among all those old-fashioned food names. “And fried beans with garlic and onions… they are very good with the hattes.”

“Mayhap that is why you choose them every time,” prompted Mistress Pharin. “Small wonder that after half a year at home you still have no wife.”

Henderch laughed. “That might be the reason indeed. I shall still take them again, though.”

“And I take the fish,” decided Herumor. “Do you have any sweets today, Mistress Pharin?”

The matron rolled those incredibly blue eyes in exasperation. “Have you ever sat at my table and there were no sweets? We have chireseye today – cherry pudding – and small fig pies, basted with honey.”

The two men looked at each other and said in unison, “Fig pies.”

“Still have that sweet tooth, huh?” grinned Mistress Pharin. “Want something to drink, too? Cider, wine, ale or caudell?”

“I have not tasted caudell since I left for Dol Amroth,” murmured Herumor, becoming all dreamy-eyed from the mere thought of his favourite drink. But Henderch shook his head.

“I shall have ale, like Hirwas here.”

“All noted,” said Mistress Pharin with a nod and turned back to the kitchen again. “Food should be on the table by the time you have finished your first mug.”

She hurried away, and shortly thereafter a young girl came with a tray, setting a mug of ale before Henderch and a big cup of frothy caudell before Herumor. With her next turn, she delivered Hirwas’ lunch – stuffed eggs with cabbage polenta – then she left them alone.

“Do really all Wardens eat here?” asked Herumor, taking the first careful sip of his scalding hot caudell with half-closed eyes.

“We would be fools not to,” answered Henderch with a grin. “Your lord father pays for two warm meals for every unwed Warden daily. Mistress Pharin is happy with this arrangement – it keeps the tavern full – and we are happy with it, for the food is the best one could get for coin.”

The young girl returned, placing a large plate with small, minced pork pies and fried beans before Henderch. Then she presented the fish with matafan – potato wafers – their young Lord. She smiled shyly at their thanks and hurried away. The tavern was indeed full, and the people seemed hungry.

“It seems to me that the Wardens have become… well, almost like a regular troop of soldiers,” continued Herumor, dunking a piece of matafan into the onion sauce. “They were not, when I left. Your doing, I deem?”

Henderch nodded and swallowed one of his meat pies in two bites. “’Tis why your lord father brought me here. I used to have my own troop in Osgiliath. The local Wardens, like Hirwas here,” he nodded towards the quiet man, “do everything they can, but they have their own trade, a family, a house to care for. I have none of those – but I do have the experience.”

“You are a shepherd, are you not?” asked Herumor their companion, vaguely remembering having seen Hirwas with his beasts on the fair.

“He was,” answered Henderch in the man’s stead, “’til his farmstead was raided and burnt down by Orcs last Blooting⁽⁵⁾. He was badly wounded and survived by some miracle we still cannot fathom. But he lost his speech doe to the knife stab in his throat. No-one else of his family was left alive.”

Herumor had a stricken look on his face, but Henderch only shrugged.

“This is not such a rare thing, my Lord. While you were away, things have taken a turn for the worse. Orc raids are more frequent than ever.”

“I know,” said Herumor with a sigh. “I have not been home for long yet, but my father and his seneschal have found the time to ell me a few tales. ‘Tis not so different in any other part of Gondor,” he added thoughtfully. “But it is somehow more… frightening when it happens at home. Home… that should be a safe place, should it not?

There was an almost childlike sadness in his voice, and Henderch’s heart went out for him. The young man was right. Home should have been safe.

“My father has changed in the recent years,” Herumor spoke again, with the same odd sadness in his voice. “He… he has become old. I… I always knew that he was not as young as the fathers of the other lads; I was a late-born, after all. But… he never showed his age before. He does now.”

“His burden has become heavier lately,” Henderch agreed, “and with Lady Humleth gone, he had no-one to share his worries with. Now that you have come home, my Lord, mayhap your father will be able to breathe more easily.”

“I hope so,” said Herumor soberly. “I shall try my best to lift the burden from his shoulders. But I am still much too young, Master Henderch. I still have so much to learn. I mean, I have learnt a lot about fighting in Dol Amroth, but I know nothing about leadership.”

“Just watch your father, my Lord, and you will learn everything you need,” replied Henderch. “He has always been like a father to tee common folk, and we love him dearly. Follow his footsteps, and you cannot stray from the right path.”

“I know,” the young man nodded, “but I fear I shall have to fill his boots too soon. I can see that he has high hopes concerning my person, but I… I am not some great hero or magnificent warrior like Prince Imrahil or young Lord Boromir. I am… I am just me. I would like to help, I would like it very much – but I know not how. And I fear to disappoint him – and our people. They expect me to protect them and lead them, just as my father does, and I am willing – but what if I fail?”

Henderch looked upon the troubled young man, who seemed so honest and grave, despite his fancy clothes, with great fondness. Unlike Herumor himself, the Chief Warden had little doubt that his young lord will successfully take over the role of the leader and protector one day.

“If my years in the service of Gondor have taught me aught, then this,” he said slowly. “Everyone makes mistakes, and sometimes others have to suffer the consequences. But we must go on and risk failure, my Lord, for we have been chosen to do so. And we have been chosen because we have the ability to lead. So, cease worrying and be comforted – when the time comes, you will be ready.”

“You think so?” asked Herumor, doubt still clouding his handsome face.

“I know it,” replied Henderch with a small smile, “for you are your father’s son. You both are true sons of Gondor. Born to lead.”

And Hirwas, raising his mug of ale to salute their young lord, nodded with great emphasis.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Solmath = February

(2) Mede = July

(3) From 9 a.m. to 3 p. m. It is mentioned in LOTR that Gondorians counted the hours of the day in the old fashion.

(4) Wintring = October

(5) Forgoil = straw-head, a name given the Rohirrim by the Dunlendings, according to Old Glamring.

(6) Blooting = November

The food names were partially taken from the homepage of the medieval French village Yvoire – the model for Halabor – and partially from the website “A Boke of Gode Cookery”, which contains genuine medieval recipes. Mistress Pharin is very much like my grandmother. My great-grandparents did, in fact, own a tavern in a Transylvanian town up to the early 1940s, but my grandmother never worked in it. Still, family history kept a great deal of stories about that place.

THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, at this point.

Author’s notes:

For visuals, Old Craban has the face of Lew Ayres. The description of the Square House interior is based on the data given in “Life in a Medieval City” by Joseph and Frances Gies.

CHAPTER 2 – OLD CRABAN

(In which Chief Warden Henderch and Mogh the Dunlending visit the Old Port and test a new candidate for the Wardens.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was late afternoon on the next day – way beyond the twelfth hour⁽¹⁾ – when Mogh the Dunlending found the time to get over to the Old Port. He asked Henderch to accompany him, as people were still wary in their dealings with him, no matter how long he had lived among them and protected their town by now. The history between Gondor and Dunland was a long and bloody one, and Old Craban in particular was aged enough to have some ugly memories of his own.

Henderch did not mind the walk across town. He had come to know Mogh well enough to appreciate the Dunlending’s sly wit and rough wisdom. He enjoyed their conversations, as Mogh’s mindset was very different from that of the other men he knew, be they Dúnedain or of the Old Folk, and he found the challenge to understand, or even outwit the other man inspiring. Besides, he truly wanted to see if Súrion would show any talent for the battle-axe.

The Chief Warden was still a little unsure about Mogh’s true agenda in this matter. The Dunlending was a mystery for him, and he did not like mysteries. The unknown was often naught else but a mantle to cover perils. He preferred to be ready for everything.

They walked down slowly the Steep Path, among the simple houses of the fishermen, built on terraced levels above each other, to the Old Port – a port, that, strangely enough, had re-gained its importance since the establishing of Cair Andros’ garrison.

In the old days, when Halabor had been an important and lively town, many ships came and left from the quayside of the New Port of the Boat-makers that lay westward from the castle. They brought goods from other towns, as far as Linhir and Minas Tirith, Harlond and even Pelargir, to be sold on the market. When they left, they also carried away much of the products of Halabor: scented waters and beeswax candles, ropes and nets, pottery and leatherware, cheese and liquor and wine and much, much more.

When the Large Port for the boat-makers and the trade ships was built, the quayside was just a gap in the bank of the western arm of the Great River. The smaller boats were usually hauled up onto the bank to avoid the current toppling them over. It not only would have been a huge embarrassment to the ship’s owner and the boatmen, it also cost a lot of spare hands to right the vessel and to bail out the water and flush out the silt.

As the years flowed by and the ships kept coming, the people decided to build a jetty, and later a stone quay, thus enabling larger vessels to moor at Halabor. This meant more goods were being pushed through the town during any given visit, making the market larger and drawing more people from the countryside. At that time, thrice as many lived in the town as nowadays.

And therein lay the problem often voiced before the Town Council by the Guilds of Merchants and Boat-makers, as they were the ones who had a lot to do with ships. The western arm of Anduin was silting up, and the shallow water under the jetty was getting even shallower, as the lands upon the west bank were flat, and the Great River kept extending into that direction. The coming and going of the many ships added to that problem, as the volume of land that was being ploughed each year was getting greater, and the tree loss, caused by the boat-makers, just that bit more, all conspiring to wash more soil into the west-arm each winter.

The only way to sort this out would have been to build the jetty further out into the stream, or build a new one, further down the river, where the two arms were still one and the stream deep and strong. And indeed, during the time of Lord Orchald’s grandsire, the Guilds with the most influence – the Merchants, the Boat-makers and the Stone-masons – very nearly succeeded to persuade the Town Council to build a new, even larger port down south. Had the establishing of the garrison upon Cair Andros not turned the trade paths away from Halabor, they could have got what they wanted,

But after that, there was no need for another large port in town. Most merchants left anyway, moving to Linhir, to Minas Tirith or to Lossarnach, as their lives were dependant on the trade routes. The boat-makers followed suit more slowly, but little by little, they left for the bigger ports as well. The few who remained in town, moved back to the Old Port.

The stone-masons held out the longest. The building of the fortifications upon Cair Andros provided them with work for a few years, and the abandoned New Port provided them with stone to work with for quite some time. The muddy bed of the west-arm of Anduin was littered with boulders, brought there as ballast to balance the visiting ships and then thrown into the water to make room for the wares for years upon years. These were usually huge chunks of rock that suited well for building, if one knew how to harvest them from the water.

The stone-masons used oxen to pull them out of the shallows, hewed them in the desired size and shape right there upon the quays, and then shipped them up the river, directly to Cair Andros. Only when the large rocks were all collected and removed had the New Port truly been abandoned.

During all these years, the Old Port of the Fishermen had served its purpose faithfully. Built on the east side of the cliff where the castle stood, it benefited from the deeper water and the stronger current of the east-arm of Anduin. Its stone-paved quay stretched from the herb gardens of the Infirmary up to the castle, and a long jetty of heavy oak beams curved gracefully almost all the same way, providing a protected area for the fishing boats to moor and for the boat-makers to work. The Steep Path reached the quay almost in the exact middle. Next to the Square House – a squat, three-level building, made uncharacteristically entirely of stone, that once had been Henderch’s home but belonged to Old Craban’s daughter now.

The old man had not moved in with his daughter, though, no matter how much Mistress Dorlas begged her. He stayed stubbornly in his small cottage further down in the port, alone with his boat and his nets and his friends, the white-headed eagles. The townsfolk considered him strange but harmless, and he was well-liked among them, despite his sometimes scruff manners.

When Henderch and Mogh reached the port, they found the white-haired old man before his cottage, hanging up his net to dry. The nets used in Halabor were all made of nettle-hemp and served one forever, if handled with care. The very net Old Craban was hanging up right now had been made at least ten years ago. But then, Old Craban had always been very careful with his nets. Even before he turned his back on his trade and became a fisherman.

As he watched the fragile old man, whose back was bent from the weight of age, Henderch found it difficult to believe that Old Craban was capable of sailing the sea-wide river in the worst of storms and of pulling in a net full of fish without help. Which was the truth, nevertheless. Although taught the trade of the potters in his youth and worked as one for many years, Old Craban was now a fisherman with all his heart.

After he had lost his three sons in a local skirmish with plundering raiders from Dunland, and – less than a year later – also his wife to the dry fewer, he moved into the abandoned cottage of his late brother and had lived there ever since. For a long time, he avoided all people, finding great comfort in the solitude of the Great River, with no company but the eagles and other water birds, and had he not found Súrion eight and ten summers ago, mayhap he would have lived out his life as an hermit.

But fate had left the baby boy – the only survivor of a slaughtered family from the Riddermark – more or less on the doorstep of his cottage. Nobody could tell how the child – for he couldn’t have been more than six or eight moons old back then – had been able to crawl away from the place, outside the town, where his parents and siblings had been killed. From a family of eight, he had been the only one to escape; most likely left behind for dead by whoever the raiders might have been. Yet instead of lying still and waiting for the inevitable death, the little boy had crawled out from under the dead bodies of his siblings and somehow got himself down to the bank of the Great River – where Old Craban, out fishing with his boat, had found him.

The old man considered the child a gift from the old gods, took him in, gave him the name of Súrion (after his youngest, who had only lived a year after birth) and raised him with the help of Mistress Dorlas, who had been already widowed at that time. Súrion grew up to become a big, strong, good-natured lad, whom everyone liked. But his mind, perhaps because of the trauma he had suffered as a baby, remained that of a young child of nine or ten summers. As Henderch had said to young Lord Herumor, Súrion indeed needed guidance from his foster father in about everything – except in fighting. That seemed to be in his blood; as long as no swords were involved.

Old Craban finished hanging up his net, and as he turned away from the wooden frame, he discovered the two Wardens. A slow, lopsided smile spread all over his wrinkled face. As little as he cared for the Dunlending, he had always been very fond of Henderch, whose parents had been good neighbours for him.

“Chief Warden,” he greeted the younger man; his voice was gentle but not powerless, despite his respectable age. “To what do I owe the honour? It has been a long time that you last visited the Port.”

“Too long,” agreed Henderch. “How are you doing, Old Craban? I hope your nets are always full.”

“Not as full as they used to be when the great sturgeons swam up the Anduin all the way from the Sea to spawn,” the old fisherman shrugged, “but I cannot complain. The Great River is being generous. Even though I cannot hope to catch any other fish as huge as the one back in springtime has been.”

Henderch nodded. The great sturgeon that Old Craban had harpooned in the middle of Anduin last spring – and managed to pull ashore, without help, ere the hungry predators could have robbed him of his prey – was still the object of astonished tales in the whole town. It had been the largest fish ever caught in Halabor: more than four yard long, and it weighed more than 160 quarters⁽²⁾.

There had been a great feast on the Spring Fair, for even after most of the unfathomable amount of sturgeon meat had gone to Madron, the most respectable and richest fishmonger of the town to be ferried, sliced and salted and smoked, to Cair Andros and Minas Tirith, there had still been enough left so that everyone would have his or her fill. Even Lord Orchald came down from the Castle to the Drunken Boat, declaring that no-one but Mistress Pharin could do such a noble fish right. An extra barrel of fine wine had been opened as Lord Orchald’s treat, and not even the oldest people could remember a Spring Fair that would have been merrier than this recent one. Sulain, the wine-seller had made so much coin that he bought a new pair of mules after the fair.

“That fish brought me a whole new set of clothes,” said Old Craban with a smile, in fond memories of the once-in-a-life catch. “And new shirts and breeches for Súrion – the lad is still growing, unlikely as it seems. And I could give some coin to Dorlas, to pay the roofer and have that leaking roof of hers finally flicked.”

“I heard the skeleton of it hangs from the roof of the Riverside Inn still,” said Henderch, grinning. Old Craban nodded and laughed quietly.

“Sydnius is not a bad one as innkeepers go,” he judged, “even though he thinks a bit too much of his own importance. But he is the only one daring to live here, in the Old Port, with us – where the walls are little protection. He thought that skeleton would make people want to hear the tale, and therefore stay longer and drink more.”

“Was he right?” asked Henderch, slightly stunned by the innkeeper’s shrewdness.

“If you believe Gennys, he was,” Old Craban laughed again, “though you know what they say about beer-sellers and the truth. But I think you did not come to discuss Sydnius’ business with me, did you?”

Henderch shook his head. “Nay, I came to test Súrion’s fighting skills.”

“Did you?” One snowy brow was raised. “Young Master Herumor is an insistent one, it seems.”

“He is,” agreed Henderch. “And being the son of our Lord can be helpful in such arguments, of course.”

They both laughed. Old Craban then turned his piercing look to Mogh.

“What is he doing here?” he asked coldly.

The Dunlending mentally shrugged off the unspoken insult; after decades spent among the people of Halabor, he had grown used to such reactions. Henderch, however, was beginning to develop a certain intolerance towards the narrow-mindedness of his own folk. In Osgiliath, he had fought alongside men from Rohan and from various Gondorian provinces, and had learned to judge a man by his deeds instead of where he came from.

“He has a name, Old Craban,” the Chief Warden said with a frown. “And he is here to do you a favour. You should be grateful.”

“That would be a day to come, when I found myself in the debt of a Dunlending,” replied the old man, his eyes blazing.

“Well, you might be surprised,” said Henderch. “For we both know that Súrion would never learn how to wield a sword properly; thus Lord Herumor suggested to train him in axe-fighting.”

Old Craban shrugged. “He said so much. So what?”

“If he proves skilled enough, he will need a tutor,” answered Henderch. “Mogh here is the best I have ever seen wielding both the pole-axe and the double-axe. He is willing to teach your lad the art of axe-play. You should not insult him, Old Craban, unless you want him to change his mind.”

The old man hesitated for a while, his hatred and prejudices against the Dunlendings who had slain his three sons and his love for his foster son fighting a short but vicious battle in his heart. Finally, the love won out, as always, and he inclined his grey head in apology.

“Forgive my manners, good Warden,” he said. “I shall thank you if you taught my son to fight properly.”

Mogh accepted his apology with a simple nod. He was not a man of many words. Henderch looked around, seeking for Súrion.

“Where is the lad anywise?” he asked. “I thought he would help you to bring in the nets.”

“He has,” said Old Craban, “and then I sent him with today’s catch to Brioc’s house, so that Deoca and the other women can gut the fish and salt them, ere they go to the fishmonger.”

“When is he coming back?” asked Henderch. Old Craban shrugged.

“He will go to Dorlas for supper. We can wait for him there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Originally, the Square House had not been meant to serve as a home. Now was it a house, as the people of Halabor usually understood the word. It was a stone tower, built to oversee the Old Port in the long-gone days when Halabor still had been an important crossing for trade routes. A watchtower of three stories, with a deep and strong cellar below, it had served to house the constables of the port – there had been a time when such people were needed – and the tax collector’s office on the ground floor. Confiscated goods had either been kept in the large storeroom next to the office – until their owner could pay the proper fee – or secured in the cellar, in case the owner could not pay.

When the New Port was built and merchant ships began to moor there, all these functions went to the warehouse over there, and the Square House was sold to a boatmaker wealthy enough to afford it: one of Henderch’s ancestors. The family had lived there for many generations, and Henderch was still overcome by a strange feeling of coming home when he entered the former storeroom that now served as the main hall of Mistress Dorlas. As she exercised  her trade in the Infirmary, or in the homes of her patients themselves, she did not need to use this particular room for business purposes.

Led by Old Craban, Henderch and Mogh came into the tiny anteroom first, from which three doors led to various parts of the house. One door led to a steep flight of stairs that went to the upper stories of the house. The second door, this one heavy and iron-bound, hid the stairs that led down to the cellar. The third door, finally, opened directly into the former tax office, now the kitchen, with the same old hearth Henderch remembered all too well, which shared the chimney with the main hearth in the hall. Entering the kitchen, the feeling of home strengthened considerably, for the sight offered to his eyes was a very familiar one indeed.

The various kettles and cauldrons with the supper contents were simmering on the hearth, just like in old times. Skimmers, spoons, shovels and scoops, pokers, pincers, spits and skewers, and a long-handed fork hung in front of the chimney. Nearby stood a vat, which held the water supply, and live fish swam in a leather tank, next to the wooden pickling tub. On the same old table against the wall were casseroles and pots of various sizes. Small utensils were stored on a shelf above, once carved by Henderch’ grandfather: sieves, colanders, mortars and graters. The hand towels, too, hang high, to keep them out of the reach of mice, should the insistent little critters invade the house again.

Next to the kitchen table stood the spice cupboard. This was a somewhat newer piece of furniture; Henderch could still remember the day when the carpenter had finished it and handed the keys to his mother proudly – as spices were, in the rule, expensive, a spice cupboard had to be locked all the times. Not that his mother would have had such fabulously rare and expensive spices as saffron, or even ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon or pepper; she usually relied on the herbs from the local gardens, but a spice cupboard was a matter of pride for every housewife with a bit of coin available for finer things. Most of the time, though, it had been the bunches of garden herbs she used: basil, sage, savory, marjoram, rosemary or thyme, which usually hung drying in bunches from the kitchen beams. It seemed that Mistress Dorlas followed the same practice.

Having been a storeroom originally, the hall – also called the solar by more refined people, to which Mistress Dorlas rightfully counted herself – was considerably smaller than such rooms would be in the house of a wealthy merchant, or even that of a well-to-do master craftsman. But as Mistress Dorlas had no family of her own (she had lost her husband shortly after their wedding) it was large enough for herself, her father and Súrion – and it was every bit as homely as Henderch remembered. A hearth fire blazed under the hood of a huge chimney, supplying most of the room’s illumination, as the oil lamp, suspended by a bronze chain from the low ceiling, had not been lighted yet. The narrow windows, fitted with oiled parchment in winter, stood ajar to let in the warmth of the outside, helping so to keep the chilly stone at a pleasant temperature.

 The walls of the solar were hung with woollen tapestries in bright colours, displaying hunting scenes. The stone floor was covered with thick rugs – a rarity outside of noble houses everywhere but in Halabor, as the small town had its own rug-maker: Rustam, an expatriate from Harad, who did not mind making simpler pieces for his fellow townspeople, even though he usually worked for the richest families in Minas Tirith, Linhir and Pelargir. Even the Prince of Dol Amroth had ordered rugs from him once for his shield-brother, Andrahar of Harad, having caught glimpses of his artful handiwork on a fair.

Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished. In one corner stood a big wooden cupboard, displaying a few pieces of plate and silver (and rather simple pieces at that), while in the other corner a low buffet for the pottery and tinware used every day. Looking at the older pieces of pottery, Henderch recognized Old Carban’s handiwork from earlier years, as the jogs and bowl wore a delicate pattern no other potter had ever used in Halabor.

When the three men entered the solar, the trestle table (which usually got dismantled after meals) was already cowered by a broad linen cloth, and Mistress Dorlas – a pleasant young woman of about thirty years, with the same round, friendly face as her father – was about to lay the table with two-handled earthenware bowls customary among the Old Folk, with knives and spoons, tin plates and wine cups. She was wearing a deep burgundy red tunic, with sleeves laced from wrist to elbow, and above it a light brown surcoat held in at her waist by a belt, with its full sleeves rolled back to the elbow and fastened with simple bronze needles, so that they revealed those of the tunic underneath. Her brown hair was parted in the middle, the two long plaits rolled up over her ears like snail houses, and covered with a white linen wimple.

During the years spent in the garrison of Osgiliath, Henderch had visited Minas Tirith many times, and thus he knew that compared with the women who had true Dúnadan blood – even the common-born ones – Old Craban’s daughter could be called moderately pretty at best. Nonetheless, he found her very lovely, and more so now, watching her performing those most homely of tasks. He asked himself how came that she had not caught his eye earlier.

Just like her father, she had a very friendly nature and greeted them cheerfully, not making any difference between the two visitors (which was naught like her father’s behaviour, though).

“You have come just in time to share supper with us,” she said, laying two more bowls and plates onto the table. “If Súrion manages to get dressed any time soon, that is. He can be worse than a child sometimes, I swear. He would sit at my table in his working shirt if I let him.”

“We do not want to cause you any trouble, Mistress Dorlas,” said Henderch, knowing that two more people to feed could indeed cause problems in such a small household. “We have just come to see Súrion.”

“And you can see enough of him during supper,” she waved him off. “’Tis no trouble at all. I cannot promise that my cooking would even come near to that of Mistress Pharin, but I assure you that it is edible. Súrion has grown big and strong enough on it.”

They all laughed, and the two Wardens had no choice but accept the invitation, unless they wanted to insult the mistress of the house. Which they did not. Thus they sat at the table with Old Craban, sipping from the light red wine that was customary drunk to supper in these parts of Gondor, waiting for Súrion to finally join them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took the lad less time than Mistress Dorlas had foreseen. Barely had the guests finished their first cup of wine, when Súrion already came down from the second floor, where his chamber was, cleaned up nicely, wearing a simple, long-sleeved linen shirt and breeches. He was a very big young man indeed, like the Rohirrim usually were, with a broad chest, heavy shoulders, and arms like tree branches; the result of having pulled in the nets from his early childhood. He had a good-natured, broad face with child-like blue eyes, and an unruly mop of dirty blond hair, bound with a leather string on the nape of his thick neck.

Seeing Henderch, a wide smile spread slowly all over his face.

“Master Henderch!” his speech, too, was slow, just like his smile… or his wits. He was a nice lad nevertheless – everyone liked him. Henderch was no exception.

“Súrion,” he said with a simple nod. “’Tis good to see you.”

“You can see me any time you want,” replied Súrion innocently and took his usual place at the table. Henderch laughed.

“Hint duly taken. But we only came here today to see you. And to speak with you about a matter that could mean to you a great deal.”

“After supper,” Mistress Dorlas intervened sternly. “I have not laboured over the hot oven for the food to get cold.”

Indeed, her cheeks were flushed, though Henderch asked himself whether the heat of the oven might be the true reason for that. In any case, ‘twas a bad idea to make the mistress of the house angry. Even less so when said mistress had a respectable trade on her own; one that had a lot to do with herbs and potions. Healers of any kind could execute very unpleasant, albeit harmless, revenge if provoked. And Mistress Dorlas was known as a resolute person, despite her youth, as some abusive husbands who treated their wives badly had come to known. She was known to confront even Mevvyn, the carter, once, and that was no small feat.

This all four men sat at the table meekly, and enjoyed supper, ere aught else could be done or said. ‘Twas a simple supper, as eaten in most houses of the common folk, rather than the fancy meals of the rich merchants or the nobles. The first course was a porray: a soup of leeks, onions, chitterlings, and ham, cooked in milk, with stock and breadcrumbs added. A rivet of hare followed – the meat roasted, then cut up and cooked with onions, vinegar, wine and spices, again thickened with breadcrumbs. Finally, Mistress Dorlas offered some grapes instead of sweetmeats to end the meal.

As she said, it was a simple meal, compared with the fare in the Drunken Boat, simple but tasty, and Henderch caught himself giving her a speculative look. He had never thought of marrying before, and he still was not certain that having a family would be the right thing for him, even less so considering that his main business had been battle and death for many long years. But should he decide to follow his fellow Wardens’ example and wed one of the numerous widows in town, Mistress Dorlas would surely be a good choice.

“Well, Súrion,” he said, when they had finished the meal and Mistress Dorlas began to clear the table; a trade of her own she might have had, but not one that profitable that she could have a maid, “do you still wish to become a Warden?”

The straw blond head nodded eagerly.

“Aye, Master Henderch, I do wish that very much,” then, with infinite sadness, the young man added, “but I know I will never learn to wield a sword. People say I am too slow-witted… and sword-play is difficult.”

“Not everyone has to become a swordsman,” pointed out Henderch.

The heavy shoulders of the young man sagged. “I am not good with the bow, either.”

“But you are very strong,” said Henderch, “and you can wield an axe well enough, or so young Lord Herumor told me. He thinks you would be good with the battle-axe.”

Súrion’s face lit up in childlike delight. “He does?”

“Aye, he does,” nodded Henderch. “Now, the question is, are you willing to learn proper axe-play? Mogh would show you how to do it – but you must listen to him then, and do everything he tells you to do.”

The guileless blue eyes turned to the swarthy face of the Dunlending in awe. “You would teach me? Even though I am dumb?”

“I think not that you are dumb,” grunted Mogh. “Mayhap a little slow.. but that can be helped. And yea, I will teach you how to wield the battle-axe – if you show some talent for it, that is. We must try you first.”

“When?” asked Súrion eagerly. The Dunlending gave him one of his rare grins.

“How about right now? ‘Tis still bright enough to see what you are doing. And I have brought my spare axe.”

“Surely you would not fight with sharp steel ere Súrion has learned how to handle it properly?” exclaimed Mistress Dorlas, clearly upset by the mere idea.

“Of course they would not,” soothed Henderch. “They are not going to fight each other at all. Mogh will simply show Súrion a few moves to see how he is handling the axe to begin with. This will be an exercise, no sparring.”

That seemed to calm her – for she was very protective of Súrion – and wiping her hands, she followed them to the courtyard to see the first instructions.

Once outside, Mogh looked around and chose from the stapled firewood a huge beam that was yet to be split to the proper pieces. With Súrion’s help, he righted the beam so that it was leaning against the staple of wood, and fishing a piece of charcoal from his belt pouch, he made several marks on it.

“Now, he said to Súrion, “think of this beam as your enemy… as an Orc mayhap. Those marks are where you have to aim at – his vulnerable areas. You must hit the mark, in order to render your enemy unfit to hurt you or those you protect. Do you understand?”

Súrion nodded, his blue eyes huge and round like cartle-wheels. Mogh handed him the pole axe, which hand a long, sharpened point on the upper end of its handle… which, for its part, was covered with leather.

“Now listen carefully,” continued the Dunlending. “You need a secure grip on the handle, thus you must hold it with both hands. Later mayhap, when you have learned enough and trained a lot, you might try to wield it single-handedly, so that you may hold a shield with your other hand. But let us begin with the simplest moves first, shall we?”

Súrion bobbed his head eagerly, and for the next two hours, Mogh taught him the very simplest moves of axe-fighting with which seemed endless patience. It was apparently not easy for the young man to learn patterns and rules instead of just attacking the beam headfirst and cutting it to splinter, but slowly, after much repetition, he began to show some understanding.

“That will be enough for one day,” Mogh finally said. “it seems that you definitely have some talent for the axe. I will teach you, and when you have learned all the tricks, I will recommend that you be brought into the Wardens,” he raised a broad hand to quiet Súrion’s happy yell. “But you must understand that it will take time. Most men need at least a year to learn this kind of fighting properly.”

“Would it take me much longer?” asked Súrion, his face falling. Mogh shrugged.

“That I cannot tell. Mayhap it will take longer, mayhap it will take less time… we will see when you begin your proper training.”

“When will I begin?” Súrion beamed with happiness again.

“Tomorrow,” said Mogh. “Come to the Castle when you have brought in your father’s nets. Lord Orchald allows us to use the training curt of his guards.”

