The Last Yule in Halabor

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. All the original characters below belong to me, though.

Rating: G – PG-13, varies from chapter to chapter. This particular chapter is rated G.

Series: “Sons of Gondor”, a series of individual stories. A side product to “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

Archiving: My own website and Edhellond. Everyone else – please, ask first.

Author’s notes:

This is a series of loosely connected vignettes, featuring various peoples of the imaginary Gondorian town Halabor. Some of these original characters will have an appearance in my novel “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”, others will not. There will not be any particular story, just independent vignettes, introducing some of the inhabitants of the town.

This was written as a present to my dear friends from the Edhellond group, in the style of a German “Adventskalender” – a calendar with 24 little windows, behind each of which a small present is hidden. People open a window on each of the 24 days before Christmas Eve and enjoy the presents. I hope you will enjoy them, too.

Beta read by the ever-helpful Lady Masterblott whom I owe my eternal gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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Day One – The Spice Merchant

[Halabor, a small fishing town near Cair Andros, in the year 3007 of the Third Age]

Iathan, the son of Muadhan and Goneril, was one of the three richest merchants of Halabor, seconded only by Selevan, the mercer, whose wealth came from the South. Iathan’s family, however, had lived in this town since the Dúnedain first came here. He was of Dúnadan descent himself, and that showed, even though his ancestors had repeatedly mingled the blood of Westernesse with that of the Old Folk. He was tall, dark-haired and grey-eyed, with all the self-confidence that good looks, a good lineage and good money could give a man.

Nay, he was not a noble, nor did he wish he was one. Why would he? He lived very nobly already, and wore clothes even princes would envy him for. Whenever the noble squires went to the East, to fight the dark forces of Mordor, he could stay in his bed. And when said noble squires got themselves slain in battle, he sat in the safety of his house and counted his coin.

And a fine house it was indeed, in the very heart of the town, in the Street of the Jewellers, near the Marketplace. Four stories it had, and Iathan’s extended family occupied all of them, with the spice store and the counting room in the ground floor, living quarters on the second and third, servant’s quarters in the attic, and stables and storehouses in the rear.

True, the stables were mostly occupied by pack mules, but like all wealthy merchant, Iathan, too, owned a fine horse for himself and a lovely palfrey for his wife. He had recently acquired a pony for his eleven-year-old son, for he was planning to take Iollen with him to the next fair in Minas Tirith. The boy had worked as an apprentice clerk for three years, ‘twas high time he learned more about the business he would take over one day. T’was enough if their little daughter remained with her mother at home.

Ainmire was against the idea, of course, for travelling had become perilous in the recent years, but Iathan had made up his mind already and did not care much for his wife’s worries. Ainmire tended to worry a lot – which was understandable, considering how her father had been waylaid and killed on his way to Linhir – but she had to understand that the life of a merchant required a great deal of travelling. Even more so if said merchant traded in rare spices, most of which had to be sought out in the far South, bought for gold and taken back under guard, for they were very costly.

And, truth be told, Iathan enjoyed those travels to the South immensely. He was a young man in his thirties and an adventurous spirit who liked to see new places and meet new people. He shared a good ship with Selevan and with his wife’s brother, the oil merchant Thaneu, and thus he always travelled in good company. There was safety in numbers, and Selevan’s family had the best connections, not only in Pelargir but also in Harad itself. Unfortunately, the roads had become more and more dangerous recently, and no ship was truly safe from the corsairs of Umbar anymore. But perhaps in the new year they could risk it again.

Iathan hoped so. As well as his storerooms were still stocked up (for he was a shrewd man and had taken such a turn of events into consideration in good time) he did not want to touch his last reserves if he could help it. Still, he was more fortunate than Ainmire’s brother. At least spices could keep their quality for a long time if packed and stored properly. One could not say the same about oil. Oil curdled easily, if kept too long, causing the oil merchant considerable losses. Which was the reason why Iathan had become the second-richest merchant in town in Thaneu’s stead. If only the roads were a bit safer, he could do even better.

He sighed and shook his head in regret. This constant warfare was not good for business, unless one traded in weapons or armour. Or horses. Or whatever the soldiers needed. War kept the wealthy customers from coming to the fairs, and one could only make so much coin from selling spices to the well-to-do local burghers.

“I believe we can close the store for today, Cenau,” he said to his young apprentice… scribe… clerk… whatever. Who also happened to be a penniless cousin of his wife, and thus more or less family. “’Tis barely an hour before curfew; we should be finished with counting our daily incomes ‘til supper.”

The young man – more a lad still, actually – obediently closed the horizontal shutters before the shop window and bolted them from within. Then he began to carry back the precious wares, displayed on broad counters well inside the room, to the storerooms. The various spices were divided into groups, according to their origins and values, and stored in different rooms that were built to serve the safekeeping of each group best.

Seasonings from the far South, like ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon, were dear and kept in nicely painted, round tin boxes that allowed no air to get in. Clove, cannell, mace, pepper and cumin were less expensive but still not very cheap, and kept in plain, square tin boxes, with only their names painted on. The local herbs offered in Iathan’s store were dried and packed in linen bags, hanging from the storeroom beams. The most common ones were basil, sage, marjoram, savory, rosemary and thyme. Mustard was kept in small pottery jars and sealed with wax to keep its aroma.

But the most expensive of all Iathan’s wares, that even he could only afford to keep a limited amount of, was saffron. It was a good deal more worth than its weight in gold, and aside from Lord Orchald himself only Selevan’s family and Rustam, the Haradric rug-maker asked for it regularly. Iathan had a separate strongbox made for this most precious of wares, and kept it in his own bedchamber for safety.

Stepping into the counting room in the rear, Iathan found his father bent over the calculating board, moving the bone counters with a slight frown. The old Muadhan, although nominally retired from business after hitting the seventieth mark, still kept financial matters firmly in hand. Iathan did not mind. He preferred dealing with customers and travelling anyway.

Ainmire, on the other hand, took delight in doing the office work. She had learned doing it from her father as a young girl and that proved very useful with keeping the records.

She was sitting at the writing desk, the wide sleeves of her blue surcoat pinned back onto her shoulders, revealing the tightly buttoned sleeves of her dark blue, almost black tunic underneath. Her hair was braided and also pinned up under her white lace wimple, leaving the gentle curve of her neck free. Iathan thought of the necklace with the blue glass beads he had ordered for her from Wennap the silversmith as a Yule gift, and how lovely it would look on her neck, and smiled.

The times might be dark, and the roads perilous, but they were together, the business ran well enough, and at least the time being, they were safe. And perhaps, when the longest night of the year was over and the light returned, things, too, would take a turn to the better.

There were only twenty-four days ‘til Yule, after all.

~The End – for now~

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Note: Iathan and his entire family died when, only a few months later, Halabor was completely destroyed by an Orc-raid.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: 14+, for this part.

Day Two – The Maidservant

The curfew had been over for at least two hours when Telta finished folding the freshly washed bedlinens and blankets in the attic. Her hands were reddened from the icy cold, and her fingers felt like icicles. Winter had come early and was unusually harsh this year, and even with the warmth seeping through from the servants’ quarters below, the attic was barely warmer than the outside. It had taken the blankets more than two days to dry out completely.

Fortunately, there were only a few guests in the inn so close to Yuletide; at least such guests who would spend the night. The harsh weather kept the people living on the farmsteads from coming to town, and trade was low during the winter anyway. In these times, the Riverside Inn usually lived from the townsfolk: from the fishermen and boat-makers and ropers and barrel-makers of the Old Port, or even from the craftsmen from the streets higher up within the walls, who came in for a mug of ale (or three) after work. As the Drunken Boat had never been the same since Mistress Pharin’s passing, many of her former customers came over to the inn, thus giving Sydnius a secure income even in these days.

The maids were thankful for the quieter season. Even though the cold made their work harder, it gave them the chance to catch up with tasks for which they would have no time when the rooms were full, unless they gave up on sleep entirely. And they got the chance to go to bed before midnight, for a change.

‘Twas not so that the innkeeper would press them beyond endurance. Truth be told, Sydnius worked just as hard as everyone else, and all that worked for him were practically family: either his own, or that of his wife. Telta was no exception.

She had worked in the inn from the tender age of twelve. Her parents, a local farmer and his wife, had thirteen children, whom they could barely feed, so the older ones had to find work in the town early on. Vicana had been the first, with their brother Archil, who came to work for the inn, and when she married the innkeeper, Vacia and Telta followed suit. They found good, albeit hard work here, and Vicana even found happiness, for Sydnius was a good man, who loved and valued her, and she was respected as the mistress of the house among the people old the Old Port.

But not all of them were so fortunate. Not that Vacia would have had much choice but marrying Merryn, after the carter had forced himself upon her on a drunken evening and got her with child. Sydnius made it very clear to his brother that had he not taken Vacia as his wife, he would have been brought before Lord Orchald to be judged. Still, Vacia’s life with the carter was not a happy one. She worked more and harder than anyone in the family, keeping the books for the inn and for the carter business, bearing and raising four children and running Merryn’s household at the same time. Yet she earned no gratitude from that uncouth man for it.

Mayhap it would have been better, had we allowed Archil to kill Merryn when he violated Vacia, Telta thought tiredly. Archil was a capable man; he could have found work anywhere. Or he could have become a soldier. And Vacia might have had a better life alone than enduring the insults and the beatings of a man who did not deserve her.

And then I might have had a life more worth living, she added in thought. For after Vacia had a miscarriage last time she had been with child, she could not bear any more children, and so she had become useless for Merryn who considered her little more than a breeding mare. The beatings had become more frequent and more cruel, for Merryn wanted a big family, with more children who could work in his business, so that he would not need to pay helping hands.

And since Vacia could not give him more children, he had done the same thing to Telta as he had done to his wife earlier – cornering her in a drunken night and forcing himself upon her. It had been the night in which her son, Tyrnan, had been conceived, almost six years ago.

If Sydnius had been angry the first time, this time he was truly furious. He was willing to publicly disown his brother – according to the customs of the Old Folk, that would have meant for Merryn the loss of everything he owned and the exile from his hometown – as it was his right as the head of the family. But it would also have meant for Vacia’s children to grow up fatherless and without family bonds, as the carter had no unwed brother who could have married her and raise the little ones as his own. Thus Vacia had begged Sydnius not to disown her unworthy husband. She had offered to raise Telta’s child together with her own children, to silence people’s tongues.

Sydnius had been abject at first, but after a while he gave in, albeit reluctantly. And thus they arranged themselves. Vacia remained the mistress of Merryn’s house, running the household, raising the children and keeping the books. And Telta shared Merryn’s bed whenever he had demanded, and bore more children that would never be hers, to fulfil an obligation her sister could not fulfil anymore.

Of course, this arrangement could not be kept secret forever. People figured out when little Tethra was born two years ago, at the very least, and asked in bewilderment why on earth would a young, lovely, hard-working lass do such thing. She could have a family of her own, marrying Cathail, one of the cart drivers: a good, honest lad, who very obviously fancied her very much, despite her unfortunate affair with Merryn.

Telta often asked herself the same thing. She hated and despised Merryn more than she could voice it. And she feared that one day Archil would lose control and murder Merryn in bitter rage. Which would be the end of him, for as much as Sydnius despised Merryn’s deeds, he would not leave the murderer of his brother unpunished.

And Telta knew that Vacia was not happy with the arrangement either, although such things had been acceptable among the Old Folk before the Dúnedain had come. Vacia felt guilty about the fate of her sister, guilty and ashamed, as if it had been her fault that she had miscarried after a particularly savage beating and become barren. As if aught of the whole unfortunate affair would have been her fault.

At least the beatings had stopped. Merryn had never raised his heavy hand against his wife again, now that he had a new, younger breeding mare. Well… perchance Sydnius’ threats played some role in that, too. The innkeeper had made it adamantly clear that his brother was not to mishandle his wife – or his bedmate – under any circumstances, or he would be disowned, no matter what. And Merryn had backed off. The head of such a large, wealthy and influential family still held great power among the Old Folk, and family matters were usually dealt with within the family, according to old customs. Lord Orchald might not always liked their practices, but he never intervened, unless asked to do so by the family elders.

Telta sighed, put the last blanket into the bedlinen wardrobe and left the attic, rubbing her arms to warm herself. She felt ill; mayhap she was with child again, ‘twas still too early to tell. She hoped she was not. She did not want to give that cruel, heartless man another child. She did not want to give birth ever again. She did not want to see Merryn ever again, less so to endure his roughness, to be used by him. She did not want to sit in her small chamber alone, while the others celebrated Yule in the taproom of the inn. But she wanted even less to sit at the table with them. To pretend that they were one big, happy family.

‘Twas not Sydnius’ fault that things had taken such a bad turn. He would have punished Merryn properly, had Vacia not begged him to do otherwise. Yet it was not Vacia’s fault, either. She could never have fed the four children alone, and neither of them could have gone back to their parents’ farmstead. They were even poorer. And need was a hard taskmaster.

Still, mayhap they should have let Sydnius disown his brother. Mayhap with Archil’s help, they would have managed to raise the children somehow. And, generous man as he was, even Sydnius might have helped them as well as he could. Now it was too late. They had agreed to arrange things according the old customs, and such an agreement was binding, even without a written contact. She could not get out of it anymore, unless Merryn released her before the family elders. And for that, there was little hope.

In a few days, Cathail would seek her out again. He would bring her small Yule gifts, like every year, and he would ask her to leave town with him. To Lossarnach, mayhap, or to Linhir, or to Pelargir – Minas Tirith would be too close. He would beg her to leave this unworthy life behind, to flee with him somewhere who they could live like other good, honest people. To have a life they both deserved.

So far, Telta had always refused to listen. She feared what Merryn would do to Vacia if she left. But now… should she be with child again, she would be lose this child, too. She felt, for the first time, that she could not do so again. Even if sired by Merryn, it would be her flesh and blood. How could the elders consider such a cruel arrangement acceptable?

Mayhap Cathail was right. Mayhap they should run away, ere it was too late. Ere she had grown so used to this life that she would have no strength left to turn her back on it.

Telta stepped into her chamber and went directly to her bed. She felt too drained to think of washing first. She crawled under her down-filled blanket fully clothed, toeing off only her shoes. She would stand up again and undress as soon as she had managed to warm up a bit.

And if Cathail asked her again, mayhap she would run away with him. In springtime. Or in early summer. When it would be warm again.

~The End – for now~

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Note: Telta died in Halabor a few months later. Cathail escaped to Lossarnach and fell in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, fighting with Lord Forlong’s troops.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: If you want an impression about Halabor in winter, go to the Yvoire website and take a look at the galleries called “Yvoire under snow” and “Yvoire under ice”. Those galleries inspired this series.

DAY THREE -- THE GLOVEMAKER

Unlike most people in Halabor, Mistress Tegen liked the winter season. She liked when the tree-benches were loaded with snow, as rarely as it happened, and she liked the icicles hanging from the roof and the ice blossoms ranking on the window planes. They helped her think of new patterns for the stitching and embroidery on her gloves. For Mistress Tegen was the glovemaker of Halabor – the only one of her trade in town.

She had learned this fine craft from her grandfather, old Master Germoe, who still helped her with the simpler tasks, even though his eyes were not good enough for the finer stitching anymore. But while Master Germoe had been forced to spend each winter curing the skins from the small herd of cattle and goats kept on the farmstead of his wife’s parents in his youth, Mistress Tegen had no such worries. She got the finely prepared skins from her father’s tannery, so that she could dedicate all her skills to the crafting of her gloves.

On this fine winter morning, she was sitting in the workroom of her shop (which she shared with Mistress Crewyn, the pursemaker), working on a new pair of gloves and only occasionally glancing out onto the Street of the Gardens, where her house stood. Aye, the house belonged to her, which was unusual for such a young woman. It used to be Master Germoe’s, who had willed it to her, as it had been her home since the age of eight.

She was the youngest child of Germoc, the tanner, and the only daughter. She had watched her father, uncles and brothers scrape away hair from the upper side of skins and flesh adhering to the underside of them, rubbing the hides with cold pigeon dung or warm dog dung to soften them, soaking them in fermenting bran to watch off the traces left by the dung all her childhood. She had decided early on that this was not the life she wanted.

Thus she had turned to her grandfather and asked to be taught the craft of glove-making. Master Germoe had happily agreed to take her as an apprentice, and she had moved into her grandparents’ house at once. It had been her home for twenty years by now.

She smiled and glanced through the shop window again. The two horizontal shutters were open, upward and downward, top and bottom. The upper shutter was supported by two posts that converted into an awning; the lower shutter dropped to rest on two short legs, and served as a display counter. Not at this weather, though. ‘Twas too cold; the shop window was closed.

Glass was a luxury few craftspeople could afford. In most houses, the windows were covered with oiled parchment. But one needs good light for doing embroidery… Master Germoe’s eyes were the proof for this necessity. So Mistresses Tegen and Crewyn had saved their coin for years to have this large glass window made. The glass panes, each about the size of a man’s palm, were fastened in a wooden grid, leaving the sunlight into the workroom, and every time she glanced out, Mistress Tegen was thankful for her craft that brought in enough money for such a splendid achievement. She loved sunlight and was happy that she could enjoy it during her work, even in winter.

Her name meant “pretty”, and Mistress Tegen was a lovely sight indeed. Slender and brown-haired and brown-eyed like most women of the Old Folk, she was wearing a simple, earth-brown gown, with a lighter brown surcoat above it, and a shoulder-length white veil in Rohirric fashion, fastened with a sprang ribbon. For other married women, such a headdress would be unusual, but as she was married to Erney, the scabbard-maker, the son of a Rohirric expatriate, she had taken over a few Rohirric customs from her husband’s family.

Particularly from one member of said family: from the golden-haired, blue-eyed beauty sitting opposite her. Mistress Crewyn, the pursemaker, grew up in more freedom than any daughter of the Old Folk could dream of. Even Tegen, whom her grandparents had given more leeway than usual. The Rohirrim treated their daughters as they treated their sons, in most things, and Tegen found living in such a family a true delight.

‘Twas Crewyn who had introduced Tegen to Erney. Unlike his older brother, who chased after every skirt in sight, Erney was a grave, hard-working young man, and – though he shared the general good looks of his family – surprisingly shy with women. It took Crewyn much persuasion to get him to approach Tegen, who had been mildly shocked at first, as she was the older of them by three years and had not truly hoped to find a husband any time, soon. Not before some old widower would be available. However, the Rohirrim generally considered it a good thing for a young lad to marry a somewhat more mature woman, and Folcwalda, the saddler, had welcomed Tegen in his family with open arms.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Crewyn, glancing up from her work. She was stitching a purse for Delbaeth, the weaponsmith’s wife. The smith had ordered it as a Yule gift, and Crewyn wanted to finish it within the week.

Tegen laughed. “I was thinking of the day when Erney came to our house to ask my grandparent’s permission to court me.”

At that, Crewyn laughed, too. “Oh, I do remember. Feoca,” that was their oldest brother, “had to push him through the doorway, or else he would not even have dared to knock.”

“I thought Feoca was against our marriage,” said Tegen in surprise.

“He is against marriage itself, no matter who is doing it,” Crewyn grinned. “But one day he will find someone who can handle him. And then he, too, will bend his stiff neck under the yoke willingly.”

They both laughed, and then Crewyn turned their conversation back to her other brother.

“Father was so glad when Erney took a liking to you,” she said. “With Feoca’s ceaseless skirt-chasing and Erney’s shyness, he feared I would be the only one to give him any grandchildren.”

“Well, neither of us has done so yet,” pointed out Tegen.

Crewyn grinned. “True. But Erchin and I are trying very hard.”

They laughed again, though Tegen a little wistfully. Truth was, she would have loved to give her father-in-law those grandchildren, but heir efforts had not born fruit so far. Crewyn had only been married for half a year, so there was every hope yet. But Erney and herself had been husband and wife for almost four years with no results yet.

Mayhap a visit to old Mistress Crodergh would help, she thought. No-one knows their herbs like she does. And mayhap it was time for her to remember her roots and turn to Nurria, the lady of the pastures, for help. A small ritual, performed in the very night of Yule… the goodwives of the town promised wonders from it, and Mistress Crodergh was said to know how to perform it properly.

Tegen smiled, stitching away leisurely on the pair of gloves, made of soft, bleached coat hide – gloves that had been ordered by Chief Warden Henderch for Mistress Dorlas – and tried to guess what kind of Yule gift Erney would give her. She had made her gifts for the entire kinfolk long ago. Yule would be a joyous event this year, despite the growing shadows in the outside world. And mayhap the new year would bring new life into the family.

~The End – for now~

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Note: Not a single member of the extended family of leather-workers survived the destruction of Halabor.

THE LAST YULE IN HALABOR

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: The Haradric realm Bakshir is my invention and is established in several of my stories. It is very similar to medieval Iran, with a religion of fire-worshipping. The kha-kan is the greatest warlord of Bakshir, the second most powerful man of the realm after the padisákh (the equivalent of a king or sultan). Iskhandar, the current kha-kan of Bakshir is the half-brother of Isabeau’s original character Andrahar, Prince Imrahil’s sworn brother and Armsmaster. We share this particular character background. The parda is the equivalent of a harem. Bülbül is a Turkish word for a bird dwelling in Paradise.

DAY FOUR -- THE RUGMAKER

The house of Rustam, the rugmaker, was like an oasis of Southern warmth here in the cold North. Well, as much as Gondor could be considered a northern realm anyway. For Rustam, who hailed from Bakshir, one of the most powerful Haradric realms, it certainly was North.

His parents had fled Bakshir when his oldest sister, who was serving in the noblehouse of the kha-kan caught her master’s eye, who decided to take her into his parda. But Zaira did not want to become one of Iskhandar’s co-wives, and thus the family had had no other choice than to flee to the only realm that would not hand them back to the kha-kan on a silver plate: Gondor, the land of their enemies.

For a while, they had lived in Pelargir, where the knotted rugs made by Rustam’s falter were much sought after. But as the enmity between the two realms began to grow again, Zahal had decided that Pelargir was still much too close to the Haradric border for his comfort, and that they should move further up northwards. He chose Halabor; a small town built on the western bank of the Great River, where he had visited the fairs a few times. He acquired a large house in the Street of the Gardens, where the best craftspeople lived, and they found a new home here. Even so, he often went back to Pelargir by boat, to visit Zaira, who had married a rug merchant down there. Alas, both he and his wife were waylaid and killed on the way back from such a trip, together with their friends, the hatmaker and his wife.

Those unfortunate events had left Rustam behind as the head of his family, having to care not for himself and his two younger siblings alone, but also for Sovena, an orphaned girl of unknown (though obviously Haradric) origins, whom his parents had taken into the family, back in Pelargir. Their act of generosity had made Sovena one of their children, by all but blood, and thus Rustam’s ward, including the obligation of marrying her off with an acceptable dowry. Unlike in Harad, where t’was the groom who had to pay for his bride, in Gondor it was the bride who had to bring wealth into the marriage. Rustam found the custom odd, but as they were now living in Gondor, they had to follow the local traditions.

Which also included the compensation he now owned the hatmaker’s family for the loss of their parents. T’was a serious obligation, and a costly one. Fortunately, young Gwinear, who was now the head of that family, having taken over his father’s business, was a reasonable man. They had arranged themselves without bringing either side to financial ruin, and thus Rustam had even managed to marry off Sovena to Nivet, the tailor, according to her stand as a respected craftsman’s sister.

That had been almost ten years ago. Who would gave thought that the shared loss would make him and the hatmaker’s son such close friends? So close friends indeed that when Rustam and the hatmaker’s daughter had fallen in love, Gwinear had not objected their marriage. He had hesitated at first, for marrying his sister off to one of the Haradrim was a scandalous event in the eyes of his fellow townspeople, and had their parents been still alive, they would never have allowed it. But Steren had very obviously been in love, and she had begged her brother so intensely and desperately that Gwinear finally had given in.

T'was a decision neither of them had ever regretted, mused Rustam, while his skilled fingers knotted the short threads of fine, coloured wool with practiced ease, while his eyes were searching for the next piece already. He had done this for nearly thirty years by now, he needed not to watch his fingers any longer.

The vivid, floral pattern had been carefully drawn on a piece of parchment by his sister Zirri and hung on the wall of the workroom, but Rustam did not need to look at it, either. He was the one who had created the pattern in the first place; he had it all in his head. The drawing was there for the benefit of Zirri and their brother Assam, who were working on the other end of the rug.

This was an extraordinary piece, both in size and the detail of the pattern, one that was rarely made in Bakshir, too, and only for the noblest of houses. But this year Lord Orchald wanted to give his kinsman, Lord Forlong of Lossarnach, a special Yule gift, and he had promised a princely price if the rug was finished in time. This order alone would cover the costs of their household for the next three moons. Perhaps even more. Thus the three rugmakers spared no effort to fulfil their obligation.

Rustam glanced up from his work, over to the other side of the workroom, where the loom of his wife stood. Steren had learned the now rare art of thread twisting, also called sprang, from her grandmother, and was currently the only one working in this craft not in Halabor alone but in the whole of Anórien. She made caps, hairnets and stockings, but also woollen scarves and sashes for the festive clothing of the wealthy. Most of her customers came from the farmsteads, though, and from the Old Port, where the need for warm clothing was greater, and her work was very popular among people who had to work outside in the harsh weather,

For a moment, Rustam watched the small, skilled hands of his young wife working deftly with the warp threads, without the help of a weft. In sprang, the structure consisted entirely of an interlinking of said warp threads, worked from either end towards the centre, where a central locking thread held them in place. This produced a fabric that could be stretched across its width quite far, once the tension of the threads was released – if done correctly.

T'was not an easy craft to learn, and Rustam was very proud of his wife’s skills. She was not called “star” for nothing. Truly, she was a gem among the daughters of this foreign country, as rare as diamonds.

Steren felt her husband’s eyes watching her and grinned at him over her shoulder. After eight years, they were still as much in love as on the first day, and if she had lost a few of so-called friends for marrying a Southern man, she could not care less. Those who would not grant her this happiness were no friends at all. She considered herself very fortunate, having such a gentle, sweet-speaking and hard-working husband, who treated her like a princess.

She exchanged a contented smile with her sister, Delgnat, who was sitting at the window, with a basket full of plied yarn at her feet, working on a mitten with a coarse needle. As they were close of age and even looked a lot alike, people often thought them twins. For Rustam, however, Steren would always be the truly beautiful one. He found her face gentler, her eyes brighter, and her hair lusher – no doubt because he saw her through the eyes of love. Gudwal (Delgnat’s husband) would possibly see them differently.

Whichever of the two sisters an outsider would find lovelier, they were both pretty, in the simple way of the Old Folk. And they were good-natured and hard-working, too, a true blessing for any household. As they liked to work together, Delgnat often came over from her home. Their crafts were similar, and as Sovena, too, joined them frequently to do her embroidery in merry company, work actually was fun.

 The craft Delgnat used was called naal-binding and was basically a darning method, where the thread of each new stitch was passed through at least two unfinished thread loops. To put it simply, one used small loops for thick materials, for socks or stockings, while for more loose materials bigger loops were needed.

Mittens were an easy task to do, but Delgnat, a true master of her craft, often made ankle-height shoes as well, with intricate patterns, and those shoes were even waterproof, due to the thickly knitted fabric. Many goodwives in town wore such shoes in winter, against the cold floor of their homes.

Naal-binding was a craft foreign in Gondor. It had come to Anórien through the Rohirrim, who had brought it form their old home in the far North, at the sources of Anduin. Few women ever bothered to learn it, as it was a product of a land that was usually much colder than theirs. But Delgnat had found it a more interesting challenge than the usual weaving – besides, there were other weavers in town, yet she was the only naal-woman, as the Rohirrim called it. And with the winters turning harsher in recent years, she made good money with her skills. Even the soldiers from Cair Andros had learned to appreciate a good, knee-length wooden stocking when lying on watch during the cold season.

She could have worked in the shop of her brother, of course. Gwinear would have welcomed the company. But in Rustam’s house, the workroom was large and airy; the light aplenty, due to several tall windows with glass planes (he could afford them easily), and it was heated by several brass braziers, one in each corner, standing on three legs. Thus it was a great deal warmer than similar rooms in other craftsmen’s houses, as Rustam and his siblings found Halabor generally too cold for their taste. And Delgnat, though a Halabor native, appreciated the comfort of a nicely warm room.

She was not the only one. Sovena, too, preferred the workroom of her foster brother to the tailor shop of her husband. Today, she was again sitting at the window, opposite to Delgnat, with a piece of Haradric-style embroidery in her hands, and was stitching on the picture of a blue bird with golden thread.

Compared to the two sisters, she was like some exotic bird from her own embroidery: oval-faced, almond-eyed and olive-skinned, with thick, wavy ink-black hair that was wrapped around her head in a thick braid and hidden under the customary wimple of a married woman. It had taken her some time to get used to go around unveiled, but she had adjusted to the customs of the Old Folk by now. Even if she stood out from the lovely but plain local women, whether she wanted or not.

Many were envious of her exotic looks, and she had met some hostility as well. But at least her husband was most understanding, thank the Fire God, and allowed her to spend a great deal of her working time with Rustam’s family and be with her own kind. She loved him for that even more. Nivet was such a good man. She found that she was very fortunate with both her families.