“To the Castle?” repeated Súrion, duly impressed. “I have never been to the Castle before… well, not anywhere but in the kitchens when they ordered fish, that is.”

“Well, ‘tis about time, then,” said Mogh. “You will like it. ‘Tis a nice place… and the maids serving there are very pretty.”

“They are?” there was naught but curiosity in the young man’s voice; in certain things Súrion truly was like a child still. “I only ever saw old Mistress Gilmith… though she is a nice lady. Would the maids like me, you thing?”

Mogh snorted. “Aye, they most surely would… if you train and behave properly.”

“Do they like you?” asked Súrion innocently. The Dunlending snorted again.

“Nay, they do not, for I am short and swarthy, and entirely too old for their tastes. But you are young, strong and blond, so worry not, they will like you well enough, as long as you behave as it is proper.”

This obviously pleased Súrion, for though he did not look at women with the eyes of a man, due to his child-like mindset, for the very same reason he wanted people to like him. All people, if possible – and they usually did, as he was a friendly lad, always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Old Craban, too, seemed very pleased with the outcome of the events, and soon took his leave – with a grudging word of gratitude to the Dunlending – saying that his ancient bones needed a good night’s rest ere he rowed out onto the Great River in the next morn again.

Súrion followed suit soon enough, after a quick wash, hurrying over to the Riverside Inn to tell everyone about his good fortune.

“Do not drink too much,” Mistress Dorlas warned him sternly. “You know that I will check your tabs. And Father will need your help in the morn.

“I shall go with him,” offered Mogh. “I could use a good mug of ale myself.”

Henderch nodded. He knew that while people were suspicious with Dunlendings in general, they all knew Mogh who had spent most of his life in town. More than a few nasty remarks would not occur, and Mogh had long since grown accustomed to ignore those.

That left him alone with Mistress Dorlas – a turn of events that he did not mind a bit, as he had been waiting for a chance to speak her without any witnesses for quite some time.

“Mistress Dorlas,” he began carefully, “would you mind if I asked you a question about yourself?”

She was washing the dishes from supper, but at this, she looked back over her shoulder in surprise.

“It depends,” she said. “Ask… though I cannot promise to answer. What do you want to know?”

“I was wondering why you never remarried,” said Henderch. “Your husband had been slain how long ago? Ten years? Twelve?”

“Fifteen,” she replied simply. “I was very young when I married him. He was a good man and a good husband… a shame that our time together was cut so short.”

“Are you still grieving for him?” asked Henderch, slightly bewildered. “Here are other  good men in town, and you are still young and pretty – and not exactly penniless, with a trade of your own. I cannot believe that you would have no suitors in all those years.”

“I had a few,” she said, still turning her back to him and scrubbing the plates furiously, although they seemed clean enough to Henderch. “But they all wanted children. Children that I cannot give them.”

Henderch took in a sharp breath. The thought that the midwife of the town could be barren, of all people, never occurred to him. He remained tactfully silent, leaving her the choice to tell him more – if she wanted. Apparently, she did, for after some more tormenting of the already clean dishes, she continued in a slow, sorrowful voice.

“When my husband was slain, I was carrying our first child. As the other fishermen came and told me that the cursed Orcs shot him from the other bank of the River, I swayed and fell down the stairs. I miscarried and ran a high fever for many days afterwards. Mistress Crodergh tried everything in her might – and she is a very fine herbalist, let me tell you – but there was naught she could actually done. She even consulted the healers of the Wandering Elves, when they crossed the town some years ago, but not even those were able to heal my condition.”

“Was that when you decided to become a midwife?” asked Henderch gently.

She nodded. “As I cannot have children of my own, I wanted at least to help other women to have them. And Mistress Crodergh is getting old; she wanted to teach someone all that she knows before it will be too late. Her knowledge is great; ‘twould be a shame to let it get lost.”

“’Tis still a lonely life to lead,” said Henderch. She shrugged.

“Not truly, ‘tis not,” it sounded as if she wanted to persuade herself. “I have to take care of my father – he is not getting any younger, no matter what he says – and then there is Súrion, who will always remain a child… in certain things.”

“Do you mind me bringing him into the Wardens?” asked Henderch. “It may not help him to see the ugliness of war from so close.”

“War will come to him – to all of us – whether we want it or not,” Mistress Dorlas sighed. “Sooner or later, he will have to fight. And he will have better chances when taught how to fight properly, as using his fists would do him no good against the Orcs. I shall sleep better, having him as a trained Warden in the house.”

Henderch nodded. It made sense. She was a wise woman, despite her young age. And a lovely one.

“Mistress Dorlas,” he said, “would you be willing to take an orphaned girl into your house? ‘Tis not the same as having children of your own, but little Godith needs a home, and I cannot imagine a better one than yours.”

She looked at him in surprise. “So that was why you were asking me about my husband?”

“Among other reasons,” admitted Henderch. “I have been trying to find a home for the child for some time now. Her father was one of my Wardens, slain but two moons ago, and her grandmother fell from the ladder and broke her neck only three weeks later.”

“What about her mother?”

“Died in childbirth, out on one of the farmsteads. Was on orphan herself, thus the girl has no living family left. She needs one.”

“How old is she?”

“Barely four years. Right now, the maidservants of Lord Orchald take turns to care for her, but that is not good enough. Not in the long run.”

“Nay, ‘tis not,” agreed Mistress Dorlas. “That poor little bird needs a warm nest and one person to care for her. Very well, Master Henderch, bring her to me. I shall take her and raise her as my own. And when she has grown old enough, I will teach her herb lore. Mayhap when Mistress Angharad returns from Lossarnach, she will take the child as her healer’s apprentice. That way the little one will be able to care for herself when the time comes.”

“You are very generous, Mistress Dorlas,” murmured Henderch in relief. He was glad  to find the girl a permanent home; this was one burden less weighing upon his shoulder.

“I am only doing what common sense tells me,” Mistress Dorlas shrugged. “Yet you said this was but one reason to ask me about my husband. What else is there, I wonder?”

“I wanted to know if you were currently… engaged to someone,” admitted Henderch. “If I had any chance to court you.”

Mistress Dorlas laughed. “Henderch, we have known each other since… well, since I was born, I deem. You could have asked straight away.”

“Mayhap,” Henderch allowed. “But I was absent from the town for a long time, and thus we barely met as adults… in truth, not at all, not ‘til I sold this house to you. So I was not certain how much of that childhood familiarity was still there.”

“True enough,” she agreed. “Times changes, and so do people. And since we are being honest to each other… I would be not adverse. But I know not if I wish to be married again. I have grown used to be the mistress of my own house, and I doubt that I could become a meek little housewife again.”

“And I have grown accustomed to the lonely life of a soldier,” said Henderch. “Weapons and war are my business now; not something upon which you can build a family safely. But I am loath of sleeping in a cold and empty bed every night.”

“You know that which you are suggesting is not seen as very honourable,” said Mistress Dorlas, but her eyes were gentle and understanding.

Henderch nodded. “I know. But I also know that we only have to answer to ourselves… if you are willing.”

“Well… ‘tis not so that you could get me with child unwillingly,” she said with a sad little smile. “And no-one would find it strange if you visited little Godith who is to live in my house. Let us give it a try. You are right; sleeping in a cold and empty bed can be very lonely sometimes. No promises, though. Should we find out that we are not right for each other, we can still end it in friendship. For Godith’s sake.”

“No promises,” Henderch agreed.

And then he leaned in to kiss her, and her mouth was soft and sweet and yielding under his. The dishes were forgotten, as they climbed the steep stairway to the upper rooms, and they fell onto her bed, clinging to each other, in desperate hunger for closeness, for warmth – for life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And on the next day, the Chief Warden brought the shy, frightened four-year-old to the house of Mistress Dorlas, who took in little Godith and loved and raised her as her own. People in the town found the idea a very good one indeed, for they all pitied the midwife who could not bear children, and were happy for her. And no-one found it strange that the Chief Warden took to visiting the Square House regularly. After all, he had been the one who had found little Godith such a good home.

If Old Craban had guessed the truth, he never spoke about it. He was content with his life. Súrion was now training daily to become a Warden, and Dorlas had a little girl to raise. What else could he want for the autumn of his life?

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Approximately 6 o’clock in the afternoon.

(2) Hard to believe, but these are authentic measures. In the past, great sturgeons of 6 metres were not uncommon. The record weight documented was 2,078 kg.

SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, at this point.

Author’s notes:

The axe-fighting lesson is based on the English translation of “Le Jeau de la Hache” – hopefully, I have not misinterpreted anything. Esteven, the Swan Knight probationer, here mentioned only, is an original character of Isabeau’s.

CHAPTER 3 – THE MASTERPIECE

(In which Súrion is learning the art of axe-fighting, and Chief Warden Henderch and Mogh the Dunlending visit the ironsmith)

The training court of Lord Orchald’s Castle in Halabor, on the third day of Wintring, in the year 2996 of the Third Age

The daily training of the Wardens had become some sort of spectacle for the people in the Castle since Henderch’s return to Halabor. With Lord Orchald’s permission, it was held in the stone-paved courtyard within the Castle walls, where the townsfolk were not allowed, unless in urgent business, so that they could not ogle them while they were sparring. But that still left about three dozen Castle guards, servants, kitchen maids and other folks as a very interested audience.

The Castle guards could, of course, only watch with half an eye, as they had their own training to perform, and they even sparred with the older, battle-hardened Wardens – all of them sorted out of Gondor’s army after years of service due to injuries – on a regular basis. Unless there was a particular lesson they all wanted to watch – like in this very afternoon.

And today’s practice was one particularly worth watching indeed. On this afternoon, Mogh the Dunlending was giving one of his famous axe-fighting lessons to Súrion, the latest one chosen to become a Warden. Currently, the count of Wardens was fifteen, with sixteen-year-old Ingor as their errand boy and waiting to be allowed to begin his training in earnest, but Henderch was fervently hoping to raise that number at least as high as twenty, more so as half of them still served only half the time. Thus he did not mind when people watched them. If word got out how seriously they were preparing themselves, more men might become interested in joining them.

Mogh and Súrion were sparring with heavy wooden axes, wearing no armour, just padded gambesons, as even the practice weapons could bruise one badly. Opposite the large, straw-blond young man Mogh looked short, stocky, almost like a Dwarf. But he was incredibly fast on his feet, and strong like a bear. Any warrior would have a hard time against him.

So had poor Súrion, apparently, for after the exchange of the first few blows, his axe flew from his hand in a high arch. Mogh stopped his own forward momentum at once… a task not many would have been able to perform, being in full swung.

“Nay, lad,” he said with seemingly unshakable patience, “that will not do. Remember what you have been taught. We fight one against one, right-hander to right-hander. I gave you a swinging blow, and you had the point of your axe in front. What should you do in such cases?”

Súrion thought about it for a while very hard, obvious of the impatience and the hidden grins of their audience.

“Ummm… step forward with my left foot, receive your blow, pick it up with the shaft of my axe and – with the same move – bear downward to make your axe fall to the ground?” he asked hopefully.

Mogh nodded his approval. “Right. And how should you follow up from there?”

“With the other foot stepping forward, and giving you a jab with the shaft, running it through the left hand, at the face. Or wherever I could hit you. Or swing at your head,” answered Súrion, this time without thinking first.

“Very good,” Mogh nodded again; then, raising a heavy eyebrow, he asked. “Why have you not done any of these things, then?”

Súrion looked at him sheepishly, embarrassment colouring his already ruddy cheeks to a deep red. “I… I cannot think that fast, Master Warden.”

The Castle Guards watching the spectacle burst out in laughter, and poor Súrion seemed like one who would flee in any moment. Mogh, however, gave the spectators an icy glare, which made the laughter die down at once.

“Your problem is not that you think too slowly,” he then lectured Súrion. “Your problem is that you still need to think at all. Any warrior who thinks in the middle of a battle will end up dead; in a fight, there is no time for thinking. But if you learn these patterns, if you learn them down to the bone, you will never have the need to think, for they will come back to you, faster than you could ever think… you or your opponent, either. All you need to do is to learn them perfectly, and to practice, day to day, ‘til they become part of you… ‘til they become an instinct. When this happens, you can trust them to work for you on their own. Do you understand me?”

Súrion nodded, comforted by his tutor’s words. “Aye, Master Warden.”

“Good. Now let us try it again.”

Súrion picked up the wooden axe, and the two of them continued their sparring, practicing the same move of swinging blow and defensive movements again… and again… and again…

“Your Dunlending has sheer endless patience,” Borondir, the captain of the Castle Guard, said to Henderch. “Do you truly believe the lad will ever be able to learn the fighting patterns?”

“In time,” replied Henderch calmly. “His mind may not remember the moves, but his body will. ‘Tis only a matter of time, practice and patience – all things his tutor has aplenty.”

“How long it will take, I wonder?” said Borondir.

Henderch shrugged. “As long as it takes. But once he has learned proper fighting, he will be a blessing for the Wardens. He is as strong as an ox, and not easily frightened.”

“Not to mention young,” added Borondir with a nod. “He will serve with you for a long time yet.”

“We need lads like him,” said Henderch. “The ones among us who are properly trained, have also suffered injuries that made us unfit for the regular troops; and the others, who joined us out of despair or vengeance, are mostly beyond their prime. Our numbers are ruefully low to protect an entire town.”

“You can always count on our help, you know that,” said Borondir.

Henderch nodded. “I know, Captain. But your troops are not that numerous, either. And you are sworn to protect our Lord and his family, first and foremost. Our duty is to protect the people. And ‘tis not a town easily protected, with the ports wide open to the Great River. ‘Tis fortunate that the cursed Orcs are not good on water, but they can cross it if they have to.”

“We are part of the people, Master Henderch,” the youthful voice of young Lord Herumor said from behind their backs, and the lordling joined them, with Kenver, one of the younger Guards, in tow.

They were both wearing padded gambesons, ready to begin their own sparring practice. Herumor had taken upon him to make the Guards better in swordfight, and it was said that he drilled them quite mercilessly. When someone complained, his answer was always the same, delivered with a raised eyebrow. ‘You think I am hard on you? You would not last a day under the hand of Master Andrahar!’

“How is Súrion doing?” he inquired now. As the one who had sponsored the young man to become a Warden, he had a justified interest in Súrion’s headway.

“He is learning,” replied Henderch, “but it is a slow process.”

“Learning a task properly always is,” said Herumor with a shrug. “It took me more than six moons ere Master Andrahar allowed me to spar with sharp steel… and I was one of the best among the esquires. Father had begun to teach me how to wield a sword when I was eight years old, after all. Súrion will learn his task, too.”

“And who was the best?” asked Kenver, a good swordsman himself. “In Dol Amroth, I mean.”

“There were many who could wield the blade well,” said Herumor, “though if I had to name one from our own rows, I would name Esteven. He surely will become a Swan Knight one day. But the very best I have ever tried my skills against was young Lord Boromir, the Steward’s son. ‘Tis no wonder, though; he has been an officer in the garrison of Osgiliath from the age of sixteen. He visited Dol Amroth a few times during my training, and though we are about the same age, I could never compare myself with him. He will make a terrific Captain-General one day. Gondor is fortunate to have men like him to rule in these dark times.”

Henderch, who had fought alongside the Steward’s Heir often enough while still a soldier in Osgiliath, nodded in agreement. Young Lord Boromir surely was a marvel in battle, and beyond his fighting skills, he already showed all the qualities a great leader of Men was needed to have. And he was well-liked among the common soldiers, as he shared their food and their lodgings without complain, declaring that he cannot expect from his men aught that he was not willing to endure himself.

In the meantime, the lesson in axe-fighting was nearing its end. It seemed that Súrion had, indeed, managed to perform all three possible defensive moves against that particular swinging blow, several times in a row, without thinking. Mogh seemed content with his performance.

“’Tis enough for today,” he said, walking to the bench with the water buckets, while shedding his sweaty gambeson already. He grabbed a bucket and slouched the cold water over his head and naked torso, despite the chilly autumn evening. But again, Dunlendings are tough like cooked swine hide, Henderch thought, grinning.

“One day, I shall treat you a proper bath,” he said. “Soaking in the hot water would do wonders to your old bones and loosen the kinks in your back.”

Rubbing his wet hair and beard with a rough linen towel vigorously, Mogh snorted in honest amusement.

“You are the battered veteran here,” he said. “Or can you imagine Sinsar fussing over me, as if I were some perfumed lordling?”

“Hardly,” admitted Henderch, though he had to admit that the bath master truly had a tendency to fuss over his customers. As long as they were not Dunlendings, that is. “But the common baths are for everyone, you know.”

“I know,” Mogh nodded, “and I have no desire to visit them. Can we just leave it there?”

“Your loss,” Henderch shrugged. For his ever-chilly shoulder, the hot baths were a true blessing, but he knew there was just no reasoning with Mogh sometimes. “Well, I think we have had enough for one day. I must be off. There is next week’s duty roster waiting for me, and you all know how much I love being a clerk.”

The other Wardens laughed and went off, too, some to relieve the guards in the watchtowers, some home to their families, the others to the Drunken Boat to have a somewhat early evening meal. Henderch waited for Mogh to pull on a clean tunic. As they both lived in the House of the Wardens, they usually had supper together at Mistress Pharin’s, too.

But Mogh’s mind was not on eating just yet. Something else seemed to occupy his mind.

“I believe the lad will need an axe of his own,” he said, thinking aloud while putting on his sword-belt. “My spare one is not the right size for him.”

Kenver, who happened to be the son of the blacksmith, caught this remark while taking up his fighting stance opposite his young lord.

“You should talk to my father, then,” he said laughing.

“Mayhap,” Mogh agreed, looking up to the sun that was still fairly high over the mountains. “’Tis still early enough for a short visit, I guess. Are you coming with me, Henderch?”

The Chief Warden thought of the still unwritten duty roster and sighed in defeat. Even friendship had its price, it seemed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The house and the forge of the blacksmiths were situated in the southwestern part of the town, near Nurria’s Gate. Thus the two men took the broad and comfortable road that connected the port and the castle with the Gate, instead of climbing the Steep Path again. This was the only road inside the town where two carts had enough room to go at the same time, built for the very reason to get goods from the warehouse to the Old Port and the Castle.

The house of Master Ludgvan, standing on the west side of a paved courtyard, was a typical Halabor-style building: low and wide, with surprisingly much room in the inside, built half of stone and half of heavy oak beams. The smithy was in a separate, all-stone building on the other side of the courtyard. Opposite the smithy, on the third side, was the laundry house, also serving as the bath. It was a wooden building, made of oak beams – the reason why it was as far from the smithy as possible.

A big and ugly watchdog, with more remembrance of a Warg than of a dog, began to bark furiously when they entered the courtyard through the open gate. Fortunately, it was still chained – they only let it roam free during the night. Hearing the rancorous noise of their dog, the blacksmith’s wife hurried forth from the main house to look what was happening.

She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman, wearing a simple blue gown and a short grey cape over her shoulders, her greying hair – braided and wrapped around her head – covered by a white lace cap, in the fashion of married women. Several small items hung from her leather girdle: a small knife, a purse and a leather bag with writing utensils. A farmer’s daughter, she had married the Master Smith at a rather young age, and despite having given birth to eight children – six of which were all grown up and well – she still was easy on the eye, and her friendly nature made her well-liked by both the townsfolk and by the outside customers as well.

“My good Chief Warden!” she called out in delight, as Henderch was a good customer for them indeed, bringing all the Wardens to their forge for repairs and new weapons, and seeing him normally meant more work for her husband and thus more coin for their household. “What can we do for you?”

“Why, I am only accompanying Mogh here,” answered Henderch with a broad grin. “He wants a battle-axe made.”

Mistress Tamsyn raised an eyebrow.

“Another one?” she asked; as she kept the books for her husband, she knew well enough that the Dunlending just had such a weapon made by the Master Smith half a year ago. “Or have you broken it already? Are Orc-heads plated with iron nowadays?”

“’Tis not for me,” explained Mogh. “I want it for Old Craban’s lad. It seems he does have some skill with the axe, after all.”

“And a good thing it is that you have brought him in the Wardens,” Mistress Tamsyn nodded with emphasis. “A very good thing and no mistake! ‘Twas time that lad did something else than just pulling Old Craban’s nets. Come with me then, we are just about to have evening meal, but I still have a moment or two to take your order before that.”

She led them into the main house, where the family was already gathering in the large common room adjoining the kitchen. Currently, the blacksmith’s family contained about a dozen people, all living under the same roof and all older than ten working for the family business in some way. Keverne, the oldest daughter of the smith, was setting the table, somewhat hindered by the “help” of her own, small daughter. Through the arched window to the kitchen they could see young Sabra, the wife of the smith’s son Kevern, finishing the meal.

Kevern himself was just entering the house with four-year-old Peder sitting on one arm and one-year-old Briga on the other one. He was after the evening bath already, it seemed, his clothes clean, his hair and beard still damp. The children greeted their grandmother with much happy noise, and Kevern handed them over, inviting the potential customers into the small side room, where the books of business were kept – thin, leather-bound tomes of parchment, written by the steady hand of Mistress Tamsyn.

The blacksmith’s wife joined them as soon as the grandchildren had been taken care of, and, gathering the folds of her full skirt, she sat behind the desk. Taking orders and calculating costs and prices was her share in the family business.

“Well then,” she said, opening the tome with the records of the current year’s business, “do tell me, what kind of axe it should be?”

“A double-headed one,” answered Mogh, without a moment of hesitation, “with a short handle. The lad is big enough, and his arms are long. The handle should be strengthened with iron rings and covered with leather – he will need a steady grip on it. And the axe-heads should be thrice-forged.”

“That would be a lot of work,” warned Mistress Tamsyn, “and a costly one at that. Forgive my asking, good Mogh, but do you have the coin to pay for such a weapon? You used to work for my husband – you know what the price would be.”

Mogh nodded. “It matters not, Mistress Tamsyn. I do have the coin for it, and I am willing to pay three golden pieces in advance and the rest when the weapon is finished.”

“The lad means a lot for you, I deem,” she said thoughtfully. “Which is strange, considering where he comes from… and where you do.”

“That might be so,” replied the Dunlending. “But you see, Mistress, your husband took me as an apprentice when no-one else would. He gave me the chance to learn a solid craft, to earn honest coin, ere Lord Orchald took me in the Wardens. I wish to give that lad a chance to do what he wants. He does have the talent, and I shall see that he learns the skills, too. We need people like him.”

“Very well,” Mistress Tamsyn wrote down the order and the specifications and blew on the ink, so that it would dry more quickly. Mogh, not learned in the art of letters, set his sign under it. Then he took out his purse and counted three golden pieces into the woman’s hand. She staved them into her girdle purse and smiled contently.

“We have much work right now,” she said, “but if you are willing to wait ‘til the Spring Fair, I can promise you something special. Kevern!” she called out to her son who had stepped out to the common room to soothe some quarrel between the children – in the meantime there were four of them already. “Join us for a moment, would you?”

Kevern turned back, with a curious look on his open, friendly face. “How can I help you, mother?”

“You can help yourself,” his mother replied. “The good Warden Mogh here just gave the order for what could easily become your masterpiece.”

But Kevern shook his head. “Mellof is the one who wants to become a famous weapon-smith. And Selyv, my oldest. I am content to make cauldrons and horse-shoes.”

“Selyv is not even a helping lad yet, and Mellof is barely into the second year of his apprenticeship,” pointed out Mistress Tamsyn. “You have been working as a journeyman for how long by now? Ten years? Think you not that it would be time to move forward?”

“Uthno has worked as a journeyman all his life, mother,” the young smith defended himself. “Not everyone has to be a master smith.”

“Uthno is not supposed to take over the forge from your father one day,” his mother replied. “And he is the only oven-builder this side of Minas Tirith. His living is secured. Yours is not. You cannot take over for your father as long as you have not been titled a master. You know that. And you have the skills. Why are you being so unreasonable?”

Kevern hesitated for a moment, then he shrugged. “You cannot make a cauldron or a plough as your masterpiece. And I do not like making weapons. I know the Wardens need them to protect us. But I do not like making them.”

Henderch began to understand. Many times had he tried to win the strong young smith for the Wardens – as most of them kept their own work as well, the need to increase their numbers was ever-present – but Kevern sidestepped every time neatly. Now the Chief Warden knew that he would not ask again. There were men who despised the thought of killing – not many, as the constant threat from Mordor had made most of them willing to defend their homes by any means – and Kevern was apparently one of those. There was no use pressing the issue.

Mistress Tamsyn, however, seemed to have had enough from her son’s antics.

“No-one demands that you become a weapon-smith, my son,” she said sternly, “but you must make your masterpiece. You are your father’s heir, but you must have the master title for the Guild in Minas Tirith to accept you as their equal. As you said, you cannot choose a cauldron as your masterpiece.” She put down the quill and rose. “You will make this axe for Mogh – for Súrion, that is – and you will do good work, proving your skills to everyone.”

Kevern shook his head sadly but gave in – what other choice would he have? “As you wish, mother.” Then he looked at the other two men. “I shall forge a good weapon for you, worry not. I might not like it, but it will be a good one.”

“That is all we ask for,” Henderch gave the shoulder of the young smith a friendly squeeze. “Thank you, Kevern. We are in your debt.”

The smith shrugged. “You are paying for it.”

“We are paying for the axe,” said Henderch. “But you are doing something against your own heart, and that cannot be paid for with mere gold or silver.”

“Spoken like a man of true wisdom,” a deep, rumbling voice said, and the Master Smith entered the small room, filling it almost completely with his own bulk.

Ludgvan, son of Ludan the Older, was a true bear of a man, just beyond his sixtieth summer; his hair and beard iron-grey, his chest could have put his bellows to shame, his huge arms like oak-beams the houses in Halabor were built from. But not brutal strength alone was his forte. Those large hands could make the tiniest, finest items possible, from the rings of chain mails to the smallest clasps that would fasten a young lord’s armour.

Beyond that, he was the ranking member of the Town Council and the spokesman of the Craftsmen’s Guild. In that position – called the provost in these lands – he ranked equally to Master Suanach, the head of the Merchants’ Guild, and was just as respected… if not more. For Master Suanach was a stranger, a newcomer who had moved north from Pelargir, while Ludgvan’s family had been there longer than even their Lord.

“Mogh, my friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand onto the Dunlending’s shoulder. “Are you not tired of soldiering yet? You know you can always come back and work for me.”

“I know, and I thank you for that, Master Ludgvan,” said Mogh, something akin a smile dawning upon his grumpy face. “But I have found my place with the Wardens… and, to tell the truth, I do like the fighting. I only wish my people would understand that allying themselves with our enemies will do them no good. Alas that there is little hope for that.”

“Sometimes I wonder just how much hope there might be for any of us,” replied the Master Smith gloomily. “The Shadow of the Black Lands is growing longer with every passing year, and never before have the roads been more dangerous. Not in my lifetime anyway. Tell me, Master Warden, do you truly hope that we shall see better times yet?”

“I have to;” said Henderch quietly, “or else I could not fight any longer.” He rose. “Well, I must take my leave from you. A long, hot bath and a good rubdown are waiting for me ere I turn in.”

“And I need a tankard of Gennys’ good ale for a night of peaceful sleep,” Mogh added.

They all laughed and parted company, Mogh going to the New Port to have some ale in the Old Sailor, the ale-house of Gennys, and Henderch heading towards the Infirmary, behind which the bath-house was built.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The common baths of Halabor had been built over a hot spring, several hundred years earlier, when the town still had been an important crossroad of the main trade routes. Accordingly, it had been constructed in a way that would serve the needs of the rich merchants from Pelargir – or even Harad – as well as those of the horse-sellers from Rohan. It was such a refined institution that even the Wandering Elves paid it a visit whenever they went through town, rarely as it happened in these days.

The bathhouse itself stood on the river bank, adjoining the herb gardens of the Infirmary, just inside the town walls. It was a long, two-story building, made of stone on the ground floor and of oak beams on the second floor, with the usual balcony looking at the Old Port over the walls.

Henderch entered through the front door in the middle of the ground floor, which was the actual bathhouse, and came into a small anteroom, where Sinsar, the bather, was sitting behind his small counter. He was a slight man in his late thirties and came after his late mother, who had hailed from Khambaluk, one of the Haradric realms. Thus Sinsar, too, was slender, slim-limbed and dark-skinned, with bluish-black hair. He was also highly skilled at giving healing massages and at the righting of dislocated joints and broken bones. Henderch had benefited from those skills himself, several times.

Running a bathhouse was tradition in Sinsar’s family. His parents had come with Master Suanach, the old mercer, from Pelargir, where they had done similar work. Sinsar’s father had taken over the then-abandoned bathhouse and run it ‘til his death, after which Sinsar himself continued the good work to the great satisfaction of his customers. He had married Uailne, one of the laundresses of the Infirmary, with whom he had two children already, and a third one on the way.

Despite his origins, Sinsar was a well respected man in Halabor. The townspeople, while they had their prejudices, appreciated good, hard work – and no-one could deny that the bather and his entire family worked hard and well.

When Henderch entered the anteroom, Sinsar was haggling with old Mistress Crodergh, herbalist of the Infirmary. The old crone had a small manufactory in the herb gardens, where she made various kinds of soap and scented oils for bathing, massage and for the sweat lodge that had been added to the bathhouse for the sake of Rohirric customers. A few expatriate families from the Mark had always lived in Halabor, and they were very fond of their stánbath, as they called it.

Henderch greeted the bather and the old woman courteously and listened to their haggling for a while with hidden amusement. Southrons were thought the true artisans of haggling, but Old Mistress Crodergh was more than an even match for Sinsar. But again, she was good at everything she touched. She had saved the lives several of the Wardens with her concoctions and poultices, and whatever Henderch might have thought about the Haradrim, the bather and his family could not be blamed for their deeds. They were good people, even if a little strange.

“Master Henderch,” Old Mistress Crodergh said in that scratchy voice of hers. “So good to see you again – and this time not in need of my services, for a change! Pray tell, how is that shoulder of yours doing?”

“Still cold,” replied Henderch with a shrug. “I fear sometimes it will never get warm again.”

“Oh, hmmm…” Old Mistress Crodergh rummaged in the wooden box in which she usually carried her vials and small flasks. “I do have here something that might help, if someone with good, strong fingers  works it deeply into your shoulder. Ah, here it is!”

She held up a small, cloudy bottle, half-filled with some viscous dark oil in it. A wooden stopper, bedded in a wisp of linen, was firmly wedged into the opening of the bottle, as if she wanted to keep as much as a drop from escaping.

Henderch eyed the bottle suspiciously, not liking the colour of the oil at all.

“What is this?” he asked. “It looks like Orc blood.”

“And just like Orc blood, ‘tis poisonous if it gets into the mouth or the eyes – or anywhere near a scratch or any other break in the skin,” warned the old woman. “’Tis wolfsbane, mixed with mustard oil and the oil pressed from flax seeds⁽¹⁾ , so make sure that anyone who rubs it into your shoulder will was his hands.”

“I shall ask Mistress Dorlas to do it when I visit little Godith tonight,” decided Henderch. “She would know how to handle it.”

Old Mistress Crodergh nodded. “That she certainly would; she has used it on her father a few times. You will find the feeling not entirely unpleasant: a tingling warmth when it is worked in – and hopefully some relief from the coldness.”

“You cannot be sure?” asked Henderch, a little disappointed.

Old Mistress Crodergh shook her withered head.

“Nay, I cannot,” she said regretfully. “I have never seen a pain like yours, so all I can do is guesswork. This is why it will only cost you two silver pennies… for I cannot guarantee that it will truly help.”

“Does it mean that you sell it to other people for more?” grinned Henderch.

The old hag grinned back. “Surely I do, when I can be certain that it would help. And I do know that it works wonders for creaking old joints. So I sell it to Lord Orchald for six silver pennies and to Master Suanach for ten.”

“You charge the head of the Merchants’ Guild more than our Lord?” Henderch’s grin grew from ear to ear. Old Mistress Crodergh winked.

“Why, certainly. The old mercer is way too rich for his own good… and he does not offer any of it to the poor and needy all too eagerly, unlike our Lord. ‘Tis only proper that he would pay for the rubbing oil we use on the penniless dwellers of the Infirmary for free.”

“Mistress Crodergh,” said Henderch in open admiration, “you are a truly wicked woman.”

“Well, I have to live up to my reputation, after all,” replied the herb mistress, putting the Warden’s two silver pennies into a small pouch worn on her girdle. “Now, remember what I told you and be careful with the oil. I hope it helps.”

Henderch thanked the old woman – making the time-honoured gesture to ward off bad luck, for everyone knew that thanking for medicine lessened its usefulness considerably⁽²⁾, so if one did not wish to be ungrateful, one had to take counter-measures. Mistress Crodergh grinned at him, then graced the bather with a toothless grin, too, and shuffled out of the bathhouse, letting the bather turn his attention to his customer.

And Sinsar did that eagerly, as the Wardens, most of them suffering from old injuries when the weather changed, were among his best customers. After all, nothing eased the pain of aching limbs and bones better than a good, long soak and a vigorous rubdown afterwards.

“Do you wish to use the sweat lodge, Master Warden?” asked the bather. “I can heat it up for you while you are soaking, ‘tis no hardness at all.”

Henderch shook his head. “I would love it, Master Sinsar, but I have no time for that today. I promise, though, to come back with Amlach next week. The man needs the heat for his bad leg as much as I need it for my shoulder.”

The bather smiled politely. “As you wish, Master Warden. In that case, you may enter the bathing hall at your convenience. You know the customs already.”

Henderch paid the small fee before entering the men’s area, which was the one on the right side of the anteroom. Wardens were allowed for eight copper pieces only – a really low price, but Sinsar knew that in exchange for his generosity they would walk around his house during their nightly patrols, and that was him worth lowering the price.

The men’s area contained a changing room, where he could leave his clothes, and a long hall with large stone tubes that could be entered by a few flat stone steps. Each tube had place for six people. One was filled with hot water from the spring and one with cold water from the river, although the latter was led through a series of filters to keep it clear. The hot water flowed into the tub from bronze fountains shaped like dragonheads that had acquired a greenish hue from age and left it through a filter in the middle of its bottom.

There were stone benches along the wall, where one could have a rubdown with scented oil; Sinsar was famous of his back rubs. The bathing hall needed no heating, as the hot water kept it at a nice temperature all times. Even the cold tub’s water was pleasantly lukewarm, as the hot spring ran directly under the bath-house, fairly close to the surface.

Henderch, always yearning for heat, waded down into the hot tub with care, as the steps had become very smooth from the constant use. Submerging into the scalding hot water up to his ears, he felt its blessed warmth seeping into his icy right shoulder, and leaned back against of the rim of the tub with a contented sigh. This was one of the rare places where he could get it truly warm.

‘Twas strange that a simple Southron arrow could have such a lasting effect. He had discussed it with Cathbad, the leech of the Wardens, and with old Mistress Crodergh, too, but neither of them could it explain. Mayhap the Elven healers could have given an answer, but the Wandering Elves had been rarely seen there in the recent years, and even if they would visit Halabor again in his lifetime, as they had done it in the past, Henderch doubted that he would have the courage to approach them.

Well, he could still consider himself fortunate. Even though he could not fight with the army of Gondor any longer, his skills were still good enough to defend the town of his birth – a town that only recently had become a true home for him. And more than just that: due to Lord Orchald’s generosity, he could also give a home his crippled fellow soldiers. He had his own company now, ragtag as it might be, a responsibility, a purpose. He liked that.

And he had the closest thing to a family he could have ever hoped for. Mistress Dorlas, although not willing to give up her freedom and marry him, was everything a battered warrior could wish for: a clever, resolute woman, with a generous heart and a strong will. And little Godith, whom he had brought into her custody, had become the daughter neither of them could ever have. In the light of his newfound happiness, the pain of his old injury was truly not such a high price.

However, unlike most of the townsfolk, Henderch could not afford to live in blissful ignorance. He had seen the evil forces of the Black Land eye to eye and knew that the current peace, even interrupted by the occasional bloody ride from Orcs, Dunlendings or Easterlings, was but the calm before the storm that would come. He had seen the armies filling the tower of Minas Morgul, and Minas Morgul was but one of Mordor’s fortresses – not even the biggest or strongest of them. Once all the forces of Mordor began to move, Gondor’s hopes would dwindle very quickly. Henderch had no illusions about the outcome of an all-out war with the Black Lands. He knew they had no true chance to prevail.

But he was not going to tell that the common folk of Halabor. Why would he do that? They were content in their false safety, among the struggles of their simple lives, nursing their small hopes for a future that may never come. Who was he to rob them of that hope? It was enough that Lord Orchald and his fellow Wardens knew the truth.

Young Lord Herumor might still have some hope. Young people were more inclined to trust their own strength, due to the lack of experience, and that was good so, for without that hope and trust they would never have the strength to raise the sword against the forces of evil. The fight might be hopeless, but at the very least, they would go down fighting.

Even if after this storm there would be no dawn coming. Never again. There would be not new Húrin Thalion to valiantly call Aurë Enteluva into the very face of darkness. This time, the dark night might never end over Middle-earth.

But until the day of judgement came, the simple townspeople could live in relative peace, while Henderch and old warriors like him were watching. Even a short temporary retrieve was better than nothing.

We might walk straight into darkness, and that soon, but at least we do not despair, thought Henderch, and he climbed out of the hot tub to get to the Square House before the curfew. He had so grown used to sleep in the warm embrace of Mistress Dorlas that he would not willingly refuse that small comfort, unless there was dire need for it.

The duty roster could wait.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Recipe taken from “Monk’s Hood” by Ellis Peters

(2) This particular superstition hails from my own grandmother who firmly believed that one must not thank for medicine, or it wouldn’t help. *g*

THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: Teens, for attempted violence.

Author’s notes:

As you can see, this chapter follows the events of the previous one with a time interval of three months. Some facts are – and will be – mentioned more than once, as this story is to a good part about the town itself, and different inhabitants see the same events from different viewpoints.

To the personal backgrounds of Jutus, Belegorn, Odhrain and Lord Peredur see my other story, “The Last Yule in Halabor”, the chapters titled “The Newborn”, “The One-Armed Warden”, “The Head Scribe” and “The Lord’s Bailiff”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 4 – FORESHADOWS

(In which Jutus, the Warehouse clerk, discovers a hideous crime, and Mistress Pharin has much grief.)

[The New Port of Halabor, on the 4^th day of Rethe⁽¹⁾, in the year 2998 of the Third Age]

The waterfront Warehouse of the New Port was a relic from old – and better – times. Of times, when the main trade routes had still crossed each other at Halabor, and when the great ships of foreign merchants from far-away, strange lands had still sailed up on the Great River to bring their wares to the annual fairs of the town.

Still, even in these late times, it was a sight to behold. The huge ground floor, built of stone in local fashion, was divided into three parts by plank walls that not quite reached the low ceiling. On the riverside were the wares waiting to be loaded onto the ships that would then bring them down the River to Minas Tirith: dried and smoked fish, casks of ale and beer, large earthenware pots with honey or jam or dried fruits, massive coils of rope, barrels of wine or fine liquor, round pieces of spicy cheese, twined bundles of finely prepared skins or woollen cloth, and so on. Halabor had much more to offer than just Rustam’s beautiful rugs and the stunning needlework the embroiderers made.

On the townside, the wares recently brought in were stored, until they could be delivered to their respective destinations by cart or by pack mules: the finest silk from Khand or Khambaluk, most of which would be transported farther up North, to the royal court of Edoras; assorted spices from Pelargir or even Umbar, acquired by the tireless Iathlan, the younger spice-merchant; large glass bottles with more sorts of oil than one could imagine, thank to the efforts of Thaneau, the young and adventurous oil merchant; and much more. As the merchants of Halabor were covering he needs of the garrison on Cair Andros as well, there were lots of items connected to soldiering and warfare as well. The local ironsmiths and saddlers could not cover everything alone.

In the middle of the ground floor was a wide corridor, where the workers could hurry up and down, and on each end of the hall stood a small writing desk, with a clerk behind each, noting dutifully each item that was carried in or out. As the doors on both length-sides were cut in the middle of the walls, so that the floor could be easily accessed from both the docks and the Cart Road, this was where the clerks would be least disturbed.

A slim, surprisingly dark-skinned boy of about eight or nine summers, with thick, curly jet-black hair framing his fine face, continually swept the wooden planks under everyone’s feet, trying to keep the steady build-up of dusk and dirt on an acceptable level. He wore a nicely made linen shirt with a pretty leather belt, breeches and surprisingly fine shoes for a young apprentice, and had almond-shaped, very dark eyes that revealed his foreign origins.

Standing next to the dockside doors, which were wide enough for a four-wheeled cart to roll through, a tall man stood, watching over the work with sharp, sea-grey eyes: Odhrain, the head clerk of the Merchants’ Guild and thus the one who had daily command over the Warehouse. He was a tall man, like even the common-born Dúnedain happened to be, with a hawkish face and dark locks shorn just over his shoulders, with a neatly trimmed, short beard that only covered his chin. He gave very few orders, and rarely checked anything, just stood there, muscular arms folder across his broad chest, apparently expecting that everything would be carried out to his satisfaction. Those cold, wintry eyes seemed to see everything at once, and they turned to the sweeping boy with disgust every time and again.

Jutus, the receiving clerk, gripped his scribe’s board with both hands tightly enough for his fingernails to whiten. He deeply, devotedly loathed Odhrain, the bastard son of a respected nobleman from a nearby manor, who always seemed to think himself so much better than the people from the Old Folk, and never failed to show it. In fact, Odhrain carried himself like some exiled nobleman; as if honest work would have been beneath his dignity. He even clad himself like some rich burgher, wearing a  long-sleeved, black velvet tunic, lined with fur, and breeches and a sleeveless, belted tunic of fine wool, and even a mantle, fastened at the shoulder with a decorative silver clasp, On his feet were boots with high tops of soft leather. 'Twas ridiculous for a mere clerk to pretend to be more than he actually was, but for some reason Master Selevan, the head of the Guild, tolerated Odhrain’s antics.

Yet vanity and haughtiness were not the only reasons why Jutus loathed the head clerk so much. In truth, the main reason was the way Odhrain handled each one who might have to do something with Harad: with mistrust, disgust, almost hatred. And as Jutus was one of those people, life was not always easy for him in the Warehouse.

Many years ago, when Master Suanach, the old mercer, Selevan’s father, moved from Pelargir to Halabor with his beautiful wife, the gentle Lady Tahmeen of Bakshir, his entire household followed him: clerks, bathers, manservants, maidservants, needle-workers, and so on, Jutus’ family was just one of those, and like the others, he, too, had some Haradric blood in his veins. In Pelargir, things like that happened often, and no-one gave the children of mixed blood queer looks like here. Like Odhrain gave that poor Zhori.

Mayhap it was not such a good idea of Master Selevan to send the boy to the Warehouse and make him an apprentice clerk, thought Jutus, while his fingers moved with the quill almost on their own. At least not at such a young age. Not when he is not here to see how the boy is treated. People’s tongues are wiggling enough anyway.

Though again, what other choice would a boy with no father have? Zhori was almost nine already, he had to learn a craft to earn a living later. And being a warehouse clerk was not such bad work – unless, of course, one had Odhrain as the overseer. The boy was doing his best to please that cold and heartless man, but to no use, it seemed.

Jutus suppressed a sigh. Surely, the rumours that Zhori had been sired by Master Selevan himself did not help matters, even though they had no physical resemblance. Master Selevan was a Dúnadan from his father’s side and bore all the outer signs of the Men of Westernesse, save from his dark eyes and slightly coarse, wavy hair. Zhori, on the other hand, came after her mother – or so the women said. Of this, Jutus could say naught, as Hunalami, the bather’s sister, kept the old customs of Khambaluk and never left the house unveiled. All Jutus had ever seen of her was her high forehead, adorned with small golden coins on a fine chain, and two large, dark eyes like black jewels. Eyes like those of her son.

He suppressed another sigh and the urge to shake his head in exasperation. Zhori could already write neatly enough, not only with the letters used in Gondor, but also with Haradric ones, leading the quill from the right to the left, in Haradric fashion. And yet Odhrain still made him sweep the floor, a task suited for any witless farm boy. ‘Twas a waste, but the head clerk seemed to enjoy forcing the boy to do such lowly tasks. Well, Zhori has enough fire in him, thought Jutus, fire that will not be easily quenched.

To his great relief, the horns that reminded the town of the upcoming curfew were blown from the watchtower of Nurria’s Gate. Jutus noted the last few items carried in, then cleaned his quill carefully and gave his lists Odhrain for approval. On the other end of the main floor his colleague, Dufgal, did the same. The head clerk gave the list a cursory look, knowing that he would be hard-pressed to find any mistake, and nodded.

“Good. Take these lists to Mistress Eryn in the Town Hall. We shall close for today.”

Jutus scowled in anger. Presenting the lists to the Guild’s book-keeper would have been Odhrain’s duty, yet he always sent one of his subordinates there. And the choice fell on Jutus a lot more often than it fell on Dufgal, who, while not a Dúnadan either, was at least from the local people. But that was not a task Jutus could have refused to do.

His scowl changed into a devilish grin as a thought occurred to him, however.

“Come here, Zhori,” he said to the boy. “Have you ever been to the Town Hall?” The curly head shook ‘no’. “Well then, come with me. You can see the Hall, and afterwards, I shall take you home.”

Dufgal and the workers suppressed a guffaw of laughter as Odhrain’s face practically blackened with anger and hatred, but there  was naught the head clerk could do about the issue anymore. Jutus bid his co-workers good night and, taking Zhori’s small, warm hand into his big one, left the Warehouse.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They walked down the Cartroad to Nurria’s Gate, with Zhori jumping up and down in excitement. He could barely wait to see the Town Hall from the inside. This was the longer way, they had to cross half the town ‘til they reached the Marketplace, but it was still much safer than walking in the abandoned New Port, open to the water.

Amlath, one of the Wardens, was about to close the Gate for the night when they came upon him and he grinned in a friendly manner as he recognized the clerk.

“Master Jutus,” he said, “you are out late today. And is it not beyond the boy’s bedtime?”

“Sure it is,” Jutus shrugged, “But the slave driver who oversees our work cares little for that,”

“Discipline has raised the realms of Westernesse to greatness,” commented Amlath with a broad grin. He was a Dúnadan himself, hailed from Anórien, and had been forced to retire from the army of Gondor only a year earlier. But he loathed Odhrain just as much as about anyone else.

“You should come in now,” he added, becoming serious again. “There have been sightings of Hill-men recently; ‘tis not safe to tarry around in the dark.”

Justus knew that all too well, and he urged the boy to come in without further delay. Zhori watched with wide, curious eyes as the warden tossed the heavy oaken wings closed, wedged them and put on the iron bars to keep them safely shut.

“What happened to your leg?” he asked, seeing that the Warden was dragging one of his feet, instead of putting his weight upon it.

“My thigh broke on three places when my horse caught an Orc arrow and fell atop me,” explained Amlath. “The healers righted it, but it did not heal properly, so I cannot be a soldier any longer.”

“But how can you be a Warden, then?” asked the boy innocently.

Amlath patted his great bow, made of the wood of the yew tree. It was a longbow, like those used by the Ithilien Rangers.

“I am a bowman now, as you can see. I have no need to run around and chase the Orcs with a sword.”

The answer satisfied Zhori, and he followed Jutus, who was already hading to the Marketplace, when a call stopped them. “Wait for me!”

It was Belegorn, another one of the Wardens, also called Calmlost or One-handed, for he had lost his left arm below the elbow, after almost thirty years of soldiering. He came with Amlath to Halabor, following Henderch’s invitation.

“’Tis safer for you to have an armed escort,” he explained, “and besides, I am going your way in any case.”

“’Tis a sad thing that we had to learn to fear darkness within the walls of our own town,” said Jutus sadly. Belegorn nodded.

“True, but the Shadow is growing with each passing year, and both ports are open to the water. ‘Tis better to be careful than to be regretful.”

Jutus had to agree with that, and so they crossed the Main Street, greeting the people who were hurrying towards their homes left and right. Then they turned in to the Street of the Gardens, one of the four short streets that led to the Marketplace. Most of the shops were closed already, only in the Drunken Boat and in the Town Hall were the lights still on. Mistress Pharin was serving the last meals before curfew, and apparently, Mistress Eryn – her daughter, by the way – was burning the midnight oil, too.

“I would love to have a mug of bear before going home,” murmured Belegorn, licking his lips instinctively, “but I do not want to make Lothhael and the children wait from me with supper too long.” He had married a local widow with two small, orphaned children, shortly after coming to town.

Jutus nodded in understanding. “I just hand these lists over to Mistress Eryn, and then we can all go home.”

Right before the main entrance of the Town Hall, they ran into Wella, Lord Orchald’s tax collector: a short, wiry and balding man, who, albeit he belonged to the Old Folk, behaved and clad himself like some nobleman. Jutus could still suffer him better than he did Odhrain. At least Wella truly came from a wealthy and respected family, and did not press people too hard when doing his work.

“Master Wella, “ greeted him Belegorn, “working late again, it seems.”

“Nay, I am done for today,” repeated the tax collector. “Just finished registering the incomes of my most recent tour. ‘Tis not promising, I tell you, not promising at all. Those poor farmers can barely bring in enough to feed their families – fortunately, our Lord collects the tenth of the annual harvest, not a certain sum of coin or a certain amount of goods. I know not how else they would be able to pay.”

“Lord Orchald is generous,” Belegorn nodded. “A true father of his subjects. Not many lords would hold back the way he does.”

Jutus quietly agreed. Not many lords would have allowed Master Suanach to settle in their town with his half-Haradric household, either. Sure, he collected fairly high taxes from the merchants, and even more so during the fairs, but he also kept the trade routes to Rohan open and trade between the great havens of Gondor and the Riddermark alive. Halabor might have lost much of its former importance, but it was still the key to Rohan. The Merchants’ Guild had very high opinion of their liege.

Which reminded the scribe of his immediate duty.

“Is Mistress Eryn still in?” he asked the tax collector. Wella shrugged.

“She is about to close, too. Just wanted to collect the fee from that carpenter’s journeyman who wants to work for Vuron.”

“Strange,” said Belegorn with a frown. “I have recently spoken to Vuron about repairing some of our furniture. He did not mention taking in a journeyman. In fact, he was complaining about not having any help, as he cannot pay a helping hand right now.”

Wella shrugged again. “Mayhap ‘tis a recent development. They will have to start building the new booths for the Spring Fair. He might be planning to pay the man off afterwards.”

Belegorn just shook his head, clearly not satisfied, but Jutus was getting impatient. He needed to get rid of the lists, and then take Zhori home, ere he could return to his own family. Preferably before the curfew.

“I am certain that Mistress Eryn can tell when we ask her,” she said. “Let us go to her ere she closes the office.”

The others agreed with that, and so Wella took his leave from them, while they entered the large, mostly darkened building. Mistress Eryn had her office in the small chamber next to the main hall, in which both the Merchants’ Guild and the crafts guilds had their meetings. It was hard to find, hidden behind the main hall, unless one knew where to look for the entrance. That was so for a reason. For not only were the books of the Guild kept  there, but also the lawful measures for length and weight, which every craftsman, every merchant had to respect. This was also the chamber where the money of the Guild was kept. Not much, but enough to cover any immediate expenses.

When Jutus entered the small room, he found Mistress Erin hunched over her writing desk. That was naught new or disturbing. The long hours she spent bent over parchment had made her hunchbacked for quite some time, and as she was not a young person anymore, she happened to fall asleep over her work sometimes. Still, the Guild kept her, for she was better with numbers than anyone else, and had a neat handwriting, with bold, carefully penned letters.

“Mistress Eryn,” Jutus stepped closer, holding the lists before him. “Mistress Eryn, I have brought you today’s records from the warehouse. If you were so good as file them…?”

He got no answer, which was strange. Could she be so deeply asleep that she had not heard him? Sure, she was deaf on one ear, but the other one was still keen. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.

His heart in his throat, Jutus stepped even closer, touching her arm lightly. It gave in, and the hand still holding the quill rolled off the desk and hung on the side of her unmoving body in a strangely unnatural angle. Jutus felt his own heartbeat quickening in fear, and he reached out tentatively, touching the head of the old woman that was resting on the desk. He felt something wet under the iron-grey hair, and as he pulled his hand back, it was covered with some thick, dark fluid.

The smell of blood nearly made him retch.

“Zhori,” he said in a strangely high-pitched voice that revealed his panic, “Keep out! You must not enter this room, understood?”

The boy meekly agreed, for the obvious fear in a grown man’s voce had frightened him badly. Belegorn came in, gave the scene a cursory glance, then turned away grimly.

“Lad, we need your help,” he said. “Do you know Master Henderch, the Chief Warden?” The boy nodded. “Run to the Drunken Boat then, and tell him that he must come here at once. Tell him that Belegorn One-hand sent you. And that he must bring our leech with him. Tell him exactly that and nothing else, understood?”

Zhori ran off, barely catching the Warden’s last order, “And stay there with Mistress Pharin ‘til we come for you!”

Re-entering the room, Belegorn found the scribe pale and shaking, but otherwise all right. Not half bad from a clerk who has never wielded anything sharper than a quill, he thought. He stepped up to the desk and looked for a pulse on the woman’s neck. He could find none, but she was still warm, so she might be still alive. Unconscious, for sure, but mayhap not dead yet.

“Is she alive?” asked Jutus, fighting the urge to get violently sick. “Should we not send for a healer?”

Belegorn shook his head. “The midwife and he herb-woman cannot do here much. I hope Henderch will have Cathbad with him; the old man used to be a barber-surgeon for more years than I could count. He would be of more use.”

“You believe there is help still?” asked Jutus doubtfully. Belegorn shrugged.

“That I cannot tell. We must wait.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They did not have to wait too much. A short time later, Henderch came in running, followed by the Wardens’ leech, a stocky elderly man with a short beard and thinning hair. The leech examined Mistress Eryn carefully – and then shook his head in regret.

“Here I can do naught else,” he said. “She is gone.”

“That is dire news for Mistress Pharin,” said Belegorn. “The two of them have had no other family since Angharad left for Lossarnach. We should send word to her tomorrow. Mistress Pharin will need her granddaughter, even though she would never admit.”

Henderch nodded. “I shall see to it, first thing in the morrow. But now we should search the place, ere people come in and trample down all the clues. Master Jutus, you know this office better than anyone from us. Can you tell me if something is missing?”

Jutus looked around carefully and found everything in its usual order. Mistress Eryn was – had been – a woman with a strong sense of order, each item had its customary place in the small office, so that she would not need to look for them.

Then something caught his eye. The small cabinet in the furthest corner, half-hidden behind a stool with a tall back. Or, to be more accurate, the door of the small cabinet. It stood ajar. Justus had never seen it open before. In fact, it had always been locked, with an iron bar and a big padlock, for this was where the strongbox of the Merchants’ Guild was kept, together with that of the Craftsmen’s Guild’s. Now both strongboxes were gone.

“The cabinet,” he said to Henderch. “The cabinet with the strongboxes. It is open – and empty.”

The Wardens exchanged agreeing looks. Sad as it was, the case seemed clear enough.

“Robbery,” judged Henderch. “Someone came in with an excuse that would make Mistress Eryn open the cabinet…”

“Wella spoke about a carpenter’s journeyman who wanted to pay his fee,” said Belegorn slowly. “Yet I know of no help having been hired by Vuron… or by his son.”

“That might have been a lie,” said Jutus, peeking over to dead woman’s shoulder, despite his queasy feeling; he recognized the income book of the Craftsmen’s Guild, even though it was soiled with blood. “Mistress Eryn was obviously about to make an entry in the book when she was attacked.”

“No resistance,” remarked Henderch. “She must have been caught unaware. Perchance, the murderer did not even want to kill her – just to get to the coins. How much might have been in those strongboxes?”

“Not a fat bounty, in any case,” replied Jutus, being the one who knew most about the customs of the Town Hall. “Both Guilds keep their wealth on better protected places. These boxes could not have more money in them than the usual fees paid by foreign merchants and journeymen. The boxes are emptied on Meresdei⁽²⁾, as a rule. As we have Sterrendei⁽³⁾ now, they must have been nearly empty.”

“So she was murdered for nigh to nothing,” Henderch shook his head in sorrow. “Unless she had valuables on her own person that might have caught the murderer’s eye.”

“She usually carried a small purse on her belt,” said Jutus. “A new one, made by little Mistress Crewyn. A gift from her mother for last Yule, I believe. Her golden necklace is missing. ‘Twas a thin, simple thing, barely worth the weight of gold used to make it, which was not much. Her earrings are still here. The murderer must have been in a great hurry.”

“He might have heard us talking to Wella under the window,” added Belegorn grimly. Then he looked at his captain. “What are we going to do now?”

“Send word to both gates that no-one must leave ‘til the morrow,” said Henderch. “I have little hope that our murderer would try the gates when he could easier steal a boat and leave on the water, but one can never know. Cathbad, bring our cart and take the body to the Infirmary, where she can be bared up properly. Send someone to search this place for the weapon, mayhap we can find it. And we need to warn all the innkeepers to look for that purse. Mistress Crewyn can surely describe it well enough, she makes unique designs.”

“What about you?” asked Belegorn. Henderch sighed.

“I shall go to Mistress Pharin and tell her that her daughter is dead.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mistress Pharin took the grievous news with remarkable calm. She blanched a little and closed her eyes for a moment, she even needed to sit down and have a cup of wine, but after she had taken a sip of it, her eyes were dry and dark.

“This had to happen one day,” she said in a tight, collected voice. “I often warned her not to stay alone in the Town Hall so late, but she never listened to me. Not when she married that worthless husband of hers who left her after three years, not later, not now. Where have you brought her?”

“To the Infirmary,” replied Henderch. “There she will be taken care of. Old Mistress Crodergh does have the necessities – and is used to such work.”

Mistress Pharin, her face still pale and her eyes still dry, nodded approvingly.

“Good. That is good. I shall go over in the morrow, bring her burial clothes, and send word to Vuron… about the coffin,” her strong voice trembled for the moment, but she brought it under control again. “I fear that we cannot wait for Angharad with the funeral. The weather is much too warm for that already.”

“You should send for her anyhow,” said Henderch mildly. “She has the right to know; and you might need her support.”

To his great surprise, Mistress Pharin did not even try to argue with him, which showed more than anything how truly shaken she was. Losing one’s child is always a hard thing, but losing them when one had spent a lifetime together and grown old with them was even harder. Mistress Pharin had a son, too, four years older than her now dead daughter, but that son had moved to Lossarnach with his family (and good riddance, Mistress Pharin usually added, for she truly could not stand her daughter-in-law) and never again cared for his mother, save from a few short visits.

“Do you have a place where you can spend the night?” asked Henderch. “I do not think that you should stay in the house alone.”

He knew that Mistress Pharin had two sisters and a brother in Halabor still, any of which would gladly take her in for a while. But the old woman shook her head defiantly.

“No need to disturb anyone with such sad news in the middle of the night,” she said. “I shall not be alone; my girls live in the house, too. And I need to be left alone for a while, ere people overrun the house, just to tell me how terribly sorry they are. Mostly those who never cared for Eryn and would never shed a tear for her. Humour me in this, Master Warden. My loss will become a spectacle soon enough.”

Henderch understood her reasoning. Some people liked to make their grief a public event, with loud laments and waterfalls of tears, others preferred to grieve in private. Mistress Pharin obviously was the latter sort – and he respected that.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall be gone now; there will be much to do, soon. But never hesitate to tell me if there is anything I could do for you.”

“There is,” she said grimly. “Find the bastard who has done this. I want him hung.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The rumours that Mistress Eryn had been murdered in the Town Hall, and the strongboxes of both Guilds stole, spread like wildfire in town during the night. Despite the curfew, people somehow had found a way to tell their friends and neighbours, and a great deal of guesswork had already been done when, in the next morrow, Henderch began to investigate in earnest.

Crimes like murder and robbery belonged under the jurisdiction of Lord Orchald himself, and by the third hour⁽⁴⁾ Peredur son of Narmacil, the Lord’s bailiff – and head of a noble family himself – rode in from Emerië Manor, his fortified home outside the town walls, to lead the investigation. He was a tall, dark-haired and grey-eyed man in his prime, with the hawkish face of Númenórean nobles, a keen mind and renown of his hard dealing with culprits of all sorts.

The matter of the carpenter’s journeyman came up again, and Wella, the tax-collector was called to the Town Hall (where Peredur had his office) to tell more about this mysterious person. He described the journeyman as a slim lad of about twenty-five summers, with dirty brown hair that barely covered his ears, and soiled working clothes.

As an inquiry at both gates and among the regular patrons of the Drunken Boat brought no new insights – no-one seemed to have seen a man like that – Lord Peredur decided to pay the carpenter a visit, asking Henderch to accompany him. The simple townsfolk was uncomfortable when facing such noble lords and more likely to open their mouths in the presence of their own.

Vuron, the carpenter, had his house and workshop in the Old Port, next to those of the barrel-maker and the boat-makers, which made sense, as all of them worked with wood. He ran his business with the help of his sons, twenty-two and fifteen years old, while his daughter was married to the barrel-maker’s brother and had three children on her own already.