“You truly think that such a hanging would match your brother’s taste?” she asked the two sisters doubtfully. “Is this not a little too… exotic for such a grave young man? A little too… Haradric perhaps?”

“Did you not tell me that the blue bird with the golden feather frown is a symbol for happiness in Harad?” asked Steren back, her hands flying back and forth between the warp threads. Sovena nodded.

“It is. The bülbül dwells in the garden of pleasures; blessed is the man who finds it and is allowed to listen to its song, for never will he be without happiness for the rest of his life.”

“Then we have chosen the right wedding gift for our brother,” said Delgnat, sliding the needle through the loops of the half-finished mitten. “For if anyone, he deserves happiness. Almost three years has he already waited for sweet little Cuillen to come of age. Now that she will turn sixteen next spring, they can finally marry, and we wanted to give them a gift that would capture their moment of happiness for the rest of their lives.”

“I just hope your brother will like it,” murmured Sovena.

“Worry not,” Steren grinned. “Gwinear can appreciate beauty when he sees it. Otherwise, he would hardly have waited for Cuillen this long.”

Knotting the coloured pieces of yarn without even looking, Rustam smiled. Cold and far from his home of old Halabor might be, but he had found a home here. A home, good, honest work, a lovely wife, a sweet little son, an extended family that accepted him despite his origins. He was a fortunate man indeed. The Fire God was smiling down at him, even in this foreign country.

And if he sat down to the table with his foreign kindred in the night of Yule to greet the return of the light after the longest night of the year, what could be possibly wrong with that? The Hallowed Fire was present in every clean flame. Even in the heat of the candle lighted during the Yule ceremony.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: The only surviving member of Rustam’s extended family was Mistress Delgnat’s seven-year-old son, Erth, who was brought to Lossarnach and lived out his life there. Gwinear, the hatmaker, and his young wife, Cuillen, were only married for two months when slain by the Orcs during Halabor’s destruction.

Next update on Dec 5.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Five -- The Charcoal Burner and His Family

Despite the small stone oven in the corner, the cottage of the charcoal burner was bitterly cold. The small fire could not warm up the room; not in such winter, where the snow lay waist-high in the entire forest, and icicles hung from the tree-branches like some bizarre fruits in the land of the Forodwaith. Built from roughly-heaved oak beams, the walls could not keep out the cold and the wind entirely, and the family was freezing in their worn rags.

Yet this was their home, and they had to dwell here, outside the protective walls of Halabor, for the ironsmiths, the bronzesmiths and the glass-workers needed the charcoal for their daily work, and Docco was there to provide it. This could not be done elsewhere, thus the entire family needed to live out there. And they had to follow the paths of the wood-cutters, to collected the timber, after the carpenters had taken what they needed from the felled trees. For them, it was usually the smaller branches left and whatever fell to the side after the wood-cutters’ work.

The clamp had to be built and needed constant watching, so that it would not race and burn rather than roast the wood inside. A mere change in the wind overnight could cause such a thing, forcing more air than required through the footings of the clamp. When this happened, Docco had to try and screen off the upwind side of the clamp with whiting screens.

The task of burning the wood to charcoal took at least a full day, during which the clamp had to be fed regularly with tinder. But there was more work to do before the actual process began. The bark had to be removed and collected for the tanner, who paid for it, although not too handsomely, for the oak bark was very good for the tanning pits. The timber supplying the clamp had to be cut. The screens had to be made in advance, so that they could be put to place without delay, should the wind change. And afterwards, when all this was done and the charcoal ready, it had to be delivered to the town on a small, two-wheeled cart pulled by an old, bony, overworked donkey.

A short and wiry man of forty-five years, Docco, the charcoal burner, had long grown used to this harsh living in the forest, although his sullen face revealed that he was less than happy with his life. He was the second son of Halabor’s only oven-builder, but as he had showed little skill in his father’s craft, his older brother had taken over the family business, and for Docco remained naught else but eking out a meagre living with the work he had been doing for over twenty years by now. ‘Twas a harsh life and hard work indeed, and – as a glimpse at his clothing would tell – he earned very little money with it.

His garment was of the simplest form imaginable: a close jacket with sleeves, made by his wife of the tanned hide of some wolves he had killed with his very hands more than fifteen years earlier. On his feet, he wore short boots, and pieces of tanned wolf skin were wrapped around his legs, bond with thongs made of boar’s hide, reaching above the calf, while his knees were left bare, even in this rough weather. The jacket was girded with a broad leathern belt, secured by a brass buckle. A small pouch with the ever-present tinderbox hung from one side of the belt, and a short-handled axe, tool and defensive weapon in one, was tucked into it on the other side, together with a long, board, two-edged knife, the kind widely used among the Old Folk.

He had no covering upon his head other than his own thick, dark hair, matted and twisted together. His overgrown beard was just as untidy as his hair, but he did not care overmuch about that, just as he did not care about his wife’s complaints concerning his untidiness and the harshness of their life. He could not change either of those things, not while they were living there and in the manner they did – and there was little hope that any of it would ever change.

If he was not entirely content with his life, one could say that Locha, his wife, was downright miserable. The third daughter of a poor farmer, she got but a very small dowry, and only took the offer of Docco’s as no-one else would wed her. She hated the life she had to lead out here, in the forest, and envied her younger sister who had been lucky enough to catch the eye of the ironsmith’s son and now had a comfortable life in the Master Smith’s large and wealthy household. Her health had been considerably weakened by the hard work and the frequent pregnancies – she had been with child nine times, but only four of the children survived – and had become a mere shadow of her former self in the recent years.

Docco felt sorry for his wife – he did love Locha in his own way, though he could rarely show it – but he knew not how to help her. He knew no other craft than the one he earned a living with, and after a day’s back-breaking work, he simply had no strength left for Locha’s woes. He, too, would have preferred an easier work and a better life, but what one wished and what one got from Fate were often two very different things.

At least Selyn, his firstborn, had proved skilled enough to learn the craft of oven building from his grandfather, who had lived with them ‘til his death four years ago. Accepted as a journeyman by his uncle Uthno, Selyn worked regularly for the local potters. Still, he had to come out and help his father half of the time, for he was the only one with enough strength to do so. That made him miss several good chances of easier and better paid work, but he was a good son and came without complaining.

Wron, Docco’s second born, had wanted to get out of the forest as well and tried an apprenticeship at the ironsmith’s. Gladly would have Docco paid for it, to secure a better life for his son, but Wron had proved too weak for his chosen craft, and no-one would take a weak and sickly apprentice afterwards. Thus he had returned to the family, but the work as a charcoal burner did not become him, either. He suffered from the cold very much, always coughed and was prone to the falling sickness. Docco’s heart went out to the lad. Wron should have become a clerk or a servant in a noble house, for he was comely and mild-mannered and everyone liked him. But there was no way to pay for a tutor, and thus he was doomed to die young in their bleak home.

Docco sighed heavily and climbed atop the clamp, dropping some more burning embers into its heart. This load was nearly finished. If the wind did not change in the next two hours, he would have a rest of about a day ere starting the next one. Selyn and Wron would go to town with the charcoal. Mayhap the ironsmith’s wife, well known for her generosity, would give them a good meal that they could not get from their mother. Locha had not cooked a decent meal for years, and Nista, with her barely sixteen summers, could not replace her mother in all household matters, however hard she tried.

Docco’s heart was warmed by the thought of her older daughter. Nista was such a sweet girl: always eager to help, hard-working and friendly to everyone… even pretty, as much as any child of Docco’s could ever be while inheriting his features. If only he could bring up at least a small dowry for her, she could become such a good wife and mother. She was everything her mother was not. She deserved a better life.

Other daughters would turn bitterly against their fathers, had they had a life like this. Yet Nista was always pleasant and well-behaved. She hardly ever complained. If anyone deserved to be married off to a good, honest man, it was Nista. But who would take the charcoal burner’s plain, penniless daughter when there were so many daughters from well-to-do craftsmen’s houses, with handsome dowries, to choose from?

If she only were prettier… or if young men looking for a proper wife had the chance to meet her, so that they would see what a good girl she was… But out there, in the forest, there was just no way to arrange that. She was needed out here, to work for her mother, who could not do the work any longer. And it was to fear that there was not much else life would offer her. It was supremely unjust. But life was seldom fair.

Docco climbed down from the clamp. The fire was burning evenly, just at the right level, and he was bone-weary. Mayhap it would do no harm if he went home and warmed up a little, as much as it was possible in a cottage where the wind had free entry between the logs that made up the walls.

When he entered his home, Locha was crouched down next to the oven, wrapped in several blankets, swaying back and forth with vacant eyes. Docco sighed. Apparently, this was one of those days again. Locha would not move from the spot all night, staring at the wooden planks of the floor, speaking not a single word to anyone.

Wron was sitting on a bench, carving something from a piece of wood with fingers stiff and red from the cold. Docco squinted his eyes to see what it was. It was a hair clasp, shaped like a butterfly; a gift for his little sister, no doubt. Thirteen-year-old Melyor, the prettiest of the entire family, loved pretty things, and often complained about not having them. She hated their life in poverty and hard work ad much as her mother did, and was determined to marry a wealthy craftsman or merchant one day – even an old one, if there was no other way out of her current life.

Twenty-year-old Selyn was sitting on the bench next to his brother; his aching back leaned against the wall. He was unshaven and unwashed, just like Docco himself, too weary to even move after a whole day of cutting word in the freezing cold, and his reddened hands trembled slightly. His broad, young face was deeply lined; he looked years older than his true age. The sight made Docco ache with guilt. Had he not needed Selyn’s help, the lad would be living in the safety of the town, working in his respectable trade, wearing good, warm clothes, having a decent home. And yet Selyn never complained. He was such a good lad. He, too, deserved better.

Nista looked up when the door opened, and a delightful smile blossomed all over her face upon seeing her father.

“Father, you are home!” she cried out happily. “You came just in time for supper. Sit down, sit down, I am serving it in a moment.”

Docco smiled, gave his daughter a quick hug and lowered himself onto the bench behind the table. He knew supper would be fairly horrible; poor Nista had no-one to learn from how to cook properly. But at least it would be a warm meal, prepared with all the love of a gentle heart. There were people who had even less.

Mayhap next year would be a better one, he thought. Mayhap they should leave this cottage and move to the safety of the town, trying to live from Selyn’s craft. If they were fortunate, they could manage, somehow. If they were very fortunate.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Ironically enough, Docco’s family escaped the destruction of Halabor because they lived in the forest, where the Orcs did not find them. They went to Lossarnach with the others, and settled down in a small village near Lord Forlong’s town.

A few years later, Locha finally lost the last grip on her sanity and took her own life. Selyn married a young widow named Aelig after the Ring War, and lived out his life in the same town. Wron became a servant in Lord Forlong’s castle and followed his master to Minas Tirith’s aid, where he was killed during the siege of the City. Nista married a young farmer named Juvad in Lossarnach, right in 3009.

Melyor, however, followed Boromir’s troops to Minas Tirith after Halabor’s destruction, and after a few years as a maidservant, she ended up in a cheap pleasure house in the lowest circle of the City.

Of Docco’s further fate there are no records after Locha’s voluntary death.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s notes:

A “cold kitchen” did not mean that the room in question was not heated. It was the room where dishes that did not need to be cooked – or already were cooked – were prepared for the table. Called so to distinguish it from the “warm kitchen” where the actual cooking was done. I assumed that the smaller children ate there when the adults were occupied with work.

“The fish need to swim” is an actually existing proverb in Hungary, meaning that one had to drink a lot (preferably wine) after eating fish.

And yes, this is the obligatory Santa vignette. Obviously. ;) 

Day Six: The Old Fisherman

The wooden docking pylons of the jetty in the Old Port of the Fishermen were covered with a layer of ice, almost an inch thick, and the entire quayside was gleaming as if strewn with diamond dust (as old tales told from the legendary Elven cities in the Farthest West) when Old Craban returned with his boat from the Great River. He had been fishing alone today, as Súrion was on Warden duty, and thus had decided for the use of a fishing spear instead of his nets.

Not that he could not pull in his nets, mind you. For a fragile old man of seventy-eight, he was surprisingly robust and as tough as nails, if he had to. But he still liked to test his skills in various tasks, and this morning he had chosen to fish for eel. Mistress Vicana in the Riverside Inn had an excellent recipe for eel stew, and the innkeeper always paid good coin for a rich catch of eel, as he could demand a higher price for serving this pretty popular dish afterwards.

Once again, the Great River had been generous to the solitary old man. So generous, indeed, that Old Craban was making thoughts about how to get his catch to the inn alone. Súrion, of course, would lift the full barrel onto his shoulder and simply carry it to the inn, but Old Craban did feel a bit too aged and weary for that. Thus he was very glad to see Tallan, the lad of his fellow fisherman Peran, lurking along the quayside as was his wont.

He called out to the lad, and Tallan came eagerly enough, his already big, round brown eyes widening to the size of saucers at the sight of the generous catch.

“We were out with Brannoc’s people, but our nets were barely half full by return,” he said, a little enviously. “All we caught were carp, and rather small ones, too. Mother and Mistress Liban are packing the dry casks already, but those will not bring in more than a few copper pieces. Without Melan, Father cannot row out to the deeper waters where the more costly fish dwell.”

Old Craban nodded in sympathy. Melan, the grown son of Peran, had suffered a bad accident last moon, resulting in a broken arm and several bruised ribs, thus he would not be able to work for some time yet. Peran himself was not good enough with the fishing spear – his hand was not steady enough, and he had been struggling with inflamed eyes for some time by now – and Tallan, with his barely fourteen summers, had not the strength required for spear-fishing yet.

Unfortunately, during winter one could only earn good coin with eel. Most of the other fish available in this season were too common and therefore rather cheap. Peran’s family felt the loss of Melan’s help keenly, as fishermen rarely made enough money to help them through such hard times.

“Can you find someone to help me getting this barrel to the inn?” the old man asked the lad.

“I can do it,” offered Tallan. “I shall run to Brannoc’s house and ask for the small cart, and if Treon is willing, the two of us can wheel it to the inn for you.”

“Very good,” said Old Craban. “And I shall make it worth your effort, my lad. Just make haste, for these fish need to get into Mistress Vicana’s cauldron, ere they begin to stink.”

There was little chance for that to happen, of course – if anything, the precious fish would be frozen hard by the time they arrived in the inn. But Old Craban was eager to see this deal sealed, so that he could return to his cottage for a quiet evening.

Tallan hurried off, slithering on the ice-covered quay a few times, and soon he returned with both of Brannoc’s sons and the small, two-wheeled cart that was generally used to move full barrels. Together, they dragged Old Craban’s catch onto the cart and wheeled the fish to the Riverside Inn, laughing and shrieking whenever the wheels slipped and the small vehicle skittered away on the ice.