The carpenter himself, a large, comely man with a neatly trimmed beard and small, observant brown eyes, had heard of the tragic events already, of course. Readily did he call his entire family together, from his elderly mother-in-law to his younger son, so that they could be questioned.

“But,” he said, aiming his words at Henderch, “as I already said Belegorn the other day, we have not had any hired help for quite some time. And I cannot remember having seen a man looking like the one you have described.”

“Aye, you have,” Thei, his firstborn, who was a younger version of him, interrupted. “Or at least you would have, had you taken a closer look when Godric’s people ferried over the timber from the New Port two days ago.”

“You saw a man with such looks?” asked Henderch. The young man made an apologetic shrug.

“The problem is, I saw more than one. The wood-sellers usually hire their ferrymen in the New Port, and you know what sort of people dwell there… save from the wood-workers themselves.”

Henderch nodded. Ever since it had lost its one-time importance, the New Port became the last refuge of unlucky people who had no better choice. Homeless and penniless folk lurked in the long-abandoned, half-ruined houses of the boatmakers who had either moved back to the Old Port or left town entirely.

Most of them were decent people with a great deal of bad luck, but some of them were dangerous. Either predators by nature, who preyed on the weak, or too desperate to care for the possible consequences of their deeds. And despair could drive people to horrible deeds. Everyone who ever worked in law enforcement knew that.

“We can search the New Port,” offered Henderch, “but the people will tell us nothing. They stuck together – or are too afraid to speak, even if they know aught.”

“Still, we must do it,” said Peredur. “The wood-seller would have no reason to deny us an honest answer. As for the rest, at least we shall smoke out some of the rats again. We have not done so for some time, and it shows.”

And thus a group of Wardens was sent to the New Port to search all the abandoned houses and question the people who lived in them. As Henderch had foretold, though, they did not get any useful answers, but they did take into custody four young men, no less, all between twenty and thirty, all sporting a head of dirty brown hair and wearing soiled rags on their thin bodies.

Wella, the tax-collector was called in again, to see if he would recognize any of them. But he had only seen the supposed murderer for a moment or two, and even that only in a dim light, and thus he could not tell whether it had been one of these. Therefore the suspects were released, after a thorough search of their ragged clothes. No coins, nor Mistress Eryn’s purse or her necklace was found by any of them.

That caused great dismay among the townspeople, for Mistress Eryn had been well liked in Halabor, and some hotheads started talking about burning down the empty houses in the New Port, ‘so that the harbour rats would have no hole to hide in’. Understandably enough, the wood-sellers found that a very bad idea and protested by Lord Peredur, who now had the hotheads taken into custody, so that they could cool their heads in a cell for a day or two.

Mistress Eryn was buried in the small cemetery beyond the Infirmary’s crop fields – a serene place, surrounded by a circle of thick, tall bushes, where no moulds, just simple, heart-shaped headstones marked who had been laid to final rest below them. Dochou, the stone-mason, carved her name on the withered headstone, right under that of her long dead father’s, as it was custom in their family. The candle of the dead burned before the headstone for the three following days and nights, and people came and prayed to Nurria, Lady of the fields and pastures, to give her a peaceful rest in the earth, of which all life came.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After that, the novelty of the events wore off, and people went after their own business. Even Mistress Pharin reopened the Drunken Boat again. Life went on, and she could not afford to lose her patrons to one of the other taverns. Even less so right now that this remained her only income.

It seemed as if everyone had forgotten the poor woman who had served the Guilds for more than thrice ten years. But looks can be deceiving, and that was certainly true in this particular case. In fact, the Merchants’ Guild was greatly worried about the sad event – and not just out of pity for their unfortunate book-keeper.

“If the foreign merchants hear that we cannot provide the safety of our own scribe in the Town hall, they will think twice ere they make business with us again,” old Master Suanach, a hawk-faced, olive-skinned man of nigh seventy years said grimly. “The murderer must be found swiftly and hung publicly, to show that law is indeed enforced in this town. Otherwise, we might as well pack our bags and move elsewhere.”

“The Wardens should turn the rat holes in the New Port inside out and question everyone by swordpoint,” growled Madron, the fishmonger.

“Like you question everyone you hire to work on your barges?” his brother-in-law and strongest opponent, Nechtan, asked with a mirthless grin.

The others snorted. Everyone knew that Madron would hire even Orcs, when it meant he could pay them less than decent people would demand.

“The Wardens’ duty is to guard the gates and ramparts by day and patrol the streets by night, not to do the work of the bailiff and his sergeants,” pointed out Muathlan, the old spice merchant.

Although he left the bulk of actual work, like travelling and running the shop, to his only son, he still kept his seat in the ruling body of the Guild (just like Suanach) and was welcome to do so. For not only had he great experience and excellent contacts to foreign merchants in the big cities as Minas Tirith or Linhir, he also hailed from one of the old local families, and people accepted him more readily than Suanach, who still counted as a newcomer and a stranger.

“’Tis up to us to protect our possessions… and our lives,” he continued. “Especially in the New Port. An attack on the Warehouse could cause most of us great losses.”

“True enough,” nodded Godric, the wood-seller; a fire in the New Port would most certainly ruin him. “What do you suggest?”

“I believe Lord Orchald has already shown us what to do,” replied Muathlan thoughtfully. “We must hire watchmen for the Warehouse and the Town Hall, just as he has hired the Wardens. Armed watchmen, with dogs, so that thieves and robbers would be either frightened away or caught.”

“That would cost us,” warned Myghal, the hay merchant. Godric nodded.

“I know. But losing our wares would cost us a great deal more.”

“I shall not throw out my coin for such thing!” protested Madron. “My lads can protect themselves and my wares!”

“And who will protect the rest of us from your lads?” asked the wood-seller dryly.

The others guffawed in a somewhat undignified manner. Few people in the entire town were so generally disliked as the fishmonger. Madron’s face became beet red with anger, but ere he could retort, Master Suanach raised a dark, elegant hand and silenced him.

“Let us not argue about old grudges, my friends. It might be that things are different in the Old Port, but for most of us, I believe, Master Muathlan’s idea seems to be a good one. We all could suffer considerable losses due to arson and robbery and theft. So let us protect our wares the best we can. I am willing to pay for those watchmen, when it means that we can keep our reputation in the eyes of our business partners.”

The others, with the exception of Madron, agreed, and thus the decision was made that they would, indeed, look for able-bodied watchmen, for both the Warehouse and the Town Hall. The hay merchant, who had the best contacts to the garrison on Cair Andros, was appointed the task to find some veterans who were about to leave service and offer them employment by the Guild.

“We still have one thing that needs to be decided,” said Master Suanach. “We need someone to take over poor Mistress Eryn’s duties.”

“We should bring over one of the Warehouse clerks,” said Tuachtal, the oil merchant. “Both Jutus and Dufgal have the necessary skills and are experience enough to take over the book-keeping.”

“Mayhap,” said Master Suanach doubtfully. “But we cannot afford to leave the Warehouse without them. What about Odhrain, though? He is good with numbers, he speaks four languages and can write with runes, with Elven letters and with Haradric symbols as well. And he still has some years of his contract to work off for us.”

“Besides, he has no family and no friends,” added the spice merchant with a shrug. “He can just as well put his time to good use and work in two places. ‘Tis not so as if he could refuse.”

“We should pay him more, though,” said the oil merchant thoughtfully. “If we give him half of what Mistress Eryn got, above his own due, we can spare coin and still appear generous.”

The suggestion was accepted by all, and thus the lead clerk’s fate was sealed for the next couple of years. Anyone who had a contract with the Merchants’ Guild could count on staying in lifelong dependence. They were not bad people, on the contrary, but first and foremost, they protected their own interests.

In the meantime, Lord Peredur’s sergeants and Henderch’s Wardens were searching the New Port tirelessly, questioning denizens and the people who worked on visiting ships, but found no clue. Then they moved to the Old Port and did the same, but found nothing, either.

Thus the case was finally declared unsolved, but the Wardens and tavern-owners and the Castle Guard kept in mind what – or whom – they were supposed to look for. The people of Halabor had an excellent memory and were not going to give up the hunt for the murderer. Even if it might take longer to catch him than expected.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) March.

(2) Thursday. As Friday (Highdei) was the last day of the week, according to the calendar of Bree, which I use for the Old Folk, it corresponds our Saturday, actually.

(3) Saturday; corresponding our Monday.

(4) 9 p.m.

THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, at this point.

Author’s notes:

The Riverside Inn is an establishment very similar to the Prancing Pony – without the hobbit-sized rooms, of course. For visuals see p. 125 in Karen Wynn Fonstad’s Tolkien Atlas.

This chapter takes place roughly two months after “The Masterpiece”. You can read in more detail about the innkeeper’s family in my other story, “The Last Yule in Halabor”.

CHAPTER 5 – IN THE RIVERSIDE INN

(In which the culprit is found, thank to the fine handiwork of Mistress Crewyn, the purse-maker, and people’s tongues wiggle a lot.)

[In the Old Port of Halabor, on the 5^th day of Thrimidge(1), in the year 2998 of the Third Age]

Even for such a small town as Halabor, there were clear divisions between the various parts of the settlement. There was the Castle, to begin with, built upon the sheer rocky peninsula that thrust into the Great River like a wedge in the North, surrounded by its own walled courtyards, the seat of the liege lord, bordered by the Street of the New Port in the South and by the River Road in the East. It had become the symbol of the small town, standing proudly on its rocky socket, a hundred feet or so above the water of Anduin.

South from the Street of the New Port, which led, still within the circle of the great ramparts, straight to the Warehouse, lay the New Port, once known as the Large Port of the Boatmakers, now largely abandoned beyond the Warehouse and becoming the last refuge of those who had no other choice: beggars, pickpockets and other homeless people. Even the wood-workers and the bow-makers, once working along the Quay of the Boatmakers, had moved within the ramparts, several generations earlier.

The Old Port of Fishermen lay east from the Castle, between the river and the town itself, protected by a long, L-shaped jetty that reached the river bank right below the Infirmary. Though nominally under Lord Orchald’s rule, it was a world for itself, freed from any service but the regular taxes, and its denizens cared very little about the wishes of the Town Council. They had their representative in the Council, of course – they needed to know what the rest of the town was up, after all – but most of the time, they lived by their own rules and listened only to their own chosen leader. That had worked for them just nicely ever since the Old Port had been there – which was a great deal longer than the founding of the town itself.

During the recent years, that leader – called the reeve, in old fashion – had been Sydnius, the innkeeper, just like his father, the late Master Synnoch had been before him. And the Riverside Inn had been the centre of the Old Port since it had opened its doors for the first time.

As its name revealed, the inn stood right on the bank of Anduin, which rolled barely at bowshot distance from the front yard. The windows on the front faced eastward, looking directly over the waters, and two wings ran back towards town with a courtyard between. As the inn had three floors, there was an archway in the middle that permitted entrance to the courtyard while still supporting the upper rooms. The patrons could leave their horses or mules in the yard, from where the stable hands led the good beasts away to the stables, which were situated on the ground level of the north wing.

One could enter the inn by climbing the broad steps on the left side under the arch, opposite the kitchen. The Common Room had wisely been placed close to the front door, for the convenience of the ‘water rats’, as the townsfolk sometimes called those from the Old Port – but it was a nickname given with affection. The townspeople knew all too well how dependent their lives were from the ports.

Next to the Common Room was a nice little parlour for houseguests who wanted to dine in private, adjoining the best sleeping rooms. On the opposite side of the short passage were the dining room of the innkeeper’s family and their living room, where the books and the strongbox also were kept. A side door led directly to a store room, so that they could fetch the items needed immediately.

The upper rooms were for houseguests, also, while on the third floor the sleeping chambers of the family and the servants (which meant practically the same) shared space with even more store rooms. It was a well-established and well-organized business, which provided the innkeeper with a reliable means of living – and a lot of work.

The Riverside Inn had been in possession of the family for uncounted generations. As the firstborn son, Sydnius inherited it from his father. Fortunately for Merryn, the second-born, their mother, Mistress Culcaigne, had been an only child, thus Merryn inherited the carting business from their maternal grandfather. Gennys, the third brother, had to make his own fortune, but Sydnius provided him with considerable financial support – and never regretted it. Gennys now owned the Old Sailor, the ale-house in the New Port, and the three brothers worked together to their mutual benefit.

Nevertheless, the head of the clan was Sydnius, and his authority was not questioned by any-one, not even by his ill-tempered brother, Merryn. A man in his late thirties, he was of rather stocky build like most of the Old Folk, with the natural dignity of a patriarch already about him. He was strong, due to the hard labour even he had to do, with heavy shoulders and thick arms, his broad face framed by a neatly trimmed, full beard, a pleasantly deep voice and piercing brown eyes.

He was considered an open-minded, good-natured man. He worked hard and expected hard work from those under his hand, too, but was always just and never drove his servants beyond their strength. He was moderately generous, as his helping Gennys showed, but no fool. He had a shrewd mind and a keen sense for business – another reason why he was widely respected.

On this warm spring evening, Sydnius was sitting in the Common Room with his best regular patrons, to share with them a few kegs of ale and the latest gossip. There were several long oak tables in there, with matching benches, both good, solid work, made by one of the carpenter Vuron’s forefathers several generations earlier, and still serving just fine. As it was custom in the Old Port, the patrons formed small groups, according to their daily work, but sometimes talked to each other all across the room, when interesting news were being discussed at one of the other tables.

Old Craban headed the table of the fishermen, on his right Súrion, who still came after Warden duty to pull in the old man’s nets. Half a dozen other fishermen, between the ages of forty and twenty, sat with them, accompanied by their wives, for gutting, salting and drying the fish was just as thirsty work as catching them, and no-one raised an eyebrow when a fishwife allowed herself a keg of ale or two, after a long day’s hard work.

Another table belonged to the boatmakers, led by Austol and Gonand, and their wives. With all those barges still mooring on one of Halabor’s ports, the boatmakers were still sought after for small – or not so small – repairs all the time, and work made thirsty, as any-one knew. The rope-maker Rewan, too, sat at their table, and some of the women who earned a living by making nets of nettle hemp for the fishermen – they all did related work and that brought closeness.

The boatmen formed another group, divided clearly between the ones captaining the merchants’ barges or steering them, and the hired hands, mostly homeless and penniless people, who laboured on Madron’s barge for barely enough coin to buy themselves a keg of ale. The fishmonger himself – a big, portly, red-faced man of forty-some years – was sitting at a lonely table, near one of the windows, so that he could have an undisturbed view at the harbour.

“What is he waiting for?” Folcwalda, the saddle-maker asked. “His barge is moored at the jetty and is not due to leave for another day yet, I heard.”

“Oh, he is not waiting for his own craft,” replied Sydnius. “Sulain’s barge has been sighted less than an hour ago, returning from the South.”

“How far south?” asked the saddler, a large, flaxen-haired fellow from the Mark, with interest. He had done some journeying in his younger years and was always hungry for news from other provinces.

“As far as Linhir, at the very least,” said the innkeeper. “But Sulain is known to have dared the Bay of Belfalas at times, too. Small wonder; some of the best wines of Harad or even of the Elf-haven in the South come into Dol Amroth. Any wine-seller would have a ready sale as far north as this, which makes the journey worth the risk. Even Lord Orchald has his wine brought up by Sulain, for he knows well how good a barge is that has been built by Gonand here.”

“And you make sure that the rest of Sulain’s ware goes through your hands ere it reaches any-one else, so that you can cut your profits, too, I deem,” ginned the saddler.

The innkeeper laughed. “Inasmuch as Sulain keeps it not for his own tavern, that is. We all try to make a living here somehow, my friend. Or are you saying that I have unreasonable prices?”

“Nay,” admitted Folcwalda, for it was true that Sydnius aimed at small profits, so that people could pay their tabs without great pains and come back for more, thus making him wealthy in any case. Of course, being the brother of the town’s only beer-seller helped matters a lot.

“Besides,” added the innkeeper, “when has it bothered you what the price of wine would be? I only ever saw you drink ale or mead.”

Folcwalda knocked a flaxen eyebrow. “And have you ever seen me drunk?”

“Not that I would remember,” allowed Sydnius. The saddler nodded in satisfaction.

“Now you are seeing the reason.”

“One can get drunk on ale or mead, though,” pointed out Sydnius mildly, having seen the evidence often enough.

Folcwalda laughed. “Not one born and grown up in the Mark.”

Which was only true. The children of the Rohirrim learned to drink almost as soon as they learned to ride – which was at a fairly tender age – and could hold their ale better than most people. That was true for women as well as for men.

“Oh!” said suddenly the saddler’s table neighbour, the tanner, who had walked over for a good keg of ale only minutes earlier. “There she is… and a beauty, if I have ever seen one.”

All eyes turned to the open windows to watch as upon the slowly-flowing surface of the Great River a barge slid along the shore towards the end of the long jetty. She seemed impressively opulent, and yet graceful at the same time.

“You have truly done amazing work with this one, Gonand, my friend,” said the tanner admiringly. “She hardly draws more water than boats half her capacity, and yet how well she steers, how steadily she rides!”

“Thus it was required,” the older boat-maker, a square-built, powerful man of sixty-some years, with a thick growth of thorny iron-grey hair and beard, eyed his own excellent handiwork with loving dark eyes. “She has to moor in the New Port as well, and you all know how shallow that has become. She has been made to carry wine and carry it steadily – and that she does. Sulain has had no complaints about her so far.”

“Nor will he, as long as he treats her well,” said Austol, nearly ten years Gonand’s junior and also his brother-in-law. “All know that no boat made by your hands has ever caused her owner any grief. You have gold in your fingers.”

Gonand grinned at the ill-veiled jealousy in the voice of his friend and rival.

“You are not so bad yourself,” he answered.

“Mayhap not,” allowed Austol, watching as the three crewmen poled the barge ashore with easy, light touches. “My skills are surely good enough to build and repair small boats for the fishermen and the garrison on Cair Andros. Yet I cannot weigh myself with your measure. Never could, never will.”

That was very true. So true that Gonand, even though he wished not to make his friend feel bad, could not argue. Less so as he had to admit that the wine-seller’s barge was one of his best works, with her slender, single mast and that neat, closed cabin aft, serving as her master’s private quarters on a long journey like the one she was returning from. Aye, the Kingfisher, as Sulain loftily called her, was a true little gem as barges went.

“Well, well,” said the innkeeper pleasantly, “I should go and look after my wares, then. Vinnian,” he called out to his eight-year-old son, “send Archil to the jetty with the cart. And you, Telta, see that my guests are taken care of in the meanwhile.”

The maidservant of the inn – a young thing of about seventeen years, bare-armed and bare-headed, with two thick braids of dark chestnut hair wrapped around her head – nodded obediently and hurried behind the counter. She was a sister of Mistress Vicana, the innkeeper’s wife, one of thirteen living children out of seventeen, and just like several of her older siblings, she had to come to the town to seek work, as her father’s farmstead could not feed them all. She was well-liked among the regular patrons, for she was mild of manners and pretty of face, with long-lashed, dark blue eyes as her best features – a rarity among the Old Folk but not unheard of.

Her brother, Archil, a tall, big-boned young man of twenty-six, who was now following the innkeeper to the barge, had the same eyes, matching his thick thatch of reddish dark hair very handsomely. A good-looking fellow this Archil was, and a good, hard worker, but there was bitterness etched into his decent, homely face that made him look a lot older than his true age, caused, or so people said, by the helpless anger over his sister Vacia’s treatment by her husband. But Merryn – uncouth and selfish and rough he might be – was Sydnius’ brother and therefore could do as he pleased, and there was naught Archil could do to protect his sister.

“There goes one with a great deal of anger,” commented Mistress Birog, the net-maker, a large, handsome and voluble woman in her mid-thirties. She was the sister of Peran, the fisherman, married to the rope-maker, and the biggest gossip in the Old Port. “’Tis said that it has come to blows between him and Merryn recently, for Merryn has beaten his wife so badly that she lost her child.”

“People talk a lot when the day is long,” replied tartly Mistress Voada, also a net-maker by trade, and the rope-maker’s sister. “I cannot believe that Mistress Vacia would be with child again. The midwife had warned her to spare herself. She nearly died while giving birth to little Urfai, barely a year ago.”

“Yeah, but Merryn wants a big brood and will not leave her alone ‘til they reach the half dozen,” said Birog. “He would not care if his wife can bear the strain or not; not him. And we all know how protective Archil is of his sisters.”

“Which is a good and decent thing, I should say,” replied Voada sharply; any discussion with her poison-tongued sister-in-law could ruffle her feathers in mere moments. “More so as the youngest and prettiest is working in an inn where drunken patrons can become… unpleasant at times. A girl of Telta’s age can call herself fortunate to have a loving brother like Archil in these times. And even you must admit that there is great love between the two of them.”

“Greater, perchance, than it should be between brother and sister,” said Birog with a conspirator wink and a rather unpleasant smirk.

Voada glared at her in disgust. “I would watch my tongue if I were you, Birog. I happen to know that Archil is very protective of the good name of his sister as well. And while he does not seem to me as a man who would strike a woman, he might make an exception when it comes to you. And though that would not bother me too much, I wish not that kind of grief for my brother.”

“Besides, everyone knows that Archil has taken a fancy of Nuada, the new maidservant, who has recently come to work in the inn,” added Deoca, Peran’s wife. Though the youngest of the trio, she was not a bit fonder of Birog than Voada was. But one could not choose the people one became related to by marriage. Less so as men were generally cursed with blindness while choosing their wives, as women generally agreed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the meantime, the Kingfisher had moored at the jetty, and the three boatmen had already begun to hoist the casks of wine onto the jetty, while the wine-seller himself, a smooth-shaven, meagre, fastidious fellow in a long gown of fashionable cut, supervised the unloading. His entire appearance showed his wealth – the finely made capuchon twisted up into an elaborate hat, the wide sleeves of his gown, that swung like the wings of a bird as he pointed and beckoned loftily, clearly used to giving orders and being obeyed.

Sydnius and Archil had reached the jetty, too, and while the innkeeper was talking to the wine-seller in good humour – a sentiment the merchant seemed to lack completely – Archil was loading the wine caskets onto a small, two-wheeled cart he had brought with him for exactly that reason. One of the boatmen, a broad-faced, good-natured simpleton, helped him, while the other two, a well set-up, burly man in his late thirties and a gawky, lean young fellow whit a thatch of dark brown hair, had already secured the barge and were now strolling towards the in for their first, well-deserved keg of ale.

The wine-seller waited ‘til the last caskets were loaded and wheeled away by Archil, then sent the third boatman back to keep an eye on the barge and followed the two with long, purposeful strides. Entering the common room, he looked around with sharp, inquisitive eyes, measuring and judging all patrons, ere choosing a place at the saddle-maker’s table.

Folcwalda, the saddler, like most people hailing from the Mark, usually preferred the Old Sailor, Gennys’ ale-house in the New Port, as they could play their beloved board games there, for which purpose Gennys had wisely established gaming tables in a separate corner. The gaming passion of the Rohirrim was legendary, and their patience, when it came to their beloved games, sheer endless. They were capable of sitting over a game of hlatafl (or any other board game, for that matter) for days, with the entire families of the two players watching – and drinking huge amounts of ale in the process, to the joy of the beer-seller.

This time, however, the saddler and his family had just returned from the Mark, from visiting their clan, and they had chosen to have a decent meal and a few rounds of ale after the long ride, before continuing their way home. They all stood out from the stocky, dark-haired locals like signal beacons, with their flaxen hair, white skin and piercing blue eyes: the saddler himself, a big, powerful man of almost fifty summers; his sons, one a harness-maker and one a scabbard-maker, and his pretty, gold-haired daughter, little Mistress Crewyn, whose beautifully stitched leather purses had been sought after all across Halabor since she had turned ten. They were sitting with the tanner, whose daughter was betrothed to the saddler’s second-born. In such a small town it was custom that people who did related work married among each other. It helped to keep strangers from worming their way into the trade and taking away customers.

Besides, as all wiggling tongues in town agreed, the tanner’s daughter would have been a fortune to win for every young – or not so young – craftsman. Not only was she a pretty little thing, she also had learned the art of glove-making from her grandsire and was known to inherit the old glover’s house one day. Between the two of them, she and the saddler’s son could make a good life for themselves.

These were the people the wine-seller now joined, for though he fancied himself above mere craftsmen, he was also well aware of the need to keep good contacts to the Rohirrim. While the Men of the Mark preferred beer, mead and ale as a rule, their ealdormen, the nobles, knew and valued good wine, and the way to the purse of an ealdorman often led through the attentive ear of an expatriate craftsman. In the Mark, the division between nobles and common folk was less sharp than in Gondor, and while birth did count, of course (where would it not?), personal deeds and achievements played a more important role when judging a man. Or a woman, for that matter, as Rohirric women had considerable more freedom than those of the Old Folk, or even the Dúnadan noblewomen of Gondor.

Thus Sulain, who was a shrewd merchant, always keeping an eye on opportunities that might cross his path, found it a good idea to make friends with the saddler, who frequently visited his clan near Edoras. These good relations had already earned him the one or other business trip to the Eastfold, and he fervently hoped that one day he would be ferrying his excellent wines to the royal court in Edoras itself. Although he was just a simple wine merchant from an insignificant little town, he did have the advantage of a good ship and of living at the crossroads, and was not afraid of taking risks. All he needed was a chance to get his foot into Théoden-king’s doors… and he had been working on getting that chance, patiently and purposefully, for quite some time by now.

He was greeted heartily by the leather-workers, and barely seated when the lovely young maidservant came already to ask him what he would like. Sulain ordered mead – ale was too barbaric for his refined tastes, and he would not pay for his own wines – as well as a warm supper. The innkeeper’s wife cooked one warm dish each day, and while her skills could not be compared to those of Mistress Pharin, she still was a very good cook, as all regular patrons often stated, thus the wine-seller could be certain that he would be well cared for.

Today’s fare was simple but tasty as usual: a pottage of pork, wheal and almond milk, very popular in the warmer seasons, served with batter-fried carrots and parsnips, toasted bread and crispels – round pastries basted in honey. The latter ones Mistress Vicana had made by the local pastry-cook and brought from the bakery in padded baskets, right from the oven, so that they were still hot when served. She showed the wine-seller much respect by bringing him the supper with her own two hands, while the maidservant hurried over to the other table to give the boatmen their ale.

“Keep your coin, Comur,” the younger one, the one with that unruly mop of brown hair, said. “’Tis my turn to buy now.”

And with that, he pulled a finely stitched, soft leather purse from his scrip to select a few copper pieces for their drinks. ‘Twas delicate handiwork, that purse was; somehow it seemed misplaced in the boatman’s rough, broad hand.

“What a lovely piece of leatherwork!” remarked Telta, placing the large kegs in front of the two men. “’Tis Mistress Crewyn’s design, is it not?”

“I would not know,” replied the young man, his small, beady eyes avoiding hers for some reason. “I bought it on the fair of Linhir, moons ago.”

“Oh, but I am certain it is hers,” said Telta, not meaning any ill thing. “She makes designs like no-one else. I would know her patterns from a thousand others. Mistress Crewyn, would you take a look? ‘Tis one of yours, is it not?”

The saddler’s golden-haired daughter rose and came over to the boatmen’s table to take a look as asked – and her eyes froze to blue ice.

“One of mine indeed,” she said slowly. “In truth, ‘tis the very same purse I made for Mistress Pharin last Yule. ‘Twas meant to be a gift for her daughter… who is now dead, I am told, murdered in the Town Hall for a handful of coin and her necklace. How would it have found its way to Linhir in such short a time, I wonder?”

The boatman’s eyes circled around the common room like those of a trapped animal, looking for a way out.

“How should I know?” he snapped. “I bought it in Linhir, in good faith.”

“If ‘tis as you say, then you have naught to fear,” said Sydnius; it was his task as the reeve to deal with suspicious things in the Old Port. “We shall go to the Town Hall with you, so that the tax collector can tell if you were the man he saw in the night of Mistress Eryn’s murder. If you are blameless, his testimony will clear you from all suspicion and set you free again.”

“Oh, nay,” the boatman snarled. “I shall not become your willing victim in this. I came in as a free man and shall leave as one – if you value this little wench of yours at all!”

Ere anyone could move to prevent it, he grabbed Telta’s hair and pressed the edge of a long, vicious-looking knife to the girl’s throat, backing off and dragging her with him towards the door. The saddler’s sons were half-risen from their seats already to follow them, but Sydnius ordered them to sit with an imperious move of his hand. He alone saw Archil’s large frame looming just outside the door and knew that the young man was more than able to deal with the murderer. For no-one had any more doubts whatsoever that the boatman had indeed murdered poor Mistress Eryn, for that purse of hers and for what little coin there had been in the Guilds’ strongboxes.

The murderer almost believed that he had escaped his fate – for the time being in any case – when Archil showed up behind him, noiselessly like a ghost. He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife and wretched the whole arm behind the murderer’s back, not caring that he had torn the shoulder out of its socket in the process. Then he kicked the man’s feet out of under him, forcing him to the floor, face-down.

“No-one touches my sister against her will,” he hissed into the howling man’s ear through clenched teeth. “Name me one reason why I should not break your miserable neck, you worm!”

“Nay, you shall not kill him,” said Sydnius sternly. “He needs to be given a trial and hung properly, as the law demands. We must take him to the Castle, where Lord Orchald has dungeons for his safekeeping, and send word to the Wardens and the Lord’s bailiff.”

The others agreed, and the saddler’s sons offered to take the man to the Castle. Sydnius accepted the offer – there was no way a properly bound prisoner could escape those big, strong fellows – and busied himself with sending out word to all the proper authorities.

There would be a trial and perchance a hanging – more excitement that Halabor had seen since the last Orc raid.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And thus word spread all over the town like fire that poor Mistress Eryn’s murderer had been found, and it was a good thing that Sydnius had sent him to the Castle with the saddler’s sons – good for him, in any case, if he wanted to see his own trial. For had he been held in the cellar of the Town House, the enraged townsfolk might have broken down the door and hung him on the spot, or beaten him to death.

“They are good people,” said Henderch thoughtfully, watching the angry crowd before the Castle Gates, shaking their fists and shouting angrily, demanding the death of the murderer. “But they have had much grievance since times have darkened in these parts. They cannot take their revenge on the Orcs, Hill-men or whatever other vermin harmed them in the past, thus they wish to find another outlet for this grief in the death of that miserable wretch.”

Master Ludgvan, the provost, nodded with his round, iron-grey head that looked as if it had been made in his own forge. His small, observant eyes were uncommonly sad.

“This is the worst thing that could have happened to us, save from the destruction of the whole town,” he said. “If we have come to thirst for a man’s blood, no matter what evil he has wrought, how different are we from the servants of the Black Lands?”