Mistress Vicana came running from the kitchens, overjoyed by the chance to cook her famous eel stew again. For her this meant that the common room would be full on the next evening, and the praise of her skills would be loud and aplenty – not to mention the coin earned.

“My, but you are good lads to help Old Craban with this heavy burden,” she beamed at the younglings, her cheeks bright red with delight and from the heat of the kitchens. “Are you hungry, my dears?”

The trio exchanged excited looks. Everyone knew that – after the late Mistress Pharin, of course – Mistress Vicana was the bestest cook in the entire town.

“Aye, Mistress,” they sang in unison, elbowing each other into the ribs with wide grins. Whether at the age of nine, twelve or fourteen, in one thing all three were very much alike: in the ability to eat a lot in any given hour of the day. Considering that even nine-year-old Treon went out onto the River with his father every day, they certainly deserved to be properly fed.

“Well then, come with me to the cold kitchen,” said Mistress Vicana heartily. “The children are just about to have an early supper; surely, we shall find room for you at the table.”

The lads followed her with the eagerness of ducklings wading after the mother duck, and Old Craban smiled, knowing that at least these three would go to bed with a full stomach tonight. ‘Twas not something that would occur in their homes frequently in these days – and not by the fault of their parents. Winter was not an easy season for the fishermen, and even less so for those who had many hungry mouths to feed.

The old man went over to the common room to be paid for his catch. Sydnius, the innkeeper – a solidly built, bearded man with a shrewd mind and pleasant manners – took him into the office behind the counter and paid the demanded price without even haggling. He knew he would earn back his coin twofold on the next day… or more.

He offered a generous shot of excellent juniper liquor to seal their deal, and Old Craban sipped it slowly, enjoying its fire and taste. This was a good, strong cordial, but fishermen could hold their liquor better than anyone else, save perhaps sailors. “The fish need to swim” – the old proverb said, and a good fisherman always gave his fish what they needed.

After the fine drink, Old Craban took two silver pieces from his purse and gave them back to the innkeeper.

“I need a favour from you,” he said. “Tomorrow, when your wife has cooked the stew, send for Brannoc and Peran’s families. They have not had a good, full meal for some time; the catch has been spare lately. I want them to eat their fill, just once. I hope this will be enough for their supper.”

“’Tis more than enough,” answered Sydnius. “You are a generous man, Old Craban.”

“The Great River has been generous to me,” said the old man with a shrug. “How could I be any less so?”

Then he took three bronze pieces and laid them onto the desk next to the silver pieces.

“And give these to the lads,” he said. “They came to help an old man without asking anything in exchange; they deserve it.”

With that, he rose from his seat, and, thanking again for the drink, he left the inn to return to his cottage, with a light heart and careful steps. This had been a good day indeed. Days like this should be more frequent in the Foreyule.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Old Craban made it out of Halabor and lived out the rest of his life in Lossarnach. From the innkeeper’s family, only his fifteen-year-old daughter, Ailne, survived. None of the other fishermen or their families escaped.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: Radish syrup – well, actually carrot syrup – and onion tea were really used in Transylvania against stubborn coughs. They both are absolutely vile. Carrot syrup is made by drilling a hole into a thick, peeled carrot (but not entirely through it) and filling it with sugar. The sugar melts in the juices of the carrot and seeps through it in the form of a thick, abysmally sweet syrup. Onion tea is just a brew of onions, although sometimes cumin is added to lessen the intense taste. Not an experience you would like to make, unless absolutely necessary. Trust me.

Day Seven – The Herb-Mistress

Sitting in her cozy little room above the Infirmary, old Mistress Crodergh was grinding dried herbs in a small stone mortar, humming to herself contentedly. Usually, she would do this work in Mistress Angharad’s workroom that occupied the ground floor of the healer’s small house leaning onto the southern side of the Infirmary, or in her own little manufactory in the herb gardens. But her old bones bore the harsh weather less and less well with each passing year, and thus she chose the warmth and comfort of her own chamber instead of any of the larger, sparsely heated rooms.

She had been fortunate with this place, next to which the chimney of the Infirmary’s huge hearth stretched upwards. The chimney had enough heat to warm up not only her little chamber but also the somewhat larger room on the other side, in which Meurig and his ten-years-old nephew, merry little Edwy lived.

Just like those two, Mistress Crodergh was one of the numerous people washed ashore by fate in Halabor. The only daughter of a widow in Lossarnach, she had learned herbal lore from her mother and grandmother, both of which had been considered witches in their village. They knew their herbs like few other people in Gondor, but not even they were all-knowing. And when the respected and much-feared leader of a far-away little village had died under their hands, long having been beyond help, the enraged villagers had waylaid the “witches” and beaten them to death.

Or so they thought anyway. By some miracle, though, Mistress Crodergh, a young woman back then, survived the savage beating and was found by Lord Orchald’s healer, a good and wise man named Echtge, who had been on a journey to gather or buy herbs needed in his Infirmary. Echtge, a soft-speaking man well beyond his young years but of a merciful heart, had brought the half-dead Crodergh home with him to Halabor and even married her half a year later, delighted to find someone with her vast knowledge in herb lore. He was a good healer, but better in leechcraft than with herbs, and the two completed each other nicely.

Alas, the great age difference – they had more than a score between them – had also meant that after a few good years Echtge suddenly fell ill, becoming an inmate of his own Infirmary. He withered away in four more, pain-filled years, and when his heart finally gave up and released him from his misery, Mistress Crodergh was grateful. For though she had loved him and missed him terribly for years afterwards, everything was better than seeing him in so much pain and being unable to ease it for him.

For the next thirty years or so, the care for the Infirmary had become hers alone. Finding a good healer was not easy, and Lord Orchald, albeit a generous man, simply had not had the means to lure away any healers from such places as the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, to name just one. Who would come to such an unimportant nest as Halabor, unless they had a personal reason to do so?

At first, it had been very hard work. Mistress Crodergh was an herbalist, not a healer, even though she had learned a great deal from Echtge. Fortunately, at that time the Infirmary did not have such inmates yet who would live there permanently, for the lack of any close kin to take care for them, just the actually ill people who came and left as soon as they were healed. Thus she still had found the time to keep the herb gardens that they had planted together when Echtge had been hale, in a good shape. And when Mistress Dorlas, the midwife, and then young Mistress Angharad, a healer native to Halabor but trained in Lord Forlong’s town in Lossarnach, had joined her to work with the sick and the ailing, she finally could devote all her attention to her beloved gardens.

When she looked out of the window in these days – when the weather was mild enough to do so, that is – she could see the enclosed gardens within the walls of the Infirmary, separated by the small hut where she manufactured soaps and scented waters and other small pleasantries for the young townswomen’s delight. Most of the plants she had brought there in seeds from Lossarnach and from other, farther and more dangerous parts of Gondor – several trips to Ithilien came to her mind – and some she even grew in pots in the house ere she dared to set them out.

Secretly, she was certain that no other herb garden had the finery and variety her own ones did. She grew every manner of herbs here; from the common ones used in the local cuisine to rare examples, not widely known and good only for the making of medicine. Rue and sage grew here, rosemary and gilves, gramwell and ginger (the seed of which Lord Orchald had been generous to order for her from Dol Amroth), mint and thyme, columbine and herb of grace, savoury and mustard, basil and dill, parsley chervil, and marjoram.

These common herbs she allowed her young apprentice, sweet-faced Godith of fifteen summers, to work with alone. She had taught the girl all their uses but pointed out their dangers as well. For with herbs, one had to care for the right dosage. Too little would do no good, too much could kill a patient a lot faster than any disease could.

But in the other garden there were the beds where no-one was allowed to work without her presence, not even Mistress Angharad. Here she grew wild plants only she knew well enough to work with. Masterwort there grew, sticklewort and betony, maythen for the upset stomach and baldersbrow against swelling and itches, wild carrots to prevent blindness and bloodwort to treat ailments of the skin, coltsfoot against throat sores and swine-snort to ease kidney problems, ox-eye to treat bruises and for a lotion to treat chapped hands… and many, many more, even more dangerous ones. Few herbalists dared to grow wolfsbane in their own garden, although it made a good rubbing oil for aching old joints, as it could kill a grown man in mere moments. Or poppies, for pain medicine or for the lack of sleep.

The gardens were a small wonder to behold in summer, and now that they were lying complacently under ice and snow, waiting for the reawakening in springtime, the harvest, brought in in good time, surrounded Mistress Crodergh in her little realm with comforting familiarity. Linen bags of dried herbs were hanging from the eaves, jars of spiced cherry wine were sitting in rows in the unheated storeroom nearby, and the shelves were full of bottles and earthenware pots. With the help of Godith and Mistress Angharad, they had stocked up with medicines for all the ailments a cold winter could bring: sneezing and snuffling colds, seized-up joints and sore or wheezing chests. They had arranged everything so that whatever could not be prepared in advance, they would be able to make freshly, whenever the need arose. And with a dozen old people residing in the Infirmary full time, that need would arise sooner or later.

Mistress Crodergh knew that many of the townspeople, and even more so the superstitious folks living on the farmsteads, thought that she was some sort of witch. A good one, most likely, but a witch nevertheless, whose knowledge often frightened them. The fact that she was a wrinkled old hag beyond her seventy-eighth summer did not help things, either. Foolish men often mistook high age and a withered face for evilness. But here in the Infirmary, living among like-minded people, she was safe and respected – and allowed to continue her work as long as her crackling old bones let her. What else could she wish for?

A hesitant knock on the door brought her back from the meandering thoughts of an old mind. At her call, the door opened for a crack, and the tousled head of little Edwy peeked in shyly.

“May I come in, Mistress?” asked the boy. He had an enormous respect for the herb-mistress and was always a little frightened when he had to speak to her directly.

“Of course, my lad, come in and close that door,” said Mistress Crodergh kindly. She genuinely liked the boy who had lost his parents at the age of barely one year and was now in the ward of his only surviving kin, the good, though slow-witted Meurig, the Infirmary’s helping hand. Meurig worked on the crop fields of the Infirmary, outside the walls, but he also helped moving the patients who could not move on their own any loner, and he cut the wood for all the hearths in the house. Edwy did small tasks suited for his size and ran errands for the healers, and both were content with their lives.

“How are you doing, my lad?” asked the herb-mistress gently. “Is your coughing getting easier? You know, if the radish syrup does not help, we must try the onion tea.”

Edwy made a wry face, for while radish syrup was disgustingly sweet, even for a boy with a definite sweet tooth, onion tea was downright vile. Yet no other concoction helped with stubborn coughs so quickly and so thoroughly.

“I am doing better, honestly,” he assured beseechingly. “I even slept through the night yestereve, for the first time.” He blushed profoundly and placed a small earthenware pot, covered with a tin plate, onto the old woman’s table. “I brought you these. Mistress Lendar made them for the old people in the Infirmary, and gave me a few to my supper.”

Mistress Crodergh lifted the cover a bit and sniffled at the scent wafting against her.

“Cinnamon apples?” she asked in delight.

Cinnamon, like all spices coming from Harad, was expensive, and usually the Infirmary could never afford it. However, when Mistress Angharad had sold the Drunken Boat, after the passing of her grandmother, she had kept the late Pharin’s impressive stock of spices, and sometimes she allowed Lendar, the cook of the house, to use them.

“Yestereve was the inbreak of winter,” explained Edwy shyly. “Mistress Angharad said ‘tis an important day, so the old people should have something good. And Mistress Lendar saved a few of the apples for me, as I was too ill to go down to eat in the evening.”

“But if she gave you these apples, why do you bring them to me?” asked Mistress Crodergh.

Edwy blushed again. “I… I wanted to thank you. For healing my cough… and for telling me stories. I like stories, but Meurig cannot tell any, and no-one else here has the time.”

The old woman was deeply touched by the selfless offer of the ever-hungry child. Cinnamon apples were something special, even for adults – sharing them was a great sacrifice for little Edwy.

“You know what?” she said. “We shall sit down by the chimney, where ‘tis nice and warm, and share your apples. What say you?”

Edwy said naught, just nodded eagerly, several times in a row. And thus the old hag and the young lad sat down comfortably at the chimney, throning on several flat, worn pillows, and shared the baked apples that were filled with crushed nuts and raisins, and the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon filled the little room, making this simple evening a precious feast.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Mistress Crodergh, little Edwy and his uncle Meurig died in the destruction of Halabor; so did their patients and Mistress Lendar, the cook. Mistress Angharad and Godith escaped to Lossarnach.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: Teens, for this part. War-induced violence and disturbing images in flashbacks.

Author’s note: Balg is a German word and means a bastard child. I adopted it because it sound more old-fashioned than bastard.

Day Eight -- The One-Armed Warden

One of the strangest discoveries that Belegorn the Warden had made in the fifty-five years of his existence so far was the fact that an arm that one did not have any longer could still hurt. As if missing a limb would not be bad enough. The unfairness of it still angered him, even after eleven years. So long had it been since he had lost his shield-arm below the elbow. Since he had had to give up the only life he had known, that of a soldier, to begin a new one.

He had been used to a harsh life – what else could the fatherless balg of a street whore have known? Born on the street in the lowest circle of Minas Tirith and forced to take care of himself from the age of nine, he had known little else than hunger, filth, cold – and bitter fights, with nails and teeth for every half-rotten piece of food that might have been thrown away by more fortunate inhabitants.

Small for his age and almost frighteningly thin due to permanent malnourishment, he would probably have died very young, if not for Master Ciryon, the head messenger of the City, who had been looking for new errand boys all the time to replace the ones grown out from service – or killed in the line of duty. For messengers led a dangerous life. They had to follow the captains and knights of the City, riding back and forth between Minas Tirith and whatever battlefield the troops were fighting on, not caring for their own lives or those of their comrades, for the messages needed to get to the Steward and back to the troop leaders.

What Master Ciryon had seen in him Belegorn could not guess to the present day. But he had been – and still was – eternally grateful to get away from the street, to have a roof above his head and a warm meal in his stomach each day, and presentable clothing on his thin body. He could learn to ride and to use a knife – the only weapon the messenger boys carried on their errands.

He had served three years with the messengers, and when he had turned sixteen, his way led straight to the armed troops, for what other choice did he truly have? The troops were the only family he knew, and the barracks his only home, and all the lads he had served with were his friends, comrades and brothers.

As a native to the City, He was sent to the troops in Osgiliath, right after finishing his training. And there he had served faithfully twenty-nine years long. Until that fateful day that changed everything.

The attack did not come unexpected. The Orcs had been testing their defences for several weeks by then, but never before had they managed to break through their lines. Many good men had died in that night. His best friend, Amlath, was nearly one of them. Few hoped that the healers would be able to save his leg, as it was broken on several places when he got buried under his dead horse. But the healers worked true wonders in the Houses of Healing, and after a while Amlath did recover, against all hope.

Belegorn had not thought much of his own wound at first. All knew that Orc arrows were poisoned, but no-one would worry that much about Orc bites. The foul creatures usually did not bite their opponents – not as long as those could still defend themselves, that is. Yet this Orc, cornered and outnumbered and his sword broken, had used the only means remaining to him: his fangs. His jagged and rotten fangs that had been sharp enough to splitter the bones in Belegorn’s forearm.

The healers cleaned the wound and set the bones, placing the broken arm in a sling and sending Belegorn on his way. A broken arm was not a rare thing among soldiers and should have healed on its own if not over-extended.

Yet Belegorn’s arm did not heal properly. It became infested, mayhap from the filth that had got into the wound from the Orc’s teeth and could not be removed, despite the healers’ best efforts. The arm had swollen on thrice its normal size and become shiny, dark red and unbearably hot. Belegorn had been running a high fever by then, wailing deliriously, and was very clearly near to death. Thus the healers saw no other way out than sacrifice the offended arm to save – if he was very fortunate – perhaps his life.

He was very fortunate, after all. The infection had not spread to his upper arm yet, and his blood stream could be purged from the poison. But there he stood, with only one arm, without a chance to earn a living. All he had ever known how to do properly was to fight. And with only one arm, he could not be a soldier any longer.

He was still recovering a year later, desperate about his future and slowly using up his meagre savings, when Henderch’ call reached him. Him and Amlath, that is, who was in a similar situation. Henderch, freshly retired from soldiering, also because of a crippling injury, had been invited to organize the defences of a small fishing town near Cair Andros, and he wanted some of his old, war-probed comrades to come and help him.

Belegorn had never been to Halabor before, but as soon as he had walked through Nurria’s Gate for the first time, he felt as if he had come home. Halabor had a homely, almost serene air about it, something that he who had known naught but the streets of Minas Tirith and the barracks of Osgiliath found most endearing. And Lord Orchald was like a father to his Wardens – something he had not known before, either.

When he found out that Lord Orchald also wanted his Wardens to marry the young widows of the town and help them raising their orphaned children, he was terrified at first. He had never known true family. But as he watched Amlath with his newly-wed wife and his foster children, a quiet yearning began to grow in his heart, too. A yearning for a home, for warmth – for love that was different from the paid service in the cheap pleasure houses in the lowest circle of Minas Tirith.

And one day, when he met Lothhael, her with the gentle hands and the sweet face and quiet strength, he knew he had found the one he had been looking for all his life.

They had been married for almost ten years by now. It had not always been easy, for Belegorn did not know how to treat small children at first, and had had to learn that what worked with young soldiers would not always work with the little rascals. But as time went by, he had slowly learned how to be a father, even though Lothhael and he had no children together, tot heir great regret. The healers blamed an old injury of his for that, but could not help.

Still, life was good to him. He had a home, a family, he could still protect his people, in spite of having only one arm, and the townsfolk respected him and his fellow Wardens.

If only his missing arm would cease causing him any more pain. But again, that was a small price for all that he had gained.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Belegorn died in 3008, defending Halabor against the Orc attack. Lothhael made it out of the town with her children. She never remarried, though.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: Teens, for this part. Disturbing images in flashbacks.

Day Nine – The Weaponsmith’s Wife

Supper was always a magnanimous affair in the ironsmith’s house, where four generations lived under the same roof, and sometimes, when the whole clan gathered together, more than thirty people sat around the huge oakwood table of the solar. As the men worked in the forge from morning to early evening, supper was also the main meal of the day, prepared and served – and devoured – with proper attention. Directing the complicated task was Mistress Tamsyn, the Master Smith’s wife, and it was done with the help of her daughter Keverne, her daughter-in-law Sabra, her granddaughters and the wives of her grandsons.

Delbaeth, the “fire-maker”, was one of those grandsons’ wives. She had got her unusual name from her father, a wandering cutler and swordsmith, whom she had used to help with his work when she was very young. Her parents practically lived on their wain, travelling from town to town, village to village or farmstead to farmstead, save in winter, when thy stayed on the one or other farmstead, trading their help for food and lodging, which was most of the time the hay attic above a stable. She had never known any other home ‘til she had turned fifteen.

In that particular year, her parents were heading for Halabor’s autumn fair when they ran into a band of raiding Easterlings. These had crossed the River to plunder the farmsteads scattered along the western bank. The plunderers had killed Delbaeth’s parents and had very nearly raped her to death. She had been found by the Wandering Elves of Gildor Inglorion and saved by Erinti, one of their healers. The Elves had then brought her to Halabor and left her in the care of Mistress Dorlas, the local midwife, who was raising another orphaned young girl already.

Delbaeth had lived with Mistress Dorlas and young Godith in the Square House, the former watchtower of the Old port, for almost two years. During this time, she happened to meet Selyv, the Master Smith’s grandson, a journeyman in his grandsire’s forge and a promising weaponsmith already. They fell in love, and although Mistress Tamsyn was not pleased with Selyv’s choice, they got married, after nearly a year of courtship.

‘Twas not so that Mistress Tamsyn would blame Delbaeth for the horrible fate she had suffered. Nay, the matron of the smithy was sympathetic and even supportive of the poor girl, and honestly so. But she thought her grandson could have chosen better. There were lovely daughters from respected craftsmen’s families who would have married Selyv gladly. Good, honest lasses, some with a trade of their own, but always with proper dowries, who had not been soiled already. She wished Delbaeth only the best – as long as it happened outside her own family.

Still, Delbaeth knew that she had been fortunate. Mistress Tamsyn might not approve, but that was only shown by the occasional raised eyebrow. She did not treat Delbaeth any differently than she would treat Eala, Ruan’s newly wedded wife, or her own granddaughter, Kea. And thus the others accepted Delbaeth, too.

The birth of her little daughter, Thola, two years ago, had come like an unexpected gift from Nurria, the lady of the pastures, herself. She had not hoped that she would be able to bear children at all, but it seemed that Elven healers knew things mere mortal did not. Or mayhap the russet-haired, green-eyed Erinti had used some Elven magic on her that only Wood-Elves could use. In any case, she was grateful.

Sometimes memories of that long gone day came back in the night to haunt her. She could feel the agony of being violated, again and again, ‘til she was little more than raw meat… the shame, the desperation… and, finally, the complete withdrawal of her self, watching that which was being done to her broken shell with cold detachment. And she woke up from those nightmares not screaming and sweating as one would think, but numb and unfeeling like a log. On those days, she would not bear the touch of Selyv, nor could she stay in the Master Smith’s house. She had to flee to the Infirmary, to hide in old Mistress Crodergh’s gardens for a while, ‘til the memory of the Elves would return.

She had not seen them again, for Elves seldom set foot into the dwellings of men, but she often dreamed about them. She even had known one of them from earlier, a tall and willowy Elf, dark-haired and grey-eyed. An Elf by the name of Bruithwir, who was a smith, and who had been a friend of her grandfather’s.

‘Twas a strange thing to imagine, as the old man had died when she was only four, and he had been old, wrinkled and hunchbacked already. Yet Elves did not age, and thus Bruithwir had remained youthful-looking and fair like a clear summer evening, unchanged every time they ran into each other. Her father said that the Elf had not looked any differently in his childhood, either.

The memory of Elves helped her every time when the horrid dreams came. The memory of their beautiful faces, noble and serene and almost translucent in their paleness. The way they moved noiselessly and seemingly without any effort. The touch of their slender hands, so gently and fleeting like a soft breeze upon her battered flesh. And their voices… they sounded like singing already when they only spoke, but when they were singing… There was nothing that could be compared with that.

She never understood what they were singing about, as they sang in their own tongue. But it sounded – and even felt – like soft spring rain upon the charred earth. It cleansed and healed one’s heart.

“Dreaming of Elves again?” the familiar voice of her husband asked from behind her back, and she turned around and found herself in Selyv’s embrace.

“I was remembering their music,” she replied, smiling. “I wish you had heard it. ‘Twas naught else in the world. I wonder where they might be right now.”

“On the road, as always. That is Wandering Elves for you,” said Selyv laughing and kissed her brow. “Come now, dearest, we must be on our way now, too. Grandmother would not approve if we were late for supper. Besides, I am famished.”

“When are you not?” teased Delbaeth, for indeed, her husband did have a very healthy appetite.

But he was also right. Mistress Tamsyn would be most displeased, were they not at the table in time. And it was very unwise to displease the Master Smith’s wife. Particularly in the time of Foreyule,

Thus Delbaeth smiled and followed her husband to the solar, to join the rest of the family.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Delbaeth made it out of Halabor, with her daughter Thola, her sister-in-law Kea and with Mellof, the Master Smith’s son. No-one else of the family survived.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Ten – The Fishmonger’s Widow

While many people in and around Halabor tended to think that old Mistress Crodergh, the herb-woman of the Infirmary, was a witch, they usually agreed that she was, at least, a benevolent one who meant it well with her fellow townspeople. There was no disagreement whatsoever, though, that if anyone in town was absolutely evil, that was the widow Rhybwrast, the wife of the late fishmonger Maddan.

Everyone had been properly impressed at first when Maddan returned from a boat trip to Minas Tirith, some fifty-five years ago, and brought with him his newly wed wife. Rhybwrast, then young and quite comely, was of Dúnadan blood – at least partially – even if only the daughter of a simple boatsman: tall and dark-haired, with eyes as grey and as cold as ice.

All the people in the Old Port were wondering what had made her marry the fishmonger, who was wealthy enough compared with other townsfolk, but surely not part of the so-called “better people”, to whom she so obviously wanted to belong. Although a respected member of the Merchants’ Guild, Maddan still belonged to the Old Port, with the boat-makers, ropers, barrel-makers, net-makers and fishermen, not to the circle of wealthy merchants who lived in the streets around the Marketplace and led a refined life Rhybwrast could only dream of.

It took her a long time to understand that, and even longer to accept  it… as much as she could accept it at all. The disappointment made her a bitter and haughty woman, who was trying to appear more refined and nobler that she actually was, all her life… and failing.

She hammered the same unpleasant manners into her son, Madron, who took over the fish-selling business after his father’s untimely death, at a quite young age. Rhybwrast had hoped to achieve through her son what she had been unable to achieve through her husband, and so she negotiated Madron’s first marriage with Veldicca, the daughter of a rich merchant from Belfalas, and when they wed, Rhybwrast felt that now mayhap they would rise in wealth and respect, after all the throwbacks of the previous years.

She still felt an almost proprietary pride when she thought of the lovely Veldicca, who had ruled Madron’s house like a true lady. Oh, those had been good years! The house looked like that of the well-to-do merchants in town, and with her dowry, Madron could have a strong and fast little cargo ship made, with which one could travel as far down as Pelargir in record time. Trade used to be lively in those days, not the least thanks to the contacts of Veldicca’s father, and Madron was considered the most influential man in the Port.

Alas that Veldicca had to die so young, catching a bad cold in that miserable Warehouse while overseeing the incoming goods she had ordered! And the more pity that she had to die childless, so that Rhybwrast had to put up with the get of her second daughter-in-law, that unworthy wretch.

Rhybwrast would have loved to choose a second wife for her only son very carefully, just as she had done with the first one. But Madron was anxious to have heirs and not willing to wait. Thus he practically bought the then fourteen-year-old Ogarmach, one of nine children of a poor farmer, to be his unpaid housemaid and the mother of his children. Rhybwrast fought his son’s intention bitterly, considering the lowly-born child bride a shame for her family, but when Madron made up his mind, there was no use arguing with him – a trait that he very obviously inherited from his mother.

The fact that Ogarmach worked from sunrise to sunset and gave birth to seven children during the seventeen years of their marriage never made Rhybwrast soften towards her sister-in-law. She hated and despised the young woman, blaming her for the deaths of the three youngest children, none of which lived longer than a few days. No matter how often the healers pointed out that Ogarmach was not the cause of those deaths – in no other way than by being overworked and malnourished and mistreated all the time – Rhybwrast would not listen.

To think that Mistress Dorlas dared to say that Rhybwrast should be more understanding, as she had lost four of her children as well, right after birth! That disrespectful wench of a midwife actually had the cheek to compare her situation with that useless wife of her son’s! And even her own daughter fuelled those infamous accusations that she, the daughter of a Dúnadan from Minas Tirith, would mistreat that lowborn serving woman! Had she not always been more than generous to that… that peasant?

What a bitter disappointment Moriath had been! Her own daughter, marrying Madron’s only rival, just to make her family miserable. And taking the side of Ogarmach against Madron and her own mother every time! Rhybwrast often asked herself why the Valar had punished her with such a daughter. One that would turn against her own flesh and blood.

For even though Madron had managed to remain the wealthier of the two, Nechtan’s business had grown steadily in the last ten years, and he was now doing almost as well as Madron himself. Not doubt due to Moriath’s treachery, who had lured quite a few fishermen over to work for Nechtan. She had even persuaded some of her father’s old trading partners in other towns to make their business with Nechtan, instead of Madron. That faithless person!

Rhybwrast was deeply disappointed with her daughter’s choices indeed. As much as she was disappointed with her son, who had taken a lowly farm girl into his – into their – house. Just to have a kennel of unworthy children with her. Children that turned on their father to protect that useless mother of theirs, whenever they could.

Well, at least Madron understood that his disrespectful sons needed a firm hand. He had the brats work hard for the food he wasted on them, allowing only that weak and sickly daughter of his to stay at home with her mother. Rhybwrast was annoyed to have another mouth to feed in the house, when the owner of said mouth promised little to no use for the family, but she knew it was only a temporary problem.

She will die in a year or two anyway, she thought with dark satisfaction, for she considered her six-year-old granddaughter a personal affront. She has the wasting sickness, even if that useless healer cannot recognize it. She will die, and so fate will, mayhap her mother will not survive giving birth next time, either. Then Madron can finally take a wife who would be his true match; someone strong and wealthy and respected.

With those dark hopes, she gathered her needlework and retired to her chamber on the second floor of her house. For it was hers, first and foremost, no matter what sort of woman was warming Madron’s bed. She was old, beyond the seventieth mark, but she was of Dúnadan blood. She would survive all those wenches. In this house, she was the ruling power.

In the solar, the almost painfully thin Ogarmach was gently rocking her ailing daughter in her arms. She felt almost bodily relief as her mother-in-law left the room, relieving them from her malevolent presence. The thought of another feast spent in soundless hostility made her feel sick. At least her sons would be at home for Yule, once again. Madron would never risk his precious ship in such harsh weather. Not while the days were so short.

She sighed and kissed little Miorog on the brow. Her husband might be heartless and her mother-in-law hateful, but at least her children loved her and would never abandon her. And in the night of Yule, they would be a family again. Even if part of that family was evil.

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

Note: The entire family of the fishmonger Madron – and that of his rival Nechtan as well was killed during the Orc-raid in 3008.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: The mentioned practices going with childbirth were used in the Middle Ages in almost the same way.