“And yet Mistress Eryn’s spilled blood demands justice,” said Henderch. “We cannot let her murderer go unpunished.”

“Nay, we cannot,” the Master Smith nodded in agreement, his troubled eyes still watching the gathering crowd warily. “But are you certain that it is justice they ask for? Look at their twisted faces, the hatred in their eyes! You would think you are looking at Orcs, not at Men. The shadow of the Black Land is creeping into the hearts of our people; if this keeps going on, we shall be conquered from the inside, ere Mordor’s forces tear down our walls.”

But Henderch shook his head. “Nay, Master Provost, that is not the peril we must fear. They might be angry and inconsiderate, they might even do horrible things in their wrath – but they would regret afterwards deeply. They are still good people, and their anger is righteous. Compare them not with the beasts of Mordor, for you would do them injustice. I fought those monsters for many long years. Trust me – these decent, though angry people have naught in common with them.”

“I hope you are right,” sighed the Master Smith, but there was still much doubt in his deep voice. “Glad I am that the dungeons of the Castle are deep and sound and the Castle Guard is stout and well-trained. I would hate to see these people doing something horrible, out of anger, righteous as it might be.”

“Well,” said Henderch contently, “you need not to worry any longer. Can you hear the clatter of hooves? I believe the bailiff’s men are coming to quell the riot ere it becomes truly perilous.”

And indeed, his experienced ears had not misled him. Mere moments later, the sharp clatter of hooves was already drumming up the Road to the Lake, as half a dozen men, with Lord Orchald’s emblem on their gambesons, came trotting towards the Castle gates. They were led by a tall, spare man past forty, richly clad and vigorous, with a short black beard trimmed to a point, and a sharp and daunting eye, grey as a cold winter morning. His dark locks were shorn above his shoulders, and he was girded with a white belt that only the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth were entitled to wear.

“You can breathe freely now, Master Provost,” said Henderch in relief. “It seems that the Lord Peredur has found the case grave enough to come in his own knightly person. And while he is fair enough in day to day matters, he is known to be heavy-handed in crushing disorder. The townspeople know this as well as you and me – they shall not try anything foolish in his presence. Things will calm down ‘til Lord Orchald’s return, I deem.”

The provost nodded wordlessly, and they watched together as the Lord’s bailiff, a strong-minded, able knight of few words, old in experience of both battle and office, rode through the Castle gate with his escort. With Lord Orchald and his young son out of town for a a longer hunting trip, the presence of proper authority was sorely needed in the Castle, and the dour-handed Peredur, a well-respected member of lesser nobility, was the right man for the task.

“Well,” said the provost, as the Castle gate was closed and the crown began to drift apart, knowing the law had suspect and case firmly in hand, “I shall better be going, too. The captain of Cair Andros sent us quite a few notched swords and knives to repair, and we have to forge a great amount of arrow tips for the garrison. This war, though not yet out in the open, shall not stop just because we have found our murderer.”

And that, thought Henderch grimly while taking his leave from the provost, was the saddest part of the whole affair.

TBC

Thrimidge = May

THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, for the time being.

Author’s notes:

Lord Orchald is “played” by Sean Connery. The law enforcement details are based on the books about medieval life by Frances and Joseph Gies, although there are differences.

CHAPTER 6 – AN EYE FOR AN EYE

(In which our main heroine finally makes her first appearance, and we can watch Lord Orchald mete out proper justice.)

[The Marketplace of Halabor, on the 27^th day of Thrimidge⁽¹⁾, in the year 2998 of the Third Age]

More than a fortnight had been gone since Mistress Eryn’s murderer had been found, but the trial had to wait ‘til the return of Lord Orchald, as he alone was entitled to judge over such grave cases as murder, robbery or rape. His able and fastidious bailiff, however, had not wasted any of that time and went on to find proofs and witnesses that would bring further light into the case.

“He had the man’s scrip searched,” said Artbranan, the Lord’s elderly notary, who naturally had been present, due to his office, and scribbled down meticulously every oh-so-mundane item found there, “as well as the belongings of his two shipmates, for who can tell whether he had any complices in that foul deed? Perchance, he could have hidden his bounty among the rags of one of his mates.”

“And has he?” asked Henderch; since Lord Peredur had taken over the investigation, news did not reach him as quickly as he would have preferred.

“Naught by Comur, the first mate,” replied the notary, “but some sort of golden necklace was found in the scrip of that simpleton Fotla who steers the Kingfisher, so he was taken into custody as well.”

The tax collector, who was sitting with them in the Drunken Boat, enjoying a proper dinner after work, shook his balding head.

“Fotla is way too old and twice the size of the young man I saw in the Town Hall that night," he said. “And no-one would be foolish enough to choose him as a complice. He would blurt out everything in the worst possible moment. Nay, I imagine the murderer has hidden the necklace among his things without his knowledge.”

“Do we know for sure if the necklace belonged to Mistress Eryn at all?” asked Henderch.

“Nay, not ‘til it is shown to Mistress Pharin,” said the notary. “For now, ‘tis locked away in the Castle and shall only be brought forth when the court is gathered and the witnesses called in.”

“Well,” said the tax collector, “it cannot take much longer. Lord Orchald is expected to return home any time now, I hear.”

As if answering his words, the faint clatter of hooves broke through the usual, tampered early evening noises of the Marketplace. But instead of a mounted rider, a small, four-wheeled cart turned in and halted before the Drunken Boat. A well-built cart it was, covered by a rough canvas awning to shield it from the weather, and pulled by a mule – a dun-coloured gelding, sturdy-legged and long-faced, with a carefully plaited black tail and mane.

Barely had the cart come to a halt, a woman of about thirty hopped off of it, wearing a mauve dress over her undyed linen gown, her reddish brown hair neatly tucked away under her wimple and the simple white veil healers usually wore. Her even, pale face and arched eyebrows reminded Henderch of someone – he just could not tell of whom. Not yet, anyway, but he was certain he would figure out in time.

In the next moment, old Mistress Pharin came forth from the tavern in a whirlwind of rustling skirts and pressed the newcomer to her ample bosom in a hug that would have bruised the ribs of a grown man.

“My girl, oh my girl,” she exclaimed in a joyous voice that could be heard all over the Marketplace, “the Lady Nurria be blessed that you have finally come home! You have been away far too long!”

Henderch eyed the two women curiously, and despite the great age difference, he now could detect the family resemblance between them. The newcomer was not the stunning beauty Mistress Pharin was said to have been, but she had the same smooth features, high cheekbones and full mouth, although without her elder’s regal posture. Her gold-flecked eyes, however, unlike the piercing sky blue ones of Mistress Pharin, had the grey glint of Dúnadan heritage.

“Correct me if I am wrong,” said Henderch carefully, “but is this...”

“Mistress Angharad, Pharin’s granddaughter and the most skilled healer this town has ever had,” the tax collector nodded. “She has been learning herb lore in Lossarnach for years by now. ‘Tis safe to assume that she has come to witness the trial of her mother’s murderer, I think.”

“But if she came all the way from Lossarnach, then Lord Orchald cannot be far, either,” said Henderch. “Mayhap he reached the Castle already.”

“That is likely,” agreed the notary. “I shall be better going back too, then. He will have need of me, shortly.”

“No doubt, news of his return will be cried all over the streets, soon,” Henderch nodded. “And the court will be called together in a short time, I deem, which will be a good thing. This case needs a clean and satisfying end, so that people can return to their daily work in peace.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Curiosity made Henderch accompany Artbranan to the Castle. Watching Lord Orchald’s hunting party return was always a delight – it was usually a large one, one that would have made the ruler or any Gondorian province proud. Halabor might have lost much of its former importance as a trade town, but the forests of the Lord were still rich in game, and like most high-born Dúnadan nobles, Lord Orchald considered hunting a way of life – and rightly so. The deer, boar and other quarry supplied a substantial share of the meat for the Castle table, thus taking off a great deal of the burden of feeding the Lord and his household, which would otherwise lie on the shoulders of his subjects. Also, the forests supplemented game with nuts, berries, mushrooms and other wild edibles.

Unlike most noblemen, Lord Orchald was quite lenient toward the villagers and the townsfolk when it came to the use of his extensive woods. True, the felling of trees was strictly limited – the woodworkers, carpenters, coopers and wheelwrights had to keep book on the numbers and quality of the trees they had cut, and the Lord’s foresters kept a wary eye on them and dealt with trespassers swiftly and without mercy. But the poor were allowed to gather fallen branches and other dead wood to heat their huts, and the swine were allowed to pasture in the forest and get fat on the acorns under the oaks and beeches. And when the Castle servants had collected all the nuts and berries and mushrooms that needed to be preserved for the winter, the people of the hamlets scattered all around Halabor could have the rest. There was still plenty left each year, and Lord Orchald often said that it would be a waste and an offence to Yavanna to let them rot while there were hungry mouths still in the cottages.

He also gave the farriers leave to hunt for foxes, hares, badgers, squirrels, wild cats, marters and otter, for a the proper fee, as the hides were the livelihood of these people. Besides, these beasts were considered harmful for the boar and the stag. Wolves were free prey, but because of their increasing numbers and perilous nature the Lord had ordered that they be hunted by mounted parties of archers. Henderch himself had joined those parties sometimes and knew that Wargs from the North had been slowly infesting the forests for some years by now, making the hunt more dangerous than ever before.

Thus it was understandable that everyone was waiting anxiously for the return of Lord Orchald, who had rode out with his son, his huntsman and a group of mounted archers some days earlier, to find a pack of wolves reported by frightened cottagers, and deal with the beasts that had attacked helpless wood-workers repeatedly. He had all but emptied the Castle of the able-bodied men, leaving only the household knights and a few Castle Guards to its defence, so that the Wardens had had to patrol on that part of the town, too. ‘Twas a perilous thing to do, but everyone knew that the wolves had to be dealt with, not only to protect the cottagers and the woodworkers, but because they would otherwise massacre the game in the forests.

Henderch and the old notary happened to reach the Castle shortly after the hunting party’s arrival, and found the courtyard in great disarray. Servants and grooms and men-at-arms were hurrying to and fro in an unnaturally agitated manner, and Mistress Gilmith, the chatelaine, was coming from the forebuilding of the Great Hall’s entrance in a blur of rustling shirts and in the state of frightened practicality. She was an elderly matron just a year or two short sixty, of clear Dúnadan origins, the loose sleeves of her dark blue surcoat pinned back above her elbows, so that they would not hinder her in her household tasks. Her silver hair was almost completely hidden under a crisp white wimple, above which she wore an embroidered headdress of the very same fabric. The bound of keys was jingling on her belt as she ran – a rare sight in the always well-organized Castle household. As a rule, Mistress Gilmith was not easily frightened, thus Henderch guessed at once that something must have gone very wrong.

Looking around him he discovered the Lord’s huntsman, Alston, a tall, erect, vigorous man past fifty, who was trying to bring some sort of order into the current chaos, sending the dog-keepers to the kennels with their beasts, shouting at the falconers to take the birds to the mews, and quarrelling with Master Hrotgar, the stabler, for the grooms were not fast enough clearing the courtyard of the horses for his taste. As Alston, too, was calmness in person under normal circumstances, Henderch’s feeling that something very had had happened became even stronger.

“What is wrong?” he asked Borondir, the head of the household knights, a strong-minded, taciturn, able man in his forties.

Instead of answering, Borondir stepped aside to give him undisturbed view at a pallet that had been laid onto the stone-paved courtyard with great care. Upon that pallet, pale like death under his sunburn skin, lay young Lord Herumor, the apple of his old father’s eye, broken and bruised, bleeding through his makeshift bandages around his midriff.

“What happened?” Henderch rephrased his question, this time aiming it at one of the men-at-arms, one of the expatriates of Rohan, by the name of Folcmar.

“’Twas my fault alone, fretted the lean, straw-haired young man in despair. “We were following the trail of the pack, when, all of a sudden, a stag broke out of the thick woods, mayhap alerted by the dogs’ scent, and ran between us. We were expecting wolves, you see, and in my haste, I lifted my shortbow too high. The arrow grazed the beast’s horny back, but only made it mad with fear. It broke out to the left, where our young lord was waiting, and ran down his horse. The impact threw Lord Herumor from the saddle, and the stag trampled him down. Béma, if I could just die myself and save his life! It was my fault, mine alone!”

“’Twas an accident; a terrible, unfortunate thing, yet no wrongdoing of yours,” a deep, sombre voice replied, harsh with suppressed pain, and glancing up, Henderch saw Lord Orchald coming, still in his dark green and brown hunting clothes, his silver hair pulled back into a tight ponytail from his bearded face.

“Hunting is perilous business, as we all know,” continued the old lord, “more so when we are hunting for the evil creatures of the Shadow. Sadly, such things are known to happen.”

“But my Lord, if I only had lowered my bow just a fracture in time, the stag would now be dead and your son unharmed!” cried out the poor man.

“Do I know that?” asked Lord Orchald gravely. “Do you? Such foresight is granted to the mightiest of the Valar alone; ‘twould be unseeming for us mere Men to measure us with their measure. Be in peace, lad; I blame you not, and neither would my son, could he raise his voice to speak. We should now see how we might save him, if, indeed, there still could be saving for him. Master Henderch,” he looked at the Chief Warden, “I understand that your leech is very skilled at healing wounds. Would you see to it that he come to the Castle at once?”

“We can do better than that, my Lord,” Henderch replied. “Mistress Angharad has just returned home, less than an hour ago. I believe she can be of better assistance; but I shall send for Cathbad, too, nonetheless.”

“I thank you with all my heart,” said Lord Orchald; then he turned to the huntsman. “Alston, we still have unfinished business in the forest. Let the men rest ‘til dawn, but in the morning, you shall ride out gain. That pack needs to be hunted down and slain.”

The huntsman nodded in grim agreement. “Aye, my Lord. But there are too few of us – may I recruit helpers among the woodworkers and the cottagers?”

“You can take with you everyone who is able and willing,” said the old Lord. “I lay this issue into your capable hands, Alston. I… I need to be with my son.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Errand boys were sent out running to fetch Mistress Angharad and Cathbad, the leech of the Wardens, as soon as they could come. Being closer to the Castle in her grandmother’s tavern, the healer was the first to arrive, calm and quick and business-like, not the least in awe of the Lord of the town. She examined young Herumor briskly but thoroughly, feeling for broken ribs under the pale skin of the slim torso that was flecked with darkening, purple-ish bruises, and pressing a careful palm against the young man’s belly to find possible inner wounds. Her smooth, oval face was serene and unsmiling, and her arched brows knitted in concern over those gold-flecked, grey-blue eyes.

“He does not bleed in the inside, and that is good,” she finally judged; her voice was deep and smooth, too, not unkind but somewhat detached. “There are at least three broken ribs, thought, that I can feel, and mayhap two or three more bruised. The surface wounds and abrasions are not life-threatening, but we shall need to anoint them, or they would get inflamed. My Lord, I would like to take him to the Infirmary, where we can keep an eye on him all the time.”

“Btu he will live?” asked Lord Orchald anxiously. She nodded and smiled for the first time, and that smile brightened her face in a beauty no-one would have expected. It only lasted a moment, then she clouded her brightness behind the veil of duty and attendance again, but all that had seen it would never look at her the same way.

“He will live,” she assured the worried father, “and he will heal without scarring, if I can take him in my care – and if he listens to me. It will take time, but in the end, he will be as good as new.”

Lord Orchald looked down at his son, who lay under a light cover upon his pallet, stretched on his back as if he had already been prepared for funeral. His breathing was shallow; the intake of breath barely lifted the blanket over his breast, an apparently painful, too, for he seemed to labour hard for each small gulp of air. His head was properly bandaged now, his brow beneath the linen wrappings swollen and bruised so badly that one eye was completely swollen shut. ‘Twas a discouraging sign, one that made the father’s heart bleed.

“If you save him,” said the old Lord to the healer, “you shall receive the apothecary’s house as your payment; the one that joins the Infirmary and has stood empty all these years. And your children and their children shall have it after you, as long as one of your line is alive.”

Angharad looked up at him with detached sympathy.

“My Lord, you need not to promise me aught,” she said gently. “What I can do to restore your son to full health, I shall do. I am a healer – I cannot and must not extract such promises for doing that which I am meant to do.”

“Nonetheless,” said Lord Orchald, “once my son stands before me, strong and hale and unharmed, the way he was still in this morn, the apothecary’s house shall be granted to you as a gift. My notary will provide the papers as it is due. Indulge in an old man’s folly,” he added softly. “Or do you think my son’s life is not worth a mere house to me?”

To that, Angharad could not give any other answer than incline her head and accept the generous gift in proper gratitude. Four strong men carefully lifted the pallet with their young Lord then and left the Castle to take him to the Infirmary. ‘Twas but a short way along the river bank, but the men-at-arms accompanied them to keep the curious townsfolk at distance. Angharad followed them in the company of Cathbad who had come in the last moment and wanted to offer his well-proved skills at dressing the wounds.

“And now,” said Lord Orchald, turning to his bailiff who had held back respectfully ‘til the more urgent issues were taken care of, “tell me about this murderer of ours, Peredur!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The trial of Mistress Eryn’s murderer was held two days later – not in the Castle itself, but in the Town house, for this was a matter of the Town Council as much as that of the Lord. Mistress Eryn had been their faithful and trusted clerk for decades, after all. Although the final judgement belonged to Lord Orchald, he instructed his bailiff to lead the trial, with four members of the Town Council to act as co-judges, listen to the evidence and deliver their verdict unanimously. These were: Master Ludgvan, the provost, by the importance of his office alone, Sydnius, the reeve of the Old Port, Master Suanach, the head of the Merchants’ Guild, and Muathlan, the old spice-merchant – and also a lawperson of vast experience – whose judgement in such issues had been highly valued in town since he had taken his place among the Guild leaders.

The Town Hall itself, aside from the small, pigeonhole-like offices framing it, that could be accessed through hidden doors behind the faded tapestries, usually served as the place where the weavers could spread their cloth during the two great markets of the year – and every time the Guild would want to control the quality of their work. ‘Twas a long, chill, stony hall, not very inviting, albeit well-lit through the windows set high under the roof. That was a requirement for the Guild leaders to see whether the cloth had any fault, and thus served well in the regular occasions when the Hall was also used as a courtroom.

At the far end, a long table had been placed for the judges, and a large armchair, separately, for Lord Orchald, who wanted to watch the trial from the side. Opposite him, a small writing desk had been readied for his notary; old Artbranan was also a lawman and often advised his lord – or the bailiff – in legal issues. Aside from that, he was needed to write down everything that would be said and done during the trial. Odhrain, the head clerk of the Guild, sat on his right to do the same for the Guild’s own records.

The doors of the Hall were guarded by two of the older Wardens. As Lord Orchald’s men-at-arms were still away wolf-hunting, he relied on Henderch’s well-probed men in this case. They had once been soldiers, most of them, after all. The spectators were sitting in wooden benches, in front of everyone else Mistress Pharin, her incredibly blue eyes cold and hard in her usually kind face like glittering ice. Her granddaughter, Angharad, sat on her side, clad in plain, dark, well-made clothes, one strong, warm hand resting on the old woman’s forearm.

Lord Peredur now entered the Hall, followed by the four other judges, who had put on their best for the occasion, including the long gowns worn only on very important days. The bailiff took his seat without ceremony, and as soon as the town’s respected burghers had arranged themselves behind the table, he ordered the murder suspect to be led in.

Tow of Peredur’s sergeants, who had ridden with him from Emerië Manor, dragged in the accused man to face his judges. A gawky, lean young fellow Sydnius had called him the day before, when he had spoken to Henderch, and in truth, their murderer was a miserable wretch of a man, large of elbow and knee, with a gaunt face and hollow cheeks that spoke of a hard life. His cottee and hose were ragged and threadbare, so soaked with muddy water all the time that even now, dried out properly, it would have been hard to guess what their original colour might have been. He had wide enough shoulders to make him a well-proportioned man, had he only been better fed; but in the state he was, he might not have had a decent meal on a regular basis all his life. His face was pallid under the slight tan he had gained while serving on the Kingfisher, and his hollow eyes darted around in terror from one judge to another.

Lord Peredur raised an eyebrow at the pitiful sight of him. But as a man of experience who had dealt with many kinds of villains in his years as bailiff, he knew that he was looking at a wild and dangerous creature. Not by nature, perhaps, but made so by desperation. Like the wolves, this man might be driven by hunger and need; yet like the wolves, he felt no mercy in his urge to have those needs taken care of. Whose fault is it that men have come to such a state, the bailiff thought. Is it the ceaseless struggle against Mordor? Or is it the looming of the Shadow along our borders? Yet whatever the reason is, we must deal with the consequences now – and it will not be pleasant.

“What is your name?” he finally asked.

A pale tongue darted out for a moment to wet parched lips, as if the felon felt it hard to answer even such a simple question.

“D-Dudoc, my Lord,” he replied in spite of himself. His voice was low and dull now, laced with fear but also with reluctance. Again, Peredur’s eyebrow rose an inch. It was a name not taken from the tongue of the Old Folk; it had almost a Dunlendish sound to it.

“Are you from this neighbourhood, Dudoc?” he continued his inquiry.

“Who can tell?” answered the suspect with a question of his own. “I was found in a ruined hut in the New Port, some six and twenty years ago, and no-one knew where I came from or how old I was. A babe of six moons perhaps, perhaps older. An old fishwife took pity of me and cared for me ‘til I turned nine or so. Then she died, and I had been on my own ever since.”

“You never truly learned the craft of the carpenters then,” said Peredur. “For though I was told that you had called yourself a carpenter’s journeyman when approaching Mistress Eryn in this very house, I lean to believe that was a lie.”

Dudoc gave a self-deprecating snort. “Why, certainly it was – who would have taken an orphaned port rat like myself as an apprentice? I never learned any craft. I worked in the port sometimes, helping with the boats, or carrying the wares…”

“… and plundering them,” Sydnius added with a dark smile. Dudoc shrugged.

“That, too, when the need was too great – what other chance did I have? But I never hurt anyone, I swear!”

“We shall see the truth about that,” said Lord Peredur. “Ifor,” he looked at one of his sergeants,” keep an eye on the man, in case he would try something foolish – like bolting. We shall hear the witnesses now.”

Although he rarely had such serious cases to deal with, the bailiff, once again, proved a thorough and straightforward lawman. In the recent days, he had hunted down every single one who might have had aught to say considering the untimely death of Mistress Eryn, and now he called in the witnesses, one after another, shedding light on the sad event two moons previous, comparing the pieces of evidence and putting them together to a larger picture with grim patience.

He began with Jutus, the Warehouse clerk, asking him about the time he had been sent to the Town Hall with the records – a statement that Odhrain could verify at once, having been the one who had sent Jutus there in the first place – as well as about the usual days the strongboxes of the Guilds were emptied. Jutus testified that the boxes had always been emptied on Meresdei⁽²⁾, a custom that the Guilds had changed since then, as it had become common knowledge due to the investigation, and that the day on which the robbery and murder had taken place had been on Sterrendei⁽³⁾, and thus the boxes must have been nearly empty.

Once again, Odhrain verified this, adding that – according to the late Mistress Eryn’s meticulously led books, there had been four silver pieces and twenty-two coppers in the two boxes, counted together. In other words, Mistress Eryn had been murdered for the worth of a fledged sparrow hawk or a hive of bees – not a great sum in the eyes of a well-doing craftsman or a merchant, but probably an unimaginable wealth for a poor wretch of the New Port, thought Henderch regretfully.

After Jutus, Lord Peredur questioned the Warden Belegorn, and even the boy Zhori, who had both been present when Mistress Eryn had been found dead. The boy did not seem to be in awe of all those grim and venerable judges – one of which was, in all likelihood, his natural grandfather – but answered them with the strange invulnerability of children who do not yet understand the dark secrets of men’s lives, having been blessedly sheltered from them by loving womanly care. Belegorn verified everything the others had said before him, adding his own pieces, small though they might be.

“I had not much to do,” he said summarily, “as Master Jutus handled the whole sad affair with great delicacy and practicality.”

“So it seems,” Lord Peredur agreed, releasing the blushing clerk and the Warden and calling before his presence Cathbad the leech, who gave him a detailed account of the position in which Mistress Eryn had been found and of the injuries she had suffered. Henderch, who had been present during the leech’s examination of the body, was called to verify, which he did as best as he could remember.

Next, the bailiff called in Dudoc’s shipmates. Comur, the first mate and the wine-seller’s right hand was a burly, bull-necked fellow of an indefinite age between thirty and forty summers, well-made and neat; he would even be personable, had he not been so curt and withdrawn in manner. He said that he had been the one to hire Dudoc as third boatman for the Kingfisher, having known the man from the New Port where they all had come from – although Comur himself was the scion of well-respected boatmen who could count back his forefather four generations at the very least.

“I met him in the Old Sailor, sirs,” he said, gnawing an uncertain lip, “and as my master needed a third pair of hands, and as I knew him to have some skill with boats as well as more strength than one would believe, I took him with me to the Kingfisher.”

“When did this happen?” asked Lord Peredur.

“On the sixth day of Rhede⁽⁴⁾, my Lord,” replied Comur anxiously. “He had been on the Kingfisher ever since, working hard, and my master was well content with him.”

“On the sixth of Rhede,” repeated the bailiff thoughtfully. “Less than two days after Mistress Eryn had been murdered – and the Kingfisher off to Linhir all this time. Small wonder we have not found our felon here earlier.”

Beyond that, Comur could tell not more, thus the bailiff released him and called for Fotla, the third boatman of the Kingfisher. Also a man from the New Port, Fotla was a leathery, middle-aged, weather-beaten fellow with the round, guileless eyes of a child. Apparently, he also had the mind of a child, for he could tell naught of importance, other than his desperate assurances that he had nothing to do with the golden necklace found among his things, and had never seen it before. His master, the wine-seller, verified that the man had been in his service for many years, and was completely trusted within his limits – which meant as long as he had naught else to do but steer the boat.

“I am leaning towards believing him,” said the bailiff thoughtfully. “Simple of mind he may be, but even a simpleton would find a better hiding place for ill-gained goods than his own scrip.”

“We should take a look at that necklace,” suggested the spice merchant. “Has it been proven already that it did in fact belong to Mistress Eryn?”

“Mistress Pharin has recognized it,” said Lord Peredur, “but we should ask for the testimony of the goldsmith who has made it.”

And so they sent for Glynwayath the ring-maker, the only goldsmith in Halabor, and he came readily and eagerly to help finding the truth. A sprig of an old clan of bronzesmiths, he had chosen a slightly different trade, one that had not been over-populated in the town. A comely young man he was, barely past thirty, of middle-height like most of the Old Folk, and brown-haired and brown-eyed, too, but lean and wiry, with a finely-boned face and even finer hands.

He examined the simple, thread-thin necklace of flat, angular chain links carefully, even taking his magnifying glass out of his breast to see it better, then nodded.

“Aye, my Lord, ‘tis my handiwork. If you would care to look at the lock through the magnifying glass, you could see my initials and the stamp of the year engraved in which it was made; three years from now. I only made one such necklace in that year. It was ordered by Mistress Pharin as a Yule gift for her daughter. She even brought the gold herself: an old ring of her late husband’s, too big and heavy for any woman in the family to wear. I had much pain extracting the gold from that ring, as for all  its size and weight, it was mixed with much copper, and thus there was barely enough of it left to make this thin necklace of it.”

“What happened with all the copper?” the provost asked.

“I made a pin of it,” replied the goldsmith. “Mistress Pharin is wearing it now.”

That she was doing indeed, and the goldsmith was released, too. There could be no doubt that the necklace found in the simpleton Fotla’s scrip had belonged to the late Mistress Eryn, and that she had been wearing it on the very day when she had been murdered. That turned the bailiff’s attention to Wella, the tax-collector – the only person who had seen the murderer. Lord Peredur ordered him to take a good, hard look at the man Dudoc and tell them if this was the same man he had seen in the Town Hall two months earlier.

“I have not seen him well,” admitted the tax-collector. “It was quite dark already, and my eyes are weak. There are many penniless young men in the New Port who look the same. But one thing I saw clearly enough: on his left hand, there were two fingers missing. I saw it when he pulled his cottee straight.”

All eyes turned to Dudoc, who tried to hide his left hand, but the sergeants forced it forth again, so that everyone could see that this middle finger was completely missing, and also his fourth finger to the second knuckle.

“I had an accident,” he said defensively. “In Linhir, while uploading the wares to the Kingfisher.”

“That cannot be,” interrupted Cathbad the leech. “These wounds have healed many years ago. Indeed, I do believe that he must have lost his fingers in childhood already.”

“The rats gnawed his fingers off when he was but a lad of eight,” offered the simpleton Fotla naïvely. “He told me himself, on our way to Linhir.”

Dudoc shot him a murderous look but said nothing more, no matter what he was asked.

“It matters not,” said the bailiff after a few fruitless tries. “There seems to be no doubt that this man must be the same one that Master Wella has seen in the Town hall on the evening of Mistress Eryn’s death. Mistress Crewyn, the purse-maker has recognized her own handiwork: the purse that belonged to the victim. We found Mistress Eryn’s necklace in the scrip of Fotla, but we can be assured that it had been laid there by someone else. Also, at least twelve people have witnessed how this man tried to run for his life, threatening that of Telta, the serving-maid of the Riverside Inn, to ensure his escape. Do you wish to question other witnesses?” he asked his fellow judges.

The old spice-merchant shook his silver head.

“The evidence is clear,” he said. “This man is our murderer. According to the law of Gondor, I find him guilty and say he should be hung.”

“What say the other judges?” asked Lord Peredur.

“Guilty,” said Master Suanach promptly; as he had been somewhat influenced by the merciless Haradric judgement of his late wife’s household, he found it most natural that the murderer should pay for his foul deed with his own life. “His life is forfeit.”

“Guilty,” said Sydnius, too. He was one of the few remaining judges of the Old Folk, the representative of an ancient law that was harsh and unmerciful and demanded that a life shall be given for a  life taken, no matter the circumstances. “He deserves to die,”

Thus only Master Ludgvan remained to speak his mind, but the provost showed no great hurry with his verdict. He watched their murderer for long moments, hesitating between pity and dismay. Without a family, without a trade, all alone in a world that while not flat out hostile but at best indifferent towards him, what other chance did this poor wretch have than either work himself into an early grave or to choose a bent path? Hunger and need often drove men to desperate deeds, deeds they would never do under different circumstances.

“I did not mean to kill,” wailed the miserable creature, smearing his tears all over his dirty face with that maimed hand of his. “I just wanted to get the coin. I needed clothes for any master to consider hiring me at all. I never meant to harm the old woman.”