Day Eleven – The Newborn

Mistress Dorlas, the midwife of Halabor, pulled the heavy, hooded woollen cloak tighter around herself as she hurried down the Street of the Jewellers, towards the warehouse clerk Jutus’ house. She had to be careful, as the street was covered with ice, and it would do her – or her patient – no good if she slipped and broke a bone. Still, she made the best speed possible under the circumstances, as poor Cithruadh had been overdue for quite some time with her third child, and based on earlier signs, she was expecting complications with the birth.

Rarely did it happen that Mistress Dorlas would be called to someone from her late uncle’s family. That was the fault of her aunt, Sulicena, who could never forgave Old Craban that he had moved into his late brother’s abandoned cottage. Not that she would have need of the cottage for herself or for her children. They all lived in much bigger and better houses. But Sulicena was a greedy woman who would not grant the old man such a small favour, and both her children were pretty much the same.

Thus contact between Mistress Dorlas and her uncle’s family were sparse at best. Jutus, however, Cithruadh husband, was a calm and sober man, who cared little for petty bickering within the family. All he cared for was the well-being o his wife and his children, and so he had asked for Dorlas’ help by the birth of their first child already, then by the second one, and now by the third one as well.

Dorlas would never refuse her help from anyone, and truth be told, she welcomed the chance to have friendlier contact with the younger generation. Still, she was glad that Cithruadh and her family lived in town and not with her parents. That way, Dorlas did not have to enter her cousin’s house and face the fruitless hostility of her aunt.

When she entered Jutus’ house, the laying-in chamber had already been prepared for the labour. As men were generally excluded from there, at least until the birth of the child, Cithruadh was assisted by her sister Duatha, her sister-in-law Manissa, and her cousin’s wife, Bodhmall, all of whom were roughly of her age.

Following local custom, the large room next to the kitchen served as the laying-in chamber, so that the helpers would have enough space to move around. Usually, this room served as the solar – the living room of the family – as the cupboard exhibiting their finest possessions revealed. As Justus was not a wealthy man, the displayed items were limited to a few silver cups, some enamelware and a dozen or so finely bound books. Dishes of sugared almonds and candied fruits were already set out for the visitors who would no doubt come to congratulate once the child had been born.

The helpers, however, were not interested in sweet treats at the moment. The labour had apparently set on already; so all three women were gathered around the bed worriedly. Cithruadh was in a poor shape, and the labour seemed a difficult one.

“How long has she been at it?” asked Mistress Dorlas, opening her healer’s bag and placing a small flask of ointment onto the mantelpiece to warm it up a little. It was a concoction made of tansy leaves, juniper oil, dried maythen and baldersbrow blooms and several other ingredients known to old Mistress Crodergh alone.

“Six hours,” answered Duatha quietly. The midwife’s brows knotted in annoyance.

“Six hours? And you never thought of sending for me?”

“We wanted to,” said Bodhmall defensively, “but Cithruadh would not let us. She said everything was going well, and that she would not need you just yet. She was in labour for days with her other children as well.”

“One of which did not survive birth, even though it was lying in the right way,” pointed out Mistress Dorlas in exasperation. “Have I not told you to call me at once when the labour sets in? Or do you believe I know not what I am talking about? I have been the midwife of this town for twenty-two years, you ought to listen to me!”

The young women looked properly scolded, but she could not waste more time with them. Cithruadh did not look too well, and if they could not make the child turn in her womb, the outcome would be disastrous. Despite Dorlas’ vast knowledge and her best efforts, childbirth was still the greatest hazard in a woman’s life, and Cithruadh had always had a difficult birth, for she was more narrowly built than most women.

“Loosen her hair and remove the pins,” ordered the midwife, taking the warmed ointment from the mantelpiece and rubbing it onto her patient’s belly to ease her travail. “We cannot afford to open doors or windows in this weather, but open all drawers and cupboards in the house, and untie all knots. There must be naught that is bound, knotted or closed in this room. Manissa, do you have the herbs I have sent with little Edwy earlier today?”

The woman in question nodded and presented the linen bag eagerly.

“Brew some tea then,” said Mistress Dorlas. “We shall try to make the baby turn.” She needed not to add what would happen, should they fail. Every woman in the room – including the one in labour – knew it all too well.

This the herbal tea was brewed, and more ointment was rubbed onto Cithruadh’s belly, and Mistress Dorlas encouraged her with comforting words during her tiring efforts. A jasper was placed in one of her hands – the gemstone credited with childbirth-assisting powers, among other magical abilities – and the dried right foot of a crane into the other one. Personally, Mistress Dorlas doubted the use of the latter aid very much, but most women believed in it, and she had learned to respect the powers of such beliefs. In the end, it did not count whether a certain item did have any magical powers or not, as long as the patients believed it did.

Four more hours later, when Cithruadh had reached the limits of her vaning strength, the midwife finally felt some heavy movement under her hands that were soothingly rubbing her patient’s belly. Could it be… aye, it definitely was…

“The baby is turning,” she said, and the women who were whispering pleas to Nurria, the lady of the pastures, laughed joyously. Duatha ran to the kitchen to boil water, so that they could wash both the baby and the mother afterwards. Manissa laid out the towels, blankets and linen wraps onto the table. Bodhmall fetched the salt and the honey that would be necessary after the baby was born.

Even with the baby now turned into the right position, it needed another hour to be born, for Cithruadh was utterly exhausted and had barely enough strength left to push. Fortunately, the midwife knew how to help her, applying just the right amount of pressure to guide the baby through the almost too tight birthing channel.

It came to the world with the navel cord wrapped around its neck and already blue from the lack of breath, but still alive – a little girl with a crumpled face and barely a few wisps of russet hair on her head. Mistress Dorlas quickly freed her from the suffocating naval cord, tying it and cutting it at four finger’s length. Then she patted the little back, not too gently, to start the breathing, and the baby opened her mouth to a weak, toothless cry.

“Very good,” said Mistress Dorlas relieved, “she will live, after all. She is a strong little girl, it seems. Now, let us wash her and wrap her properly.”

While Manissa and Bodhmall were washing the mother and changing her nightshift and bedlinens, the midwife, with Duatha’s help, washed the baby and rubbed her all over with salt to keep the wights that would cause illnesses away. Then she gently cleansed the baby’s palate and gums with honey, to give her an appetite. After having dried the little morsel with fine linen, Duatha and Dorlas wrapped her tightly in swaddling bands, lest her tender limbs be twisted out of shape – for a girl that would be a great disadvantage later. As a result, the baby looked not unlike a little corpse in a winding sheet, but that disturbed no-one, as this was the common practice with newborns in these lands.

As the mother had been washed and made presentable in the meantime, Manissa now allowed the proud father and the rest of the family to enter. Jutus beamed when the midwife laid the tightly wrapped baby into his arms. Two sons they already had, and he was delighted to have now a daughter, after his wife’s unfortunate miscarriage last year.

“Do you have a name?” asked Dorlas, when everyone had had the chance to see the newborn and make all the excited noises that were generally made by such occasions.

“Branwen,” said Jutus, “after my mother. We agreed to name the baby after her, should it be a girl.”

“A lovely name for a lovely child,” agreed the midwife. “But now, out with you – all of you! The baby and her mother need to rest. You can visit them tomorrow again.”

The family left reluctantly – especially the two boys, Iantho and Cynan, were loath to leave the new sister behind, without having had the chance to play with her a little – and Mistress Dorlas place the baby in the wooden cradle next to Cithruadh’s bed. It stood in a shadowy corner, where the light could not hurt the baby’s eyes. Duatha pulled out a stool and sat near the cradle to watch over the new family member.

“Rock her lightly,” instructed her the midwife, “so that the hot, moist humours of her body can mount to her brain and make her sleep. She must be nursed, bathed and changed every three hours, and rubbed with rose oil.”

These instructions were almost unnecessary, as both Cithruadh and her helpers were experienced mothers, with several childbirths behind them. But Mistress Dorlas always found that it was helpful to remind people of such simple facts, for they tended to forget something important in all the excitement.

“You must rest and sleep well,” she warned Cithruadh. “And hold back with work for a while; you are weakened considerably. Watch your diet – eat white bread, good meat, lettuce, almonds and hazelnuts, and drink good wine. Should your milk fail, peas and beans will help, as well as gruel boiled in milk. Avoid onions, garlic, vinegar and highly seasoned foods. I do not foresee any further complications, but should anything occur, send for me – or for Mistress Angharad – at once!”

Cithruadh promised to follow all her instructions, and so the midwife took her leave from the happy family, receiving her payment from Jutus on her way out. Her heart was light and so was her mood, as she walked across the town towards her home in the Old Port. For though the shadows were growing in the outside world, at least the light of a new life shone brightly in the darkness of Foreyule. And a new life always meant new hope, no matter in what dark times they were living.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Mistress Dorlas escaped the destruction of Halabor and lived out her life in Lossarnach with her father, Old Craban. No-one else of their extended family survived, though.

Next update - and hopefully the beta-ed versions - on Dec. 12.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Twelve – The Beer-Seller

Just like the waterfront Warehouse, the alehouse to The Old Sailor was a relict from Halabor’s better days – and fully showed it. Built in the days when the New Port was still in full business, the alehouse was a small, two-story building, with a few trees on one side, weatherworn, and in desperate need of a new roof. Alas, Gennys did not have the spare coin for that, even though Madern, the roofer, offered him a more than fair price. But Gennys had only bought the then-abandoned alehouse some nine years ago, and there were more important things that demanded his attention – and his money – than a leaking roof, no matter how unpleasant it was.

A third son never had it easy in a family, not even in a well-to-do one. His eldest brother, Sydnius, inherited the Riverside Inn from their father and was thus secured a good and steady income, even if it required hard work. His other brother, Merryn, inherited the carter business from their grandsire and had no worries about his living either. For Gennys, there was nothing left to inherit. He could either work for one of his brothers, or he could try to build up something of his own.

He chose the latter, and – after having discussed his options (which were not numerous, truth be told) with Sydnius – he decided to re-open the alehouse in the New Port. Even though the Port had lost most of its importance, there were still boatmen who came in with the merchants hips, and there were the workers of the Warehouse, who would welcome a keg of good ale and a warm meal of a long, hard day of work. And if he placed a gambling table or two in the taproom, mayhap he would gather a steady clientele in time.

Sydnius found the idea sound and promised his help with acquiring the old building, which – even in its desolate state – cost more than Gennys would have been able to pay. It belonged to the Merchants’ Guild, and they demanded a price that, while not ridiculously high, was still beyond Gennys’ reach. Sydnius was willing to pay the difference – as the head of the clan, it was his responsibility to take care of the younger family members – but he wanted his brother to learn the craft of beer and ale-brewing first, so that he could sell his own beverages. And he wanted Gennys to have a steady source for the crop from which to brew said beer. For he intended to have Gennys’ beer in the inn as well, and he wanted the amount he would need to be delivered any given time.

Thus Gennys turned to Cathan, a local farmer, who was known to brew a very good beer. He worked on the farmstead for two years as a helping hand, with Sydnius paying the apprentice fee, so that he would learn not only how beer and ale was made, but also how the right sort of crop was grown for the beverage.

Like most of the local farmers, Cathan and his wife, Lovercham, had more children than they could feed. Thus they were all too happy to take the wealthy innkeeper’s brother as an apprentice, and equally happy to marry off their daughter, Cardith, at the tender age of sixteen to the thirteen-years-older Gennys, to ensure that the beer-seller would hire his helping hands from the family, once he opened his business.

Shortly after the wedding, Gennys bought the alehouse with his brother’s help, and he began a life between running the alehouse, brewing his own beer and ale in the low wooden building behind the house, trying to patch up his home that was failing in several places, and feeding his family and his servants at the same time. Although family and servants were practically the same thing, as everyone who worked for him belonged to his wife’s family.

Many nay-sayers expected him to fail, before all Sulain, the wine-seller, and Clemow, the wine-crier, who feared that their small taverns would lose customers to him. But against all hope, The Old Sailor prevailed, and even became slightly more profitable with every passing year. By selling beer and ale to The Drunken Boat, Gennys could even set some coin aside to begin paying back Sydnius’ loan, and when he entered the common room now, he felt righteous pride. This was the place that he had rebuilt with his own two hands, and though still in his mid-thirties, he could call himself his own master. How many third sons could say that?

True, he still had not paid off his debts entirely. Also true, that the outer walls of the ale-house looked old, to put it mildly, and had not been re-stained since the reopening, turning mottled brown and grey from years in weather wear. True, the roof was leaking in several places, and Cardith had to lace tin washing basins in the attic to keep the water from leaking through the ceiling of the living quarters. He knew all that and was even a little ashamed about it. But he had to deal with first things first, and the common room and quarters did come first.

At least he could rightly be proud of the main business area. Dochou, the stone mason, and Thei, the carpenter, did excellent work with repairing the hearth and the furniture of the taproom that had been neglected for too long. So long, in fact, that Gennys had feared they would be beyond help already. But Thei fell in love with the beautifully made old pieces – according to family legend, they were made by one of his forefathers – and was even willing to do the work as a loan. That meant for Gennys that he would have to pay off another debt, but what other choice would he have? He could not welcome his customers in an empty room.

And, in the end, the result was worth the effort. When he entered the taproom, he saw a large, welcoming hall with sturdy tables, positioned to fit in as many as possible, with room enough for the passage of little Belu, his wife’s twelve-year-old nephew, handing out tankards and bottles. The huge stone fireplace – large enough to crouch in, which Belu did sometimes, when it was not too hot yet – dominated the end of the room beyond the tables, and spent warmth for the entire house.

The counter on the left was Gennys’ personal realm – a half-circle of dark-tanned oak, shining from years of polishing and the grease of patrons' hands as they were leaning against it through the evenings. Here he had the barrels of freshly-brewed ale and beer, and even some mead, made by his good friend the honey-maker. As much as he would like, he could not afford to serve any really strong beverages, like juniper spirit or hazelnut liquor, for they were too expensive. But his customers seemed content enough with what he could offer. He even had a few patrons from within the town or from the Castle. Townsfolk with any Rohirric blood in their veins were very fond of mead and ale, and they feared not the short walk to The Old Sailor.

Knowing how fond the people of Rohan were of board games, Gennys had the table by the front window, nearest the fire, removed to make room for two small gambling tables. As he now glanced over the counter, he could see Folcwalda, the saddle-maker, immersed in a game of hlatafl with Folcmar, one of Lord Orchald’s Castle Guards. Despite the age difference of twenty-six years and the lack of any blood bond between them, the two Rohirrim had a definite similarity of looks, and they wore almost identical frowns as they leaned over the board with forty-nine holes for the twice twenty-two gaming pieces.

Many pieces had already been removed, both on the red on the white side. Red had nine pieces left, white seven. Whenever one of them would go down under five pieces, he would lose and the game would be over. Naturally, neither of them was willing to give up easily – this particular game had been going on for more than two hours by now.

Gennys shook his head tolerantly. He would never waste his time with gambling, nor could he keep all the rules in his head. But the Rohirrim could go on all night, supported by friends and family, and as they saw nothing wrong with their women following them to the ale-house and matching them tankard by tankard, those gambling nights had become Gennys’ favourites. They would play and drink and eat whatever fare he was serving, and then play and drink some more.

Sometimes, when they got really drunk, which happened rarely enough, as few could hold their ale like the Rohirrim, but it did happen, they would break the gambling table or the boards or the pieces or the dices. But as they always paid for the damage generously, this was no problem for Gennys. And Breach, the dice-maker, happily replaced the broken places – for the right price.

Most customers coming in for ale wanted to eat as well, thus food was provided. The household kitchen, which could be reached through a curtained door behind the counter, was the realm of Cardith, who worked here with the help of her thirteen-year-old niece, Aldith. They served simple fare: different sorts of stew or fish chowder, with herbs and spices. Bread they brought fresh from Mistress Eseld, the baker, every day. This meant additional costs, but Gennys did not want his young wife to work herself to an untimely death. T’was bad enough that she had miscarried twice after the birth of their son, Glein, now six years old. He genuinely loved Cardith and wanted to have a long life with her yet.

He wished he could offer her more than the only large room on the upper floor that they even had to share with their son. Although he knew that – compared with her home of old on her parents’ farmstead – their current living conditions still counted as a vast improvement. After all, their room, which was directly above the taproom, was well-furnished and had all the comforts of a simple home.

They had a double bed in one corner, with a plain posted canopy of linen curtains dyed in soft moss green. Heat from the kitchen fire travelled up the stone chimney in the other corner, warming the room nicely, even though it took some time for the wooden floor planks to lose their chill. A wardrobe of dark, polished wood and a similarly made cupboard stood against the wall across from the bed. A small table with two stools made of the same wood stood in front of the shuttered window. There did Gennys do his book-keeping, by the light of an oil lamp, and there Cardith did her needlework.

The room served as solar, bedchamber and nursery all in one, and that would most likely stay so. The two other rooms on the upper floor were the living quarters of the servants. Cardith’s brothers, Cathail and Cathal, who did most of the actual beer and ale-brewing, slept in the somewhat larger room with little Belu, the pot-boy, while young Aldith, their niece, had the smallest one alone.

As grateful as Gennys was for his oldest brother’s help, he actually felt more kinship with his wife’s family than with his own siblings. Mayhap t’was the two years he had spent on their farmstead, sharing their simple life and back-breaking work. Mayhap t’was the love they were still able to show each other, in spite of all hardships. Whatever the true reason might be, Gennys felt fortunate to have family ties to such good people, who had managed to keep their dignity and their joy in life, despite the difficulty of said life. And he was glad that now the alehouse helped the rest of the family to have a steady income, even if only a small one.

Little Belu hurried back to the counter, carrying half a dozen empty mugs in his hands, his pock-marked face sweaty and exhausted, yet his button-like eyes shining with excitement.

“Master Gennys, have you heard?” he asked, placing the empty mugs on the corner. “Master Jutus, the scribe from the Warehouse has a baby girl now! She was born last night.”

“Was she?” said Gennys, pleasantly surprised. Jutus was a good patron of his, if not an overly frequent one. “Where did you hear that?”

Belu pointed with his chin towards one of the tables where Dufgal, the other Warehouse clerk was sitting with some of the workers.

“Master Dufgal has just told the others,” the boy bounced in excitement. “I shall have a little brother or sister, too, soon. Mayhap before Yule. Or shortly thereafter.”

“That is good,” said Gennys, smiling. He knew, of course, that Cardith’s oldest sister was expecting her sixth child somewhen around Yule. “I deem you would like to go home with Cathal and visit your mother when the weather becomes less harsh.”

The eyes of the boy widened in pleasant surprise. “May I? May I truly?”

“Sure you may,” Gennys smiled. “For a day or two, we will manage without your help, I think.” He refilled the mugs and placed them on the counter again. “Now, do you still remember which one belonged to whom?”

Belu nodded eagerly. “Of course, Master Gennys.”

“That is good,” Gennys patted the tousled head of the boy affectionately. “Go then and bring them to our guests. They seem thirsty.”

Belu grinned and hurried away, carrying the heavy mugs with impressive ease. Gennys looked after him fondly. He liked the boy very much; Belu was a hard worker and had pleasant manners. Still, he looked a little thin for his age. Mayhap more food or a little more sleep would help.

In fact, they all could use some more sleep, the beer-seller mused, yawning discretely. T’was quite late already, and he felt tired. He looked forward to Yule, when they would keep the alehouse closed and have a quiet day in the close circle of the family. And what it he had only very small Yule gifts for everyone? It would be enough. They had each other, after all. And that was what truly mattered.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: From the beer-seller’s family only the two brothers of his wife, Cathail and Cathal, survived. Both fought with Lord Forlong’s men in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Cathail was slain. Cathal, though severely injured, survived. He married Ailne, the innkeeper’s daughter, and lived in Emyn Arnen, as a member of Prince Faramir’s White Company.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: I chose the 13^th of December for the chandler, because in the Catholic calendar this is the feast of St. Lucia, and Lucia means “light”. Not a Middle-earth reference, I know, but perhaps the Professor would appreciate it. The prayer is based on a litany of Taizé – very vaguely.

This part is dedicated to my wonderful beta, Lady Masterblott, who wanted to know more about the Old Folk.

Day Thirteen – The Chandler

Outsiders might have wondered why the Old Folk would celebrate the feast of Lugh’s Invoking so shortly before Yule, the longest night of the year. But what did outsiders know about the Old Faith? Even their Dúnadan lords, who had ruled them for three thousand years, knew little about how the Old Folk saw things, how they thought and what they believed. They were a secretive lot who liked to keep their thoughts to themselves.

In the Old Faith, the night of Yule was the feast of Lugh’s Awakening – the darkest night, in which the god of light would finally wake up from his long slumber and return to earth – and with him the light. But in the deepening darkness of Foreyule Lugh needed an invocation to awake in the right moment – and this invocation took place eleven days before Yule, in the middle of the night.

Which was the reason why the candles for Yule – special candles, made of the purest beeswax and enriched with rare spices, like cloves and cinnamon – had to be manufactured in this very night. In this one night, Cador was more than just a mere chandler. In this night he was a priest of the Old Faith – a faith that knew no priests otherwise.

He had his workroom on the ground floor of his house on the Marketplace, right behind the small store where he sold his candles and various other wax products. The room was not heated, save from a small oven on which various pots with tallow or dyed wax were standing, according to the most recent orders. The room had to be cold, for the candles to dry and harden faster, so that they could be either packed into small wooden crates or – in case they were wax candles for more festive occasions – painted and adorned afterwards. Right now, all the pots were filled with liquid wax. Customers wanted better candles for Yule.

A thin pole hung above the oven, with a double row of wick fastened on it. By turning a latch, the pole could be lowered, so that the individual length of wick would be dipped into the hot, liquid wax. Then with pushing the latch into the vertical position, they were pulled out again, covered with wax, and left hanging, so that the wax could harden. This process was repeated every ten minutes, ‘til the candles reached the required girth. Then they were cut from the pole, while the outer layer was still somewhat soft, rolled between two wooden paddles and stored on open shelves for at least one day, in the same unheated room.

This was one way to make candles... the slower, more refined way, although the dipping pole was easy to handle – so easy, indeed, that it was usually Cador’s fourteen-year-old daughter who worked with it. But wax could also be cast into tin forms, so that the result would be sculpted and scented candles or other items of wax: sea roses and small figurines that less wealthy people liked to give their loved ones as gifts. Tonight, however, Cador was going to make the hallowed Yule candles, entirely by hand, as they had been made as long as people’s memories could reach back.

His wife and two sons were sitting at the working table in the store, painting the already finished candles and gluing small glass beads or other tiny adornments on them with drops of hot wax. They had orders for festive candles from all over the town; there was much to do for the whole family. As Cador entered the store, Newellyn was coming in through the other door, bringing another crate full of candles from the workroom.

His oldest son, Briavel, rose from his stool seeing his father.

“’Tis time,” he said. “Everything has been prepared. We can begin at once.”

As the firstborn son, it was Briavel’s duty – and his right – to assist his father in this most sacred of tasks a chandler could perform. No-one else was allowed in the workroom ‘til the Yule candles had been finished, not even the rest of the family. Their presence would disturb the rite and put Lugh’s awakening at Yuletime to risk.

For the Yule candles, only the purest beeswax could be used, which was a costly thing. Fortunately, Cador’s sister had married into the family of the bee-keeper and honey-makers, and thus they could acquire the precious material at a friendly price. Also, Yule candles had to be dipped and rolled, layer by layer, by hand. The exact number of layers of wax was laid down by tradition and known by master chandlers only. This way the candles were less evenly proportioned, but it made them the more valuable, due to the long hours of hard work gone into them.

Cador and his eldest had worked all night. They could never make enough for each family in town, but few of them could afford such candles in any case. Thus they could set for the sacred number of three dozen and hope to sell them to the Castle and to well-to-do merchants and craftsmen who valued them very much. Even so, father and son could barely move their arms when they were done, and their backs threatened to break at any sudden turn.

The thirty-six candles, the same yardstick long each, rolled in gold powder every single one to symbolize the return of light, were finally standing on the shelf in three dense rows. They looked beautiful enough to stand in the enchanted mound of Lugh himself. Cador anointed each wick-point with spiced oil, so that they would burn brightly and easily, and adorned them with a tiny sprig of holly and mistletoe.

All they had to do was to perform the time-honoured ritual to invoke Lugh.

With the help of his tinderbox, Cador lighted the thirty-seventh candle; the one made first, for this very night, and placed it on the candlestick in the middle of the darkened room. This was now the only source of light in the entire house. Briavel went to fetch the rest of the family, for the final blessing required the presence of them all.

They came in with eager steps, led by Cador’s mother who would not miss such a rite for the world, in spite of the tearing in her old, rheumatic limbs. The family formed a circle, sitting on low stools around the candlestick, holding hands. As the eldest of the clan, matron Bouduca was the one to begin to sing the prayer that was as old as the Old Folk itself.

In our darkest night

Rekindle the light

That forever burns

That always returns

In the midst of winter

Under sunless skies.

They would sit there, holding hands and repeating the prayer under the candle burned down completely and the dawn broke. To ensure that Lugh would indeed awake in the night of Yule and the light would return. That had been the way of the Old Folk, from the dawn of time, and would remain as long as one of them lived in these lands.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: no-one from the chandler’s family survived the destruction of Halabor.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Fourteen – The Head Scribe

Odhrain had finished his work in the Warehouse and was on his way to the Town Hall now, to start working in his second function: as the book-keeper of the Merchants’ Guild. That was his daily routine, ever since the latest book-keeper, old Mistress Eryn, had been murdered for the coin kept in the Guild’s strongbox for daily expenses, some nine years ago. He regularly worked twelve to fourteen hours a day, but that did not bother him very much. The was no-one waiting for him, and he preferred the Warehouse or the office in the Town Hall to the small, bleak room he rented from the Guild in the very same Town Hall anyway.

Unlike the majority of the townsfolk, Odhrain was of Dúnadan descent – well, partially, at least. He was the base-born son of a local nobleman, and this fact was as much his curse as it was his pride.

His mother, who was of the Old Folk, had been a maidservant in the house of Lord Orchald’s bailiff, and like so many such, she bore her master a by-blow. Now, had said master been someone from the Old Folk, he would have maintained the mother decently until she died, and would have had Odhrain taken care of even given him employment in his manor outside the town. According to the customs of the Old Folk, a son was a son, whether in or out of marriage, and could even inherit from his sire. Most people – though not all – still respected this tradition.

In the eyes of the rulers, however, such a son was a bastard who had no rights whatsoever, unless his sire publicly accepted him – which Odhrain’s sire did not.

T’was well within his right to ignore a base-born son, even though such practice was heavily frowned upon – and not by the Old Folk alone. Lord Orchald, then a young man and as just as he was now, strongly disapproved of his bailiff’s actions. But Narmacil was a hard and haughty man, and his lady wife had a heart of stone, and neither of them wanted to have the proof of his weakness in their noble house.

Thus Odhrain’s mother was forced to leave, and she lived with her small child in an abandoned cottage of the New Port, taking whatever work sympathetic people offered her. Fortunately for them both, the school for penniless but talented boys was already founded in the Town Hall by then, with the intent to turn out clerks for the merchants’ and crafts’ guilds, the Warehouse, the few noble households in and around the city, and the town government.

In this school Odhrain came at the age of eight, his apprentice fee paid by Lord Orchald, who was outraged by his bailiff’s hard-heartedness, and there he was taught reading and writing, grammar, calculus, book-keeping and many other tasks useful for a clerk, for almost ten years. His natural pride, inherited from his Dúnadan ancestors, would not allow him to give any less than his best, even though he secretly despised his lowly tasks and dreamed of weapons training and of the life of a wealthy lord.

The Merchants’ Guild became aware of the tireless young clerk with the neat handwriting and the quick wits. They sent him to a higher school in Minas Tirith, where he would learn other languages and other means of writing, as well as more about numbers and how to use them. When he came home, in his mid-twenties, he spoke Rohirric, the Umbarian dialect of Haradric, Sindarin and even a little Quenya, and he could write not Angerthas and Tengwar only, but also the strange Haradric letters that were written with a fine brush, from the right to the left. He was clad like a lordling and behaved like one, too. He had even learned some basic swordplay, not as much as he would like, but enough to defend himself, should the need arise.

But all those achievements did not free him from his debts towards the Guild. He had to sign a contract that he would work for them for twenty years, in exchange for his costly education. That tied him to the Warehouse for the best years of his life, and when the contract was fulfilled, he stayed there of his own free will. Where else could he have gone? At least in the Warehouse, his authority was unquestioned. He might be a mere clerk, but the other clerks and the Warehouse workers feared him and obeyed him without a question. There, he was almost content. Almost.

‘Til the head of the Guild came in to control how things were going in the Warehouse. A lowly merchant with the blood of the cursed Haradrim in his veins, controlling him, the son of a local nobleman! Well, the balg of a local nobleman, at any rate. The longer he worked for the Guild the more bitterly did he hate Master Suanach, that filthy stranger, washed up the River from Pelargir. What did Suanach have that he did not?

He knew the answer, of course. Suanach and his band of half-Haradrim had wealth. Considerable wealth. More than anyone else in town. And wealth was the second best way to power, right after being a high-born Dúnadan.