Which was probably even true. Yet Mistress Eryn, a poor, hard-working, elderly woman had been murdered nonetheless, and while Master Ludgvan could not help but feel pity for her wretched murderer, she had deserved better, too.

“Guilty,” said the Master Smith heavily, “yet I shall leave the punishment to the well-proved wisdom of our Lord.”

Lord Orchald had listened wordlessly during the whole trial. He was of two minds about this man who had become a murderer almost by accident. Yet killed he had, no matter that it had not happened by intent. Had he been able to pay wergild, there might have been a way to save him. But the very fact that he had nothing had made him a murderer in the first place. Was there any other way out of this but have him hung?

“The ancient law of the Old Folk demands that for a life taken a life shall be given, no matter what,” said the old Lord slowly. “Thus I should have this man hung, as he would never be able to pay wergild for his deed, even if we chose to follow the custom of the Horse-lords. And yet I feel bad about having him put down in cold blood, as he had not killed in cold blood, though kill he did, and is guilty beyond doubt.”

He paused, and all that were present looked at him expectantly, feeling that something unusual was going to happen. What he did was to turn to Mistress Pharin and Angharad with a grave face.

“Mistress Pharin,” he said, you are the wronged party here, and so is your granddaughter. If you wish this man dead, I shall have him hung, for thus is the law, and ‘tis your right to see your kinswoman avenged. Yet if you give his life in my hands, I shall send him to the fighting troops, where he would, in all likelihood, die anyway, but would, at least, be of some use for Gondor, and by protecting lives, he might work off a small part of his debt before dying. What say you?”

Mistress Pharin’s face was pale and closed, her incredibly blue eyes icy and unmoved. Angharad, however, looked thoughtful.

“Where would you send him, my Lord?” she asked.

“To the garrison of Cair Andros,” said Lord Orchald. “’Twould be a hard life, serving under the heavy hand of Captain Hirwel; he is known to drive his men to the limits of their endurance, but a life it would be, even if that of a kept man, for his freedom he would not gain again ‘til the end of his life. And there, at least, he might still do some good to redeem himself, as far as ‘tis possible.”

Angharad looked at the gaunt, desperate face of the murderer with the detached pity of a healer who had seen much and was used to it. She took in the haggard shape, the maimed hand, the threadbare clothes, the fear, the despair – the regret.

“A life given for a life taken the law might demand,” she finally said, “yet his death cannot bring my mother back, and I have no wish to soil my hands with his blood. I am willing to release him into your hands, my Lord, if my grandmother does. For of the two of us, her loss is certainly heavier, having spent a lifetime with her daughter.”

All eyes turned now to Mistress Pharin, who sat rigidly erect on the bench, her ample shirts surrounding her like the folds of a field general’s tent, emphasizing the air of general largeness that was always about her, even on the best of days. Her eyes burned coldly, and the wrath glittering in them would have put Hel, the Lady of the Underworld, to shame. Nay, unlike Angharad, who was young and thus more bent to forgiving, Mistress Pharin was not quite willing to let the man who had robbed her of her only daughter and single companion of many years go easily. Every one waited anxiously, for according the Old Law, she had the right to demand this wretched man’s death, and most of the people present would have said that she should. And Lord Orchald had made it abundantly clear that he would respect her wishes.

“With or without intent, this man has murdered my daughter for a handful of coin,” she said in an icy voice. “His life is forfeit. Yet I do not wish to make any of these good men here his hangman; why should they sully their hands with his foul blood? So I,too,  release him into your hands, my Lord – into lifelong servitude. But I shall demand assurance that should he ever try to leave the place where you send him to live out his miserable life, he would be put down like the rabid dog he is.”

“Thusly it shall be ordered, Mistress,” said the old Lord. “I give you my word.”

“Then he is yours to use him as you see it fit, my Lord,” said Mistress Pharin, and she stood and left the hall with a cold dignity that would have made the legendary Queen Berúthiel proud. Not a glance did she throw back at the man whose life she had spared.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Less than an hour later, Dudoc was taken to the garrison of Cair Andros under the guard of two of Peredur’s men-at-arms, to serve there as a boatman ‘til the day of his death. The townsfolk was not fully content with this outcome – they had wanted him hung, as much for their own entertainment as for proper justice, and many of them murred that he would have a better life there than he had ever had, and they found this mercy misplaced.

“Mayhap it is,” Lord Orchald admitted ruefully to his bailiff, the provost and the reeve, with whom he had secluded himself in the Castle for a private council. “Mayhap I am growing soft at my old age. And yet I cannot help but feel that I have somehow failed as the Lord of my people, if a man has become desperate enough to kill for a handful of coin.”

“If you have failed, my Lord, then so have we all,” said the provost heavily. “For ‘tis true that the New Port has not had proper leadership ever since it had been largely abandoned; yet just as true it is that no-one of us has ever made much thought about how people managed to live there.”

“We have our own responsibilities,” countered Sydnius, not quite willing to take any blame for what he never saw as his concern. “The Merchants’ Guild alone has still interests there – ‘tis their duty to look after things in the New Port.”

“Not theirs alone; mine, too,” said Lord Orchald. “And so is it yours, Master Reeve, and yours, Master Provost, albeit to a smaller extent. We all are responsible for this town; and if we wish to last here a little longer, despite that shadow cast upon us from across the River, we must not see it in its parts but as a whole.”

Sydnius, a wise man though unlearned, gave that a moment of thought.

“What would you have us to do then, my Lord?” he finally asked.

“I have no answer for you just yet,” replied Lord Orchald. “But we must think about the New Port and how we could help the people who eke out a meagre living there. Alms would only help for a moment. We need to find a solution that would last; or else Mistress Eryn would not remain the only one killed out of desperate need.”

“I shall bring this before the Town Council,” promised the provost.

“And I shall talk about it with the estate stewards,” said Lord Peredur. “We need men-at-arms who know the River well and their way around boats, with the town so open and vulnerable to any threats that may come across the water. We should find a way how to feed and train a few more men – for our own good and for theirs.”

“Good,” said Lord Orchald and rose from his seat. “Come to me again when you have found any useful way. I need to see my son now.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Young Lord Herumor had missed all the excitement, as he had been lying in the Infirmary, feverish and unconscious in the healer’s care ever since they had brought him back from the hunt wounded. Old Mistress Crodergh’s herbal remedies had saved him from an inflammation of his wounds, and being out like a light had spared him a great deal of pain from his broken and bruised ribs, but when he finally opened a bleary eye for the first time in days, he felt as weak as a newly born whelp, and he had a taste of fur in his mouth.

“Water…” he whispered, barely audible, but even that small effort hurt.

His eyesight still limited due to a swollen eye, all he saw was a blurred shadow of mauve and white moving at his bedside. A strong, warm hand lifted his head with infinite care, and a cup of fresh, blessedly cool water was held to his lips. He drank greedily.

“Careful,” a low, gentle voice warned. “Small, slow sips only, or you shall throw it up again.”

He blinked, and a pale, solemn face moved into the focus of his vision, framed by a white wimple and a simple veil. And yet it seemed to him as if he had seen a being from another world, though what kind of being, he could not hazard to guess.

“Who… are you?” he asked. The woman, for that she was, laughed quietly.

“You do not remember me, my Lord? Well, it has been a long time. I am Angharad, the daughter of Eryn, the daughter of Pharin. I am the healer of the Infirmary.”

She was counting her ancestors on the maternal line. ‘Twas an ancient custom, almost forgotten even by the Old Folk, and used only when the fathers came from a foreign people. But at least the names she had mentioned put her into a pattern that he could recognize.

“I thought you were in Lossarnach,” he said in a weak but clear voice.

“I was,” she replied. “I have only retuned home a few days ago – just in time to fetch you away to the Infirmary. You were in a truly bad shape.”

“Am I better now?” he asked with a smile. She smiled back at him.

“Not yet. But you shall, given enough time, and if you do as we ask.”

“I shall try,” sighed Herumor. “How long must I stay here?”

“For quite a while yet,” replied Angharad. “Your fewer has just broken, and it had weakened you a great deal. But once your ribs are mended a little, we shall let the Castle servants take you back home – say, in two weeks’ time.”

“Two weeks?” exclaimed Herumor. “What am I to do here for so long? Is there anyone else at all?”

Angharad laughed.

“Why, certainly,” she said. “There are always sick and wounded people who need our help. And we have residents who live here, full time: old and ailing people who have no-one else to look after them. They will be all too glad to visit you, my Lord, and listen to what you can tell them about Dol Amroth and the Sea. So would I,” she added, still smiling, “as I have never seen the Sea, and cannot imagine what it might look like.”

Herumor eyed her a bit warily, as if trying to gauge how serious she had meant it.

“Very well, he said, “but only if you tell me the news of Uncle Forlong’s court. I have not been in Lossarnach since I was knighted there.”

“That I can do,” she agreed. “In truth, I have brought you messages from your uncle and cousins; above all else from Madenn⁽⁵⁾, with whom I have learned herb lore in Imloth Melui. But also from other people who know you. Now, let me first change your bandages and give you a bed bath, and afterwards we can exchange tidings and tales to your heart’s delight.”

The tought of a bed bath made Herumor a little uncomfortable, but he knew that there was no use in arguing with the healers. Thus he submitted to the somewhat humiliating process of being washed by a woman he barely knew – for he had left Halabor at the age of fourteen, and Angharad had been away upon his return – and hen they settled down to discuss people and places and events in Lossarnach that they both knew and valued.

Neither of them could imagine at this time that their lives would be so intertwined one day that naught but death would be able to separate them anymore. How could they? How could anyone imagine what the Valar – or the Old Gods, if one followed the local traditions – had planned for them?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Thrimidge (or Thrimilch) = May

(2) Meresdei = Thursday. As Friday (Highdei) was the last day of the week, according to the calendar of Bree, which I use for the Old Folk, it corresponds our Saturday, actually.

(3) Sterrendei = Saturday, corresponding our Monday.

(5) Rhede = March

(5) Madenn is an original character established in my other story, “The Young Knights”. She is the illegitimate daughter of Lord Forlong. Since in my stories Herumor’s late mother was a cousin of Lord Forlong, the two are second-grade cousins. Herumor’s knighting is shown in that same story. 

THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: R – not for the faint of heart.

Author’s notes: Eubrwrast was inspired by an elderly nun I used to know in my youth. Here is to Sister Anna – may she rest in peace. Also, originally this chapter was supposed to present the Autumn Fair in Halabor, but I have dropped that particular idea for the sake of Edhellond’s 2007 Advent Calendar.

My heartfelt thanks to the Wild Iris for taking over the beta work.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER 7 – A RAID WITH CONSEQUENCES

(In which some Wandering Elves make a terrible discovery, and Mistress Angharad gets the chance to consult Elven healers.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The company of Wandering Elves had come a long way when they finally reached the fertile fields of Anórien.

They had started from Mithlond, the Grey Havens, where they had spent the previous winter season. They turned aside for a short pilgrimage to the White Tower of Elostirion, to sing their hymns to the Valar and look into the Seeing Stone that would allow them a glimpse of that which lay beyond the Bent Sea. Then they crossed Eriador, just beyond the northern border of the small country of the Halflings, walked along the Northern Hills and returned to the Road at the Forsaken Inn to follow it to the hidden valley of Imladris, where they spent another winter.

At the beginning of the stirring season, they crossed the Hithaeglir at the Redhorn Pass and followed the Great River to Lothlórien. They spent the following two seasons in the Golden Wood, leaving after Midsummer’s Eve, as their leader, Gildor Inglorion, wanted to visit the Autumn Fair in a small town of Men called Halabor.

‘Twas a long journey indeed, even on horseback, and more so on foot, the way they usually travelled. But nearly two years is like a blink of an eye for Elves, and for the Wandering Companies, a journey was more than merely getting from one place to another. They were living on the Road. It was their way of life.

Once, long ago, back in the First and Second Ages, many Wandering Companies used to roam the roads. They were the constant connection between Elven settlements, the means of trade and tidings between Elves and Men and other races. Now, in the late Third Age, Gildor’s Company was the last one left.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They reached their usual resting place, just beyond the fertile lands tended by the local farmers, two days before the autumn fair held in Halabor. Their trackers checked out the close neighbourhood, as was their wont, for Anórien had become an unsafe place in the past century or two. The others continued their journey in a leisurely pace.

The sun was setting upon the grassy glades of the forest when they came up to the open space in the midst of one of the glades – an ancient and sacred place in the woods, where the Silvan folk once held their rituals, back when they had still lived in great numbers in the valleys of Anduin. Upon the flat top of the hillock, there still stood part of a circle of rough, unhewn stones – the broken remnants of an abandoned sanctum, where the Starlit People had once sung to their beloved stars.

Four of the stones stood upright. Another eight had been dislodged from their original places, maybe due to the superstitious fears of Men, who were wary of what they called Elven magic. Some of those fallen ones lay broken near their former site; others had fallen onto the side of the hill. One large stone, though, had rolled all the way to the bottom. There it lay, stopping the course of the small brook which glided smoothly around the foot of the hill, murmuring gently as it flowed around and over the stone.

"Our resting place is undisturbed," Durithel, the lead tracker – an ancient Nandor Elf and one of the best archers south of Lórien – reported to their Lord, "but I have smelled smoke from the West."

Gildor frowned. "Could it be wandering craftsmen, heading for the fair of Halabor as well?"

"It could be," replied Durithel slowly, "but I do not like the smell of that smoke. There have been more things burned than a small fire, I fear."

Gildor did not like this at all. He knew that Durithel’s senses were sharper than those of a hunting lynx, and that his instincts were almost infallible.

"We should take a look," the Elf-Lord decided. "Isfin," he turned to the eldest female member of the company, "have the others unload our beasts and prepare the evening meal. Denilos, Thorndor and Maelor, you come with us."

No-one tried to hold their Lord back from possible peril. Gildor Inglorion was a seasoned warrior, who knew how to take care of himself. Besides, he always did as he pleased; being a scion of Elven kings, he could afford it. Thus everyone obliged without any further words.

Led by Durithel's senses alone, silently like ghosts did the five Elves snake between the ancient trees, with the stealth only the woodland folk – or those who spent much time with them – could manage.

After the first furlong or so, Gildor raised a hand, and they all stopped. Now they were close enough that the Elf-Lord, too, could sense the smoke, and he realized that his chief tracker had been right. This was not simply the smoke of a campfire… this was the hideous stench of burnt flesh. And if the sickeningly sweetish odour was any indication, it had not been a venison hunch left unwatched while cooking.

Gildor pulled up his hood to hide the gleaming of his golden hair – in the waning light, it still could have betrayed them – and gave Durithel the sign to take point. The Nandor archer was the best and the most experienced among them, the least likely to make a mistake. Durithel moved forward so noiselessly that not even Elven ears could have heard him. The others followed in the same manner.

Another fifty yards, and the woods began to grow thinner, signalling that they were now approaching arable lands. Here the red rays of the setting sun broke upon the shattered boughs and mossy trunks of the trees, casting just enough dim light onto the forest floor beneath their feet to see the curling of ugly black smoke between the trees. Whatever might have been burning, it was obviously outside the woods, in the open.

Durithel gave the others a sign to stay behind, then he sprinted up the nearest tree like a squirrel to continue his way on the treetops, in true Silvan fashion. As only Denilos could have followed him on this path, the other Elves remained behind in tense anticipation.

A short time later the chief tracker returned – running lightly on the ground and with no apparent concern for their safety.

"You can come now," he said, his eyes full of sorrow. "We are too late. There is no-one alive, and their murderers are gone."

He led them to the outskirts of the forest, where they found what a day earlier must have been the resting place of a small family of Men. The dead body of a pony lay near the charred remnants of a two-wheeled cart – the sort on which wandering craftsmen transported their meagre belongings, while travelling on foot themselves with their family.

Next to a stone ring, laid already for the campfire, lay a pair of small, hand-held forge-bellows, almost intact, and a small grinding wheel, its strap burnt and torn. A broken body – according to what remained from a long, brown homespun gown after it had caught fire, most likely that of a woman – lay near the fireplace, the face charred beyond recognition, the hands shrivelled and blackened in the fire like the claws of a dead bird. She must have been the source of the horrible burnt stench.

"This must have been the camp of a travelling ironsmith or a cutler," Thorndor, a tall, willowy Noldo, said softly. "Bruithir used to know one here – I hope ‘tis not the same one."

"I fear it might be," Durithel shook his head. "There is not enough work for two to make a living, wandering from farmstead to farmstead. I fear that Bruithir has lost an acquaintance today."

"But who could have done it?" asked Denilos. "And where is the smith himself?"

"It could not have been yrch," said Durithel thoughtfully, "as neither the woman, nor the pony has been eaten. Also, yrch do not travel or kill during daylight, and this…" he made a vague gesture, "this could not have happened any more than a few hours ago."

"That leaves Men," said Gildor grimly. "Either raiding bands from Dunland, or Easterlings, who crossed the Anduin south from Nindalf to plunder the farmsteads of Anórien. In any case, we should track their trail carefully. We cannot know how many of them are there, and I am not taking any risks. Durithel, Denilos, look for any traces; you are best suited to read them. If needs must be, we shall continue on to Halabor without a rest."

The two trackers nodded and began to examine every square inch of earth thoroughly, starting at the fireplace itself. Gildor, not wanting to hinder them, walked over to the dead pony and took a good look at it. The poor beast did not look particularly well fed, it was scruffy and rather bony, but Gildor knew that these ponies were usually tough and had great endurance. Which was why the common folk, who could rarely afford to have the stronger, bigger mules, kept them. Of course, no amount of resilience could have helped the pony against the short, heavy arrow protruding from its throat.

Gildor grabbed the arrow and pulled it out of the wound, swatting away the flies in disgust. The arrow was short, even for Mannish fashion – barely two feet – fletched with crow-feathers, and it had an uncommonly broad point of black iron.

"What do you think?" he asked Thorndor. The archer eyed the arrow expertly.

"Looks like Khimmerian handiwork," he decided. "They have more iron than wood in their rocky caves."

Gildor nodded in agreement. "Raiding party from Rhûn, then. Who would have thought that they had grown brave enough to set foot into Gondor again?"

"Brave enough… or desperate enough," said Thorndor. "They suffered a severe beating by the Horse-lords of Rohan, not too long ago, ‘tis said. Perhaps they are looking for less… alert prey."

At this very moment Maelor called out to them. "My Lord! We have found the smith!"

Gildor hurried over to him, with Thorndor following. Behind the scorched planks of a simple shelter, they found the body of a short and stocky man, round-faced, brown-haired and bearded, his broken eyes open. He obviously belonged to the Old Folk – the people who had inhabited Gondor long before the Númenóreans came, and still populated a great part of these lands, under Dúnadan rule. He seemed fairly young, even for the lesser Men, who had a short lifespan, compared with that of the Dúnedain.

"I know him," said Thorndor in quiet sorrow, "though he was barely more than a lad when we last met. This is Tenent, the son of Bruithir’s friend. It seems he took over his father’s business some time ago. He must have been between thirty and forty years old, if memory serves me well. Such a short life… and what a horrible end."

"The woman must have been his wife, then," added Gildor thoughtfully. "We should look out for any children. Maybe they could have hidden… children are good at hiding."

"I can look in the shelter," offered Thorndor, and stepped in already – only to back off at once. "Ai Elbereth!"

"What is it?" asked Gildor sharply. "What have you found?"

"I have found a child," replied Thorndor, pale like those faces in the Dead Marshes, "or what is left of her…"

Gildor shoved the shaking archer aside and ducked to enter the shelter himself. The sight that awaited him was not for the faint of heart indeed.

The girl, whose bloody and battered body was barely covered with the rags of her torn clothes, could not be older than thirteen or fourteen years. Barely more than a baby in Elven terms, even though Gildor knew that daughters of the common folk often married at this tender age already. Still, her shape was more that of a child than that of a maiden, and there could be no doubt that she had been severely – and repeatedly – violated. And yet, she seemed to breathe still, albeit barely. Her limbs were badly bruised, one arm probably broken, and she was lying in a pool of her own blood.

The sight was truly appalling, and Gildor felt the cold rage rise in his breast, that people – not Orcs but ordinary Men – could do this to such a young girl. Elves died when violated. The daughters of Men were often not that lucky. He knew not how this girl – should she survive – would be able to live with the memories. But he knew he would not let the Men who did this get away unpunished.

He tore the cloak from his shoulder and wrapped the girl carefully in the soft cloth. Then he scooped the almost weightless body up in his arms and stepped out of the shelter.

"Durithel!" he called out.

The other Elves jerked to immediate attention from the tone of his voice. It was a tone rarely heard. A tone reserved for battle – or bloody vengeance.

"What have you found?" he asked, shaking with the cold rage that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

"’Twas a small band," answered Durithel. "Ten, maybe twelve Men. Khimmerians from Rhûn, most likely. Some of them may be wounded – there is blood on the tongs the smith is still holding."

"Can we track them down ere they cross the river?" asked Gildor.

Durithel thought about it for a moment. "Perhaps not ere they cross it, but most certainly after that. The Nindalf is a ground that favours us and disfavours them. And they cannot have more than half a day's advantage on us."

"Good," said Gildor coldly. "I want them dead. All of them. Bury the dead – I shall take the girl to the healers. The Company will move on to Halabor as soon as they can. We shall take the archers and hunt this vermin down."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[Halabor, the 4^{th day of Halimath(1), in the year 2998, Third Age]}

Mistress Angharad was content with the turn her life had taken. In the four moons since her return from Lossarnach, she had managed – with the considerable help of Mistress Dorlas and old Mistress Crodergh, of course – to make the Infirmary what it had been meant to be: a place where the sick and the ailing could find shelter and help. Due to the support of Lord Orchald, who was eternally grateful for the saving of his only son, the long hospice hall that occupied the entire ground floor of the building was renewed, to the joy and satisfaction of the town’s carpenters and stone-masons, and now all eighteen beds were ready for patients that might need them. There was still a lot to do with the first floor, where the sleeping quarters and storerooms were situated, and Angharad’s own house was barely habitable, but the most important part could be used again, and that was what counted.

The Infirmary of Halabor was another one of the important things built during the better years of the town. It was a long, two-storey building, built in typical Halabor style: the ground floor was made of stone, the upper floor of solid oak beams. The red-canopied and curtained beds stood in rows along the walls, and behind each of them a small niche was hidden: storeroom for the patients’ belongings and for the chamberpots that were cleverly installed into frames that looked like armchairs, making it easy for the old and the ailing to sit on them. Due to this privacy, in which each patient could take care – or have taken care – of their needs, men and womn lay in the same room. They could not see each other from the bed curtains anyway. Angharad herself needed to sit on the low stools placed next to each bed to see what shape a patient was in.

Currently, only seven of the beds were occupied, and not all the patients were actually ill or injured. Some of them were permanent residents, like poor old Eubrwrast: a small, bird-like woman of almost seventy summers, nearly deaf, yet still quick-witted and hard-working, who spent her days in the kitchen, helping the widow Lendar to cut vegetables, clean bones for the soup and other small but needful tasks. She talked almost as much as she worked – and she was quite loud, too, as she could barely hear her own voice – but Angharad liked her nonetheless, as she had a wonderfully dry wit and not a single mean bone in that small, rotund body of hers.

The same could not be said about Etterna, almost twenty years Eubrwrast's junior. While Eubrwrast had no kin left, being the only survivor from a farmstead raided by Hill-men, Etterna was the widow of Thaigh, a fallen soldier. She had a daughter named Tiabhal, who was married to the fisherman Brannoc and lived in the Old Port. Unfortunately, Etterna was quite mad, and when having one of her frequent outbursts, she could be also dangerous. In fear for his small children, Brannoc had asked if his mother-in-law could be taken in by the healers, for whatever small fee he could afford to pay, and Angharad had agreed. Here they could give Etterna one of Old Mistress Crodergh’s syrups that made her sleepy and peaceful; and they could keep an eye on her all the time, something that a young fisherman's wife, raising small children, could not.

Cynan, a short, small-boned man of an uncertain age between sixty and seventy years, had been sent to the Infirmary by Lord Orchald himself. For the greatest part of his life, he had served in the buttery, ‘til the tearing in his joints and bones had all but rendered him unable to do any work that required strength or skills of any sort. Lord Orchald did not want to throw him out after all those years of faithful service, but they had no healer in the Castle, and Cynan had no family of his own to take care of him. So he came to the Infirmary, where he got company, food and good treatment, and he seemed content enough with that. On better days, he visited the Castle in Meurig’s company, to see his old friends again, and with Meurig, no harm could befall him.

Meurig and his little nephew, one-year-old Edwy, were the latest addition to the Infirmary’s permanent dwellers. No-one knew much about them, although Meurig – a big, mild-mannered young man of about Angharad’s age – was a grand-nephew once removed of Old Mistress Crodergh’s late husband… or something like that. In any case, he had lived on a farmstead with his uncle’s family, up 'til two moons ago, when the farmstead had been raided by a band of Orcs and everyone in sight slaughtered. How Meurig himself had survived, no-one could tell, as he refused to speak about it, and Edwy was too little to speak yet.

Old Mistress Crodergh, who had only met him once or twice before, remembered that Meurig had always been a bit slow to speak but hard-working on the fields and as strong as an ox… mayhap even a bit dim-witted, unless that was a result of the terrible things he had witnessed during the Orc attack. His… slowness of mind was not very obvious, though. He was a vigorous young fellow, sturdily built and strong, dark-haired and brown-eyed like most of the Old Folk. His square, good-natured face was brown and weathered from having laboured in the fields all his life, well-boned and handsome, with thick brows. It was a good, honest face; most people liked him immediately, and Angharad was no exception. Besides, it was good to have a strong, able man in the house in these perilous times, the only other being Galhir, the beggar – a former soldier from Osgiliath, who had lost both his legs in battle and been brought to Halabor by Henderch, the Chief Warden, to be taken care of.

Angharad finished her morning round in the hospice and went out into the gardens, where the small timber hut serving as Mistress Crodergh’s workshop stood. The old woman was sitting on a low bench before the hut, showing their apprentice, little nine-year-old Hilla (the daughter of Lord Orchald’s horse-master) how to make right-sized bundles of the harvested herbs and how to hang them up to dry. Another little girl, Mistress Dorlas’ six-year-old fosterling, was sitting with them, trying to make her own bundles, concentrating so hard that the tip of her tiny tongue was peeking out.

Hearing Angharad’s steps, Mistress Crodergh, whose ears were still as sharp at the age of sixty-seven as they had been in her youth, looked up and gave the healer a toothless smile.

"How are our wards today?" she asked.

"As can be expected," replied Angharad with a shrug. She had learned early on that keeping her true feelings to herself helped a lot in her work. Had she given in easily to pity, she would never have been able to do all those – sometimes hurtful – things a healer needed to do, in order to help people and to prevent greater harm.

"Etterna is being quiet, thankfully," she then went on. "Eubrwrast is working in the kitchen already – we shall have herb soup today, and there are onions to be peeled and cut. Cynan says we can expect rain in a day or two, for the tearing in his shoulders is getting worse."

"We should have Meurig rub his shoulders with wolfsbane oil again," suggested Mistress Crodergh. "What about the festering wound of the bone-carver?"

"It has gotten much better," replied Angharad. "It has all but cleared up. Another week and we can release the man, I judge."

"That is good," said the herb-mistress. "He would not bear to be confined to the hospice much longer. Has a bit of a vagus in his blood, that one. Small wonder no woman was willing to marry him."

"As far as we know," commented Angharad. "He may have a wife and a family in any of the towns he visits on his wanderings."

But the old crone shook her head.

"Nay," she said. "These wandering craftsmen are all alike. If they have a family, they drag it along with them, and all perils of the road be damned. Sennen’s father was the same. He married on the road, lived on the road, died on the road. Sennen and his siblings were born on the road and grew up like game or weed. They learned their father’s craft on the cart that was their home."

"You seem to know them well," said Angharad.

"I used to know Deoch, Sennen’s mother," replied the old woman. "My husband and I used to travel a great deal in my youth, looking for new healing methods, collecting herbs, visiting the farmsteads… So we met a lot of people on the road. Deoch hated that sort of life, poor thing, and it seems that Sennen alone inherited his father’s wanderlust. Both his siblings married into the family of the local bone and antler workers at first chance. Sennen never forgave them for that, I think."

"Is this the reason why he came here, instead of asking for the help of his own family?" asked Angharad.

Mistress Crodergh shrugged. "Most likely. He is a stubborn one. I cannot blame Ingonger and Trevenna for wanting a more settled life, though. Living on the road is a perilous thing, now more than in earlier times. One day, Sennen will have to see it, too. I just hope it will not be too late for him. How is Durngarth doing, though? That is one ugly burn he has suffered, and him ten years older than me!"

Angharad smiled. "He is a tough old man. He shall recover, although slowly. Had he listened to his children, the whole accident would not have happened. His eyes are not good enough for working with glass, not any more. ‘Tis dangerous, but he would not admit it."

"He is an artisan," said Mistress Crodergh, "and artisans are all daft about their art. They would risk everything to finish a piece, be it a perfect glass bead or an entire castle. You cannot persuade them, for they would not listen."

"Nay, they would not," agreed Angharad, "so I do not waste my breath on them any longer. I came to ask if you still have some of that ointment against bed sores, though. You know, the one with Nurria’s Mantle in it. Poor old Snechta is in a bad shape again."

"Skin and bones, naught but skin and bones," sighed the herb-mistress, "but who would wonder? She is just three years short of a hundred. ‘Tis a miracle she still holds on to life at all."

"Not much longer, though," said Angharad. "She is dying."

"She was dying already when you left for Lossarnach," replied Mistress Crodergh. "In Talek and Wynwoluy’s place I would not hurry to order a coffin just yet. She might yet surprise us all by reaching the age of one hundred."

"She shall have a place with us as long as she may live," said Angharad. "The bleacher and the clothes-dryer pay us a handsome fee, and at least here she does not have to lie alone in her dark chamber. However, I fear that she shall not last much longer. It has been days since we could get a little broth into her. She can barely swallow… and she has ceased trying."

"That is a bad sign," admitted Mistress Crodergh. "Still, I shall give you the ointment at once. Why should she be in more pain than which is inevitable?" She stood with some difficulty – her rheumatic limbs tended to stiffen when she sat too long in one place – and brought forth a small clay dish, sealed with a wooden stopper, which she gave to the healer. "Here you are. I think I even got it better than last time. Hilla can help you to apply it."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Angharad thanked the old woman and returned to the hospice, with the scowling yellow-haired girl in tow. Tending to bed sores was not a pleasant task, even less so if the patient had been bed-ridden for years, but if Hilla wanted to become a healer, she needed to learn these tasks – and still remain friendly. There was no excuse for rude bedside manners. Alas, Angharad knew that many healers could not quite manage the task all their lives.

Together with the girl, she lifted the dying old woman – who looked like a fragile child and weighed just as little – cleaned the sores and anointed them with the salve, so that the rough patches would be soothed and new skin could grow over them. Or could have, had the wasted body of Snechta still enough strength left for it. Which it most likely had not. But that was no reason to let her suffer if there was a way to ease her pain.

Barely had they put the poor old woman at ease – Snechta fell asleep at once from the pain and the exertion – when the clattering of hooves could be heard. A small pony, used by the Castle’s errand boys, trotted into the courtyard, with one of the Master Smith’s eight-year-old grandsons in the saddle. If it was Kenan or Kenen, no-one but their mother could tell. Even their father, a member of Lord Orchald’s House Guard, would mistake the one for the other sometimes. But as the boys both answered to both names, the confusion was bearable.

"Mistress Angharad!" cried the boy in excitement. "You would not believe what just happened! Elves have come to town!"

Angharad would not lose her calm so easily. Like most people in Gondor, she knew that Elves existed – and that they still dwelt somewhere in hidden places of Middle-earth – but she never truly expected to see one with her own eyes.

"That is hard to believe indeed," she said calmly. "Are you certain about it? Or can it be that Lord Ulmondil’s family is riding out again?"

Lord Ulmondil was one of Lord Orchald’s neighbours, a young nobleman who fancied himself a great mariner like his Númenórean ancestor who had – supposedly – come to Gondor with one of Anárion’s ships. His wife, the Lady Galadwen, was even worse. She fancied Elves and everything she considered Elvish, refused to speak any other tongue than Sindarin and was generally the subject of much amusement among both the nobles and the simple folk.

But Kenan (or Kenen) shook his head vigorously.

"Nay," he said, "these are truly Elves. Lord Herumor says they are from Edhellond, their south haven, near Dol Amroth, and their leader is no less a person than Gildor Inglorion, the Lord of Edhellond. Lord Herumor met them while in Dol Amroth; and he sent me with word to you."

"I can see that," replied Angharad, not the least infected by the boy’s excitement. "What I cannot see is why Lord Herumor would think that I needed to know about this. Even if some of the Elves are ill or injured, they surely have healers whose knowledge surpasses my modest abilities by far."

"Nay, they are not injured," said the boy, "but they have found someone just outside town who is. A mortal girl, they say; I cannot tell you who it is, but they say she is in bad shape. They are bringing her to you."

That made sense. Even Elven healers needed herbal remedies to work, and after a long journey they would be running low on supplies. Fortunately, the Infirmary had its own herb-mistress and herb gardens. Angharad turned to her apprentice.

"Hilla, go and fetch Mistress Crodergh," she ordered. "Tell her an injured girl will be brought in, soon. She will know what we might need. Help her carry her items. And you, Kenan, or Kenen, or whichever you are, ride back to the Castle and tell Lord Herumor that we shall have everything ready."

The boy rode back, fuelled by his own importance, and Angharad went to find Meurig. They needed more firewood, to heat a large pot of water on the open fireplace in the courtyard. While Meurig was doing those small but important tasks matching his greater strength, Angharad prepared her workshop for the patient.

The workshop was not much more than an empty room, occupying the ground floor of the apothecary’s house that joined the Infirmary from the south, and that was now hers, due to Lord Orchald’s generosity. She had a large, low table here, on which she usually prepared medicines with Mistress Crodergh’s help and following the old woman’s instructions. Now she covered the table with a clean, white linen sheet, knowing that the Elven healers would need a place to work on their patient. They could move the girl to the Infirmary through the door at the opposite end of the room, once they were done with the treatment.

Mistress Crodergh came in a great hurry, as fast as her old bones could manage, and Hilla came after her, somewhat slower, balancing in her hands a wooden tray laden with small clay dishes containing various salves, glass flasks with tinctures, bowls for stirring a poultice, grinding bowls and many other tools the healers might need. There were also linen straps for bandaging possible wounds, rolled up neatly, splints for possibly broken bones and other such items as might be necessary to treat an injured person.

They were still ordering the various items on the small cabinet that served as a sideboard when the Elves arrived, led by Lord Herumor in person.

"I thought I would check on old Cynan," he explained. "He likes telling me tales about my parents, from the time they were young – it entertains me, and it makes him feel young again."

"That is very generous of you, my Lord," said Angharad, a bit surprised that he would explain himself at all. He could come and go as he pleased, after all, being the heir of lordship over the whole town and the adjacent lands. In fact, he had spent a great deal of his spare time in the Infirmary lately. "Do your injuries still give you trouble?" she asked. "Shall I take a look, just to be on the safe side?"

"Nay, I am fine; fully healed, thanks to your excellent care," replied Herumor lightly. "We have brought someone who is in dire need of help, though. But first let me introduce you to the Elven healers: these are Erinti and her husband Tinthellon of the Silvan folk. Erinti, Tinthellon, this is our healer, Mistress Angharad; and our apothecary, old Mistress Crodergh."

The two Elves spoke polite words of greeting in their soft, musical voices, but for a moment or two, Angharad was too busy staring at them to even hear the greetings. The sight was not at all what she had ever imagined Elves to be, based on ancient legends. She had always imagined that Elves would be very tall, like young trees, gold-haired and blue-eyed, and would have pale, almost translucent skin. That was how the old songs always described the Fair Folk.

Well, these two were surely a head taller than she was, but again, she was of middle height at best, so that was not exceedingly tall – many of the Rohirrim would have the same height and more. Nor were they gold-haired at all. Their intricately braided hair, adorned with colourful wooden beads, was of a rich, auburn colour, with reddish highlights. Their large, slightly slanted eyes were greenish brown and very bright, like polished chestnuts, under thin, elegantly arched brows and long, feathery lashes; and while their beautiful faces were tanned, as one could expect from people who spent their lives – in the Elves’ case who knew how many hundred years – in the great outdoors, it seemed as if they shone with a light from within, a light mere mortals could never hope to see unveiled. They wore the green and brown garb of the woodland folk, and a scrip full of medical remedies.

They were followed by another male Elf of their own kin. This Elf was carrying a motionless bundle in his arms, a bundle made of light grey blankets that might be hiding an unconscious person – a fairly small one.

"This is Silivros, whose name means glimmering rain," said Erinti, the female healer. "He offered to carry our patient, if you would take her in."

The mentioning of their patient finally woke Angharad from her enchantment.

"But of course, Lady Erinti," she said apologetically. "Forgive me; for a moment, I was truly overwhelmed. No-one has seen the Fair Folk in our town since my great-grandfather’s time. You can place the patient on this table; we have already prepared everything we have for the treatment of injuries. I hope it will be enough."

"There is no need for honorary titles among us," said Silivros, carefully lowering his burden onto the table. "We are fairly ordinary people as Elves go… save our Lord, Gildor, and his niece, the Lady Aquiel, that is. Call us by our names, and we shall do the same."

Angharad smiled a little at that. "Give me time to get used to that," she replied. Then she turned to her apprentice. "Hilla, child, go back to Mistress Crodergh’s hut and keep an eye on little Godith. She should not be left on her own; some remedies there are quite dangerous, and she is too young to understand that she should not sample them."

Hilla left with obvious reluctance – and who could blame her when Elves were visiting the Infirmary? – but Angharad did not want her there while they were treating the injured girl. In her years as a healer she had seen a few survivors of such raids and knew that women had a lot more to fear from raiding bands than just being beaten up or killed. Hilla was too young to face that particular kind of horror just yet. Even though she was of Rohirric blood and thus tougher than other girls of her age.

With her gone, Angharad could finally turn her attention to their patient, and what she saw made her stomach revolt. The girl was so terribly young – fourteen, mayhap, or not much older – and small even for her tender age, small-boned and of a slight build. The thought of big, burly Khimmerian warriors indecently assaulting such a child to satisfy their base needs made Angharad literally sick in her stomach.

"Oh, my child," she murmured, stroking the girl’s matted hair out of her sweaty face, "what have those vile beasts done to you?"

"Awful things," Tinthellon, the male Elven healer replied grimly. "This, I cannot understand. If they had been Orcs… but nay, they were Men! How could they…?"

"Sometimes there is little difference between Orcs and Men, as this very town was forced to learn some time ago," said Angharad. Then she turned to Herumor. "The bailiff must learn about this. The Autumn Fair begins in four days. People will come from afar and from the neighbourhood, too. The roads must be safe."

"Worry not about the raiders, Mistress Healer," said Silivros. "Our Lord has gone after them with our best archers and swordsmen. They shall not come out of the Nindalf alive."

"Still, the bailiff might want to send out patrols," said Herumor. "I shall send word to Emerië Manor while you take care of the girl. Do we know who she is?"

"We know of no name," answered Silivros. "But Bruithir, our swordsmith, used to know her grandsire, a wandering ironsmith and cutler."

"She must be Telent’s daughter, then," said Angharad thoughtfully. "I have not seen her for years, but I used to know her mother, and she does have the same face. Her parents are dead, I would imagine?"

Silivros nodded. "The woman was burned beyond recognition, or so the trackers say," he replied. "I have not seen her myself. Two of us stayed behind to give them a decent burial while waiting for Lord Gildor’s return. There was naught else to be done for them."

"That was kind of you; they have no close kin in town to do it for them, albeit I doubt not that Lord Orchald would have ordered it done," said Angharad. "Well, if you and Lord Herumor would give us some room here…"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After Herumor and Silivros had left, the healers could finally begin to treat the injured girl in earnest. The two Elves had already cleaned and bandaged her wounds as well as they could in the woods, but now they could do some real work. They asked for a wooden tub with hot water, which they infused with various concoctions to pre-empt infection and wound fever, and to ease the pain. They carefully lowered the still unconscious girl into this bath and let her soak there until the water cooled. When Mistress Crodergh asked for the ingredients of their medicines, they shared their knowledge willingly, complimenting the old woman on her herbal lore, and Mistress Crodergh blushed, for the first time since Angharad had known her.

They had taken the girl out of the bath, anointed and bandaged her wounds and moved her to a bed in the Infirmary when Mistress Dorlas arrived. She had been called to one of the more solitary farmsteads to help deliver a long-overdue baby, and came to fetch little Godith, whom she had left in the healers’ care. She had not heard the dire news yet and was now devastated by learning of the little family’s fate. As it turned out, she knew them a great deal better than Angharad.

"I have helped this little one to the light of the world," she said, looking down at the pale, silent girl in sorrow. "Her father called her Delbaeth, the fire-maker, for she used to help him with the bellows from early childhood on. I do not remember what her true name was – if she ever had one."

"Was she an only child?" asked Erinti. Dorlas nodded.

"Ingern, her mother, was with child several other times, but she either miscarried, or the babes did not live longer than a few days," she said. "Small wonder it is; life on the road is nothing for a pregnant woman."

"What will now become of the girl, should she live?" asked Tinthellon. "You said she has no close kin in town."

"We shall keep her here, as long as she wants to stay," replied Angharad. "According to custom, ‘tis the Master Smith’s duty to take care of her, though, as her father was of the same trade. As Master Ludgvan is also the provost of our town, rest assured that she will be treated properly."

"Or she could stay with me," offered Mistress Dorlas. "She might feel more comfortable around Godith and me than all those people in the provost’s house."

"No doubt she would," Angharad nodded in agreement, "yet ‘tis not our decision to make. You know the custom – you must speak with Master Ludgvan first."

"I shall," said Mistress Dorlas confidently, "and he will, no doubt, see the reason behind my offer."

"He is a reasonable man," agreed Angharad. She looked down at the still unconscious girl, and then up at the Elves again. "Do you believe she will be able to have children after… after this?" she asked.

"’Tis still too early to tell," answered Erinti thoughtfully. "We shall do our best to heal her fully, but too many aspects of the damage done to her are still unclear. Is that then so important, compared with the chance of saving her life?"

"It might be of lesser importance for Elves," said Angharad grimly. "Your people live for thousands of years, after all. But for Men, a barren woman is all but worthless. ‘Tis bad enough that most people here would inevitably learn what has happened to her."

"’Twas not her fault!" exclaimed Erinti, fairly shocked by the sheer possibility of someone blaming that poor girl for her terrible fate. Angharad nodded.

"True; and no-one would say it was. However, she will be considered damaged goods nonetheless, and if given a choice, young men will choose someone who has not been used by other men above her. If she is to remain barren, too, no-one will ever consider her a suitable wife, dowerless as she is and without a craft of her own."

"’Tis not right to punish her for what those vile men have done," murmured the Elf, anger glinting in her slanted eyes.

"Nay, ‘tis not," Angharad agreed. "And yet this is what will happen. Men wish for suitable wives and children; according to the customs of the Old Folk, a barren woman has no right to take a possible husband from those who can give the man children."

"’Tis… barbaric," declared the Elf in obvious dismay. Angharad shrugged.

"Mayhap it is. But this is our way, and whether we like it or not, we cannot change it. Not in my lifetime, nor in the girl’s," she sighed. "All right then, we should let her rest. I shall look in her every hour; ‘tis fortunate that I all but live in the Infirmary."

They returned to her house, where the Elves collected their medical remedies and then accepted old Mistress Crodergh’s invitation to visit her manufacture (manufactory) where she made not only her medicines but scented waters and soaps, too. For such fastidious people, soaps and perfumes were of great interest. Shortly thereafter, Hilla came back, bringing little Godith to Mistress Dorlas, and began to clean away the bloodied linens and used bandages. She collected them in a basket to bring everything over to the laundresses of the bath-house, who also worked for the Infirmary.

Mistress Dorlas and Godith left with her, too, and Angharad could finish cleaning up her workroom.

"I truly hope the Elves were able to help the poor girl," she said to Meurig, who had come to remove the heavy wooden tub.

The gentle giant looked up at her with sad, dark eyes, while tugging at the tub to manoeuvre it towards the front door.

"Mayhap she would be better off dead," he said matter-of-factly. "Mayhap it would be better not to survive such things… for all of us."

Being familiar with Meurig’s own fate, Angharad could understand the sentiment… to a certain extent. Still, having it spoken so bluntly troubled her a little. She was a healer; her instincts told her to save a patient if they could be saved.

"You wish you were dead?" she asked, repaying bluntness with bluntness, her tone making it clear that she could not approve.

"At first, I did," replied Meurig slowly, giving the tub a hard push, so that it slid out onto the paved courtyard, where it could be emptied into the gutter. "But then I came here. And you took me in, me and Edwy. I like it here. And I like you."

With that, he reached down with his powerful arms and tipped the heavy tub to the side as if it were but a nutshell, so that the dirty water could be swallowed by the gutter. Then he righted it again, leaving it for the womenfolk to wash out, and walked back to the Infirmary fields to continue the autumn ploughing from which he had been called away. Angharad stared after him in amused disbelief.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was close to sunset when the Infirmary patients had all gotten their evening meal and were tucked in bed. Feeling drained after a long, demanding day, Angharad was sitting at the injured girl’s bedside, stitching away on some old clothes that might be suitable for her once she regained consciousness. After all, the poor thing had nothing, not even a single dress left to her.

The Elven healers had come several times to check on her, and so had Mistress Crodergh, who was apparently having the time of her ancient life with them. A time that would, no doubt, be resulting in a whole batch of new medicines, salves, ointments and other remedies for the Infirmary’s disposal. Old though the herb-mistress might be, but she was still sharp-witted and eager to learn – something the Elves seemed to value greatly.

All in all, they were fortunate that the Fair Folk had decided to visit their fair after such a long time, Angharad thought. ‘Twas a good thing, too, that Mistress Crodergh was lettered and that she delighted in keeping a herb book: a large, heavy leather-bound tome, in which she had written down the use of every new herb she had ever encountered in her long life. Upcoming generations of healers would bless her name for that, no doubt.

A shadow was cast upon her handiwork. Angharad glanced up, slightly startled that someone could have sneaked up on her unnoticed – and froze. Facing her, there stood the most magnificent being she could have imagined… and then some. She seriously doubted that she would ever be able to think up something (or someone) of such exquisite beauty and such incredible power.

If Erinti, Tinthellon and their woodland companions were not what she would have expected Elves to be, this one certainly put the songs and legends to shame. He was tall and slender and long-limbed, but with the powerful arms and shoulders of an experienced archer, wearing travelling clothes of soft, moss-green leather and a hooded cloak of some shadowy grey fabric that shone like pure silver in the sunlight but made him almost invisible in the dimness of the hospice. His long hair, bound in some sort of club with thin leather thongs, gleamed like the purest molten gold and reached down almost to his knee. His face was pale and otherworldly beautiful, with high, sculpted cheekbones and wide, icy blue-grey eyes, and it seemed as if he were glowing from the inside, too, but much more strongly than the Elven healers or their companion. He had a pair of finely-made throwing knives on his belt and a large sword in a crafty scabbard on his back. The intricately-worked hilt, with a large sapphire as its pommel-stone, was at the same height as the top of his head.

"Greeting, Mistress Healer," he said in a musical voice that was, nonetheless, deeper than Angharad would have expected from a being of such ethereal beauty. "I am Gildor Inglorion, Lord of the Wandering Elves. I have come to see how the girl is faring."

"Certainly, my Lord." Angharad needed a moment to regain her ability of speech, but she pulled herself together quickly enough. "I thought the Elven healers would give you word about her."

"They have," said the Elf-Lord with an elegant shrug, "but I prefer to see her with my own eyes. I was the one who sent her here. She is my responsibility."

"With all due respect, I think she is mine now," replied Angharad. "Or do you and your Wandering Elves intend to stay put in our little town ‘til she gets better? I think not."

She wondered herself how she dared to speak thusly to an Elf who was clearly some kind of great lord among his own people. But she was not going to let anyone meddle with the girl's well-being, not even the King of Elves… assuming they still had one.

To her surprise, Gildor did not get angry at her response.

"You are very perceptive, Mistress Healer," he said with a cold smile. "I like that in a mortal. Nevertheless, I still do feel responsible for this poor creature here, and I insist on seeing what shape she is in – if that is all right with you."

"Certainly, my Lord." Angharad rose from her stool to allow him sight of the bed and the pale, fragile girl in it. "She is doing as well as can be expected; nay, in truth she is doing somewhat better than we could have hoped for. ‘Tis the doing of your Elven healers, I would judge. We have learned much from them, even in this short time."

"’Tis the duty of the Firstborn to teach and guide the younger races," replied the Elf-Lord, giving the still unconscious girl a long, searching look. "Her will to live is strong. It shall be as much her doing as ours, if she survives."

"There is still some doubt about that," admitted Angharad. "But save any possible infections or wound fever, we are hopeful."

"Hope is all we have, is it not?" said the Elf-Lord with a strangely bitter smile. "I shall leave her in your hands, then. I understand that your people can take care of her once we leave town?"

"We can and we shall," promised Angharad.

"Then I am well content." the Elf bowed towards her. "Good night, Mistress Healer."

"Good night, my Lord." Angharad waited ‘til the Elf left, then she sat back at the girl’s bed, setting aside her handiwork (it was getting too dark already), and prepared herself for a long night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Master Smith was a reasonable man indeed. When Mistress Dorlas went to see him about the girl on the next day, he listened carefully first, without interrupting her. Then he thought about what he had just heard for a long while.

"Are you truly willing to take the girl in, once she has healed enough to leave the Infirmary?" he finally asked.

Mistress Dorlas nodded. "My house is big enough, and I live there mostly alone with little Godith, as you know, Master Provost. The only man who visits us every day is my father, and I doubt that he would frighten the girl."

"Nay, I do not think so," the Master Smith smiled. Old Craban was the most trust-awakening person one could wish for, with his round, wrinkled face, gentle eyes and silver hair. "But does not Súrion drop by frequently, too?"

"He does," agreed Mistress Dorlas, "but no-one has ever feared Súrion. Big as he might be, even little children and small animals trust him at first sight. I shall ask him to be very careful at first, though."

"That is good," said Master Ludgvan. "But even if the girl lives with you, I shall remain her guardian. You know the custom."

Mistress Dorlas nodded again. "I do. And I cannot wish for a better one. After a while, she will need your support. I just want to give her a home, for the time being. She needs one."

"True enough," said the provost. "Very well, then. Take her with you, once she can be moved. I shall see that she is provided with everything she might need. I owe her that much."

Mistress Dorlas frowned. "Why would you owe her – and what for?"

"For the death of her father opened a chance for Kevern," answered the Master Smith with a rueful smile. "He refuses to make weapons, and thus he has been without a full living of his own for years. Too many years. Now that the town and the farmsteads are without a cutler, he can step into that place – without risking his family on the road. They can stay with us while he travels around. And when there is little or no work outside town, he can keep working with me. I am forever indebted to Tenent’s daughter – what is her name?"

"Delbaeth," said the midwife.

"Delbaeth," the Master Smith repeated thoughtfully. "Fire-maker. Strange name for a girl – and yet fitting for the daughter of a smith. What is she like?"

Mistress Dorlas shrugged. "Small. Fragile. Like a little bird. But with enough food and proper clothing, she might clean up nicely – in a year or two. We shall see."

"There is time," the provost agreed. "Thank you for taking her in. Should she – or you – need aught, fear not to ask."

"I will not," the midwife smiled and rose from her seat. "My thanks, Master Provost."

Master Ludgvan nodded and saw her to the door. She thanked him again and left with light, almost dancing steps. Nurria might have refused her children of her own, but the Lady of the fields and pastures also kept sending orphans in her way; orphans who needed her, mayhap more than her own children could have.

And the Lady had sent her Henderch, who had filled the emptiness in her life for the last two years while letting her have the freedom she had grown accustomed to. She was very fortunate indeed. And properly grateful for her good fortune. She intended to earn it, by giving that poor girl a home. A good one.

TBC

End notes:

1) Halimath is the equivalent of our September

THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: G, once again.

Author’s notes: The events of the Autumn Fair are told in a separate story, titled “An Autumn Fair in Halabor”. Some of the characters in this chapter have been first introduced there.  That is where the Hanse of Lebennin is first mentioned, too. Reading that story is not necessary to understand this one, but it certainly adds to continuity.

The oil merchant and his family have their own stories in “Tales of Halabor”.

CHAPTER 8 – A PRINCELY GIFT

(In which new apprentices are being accepted, Delbaeth leaves the Infirmary, and Mistress Angharad is granted a generous gift.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Halabor, the 2^nd day of Bloodmath⁽¹⁾, in the year 2887 of the Third Age

Bloodmath was unexpectedly mild in this year, and Mistress Angharad enjoyed the late autumn sunshine when she left the Infirmary – after having finished her morning chores – to set off for the oil manufactory of Master Faelon, which lay just beyond the Infirmary gardens. Those looked especially peaceful today. Most of the leaves had already fallen, but some of them were still fluttering on the branches, red or golden or brown, reluctant to let go of the summer. The fragrances of the harvest still lingered over the garden, although all the apples were in the loft, all the corn milled, the hay stacked, and the summer herbs were drying in small bouquets, hanging from the beams of old Mistress Crodergh’s workshop.

Much work had been done since the Autumn Fair, and Mistress Angharad was grateful for the presence of Meurig, who – while admittedly a bit slow-witted – was as strong as an ox and could labour happily twice as much as an ox, as long as someone pointed out to him all that which had to be done. Never before had the Infirmary fields been tended so thoroughly and lovingly. One could see that Meurig had come from a farm – one that had, sadly, been destroyed – and that he had great love for the fertile soil. He was so much better at what he did than all the other tenants before him; and all he asked for in exchange was food and lodging for himself and his orphaned nephew, who was still barely a toddler. His personal loss – and a terrible one at that, one that had perchance unhinged his mind – was certainly Angharad’s gain, and sometimes the healer even felt a little guilty about that… not that she would have caused that loss or could have undone it in any way.

They had grown together to a peculiar sort of family since Angharad’s return to Halabor: she, old Mistress Crodergh, Meurig, little Edwy and all the sick and the ailing they were caring for. Her apprentice, Hilla, only moved on the outskirts of this close-knit group, as she did not live with them under the Infirmary roof, but she still belonged to them. And Mistress Dorlas, too, was considered some kind of relation, now that she and little Godith spent so much time there; Dorlas visiting the poor girl Delbaeth and the child helping old Mistress Crodergh with her herbal work and watching what she was doing in the soap manufactory. ‘Twas a trade worth learning, and one could not begin early enough.

Speaking of Delbaeth… the steadily improving condition of the girl was another source of quiet joy for Mistress Angharad. While it was true that she might not have survived without the arcane skills of the visiting Elven healers, every improvement since the Elves’ departure two moons ago was Angharad’s own doing, and she was rightly proud of what they had achieved so far. Soon, the girl would be well enough to leave the Infirmary to live with Mistress Dorlas, little Godith and Old Craban in the Square House.

In spite of all the horrible things that had happened to her, Delbaeth was still fortunate to have a guardian like Master Ludgvan and a foster mother like Mistress Dorlas. Losing one’s own mother was a terrible thing that left one in a state of deep shock – Angharad knew that from first-hand experience, even though she had never been truly close to her mother – but the girl would have an ersatz family in the Square House that was probably a great deal better than living on the road with her own. That would make the loss no less bitter, but at least she would be in good hands.

The provost’s family seemed to take their duties toward their ward seriously, too. Mistress Tamsyn had visited the girl in the Infirmary several times, and so had her daughters, daughters-in-law and grandchildren, of whom particularly Selyv, a very young, apprentice weaponsmith, seemed to take a liking to their new family member. Delbaeth had always accepted their visits graciously, but seemed to have a hard time to have all those strangers around her.

The Master Smith himself had come once, too, when the girl had begun to feel better, and so had his eldest son, Kevern, who had taken over the cutler business from Delbaeth’s late father. The girl had been frightened of grown men, so they had not come again. But now that Kevern had bought her father’s grinding wheel and other tools, she at least had some coin at her hands. Not too much, and Mistress Dorlas would keep it for her anyway ‘til she came of age or married (if any man would choose to marry her after what had happened), but at least she was not entirely penniless.

All in all, Mistress Angharad was content with the way things had turned out for the girl. She would miss her, but Delbaeth needed to find a place in her new hometown. The sooner she could go to the Square House the better it was for her. The sooner people forgot about her story, the better hopes she could have for a normal life. Fortunately, people tended to forget if no-one reminded them of such things, and in the Square House Delbaeth would be safely out of sight. She would have the time and peace to heal.

Angharad was startled out of her thoughts by the arrival of old Mistress Crodergh who brought her a large wicker basket full of bottles of various sizes. There were large ones for walnut oil, meant for the Infirmary kitchen and for the Drunken Boat, Mistress Pharin’s tavern. There were middle ones, for lavender oil, which the herb mistress used for soaps and for healing purposes alike. And there were small, delicate ones, for rose oil or rosewater, both of which were needed for Mistress Crodergh’s soaps and scented waters, which she sold to the wealthier women in town.

“Are you sure you do not want Meurig to go with you?” asked the old crone. “That basked will be very heavy, once the bottles have been filled.”

Angharad shook her head. “Nay, for he has enough chores for one day already; and he needs some time for himself and little Edwy, too. They have no other family than each other. Worry not about me; I am strong, and the way is not long. Besides, I enjoy the walk through the rose gardens – they are beautiful in all seasons.”

Old Mistress Crodergh was clearly not happy about the healer’s decision, she knew better than argue any longer. Angharad was a headstrong young woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it, and no-one could tell her differently, not even her grandmother, who was every bit as stubborn. She took the basket from the old crone and headed towards the oil merchant’s house, where the oil mill and the still rooms could be found.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The rose gardens of Mistress Eirendel, the wife of Master Faelon, were indeed a marvel to behold, even in this late season. She hailed from Linhir and had brought the roses with her from her hometown, where they had originally come from South Gondor and Nah-Harad… a rich southern sort that grew surprisingly well in Halabor’s colder climate. Even now, though the rose harvest was long over, some of the bushes were still in late bloom.

The lavender fields, beyond the rose gardens, were the realm of Mistress Goneril. Also from Linhir, she was not only Mistress Eirendel’s daughter-in-law but also her niece, who had done similar work at home and had gladly taken some of the workload off her aunt’s shoulders. Tended to by Buryan, an honest and skilled tenant, the fields, too, had already been harvested, but the pleasant scent of lavender still lingered about them – it would never go away completely, over the whole year.

Halimath was the true season for making walnut oil, as one could see from afar; the tenants were carting the last of their canvas sacks full of walnuts to the oil mill. This mill was a relatively small building, joined with the oil merchant’s warehouse and the small distillery in which during the late summer rose oil and rosewater were produced. The channel wheel that moved the grinding wheel was driven by the same small creek that turned the much larger wheel of the lour mill a little further down the River, after which it ran into the Anduin and became part of it. The oil mill had been owned by Master Muathlan’s family for more than a hundred and fifty years, or so the books of the Merchant’s Guild proved.

Although he had well-taught workers to do the heavy labour, the oil mill itself was Master Faelon’s realm, and he spent the oil-making season within, from daybreak to sunset, for producing walnut oil was a delicate process and needed great experience. Particularly the heating of the already ground walnut paste was something that had to be done and watched carefully, or else the oil could turn bitter.

Fortunately, now that the season of rose harvest was over, Mistress Eirendel could run the oil shop in the town in her husband’s stead, and their son, young Master Thaneau, could travel up or down the River to trade with their products. Thus the old merchant could focus his attention on the production of walnut oil. They also produced almond and hazelnut oils, vinegars, mustards and spirits made of diverse sorts of nuts; the latter were made in the smaller distillery, outside the rose season, and brought in good coin all the time.

Master Faelon was particularly proud of the excellent hazelnut liquor, the recipe for which his great-grandfather had got from the Wandering Elves and that no-one else in Gondor could produce. ‘Twas said that the recipe hailed from Eregion, the realm of the great Elven-smith Celebrimbor, and had first been made there, in the Second Age, by the Elven cooks of Ost-in-Edhil.

Whatever the truth might be, the hazelnut, walnut, almond and juniper liquors produced in Master Faelon’s distillery were very popular among people with a refined taste. Lord Orchald regularly sent bottles as Yule gifts to both the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth, his liege lord, as well as to Lord Forlong, his kinsman. The rich merchants of Halabor, too, were fond of Master Faelon’s spirits, and the oil-merchant sold them, alongside with his aromatic oils, to the great southern towns, as far as Pelargir, or even Umbar. As he shared a barge with the spice merchant, they could both save costs, and both their businesses flourished quite nicely.

‘Twould have been useless to try selling rose oil or rosewater in Lossarnach, of course, however close that market was. Lossarnach, the very land of roses, produced those very things in great amounts. But even in Lossarnach, and particularly in Lord Forlong’s town, lavender and walnut oils from Halabor were much sought after. And further down the River, in Pelargir and Nah-Harad, the heavier, more intensely scented rose oil from Halabor was preferred to the milder Lossarnach varieties. More so as it was made of roses originally hailing from the South. There the constant warfare had long destroyed the once amazing rose gardens, but the request for rose products was still great.

Young Master Thaneau had had his clashes with the Hanse of Lebennin, of course, which did not see kindly the independent merchant’s intrusion in their self-proclaimed territory. But the oil merchants of Halabor had strong ties to Ethring, Linhir and Pelargir, and had been able to defend their interests… so far. ‘Twas rumoured that the Hanse had already protested by the Steward against the free trading of the Halabor merchants, but to no end. Fortunately for Halabor, the Steward and Lord Orchald had great, mutual respect for each other, and the Lord Denethor refused to interfere with such matters, as long as the taxes were properly paid.

The oil shop within the town offered not only local products but also exotic, spiced oils that Master Thaneau had acquired in the South. As a rule, they did not sell right from the manufactory; one had to visit the shop and buy the oil there. But the Drunken Boat and the Infirmary, as regular customers, had their own little privileges, and Mistress Angharad was grateful for that fact. Instead of walking through the whole town, she only had to cross the Infirmary fields and bring home her bottles of oil on the shortest possible way. Besides, she loved to watch the oil mill at work.

Master Faelon was no-where to be seen, thus Angharad went straight to the counter room to ask Howell, the mill’s elderly clerk for help. The clerk, however, was not sitting at his desk either, which happened very rarely, as he had much work to do all the time.

“He is out, recording the amounts of walnuts the tenants are bringing in,” explained his sister, Enea, who also happened to be the wife of the mill’s foreman; a plain-looking, black-eyed woman, thin and whippy as a withy, with two grown sons beyond Angharad’s age. She was also lettered and numbered – a rare thing for the daughters of the Old Folk – and had the absolute confidence of both Master and Mistress.

“Where can I get my oils and rosewater then?” asked Angharad with a frown. “The order has been sent by an errand boy two days ago.”

Enea checked the books and nodded. “Aye, ‘tis all noted here. Well, Master Faelon is in the mill, overseeing the heating of the large still; you cannot see him now. But do go to Mistress Eirendel; she is cleaning the lesser still room fort he next batch of walnut spirits. She will be able to help you.”

Angharad thanked her and left the counter room. She regretted a little that she would not be able to visit the mill itself, but she knew that during the delicate process of heating the oil master could not be disturbed, for one mistake could have endangered the work of a whole day. Thus she went to the ‘lesser’ still room (as opposed to the one where the rosewater was produced), and there she found the Mistress of the house and her handmaids. The Mistress was cleaning the still – a middle-sized copper kettle that could take about ten gallons of water, surrounded by a stream jacket, into the bottom of which the steam was introduced by a copper tube. The two very young girls were washing and drying the various-sized bottles and righted them on the shelves, sorted by size. They were both sturdy and yellow-haired, the daughters of the oil merchant’s Rohirric stabler, and apparently enjoyed their work very much. They handled the delicate glass bottles with great care and skill, singing while they worked.

Seeing the healer’s approach, Mistress Eirendel wiped her hands on her apron and set the rug, with which she was polishing the copper kettle aside, to greet her. Both the Infirmary and the Drunken Boat were regular customers that bought considerable amounts of walnut, sunflower and rapeseed oil, and Mistress Eirendel, who hailed from an old merchant family, had the proper treatment of good customers in her blood.

“Mistress Angharad!” she said heartily. “’Tis good to see you again! How are things going in the Infirmary?”

Angharad smiled. “They are slowing down, now that the Fair is over and we do not have to deal with any more broken noises… for which I am truly grateful,” she replied. “’Tis just the residents now, and the one or other work accident. We do need the time of repose before the onset of winter, when we shall be dealing with all the sore throats, inflamed chests, frost bites and the likes.”

“How very true!” agreed Mistress Eirendel. Coming from the mild climates of the South, she, too, had her difficulties with the winters in Halabor. “Mayhap you ought to accept more apprentices for the easing of your workload. You only have the horse-master’s daughter, and she is too young to be of much use yet.”

“Oh, I intend to,” said Angharad. “In truth, I have already promised the barber-surgeon to take his daughter, Beara. We shall go to the Town Hall this very afternoon, as all contracts must be set up properly and signed by the provost before the ninth of this moon.”

“True,” nodded Mistress Eirendel. “I have forgotten about that, as we have not had any apprentices for several years by now. We have all the people needed for operating the mill. Well, your purchases have been already prepared and waiting for you in the storeroom. I shall call Aelfric with the cart to keep you take them home.”

“’Tis not necessary,” said Angharad. “I can bear them well enough.”

“You can; yet you need not,” replied Mistress Eirendel. “’Tis a tall order, and we pride ourselves of serving regular customers well. Things have their proper order in this house, you know.”

Angharad might have overruled Old Mistress Crodergh’s concerns, but against Eirendel, the Rose Lady, she had no chance. The Mistress of the house had a native authority about her that made people simply do as she asked, without the need to raise her voice. Thus Angharad, too, followed her obediently to the storeroom, where her empty bottles were exchanged for full ones – this practice enabled the oil merchant to fill the bottles in advance – then the bottles were packed into a small, two-wheeled cart, which Aelfric, the straw-haired stable boy merrily wheeled to the Infirmary.

Angharad went back to the counter room with her host, where she paid for her purchases. Then she took her leave from Mistress Eirendel and the resolute Enea and followed the boy home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Having relieved the boy Aelfric from the various bottles, Angharad sorted out the ones meant for the Drunken Boat and called Hilla to help her put the rest to their proper place in her workroom. One large bottle of sunflower oil she took to the kitchen, where the Widow Lendar was already preparing the midday meal with the eager – and very noisy – help of dear old Eubrwrast. Shortly thereafter, her grandmother’s servant arrived to take the oil to the inn, and Mistress Crodergh, too, collected her rosewater.

“I shall feed little Edwy now,” Angharad told her, “and then we all can have our midday meal together – assuming Meurig will be back from the chandler by then.”

“Dorlas came by while you were away,” replied the old crone. “She wants to take Delbaeth home with her after the midday meal.”

That surprised Angharad a little. “But we had agreed that the girl would stay for another week, at the very least. Why would she want to take her home already?”

“Súrion will be staying with the Wardens for a fortnight, starting today,” explained Mistress Crodergh. “Dorlas thinks the girl will easier get used to life in the Square House when there are no men around at first. Well, save from Old Craban, of course, but I doubt that he would frighten anyone.”

Angharad smiled. “Neither do I… and I must say that Mistress Dorlas’ thinking has its merits. I am still worried about Delbaeth, though, as she remains very weak.”

“Perchance getting out of the Infirmary with all its ailing people will help lift her spirits a bit,” meant the herb-mistress. “And as Dorlas herself knows the one or other thing about healing herbs, she will take good care of the girl.”

“About that, I have no doubt,” replied Angharad. “Very good, then; if you can feed little Edwy for me, I shall go and prepare Delbaeth for the moving.”

“Oh, that will be no hardship at all, him being such a sweet little lad,” grinned the old woman. “I always wanted to have grandchildren, you see, but Nurria never gave me any chicks of my own… none that would live longer than a few days, that is. Having Edwy with us all the time truly makes up for some of those losses.”

Angharad smiled in understanding, thanked her and went to the private chamber of the girl Delbaeth and found her sitting in a chair next to the small window. She was repairing an old, threadbare gown that – at second sight * the healer recognized as old Eubrwrast’s spares. She was glad the girl had sought something useful to spend her time with. ‘Twas one step towards healing.

She knocked on the doorframe, for Delbaeth, understandably enough, was quite easily frightened in these times.

“Delbaeth, ‘tis good to see you up,” she said. “May I come in?” She wanted to give the girl at least such little choices and some semblance of privacy.

“Of course, Mistress Angharad,” whispered the girl, and after a moment of hesitation, she raised her head and looked the healer straight in the eyes. ‘Twas something new; she had not done that since the Elves had left. Mayhap she was still missing them – and who could blame her for that?

Angharad stepped in and pulled up a chair for herself, carefully keeping her distance from the girl. Getting too close would frighten Delbaeth, even from a woman.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Mistress Dorlas wishes to take you home with her, if you feel strong enough. That way, you could be alone with her and little Godith and Old Craban for a while. Would you like that?”

She expected panic at first, desperate protests, mayhap even tears. Yet the girl looked up to her serenely with those dark, shadowed eyes, and Angharad was pleasantly surprised to see great strength lingering among those shadows; and also great courage.

“The lady healer of the Elves told me there is enough strength in me to become whole and happy one day… even if it may take a long time,” Delbaeth finally said. “She made me promise not to give up on myself – and so I shan’t. She blessed me and cast a spell of happiness over me. She said I had it in me to beat fate. I know not if she was right, but I shall try.”

“You are not alone,” said Angharad. “You have the provost to look after you; and Mistress Dorlas and Old Craban, whose heart is made of pure gold. Be not too proud to ask for help if you need it – they will provide it gladly, and so will I. Now, do you feel up to have midday meal with the rest of us or would you prefer to eat in your room?”

Delbaeth set her handiwork aside and rose from her chair steadily enough. She was wearing the simple homespun gown Angharad had brought her from the old clothes merchant during the Autumn Fair; the one with the pretty wooden buttons on the front. It was patched in several places, but still good enough for a girl of her status. She might be the provost’s ward, but that meant by no means that she would belong to his family.

“I think I shall go to the common room,” she said. “I ought to get used to be among other people again. I would be grateful for some help with packing my things, though.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Meurig had come back from the chandler by the time they had packed Delbaeth’s meagre belongings into a wicker basket. ‘Twas not much anyway; just some spare clothes Mistress Tamsyn had brought her. The provost’s wife had a great many daughters, both by blood and by marriage, and granddaughters, too, so collecting a few shifts and gowns no-one would currently need was not a hard task. She had also left two pairs of used but still good shoes for their ward, as well as a small basket with sewing things every woman would need. That was all, and thus packing took very little time.

Meurig had brought two dozen of the simple tallow candles that were used in the Infirmary. The healers worked during daylight as long as it was possible, but sometimes using a candle or a small oil lamp was inevitable. Thus Angharad regularly ordered the cheap tallow ones to save her coin. The only beeswax candle in the entire house stood before the small shrine of the Lady Nurria in the sick room and was only lit on sacred days.

Now with everyone at home, they had a simple midday meal together, and Delbaeth dealt with it fairly well. She seemed a bit frightened by Meurig’s presence, but the mild-mannered young man pretended not to notice her fear, and so she pulled herself together again after a while.

Mistress Dorlas came a great deal later than originally promised; and she seemed quite angry, too. She did not get angry easily – that would have been bad for her occupation – but if she did, she was positively fuming. Like now.

“My apologies for the delay,” she said, accepting a cup of watered-down wine. “I had to go to the Street of the Bakers, to see after Goran Flesher’s daughter-in-love, that poor Crochnuit. She recovers very slowly from giving birth last year, and the butcher simply cannot understand that not everyone is born to have the strength of an ox. I just had the most unpleasant quarrel with him. I had to threaten him with the provost, should he keep driving that poor woman the way he does. Crochnuit is still barely seventeen, and he thinks she is some kind of pack horse.”

“’Tis a common blindness with people who are big and strong,” commented Angharad.

“I know,” the midwife sighed. “But I do not have to like it, do I? Every day do I speak my thanks to the Lady Nurria that Súrion has turned out such a good-natured, mild-mannered lad, or we would be fighting day in, day out, to Father’s sorrow.”

Angharad smiled. “Old Craban does like his peace and quiet, does he not?”

“So do I,” the midwife rose from her seat. “Well, Godith, my little dearling, we must be off. Delbaeth will come with us, you see, so that you shan’t be the only chick in the house any longer. Is that not a nice thing?”

The little girl looked at Delbaeth with wide, grave eyes. “She is so much older than me,” she said, clearly disappointed. Perchance she would have preferred a playmate of her own age.”

“A little,” admitted Mistress Dorlas. “She will be new in the house, though, so you will have to show her where everything is kept and how things are done by us. You think you can do that?”

That mollified the child greatly, and thus she, her foster mother and Delbaeth took the wicker basket wit Delbaeth’s things and left the Infirmary. Delbaeth whispered her thanks to Angharad, even allowed Old Mistress Crodergh to hug her, then followed the midwife and the little girl out. She was clearly frightened to leave her safe haven, but went anyway, her head raised and her jaw firmly set.

“She is a brave one, she is,” said Meurig slowly.

“She will need it,” replied Angharad with a sigh. “Even though she was blameless in the misfortune befalling her, she will be branded for life. Too many people know about it; and they will talk. Goodwives will feel sorry for her, but they will not want their sons to wed her, and who can blame them? I wish her only the best, but she is damaged goods. Fortunately, she will always have a family of some kind in the Square House; or else she would end up leading a very lonely life.”

“As I have here, with you?” asked Meurig. Angharad shook her head.

“’Tis not the same, Meurig. You word hard for your keeping; in truth, you work for two people. I know not what I would do without you. You are needed here.”

“But I am damaged goods, too,” pointed out Meurig reasonably. “I know people think me a dimwit, and mayhap I truly am. Not many would have taken one like me in their house… and with a toddler too.”

Angharad smiled. “This is the Infirmary; where else should damaged people go? I am not doing you any favours, though; you more than earn your keeping here, so never worry. And we all love little Edwy; he is such a delightful child. He makes the old people laugh, and that is better for them than all the medicine Mistress Crodergh and I can concoct between us.”

That seemed to reassure Meurig – he was still a tad unsure about his own place within the Infirmary – and he left to do some work in the herb garden, taking little Edwy with him. He did that often, talking to the child in his slow, soothing manner while he worked, and Edwy seemed to like it. Angharad watched him go with a fond smile, and then turned to Hilla.

“I must go now to the Town Hall, to have the contract of my newest apprentice signed. I want you to clean Delbaeth’s room, change the bedlinens and take them to the laundresses. Then you will help Mistress Crodergh check on the patients, as I know not how long I will be gone. ‘Tis very important for old and ailing people to have a firm daily routine they can follow; more so for the ones whose mind tends to wander at times – so do not wait for me.”

The golden-haired apprentice nodded. “Aye, Mistress Angharad, will do. You wish me to do anything else while you are away?”

“Nay,” Angharad smiled. “You can help Mistress Crodergh with her herbs and soaps. Just do not forget to check on the patients every hour.”

Hilla promised that he would not, and so Angharad could finally return to her own room to put on her finery. As a rule, doing so would not have been necessary for visiting the Town Hall; ‘twas a fairly common place, after all. But the signing of apprentice contracts was an important event. The provost and the reeve presided over it, together with Master Suanach, and even Lord Orchald honoured it with his presence. Not for the lack of trust in the Guild masters, but as he cared a great deal for the well-being of his subjects; who loved him like a father for that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Angharad reached the Town Hall – wearing her finest, burgundy red undershift and a light brown gown of fine cotton wool, with the white veil of a healer covering her carefully braided hair – the place was full of people already. The hearing of future masters and apprentices was being held in the main hall, also known as Cloth Hall, as this was where the weavers brought their cloth and spread them out on long, low tables for the Guild masters to examine them for any faults. This was also where the Guilds held their gatherings and festive meals on high days.

Right now, the trestle tables had been taken apart and out of the hall; only one stood there, facing the entrance. At this table sat the provost, the reeve, Master Suanach, representing the Merchants’ Guild, and Odhrain, the head scribe and book-keeper of the Guilds, all wearing their finest garb. Not only to honour the presence of their lord; apprenticing was the backbone of their work, and thus both Guild masters and the leaders of the town had a word about it. Two other scribes – courtesy of the Warehouse – were sitting at small desks a little on the side, ready to copy any contracts that were to be set up. Gondor’s Law required such contracts to be written in three copies: one went to the master, one to the apprentice, and one to the Guild archives.

Lord Orchald was present indeed, sitting in his large chair on the other side, wearing his customary sombre attire of fur-lined dark velvet. His elderly notary, Master Artbranan, who had to sign all contracts in his lord’s name, was seated next to Odhrain, with a feather pen stuck behind his ear. But what surprised Angharad most was the fact that young Lord Herumor, too, was there, sitting on his father’s right and looking like a fish out of water. Well, if his father wanted him to learn his future duties as the Lord of Halabor properly, they had to begin somewhere.

‘Twas less surprising that most of the future apprentices were girls. The deadline for accepting new apprentices was very close. The boys had already been accepted days ago. The girls usually had to wait and take the places not wanted by their brothers. ‘Twas not fair, but it had always been like that, and it seemed unlikely to change any time, soon.

Angharad sought out with her eyes Mylor and his daughter, and soon found them standing in one of the corners, waiting for her. The barber-surgeon was a spare, vigorous man of middle years and middle height, his short-cropped brown hair liberally streaked with grey, his clothes simple yet orderly and very neat, mirroring the cleanliness that was required for working with injured people.

His chick – a late child, born to them after several miscarriages, when they no longer had hoped for any more children – was barely at the age when a girl could be apprenticed. She most likely went after her mother, for she was tall for her age, slender and fine-boned. She had dark hair, braided neatly about a small, shapely head, soft, full cheeks, now flushed rosy by excitement, and large, dark eyes, wide open to the wonders of a world she was about to enter. Angharad liked her at first sight.

“So, this is your Beara, is she not?” she asked the barber-surgeon, who nodded.

“Aye, she is my little lark. Her mother and I are both loath to see her gone, but she needs a trade of her own to feed herself, should she not find a suitable husband in time. As a healer, she can later work with her brother, even, who shall take over from me one day.”

“’Tis a good choice,” agreed Angharad. “She will have a good place with us, never fear, Master Mylor. My other apprentice is somewhat older; she has been with me since I came home. She will help Breaga to get used to the life in the Infirmary.”

“Oh, I know she will be in good hands,” said the barber-surgeon, smiling. “We are just sorrowed to let her go, ‘tis all. She has grown up so quickly.”

“That is what children do,” smiled Angharad; then she looked around. “How many of these come before us?”

“Only two or three,” replied Mylor. “We came in early and secured out appointment with the Guild masters in time… it does not hurt that I am the one to cut their hair, of course,” he added with a wink. “Most here do not wait for apprentice contract anyway. They just wish to get the hiring of handmaids and servants registered. It should not take long.”

And indeed, the head scribe already called Mullion, the old clothes merchant with his daughter Malride. The girl seemed a bit old to be apprenticed – Angharad guessed that she could be twenty, or not much younger: a plain-looking, though shapely little person, with her father’s hazel eyes and middle height. Her only remarkable feature was a great, heavy braid of the colour of polished oak, wrapped around her head like a coronet. ‘Twas a light, silky brown, even with silvery dashes in it, like the grain of oak. Her face was pale, but now had the faint rosy tint of apple blossoms, her lips, now curled into a concerned half-smile, smooth like rose petals. Not a great beauty, for certain, but lovely enough, and had her father’s business brought in enough to give her at least a small dowry, she would have been safely wedded for years.

“Master Mullion,” said the provost, “what brings you to us on this day? You have not brought any master to which you would apprentice your daughter, I see.”

“That is true, Master Ludgvan,” answered the old clothes merchant, “for I would wish to apprentice her to Master Artbranan here, if he is willing and our lord has no objections,” he added with a polite bow in Lord Orchald’s direction.

The Guild masters and the reeve exchanged surprised looks.

“Well, this is certainly… unusual,” said finally Sydnius. “While there are a number of goodwives who do the books for their husbands business, there are not many female scribes that I would know of. In truth, poor Mistress Eryn was the only one I have ever heard about. And her work has already been given to Odhrain here.”

“Oh we do not have our eyes on the Master Scribe’s work,” explained Mullion. “’Tis like this: I cannot afford a clerk for my business alone, and while I am lettered and numbered, the books demand more of my time than I can afford. I must travel a great deal, and can call myself fortunate that my wife and her mother are doing most of the repairing while I am on the road. Malride here has helped me with the books for some time already. I have taught her the letters myself. But she needs to learn much about numbers and accounting ere she could lift this burden from my shoulders.”

“You want your daughter to become your clerk, then?” classified the provost.

Mullion nodded. “That I do, Master Provost, and she is willing.”

“But will you be able to bring up the apprentice fee?” asked the provost, knowing that the old clothes merchant and his family led a meagre life, saving every brass penny for their shared dream: to buy a small house within the town walls. They were living in the New Port, which was not a good place for a respected family to live.

Mullion nodded again. “Madduin, my eldest, is supposed to wed the wool-merchant’s daughter come spring. I shall be able to set aside some coin for Malride’s fee, thank to the small dowry Elava is going to bring to the business. Malride is also supposed to become Eudo’s clerk as well, should Acco one day no longer be up to do the books of the wool trade.”

“That would make sense,” said Master Suanach. “More so as the two families are just about to become one.”

“I concur,” said the provost. “The Guilds would accept her apprenticeship. ‘Tis up to Lord Orchald and Master Artbranan, though.”

The elderly notary took a good, hard look at the girl and smiled. “I would be willing to teach her… if my lord grants me one free hour a day to do so.”

Lord Orchald nodded thoughtfully. “If the girl in indeed willing to earn her own living one day, I wish not to stand in her way. One hour a day, though; no longer. Master Artbranan has many duties that must not suffer from it.”

“One hour,” assured him the notary. “If she is good, that will be enough. If she is not, then there is no reason to waste more time.”

“In that case, I have no objections,” said Lord Orchald. “Your daughter will come to the Castle each day, to learn with Master Artbranan, from the third hour to the fourth hour⁽²⁾, for the next year. After the year is over, she will be heard by the Guild masters, and if she proves herself worthy, she will be accepted as a clerk, with the right to work for any craftsman or merchant in town, just like the male scribes do. Is this satisfying for all parties involved?”

Mullion, Artbranan and the Guild masters nodded as one.

Lord Orchald looked at Malride. “Do you truly wish to do this, girl?”

The girl blushed, mortified to be talked to directly by such important people. “Aye, my lord,” she whispered. “I very much wish to do this. I like my letters and numbers; and I wish to be useful for my family.”

“Very good; then ‘tis settled,” said Lord Orchald. “Set up the contract for her. She will begin her apprenticeship on the tenth of Bloodmath and will end it by next Yule.”

As the head scribe had pre-written contracts, lacking only the names of master and apprentice, the duration of the apprenticeship and the necessary signatures, the official part was quickly done. Malride seemed both awed and frightened by the prospect of being taught in the Castle itself, and left with her father, her cheeks glowing. It was a great opportunity for a girl of a modest family like hers. She might even catch the eye of some suitable young man serving in the old lord’s household. If not she will still have a trade of her own.

Odhrain called Cinni next, the water-carrier of the town. A bird-like little man Cinni was, of small bones and lean but wiry flesh, just this side of fifty, with a thin, deeply lined, beardless face and small eyes that mirrored sorrow and weariness. His narrow back was permanently bent from the yoke, upon which he had carried the heavy water barrels all his life.

He lead a skinny little girl by hand, every bit as bird-like as himself; all great, dark blue eyes in a meticulously scrubbed, pale little face, and a tangle of dark hair, which she had tried to bring to some kind of order with the help of faded ribbons, but to little effect. Her clothes, while spotlessly clean, were worn and patched in several places; they must have served more than one previous owner ere the girl would inherit them. The lack of proper maternal touch was very obvious in her case.

Angharad knew that Cinni’s wife, Avota, had been suffering from a debiliating illness for more than five years, which had aged her beyond her actual age, making her look like a withered leaf. Angharad visited the poor woman regularly, trying out new medicines she and old Mistress Crodergh came up between them, but nothing ever helped. They could not even guess what was ailing her; the visiting Elven healers, too, had only shaken their heads in bewilderment.

Avota endured the constant pain with admirable patience. She even worked a bit at the distaff on her better days. Alas, those days had become less and less frequent. She would stay in bed for days, so weak she had become. Her four chicks, of whom the wild-haired little girl clutching her father’s hand was the second-oldest, did everything to step into their mother’s place, but there was only so much a couple of very young girls could do to run a household of six and help their father at the Conduit House. Even though Cinaed, the eldest was very prim and housewify for her eleven years.

And now Cinni was apprenticing his other chick, who was a year younger, to Folcwalda, the saddler, it seemed. Father and daughter were both dwarfed by the large, heavy-set Rohirric craftsman with the braided yellow mane who accompanied them. Little Cyneswith was clearly frightened by him, holding to her father’s hand for dear life. The Guild masters saw this as well as Angharad, and seemed unhappy with Cinni’s choice.

“Are you certain that saddle-making would be the right craft for your daughter to learn?” asked Sydnius. “’Tis hard work, one that requires great strength. Forgive me, but the girl does not seem to have that kind of strength.”

“Oh, I do not wish her to learn saddle-making,” replied Cinni. “’Tis basic leather-working that she will be taught; mostly how one makes embroidery on leather. She has skilled fingers and is good with the needle already.”

“She is also way too young,” objected the provost.

“She has just turned ten,” admitted Cinni, “but what can I do, good sirs? The Lady Nurria gifted four daughters upon me, yet no son who could take over my work. And I am not getting any younger. In a few years, I shall not be able to feed them all properly, with my wife bed-ridden and unable to do any regular work, though she used to be a good spinstress, as Mistress Betha would tell you. One of my chicks needs to learn a trade. Cinaed I cannot spare, as she runs the household in her mother’s stead, and Ceinredh and Briocca are both barely more than faunts.”

“How can you afford the apprentice fee, then?” asked Lord Orchald quietly.

“I cannot,” answered Cinni with a bitter smile. “But Master Folcwalda agreed to take my girl in without payment. She will help in the household for her keeping.”

The provost shook his head doubtfully. “I fear this will be too much for the girl, Master Cinni. Leather-working is not an easy craft in itself; less so if she has to work as a maid, too.”

“She will not be hired as a maid,” said Folcwalda. “My daughter is to return to Minas Tirith, come spring. Cyneswith will take her place in the family and do her chores in the household. No more and no less. In the rest of her time, she will learn leather-working from my son Feoca, who is, as you all know, a harness-maker; and she will learn embroidery from my wife. This is how we teach our daughters in the Riddermark. This is how we shall teach our apprentice.”

“The ways of the Éothéod are different, yet time-honoured and practical,” commented Lord Orchald. “I assume you also have it in your mind to bind the girl fully into your family at the right time?”

Folcwalda nodded. “We shall take her for four years. Teach her our craft and our ways. When she is of age, and both families consent, she will be wedded to one of my sons, and her father given the proper bridesgift to compensate her family for the loss of a daughter. That way, Cinni will be able to marry off at least one of his other daughters… and we shall have a daughter to love in Crewyn’s stead, when she marries and leaves her cyn. Such is the way of Clan Éowain of the Riddermark.”

At first, the Guild masters were a little taken aback, and so was Angharad. For truly, it sounded almost as if Cinni would sell his daughter to the saddler. But she saw Lord Orchald’s approving nod, and that made her think. Aye, the custom appeared downright barbaric; but again, few girls had the freedom to choose their own husband. Marriages were arranged by the parents and extended family, based on sober considerations of wealth, dowry and other such aspects. Cyneswith would be given proper time to learn not only a good craft but also Rohirric customs, and to get familiar with a prospective husband. She will be treated as family; and Angharad knew from Hilla that the Rohirrim loved their children and treated them well. Better than many from the Old Folk, in fact. So aye, Cyneswith will perchance thank her father later, for she will have a better life than most girls of her low status could hope for.

Right now, she was understandably frightened, though. She even teared up a bit when the contract was signed and the saddler’s wife, Mistress Ceithlenn (herself a local, being the shoemaker Anda’s daughter) took her away from her father and led her out of the hall. Cinni was crying, too, for he loved all his chicks very much, and losing one of them all but broke his heart. That Cyneswith will have a better life than he could ever hope to offer her was little comfort.

Now finally came Angharad’s turn, and as she had discussed every detail in advance with the barber-surgeon, having the proper contact set up and signed took little to no time. She was about to leave the hall with her new apprentice, when she got unexpectedly addressed by Lord Orchald himself.

“Mistress Angharad, I require a private word with you, if you please.”

“Certainly, my lord,” she said in surprise.

“It will be but a moment, good masters,” said the old lord to the others, “but I shall have to borrow the Master Provost and my notary for this.”

Master Suanach and Sydnius exchanged a look – and shrugged as one.

“We have not had midday meal yet,” said the innkeeper, “and a break will be welcome in any case. We can go to the Drunken Boat and sample Mistress Pharin’s cooking for half a mark or so… if that will suffice, my lord.”

“It will,” replied Lord Orchald. “Our business shan’t take longer, I deem.”

Thus the provost ordered a break, and while the others went to the tavern to eat a bite, he retreated with Lord Orchald, young Lord Herumor, Angharad and the old notary to one of the small chambers where the scribes usually worked.

“How can I be of service, my lord?” he asked.

“I need you to read and then sign this document, in your authority as the provost of Halabor,” answered Lord Orchald, and Artbranan unrolled a parchment – already signed by their lord and himself and sealed it by the dragon seal of the House of Erellont – and laid before his stunned eyes.

“But that is…” he stuttered.

“’Tis the certificate of a grant given to Mistress Angharad, daughter of Rognor and Eryn, leader of our Infirmary,” Lord Orchald finished for him. “For her successful efforts to save the life of my son, she may have the house of the apothecary, in which she is currently living, as her own. She no longer must pay rent to me and can do with the house as she pleases, save one thing: she may not sell it, as it belongs with the Infirmary. Her children, should they choose to follow her footsteps and remain in the service of the Infirmary, may keep the house after her. Otherwise, ownership would fall back to me or to my progeny.”

“That… that is a princely gift, my lord,” said the provost, almost shocked.

“Mayhap it is,” said the old lord. “Yet the life of my only son is precious to me beyond lands and houses and any kind of treasure. And as I have to thank Mistress Angharad for still having him with me, I wanted to thank her properly.”

Angharad was speechless with surprise… as shocked as the provost seemed. True, the old lord had promised her the house if she healed his son, on that fateful day when a gravely wounded Herumor had been carried into the Infirmary. But great lords often made grand promises when in need… promises that many of them all too easily forgot afterwards. Lord Orchald, though, was a man of his word… something that he had proven over and over during his rule and their lord. Which was one of the reasons why his subjects loved and respected him so much.

“My lord,” she said, “you are way too generous. I was only doing what I always do.”

“And now that you have a house of your own, you can work even more diligently for the good of all,” smiled the old lord. Please allow me to show my gratitude as I see it proper. Old men like me rarely get the chance to indulge themselves in such small pleasures.”

To that, Angharad had no answer. She curtseyed deeply, thanked the old lord for his generosity one more time, and left with her documented grant, trying to imagine what life as a house-owner would be like.

~TBC~

(1) November... roughly.

(2) From 9 a.m to 10 a.m.