Which was the second thing souring Odhrain’s mood regularly. To see his half-brother, the legitimate son of Narmacil in town, bearing all signs of his high birth and position – things that he, too, would have had the right to possess, according the customs of his mother’s people.

Their sire had died some fourteen years ago, and Peredur had taken over bailiff’s duties. They even ran into each other in the Town House, in town business with the Castle. They even looked very much alike… Those chance meetings were very awkward and only served to fuel Odhrain’s jealousy and bitterness – feelings he knew to be useless but could not suppress.

He sighed, turned the oil lamp higher and opened the record book of the Warehouse. This will be burning the midnight oil once again. The workload was brutal, and he had already wasted much time with brooding over things he could not change.

He was so immersed in his work that he did not hear the first knock on his office’s door at all. The second one still barely registered in his preoccupied mind, but he finally did recognize the third one.

“Come in,” he called, putting his quill aside in annoyance. The last thing he could use was some fool complaining about Guild fees or whatnot, when the work was growing over his head.

But the person who entered was a tall, imposing, richly clad nobleman, with a sword on his side. Dark-haired and grey-eyed, with a hawkish face and a neatly trimmed, short beard. His own mirror image, only younger by some ten years.

“Forgive me the disturbance,” said Peredur son of Narmacil, Lord Orchald’s current bailiff, “but I truly believe that we should talk.”

~The End – for now~

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

Note: to be continued in Day 18 – The Lord’s Bailiff. More about Odhrain’s fate will be told there.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Fifteen – The Tax Collector

It was still not entirely dark in the outside – in fact, one could almost read without a lamp – when Wella, Lord Orchald’s tax collector, finished his work in the Town House. He rubbed his fingers, which were stiff with cold, and breathed on them to warm them a little.

Unfortunately, this caused another coughing fit – he had ceased to count them by seventeen, several hours earlier – after which he had to sit there with wheezing chest, trying to catch his breath again.

His health had taken a turn to the worse lately. T’was bad enough that he had to inherit his father’s weak lungs. Travelling on a wain in winter, to collect his lord’s taxes (and his own percentage, of course) in the scattered farmsteads and manors, did not help things. And sitting in he poorly heated Town Hall to write his tax records was killing him for sure.

He could have done the writing at home, of course. But that would mean to drag the leather-bound record book over to his house, which, he felt, was beyond his strength today. His useless sons were drinking in the Old Sailor, like they did every evening, so he could not count on them carrying the heavy tome for him, either.

The lads truly were a waste of food and good ale. If only he would not need them for protection on his tax collecting trips! But having two large and menacing lads on his side gave his rightful demands more weight. As he was short and wiry himself – not to mention balding – and some of his “customers” quite unwilling to pay, he needed that additional weight.

But his sons were still such a disappointment. They were interested in naught but drinking and fighting – would they only help the Wardens with it, but nay! – and playing those foolish board games with the Rohirric saddle-maker and his straw-headed band of friends and family. Barbarians they were, true barbarians. And his sons spent all their spare time with them. No sense for the fine art of writing they had, no talent with numbers, no finer interests whatsoever. A shame for a family that had given Castle and town tax collectors and excellent clerks for generations.

At least his daughter made him proud. Medraut learned her letters so finely that she became a copyist, working for Lord Orchald himself. And she married promising young Dunegal, the Warehouse clerk Dufgal’s son, who matched her stand neatly. Wella wished his sons had half the sense for what was proper for someone of their family as his daughter had. But there was no hope for that. Not now, not ever.

He coughed again, the cold air stabbing into his tormented lungs like and ice dagger. He needed to go home. Mistress Angharad had ordered warm wrapping with crushed mustard and line seeds for his wheezing chest; mayhap he would ask his wife to make one for him. It burned like fire when applied, but it blessedly relieved the pressure that seemed to he his constant company lately.

He knew his failing health caused his mother and his wife great concern. He was concerned, too. His father had had almost the same problem with his chest and lungs – and had barely lived sixty years. Well, at least he already had a year on his father. Mayhap he would manage to stuck around for a while yet. And if not…

He smiled, thinking of the hallowed Yule candle he had ordered from the chandler. It cost him a shocking amount of coin… he knew it would, which was the reason why they never had them before. But if this was to be his last Yule with his family, he wanted it to be one they would never forget.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Wella’s entire family was killed by the destruction of Halabor.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: At least this is what various sorts of honey look like in Hungary. Selling nuts and fruits preserved in honey is also a custom over here. I know nothing of other countries in this context.

Day Sixteen – The Honey-maker

The store of Keir, the honey-maker, in the Street of the Infirmary, was a joy for eyes and noses. The open shelves were densely packed with glass jars of all sizes, sorted by the variation – and thus colour – of honey they contained. One could know by first sight what one was seeing, without reading the carefully penned labels on the jars.

Pure acacia honey – rare and accordingly costly – was of a pale yellow, almost greenish colour. Linden honey was like molten gold. Mixed blossom honey was a deep, almost reddish gold. There were many sort made from the one or other plant’s nectar only, as Keir’s brother, the bee-keeper Kyndylan, had his hives in the Infirmary’s herb gardens, placed and shielded cleverly, so that some of them would only work on a selected number of secluded flower beds. Thus certain sort of honey already had healing qualities, thanks the herbs where the nectar came from.

But pure honey was not the only thing Keir (or Kyndylan, as they changed functions regularly) sold in his store. There were fruits and nuts preserved in small jars of honey. Wild berries they had, mint leaves, walnut and hazelnut and even almond kernels, rose hips and raisins, pieces of ginger root, dried plums, and many more.

The entire family had worked through summer and autumn to gather, peel, scrub, cut or otherwise prepare the ingredients, and the results truly could be seen. The store looked like a jeweller’s shop, with the light of the oil lamps, hanging from the beams on long, bronze chains, glittered on those numerous versions of sweet, liquid gold filling the jars.

Even though sometimes the sweet scent became too much for him, so that he would crave things like onions or garlic with an urgency that would put a pregnant woman to shame, Keir was very happy with his trade. Their family had done the bee-keeping and homey-making for generations, and their wares – the pure honey as well as the preserved treats – were well known from Cair Andros to Minas Tirith and beyond. So popular they had to become, indeed, that Keir had to hire a local farmer to grow clover and hawthorn and other plants just for their use, and placed a few hives on the fields of the farmstead.

Aye, life was good, and as people had to eat, no matter what, and since they had reasonable prices, he could hope that business would keep running smoothly. However, he could not suppress a delighted grin when he saw Mistress Eseld, the uncrowned queen of all bakers and pastry-cooks approach his store, with her twelve-years-old grandson, Hydoc, pulling a two-wheeled cart after her. He knew what her visit meant: a rather big sell, which alone would make worth opening his store today.

In fact, he had been waiting for that sell all week. This was the time to make honey-cakes. Special honey-cakes, shaped and adorned in a form that would remind of people, to represent the ancestors of the family. T’was a Dúnadan custom, one that the rules had taken over from the Elven folk a long time ago. One that the Old Folk had embraced with open arms.

As not everybody had the skills – or the right ingredients – to make the proper “honeymen” (not to mention that the original recipe was a secret each baker’s family guarded like a dragon its hoard), most people ordered the required member by the Bakers’ Guild, to which the pastry-cooks also belonged. The “honeymen” had to be made at least a week before Yule, otherwise they remained hard and could not unfold their full taste and aroma.

Keir smiled at one of his best customers in the friendliest manner possible. With her nearly sixty years, Mistress Eseld was considered a matron already and could scare the breeches off a grown man, although she barely reached to Keir’s shoulder. She had a round, surprisingly smooth face, equally round, button-like dark eyes, an upturned nose and ears that seemed too large, even though only the earlobes peeked out from under her wimple. All in all, she looked a lot like her own bread-loaves that were made in a rotund shape, as it was customary among the Old Folk.

“Mistress Eseld,” said Keir respectfully. “I have expected you earlier, to tell the truth. You seem to begin late this year.”

“We have already begun,” replied the baker. Her voice was surprisingly deep, coming from such a small, round body. “Or do you believe we have eaten all the honey we had bought from you in summer for breakfast. The first shipment of honeymen is on Cair Andros already, and we have sent the second one down to Minas Tirith yesterday. We are only making them for the townspeople from now on. “She winked conspiratorially. “Your order will be delivered first.”

Keir laughed. “Why thank you, Mistress Eseld. At this time of the year Findabar cannot as much as look at honey anymore.”

“As if you were any different,” said his wife, the chandler’s sister, smiling and hurried forth from the adjoining storeroom. “Good day, Mistress Eseld. We have received your order yestereve. The honey pots have been readied for you. Do the two of you need help with uploading them onto the cart?”

“Nay,” the old woman gestured to her grandson to place the cart before the storeroom’s door, “but I thank you nonetheless. Hold that cart tightly, Hydoc, my lad. I do not want it to be knocked over.”

With that, she grabbed the heavy honeypots, one after another, lifted them with surprising strength and placed them on the cart. T’was an uncanny sight, this small, grey-haired woman moving pots that were almost half her size. But again, kneading dough all day did make a person strong.

Mistress Eseld helped her grandson to push the cart through the front door and ordered him to wait ‘til she paid for her purchase. She fished her purse from under her heavy cloak and counted the agreed amount of money into Findabar’s palm. They had haggled over the price delightfully in the previous week already. After that, she rolled out of the door to get the honey to her bakery.

“She is incredible,” commented Findabar. “I heard that she still knees the dough for the honeymen with her own hands.”

“She must,” pointed out Keir, “if she wants to keep her recipe secret. Though I am certain that Howell helps her. He is not only her son, he is a master baker himself.”

Findabar grinned. “I would not put it beyond Mistress Eseld to keep the secret, even from her son. She can be as stubborn as a mule.” She laughed and added, “Fortunately, that is not our concern. Do you think we can close the store for today? Supper is ready, and Finnan should be back from the Town House, soon.”

“You go,” Keir kissed his wife soundly; even after near twenty years of marriage, he was amazed by his good luck. Findabar could run the household and help him in the store without any visible effort. He had no idea how she was doing it, while raising four children at the same time. “I shall be with you shortly; as soon as Finched has brought in the wares. We will close the store and have a leisurely supper, all together. We have done well today; we have earned an early break.”

Findabar smiled in agreement and went upstairs to see how supper was going along under the skilled hand of their only maidservant. Bedwyn was such a jewel indeed! Not only was she invaluable in the household (she could cook like few others, to begin with), she had also helped Findabar to raise the children and knew a lot about curing small illnesses. She had no family of her own, and Keir’s children considered her more like a somewhat strange aunt – for she could be very stern to them, even more so than their own mother – than as a servant.

She was standing in the kitchen now, her round face ruddy from the heat, and gave today’s evening dishes the last expert touch, while seven-year-old Fola, Keir and Findabar’s only daughter, was laying the table in the solar. The girl was working with great eagerness, in the way young children entrusted with an important task usually were. Findabar was still glad to have her young niece, Aherne, with them tonight. Fola could be a bit too eager sometimes, and the watching eye of her thirteen-year-old cousin could prove helpful.

“Are you done with the table, girls?” asked Findabar.

Aherne gave her a nod and a shy smile. She was such a quiet and withdrawn girl, she talked not much. But Fola forgot all about her task at once, as soon as she heard her mother’s voice.

“Mother, Mother,” she squealed excitedly, “Kinan has come home!”

“Has she?” Findabar sighed in relief. Her firstborn had been away in business matters for more than a week, and she had already begun to worry. “When did he arrive?”

“Just moments ago,” replied Bedwyn in the child’s stead. “I sent him to wash and to warm up a little before supper. Finnan, too, should arrive any time now. Is Master Keir coming?”

“As soon as Finched is back,” said Findabar. “He had to bring some nuts and raisins from the Warehouse. But it should not be long now.”

“It better would not,” commented Bedwyn sternly. “’Tis time for the family to gather around the supper table.”

Findabar nodded. She knew Bedwyn was not speaking of eating alone. Since the dawn of time, Foreyule had been the time of the year when families spent the evenings together, turning in early, as days were short and nights were long. They gathered around the table or before the fireplace to keep themselves warm and safe; from the cold as well as from the shadows outside.

“Aye,” she agreed softly, “’tis indeed time for that. Yule is almost within reach. Come on, girls,” she added with a smile, “let us make the supper table ready. We are going to eat, soon.”

~The End – by now ~

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

Note: no-one from the extended clan of bee-keepers and honey-makers survived the destruction of Halabor.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Seventeen – The Book-Seller and his Wife

The house and store of Austell, the book-seller, was probably the smallest and narrowest on the entire Marketplace. The ground floor was barely large enough for the store itself and his wife’s book-binding workshop, and they had but two small rooms on the second floor. Aside from the kitchen, that is, which they had turned into a copying room long ago, for it was the warmest place in the entire house. Besides, they had eaten in the Drunken Boat for longer than they could remember.

Austell, a fragile old man of more than eighty years, was the happiest when he could spend the day in his own store, leafing through newly acquired – or copied – books. People said that he was “very learned and bookish”, which was the truth. He had begun his career as a tutor in the school of the Town House, as he had learned in one of Minas Tirith’s most respected schools himself, and taught the boys under his care many useful things a good clerk needed to know.

For some time, he had considered going on like that all his life. But when Mistress Pharin had withdrawn from their engagement and married Andróg, the Town House clerk instead, he did not want to stay there and see his victorious rival every day.

Thus he had taken over this very little store from his father – who had originally wanted a more settled, more secure life for him, urging him to become a clerk in the first place – and became a book-seller He had found out quickly that he liked this life a lot more than his earlier one. He enjoyed travelling to Linhir, Pelargir or Dol Amroth, which were the best sources for new, rare and interesting books.

Why, Prince Imrahil had even taken him to Edhellond once, and though he had not been allowed any further than the harbour area, his chance meeting with one Mistress Vorondis, the Elf-lord’s librarian, had been an interesting one. Just like the visit in the workshop of an Elven copyist. He had not known before that Elven scribes wrote standing at high pulpits. And that was just one of the exciting things he had discovered on that one journey to an Elven town.

Even more amazing was that the Elves seemed to remember him. Last time Lord Gildor and his Wandering Company came to visit the autumn fair of Halabor – which, admittedly, had happened quite a few years ago – the Elf-lord had been gracious enough to visit Austell’s little store and deliver Mistress Vorondis’ greetings. He even brought several rare and beautiful books as a gift: Elven legends in Quenya, with additional translations into Westron.

“It does not happen frequently that I would find someone outside the line of Númenor who would show this much love and interest for the Noble Tongue,” had said the Elf-lord to silence Austell’s protest. “I have these copies made for you shortly after your visit in my town. I insist that you accept my gift.”

Austell had accepted, of course. Doing otherwise would have been not only foolish but also very rude. And everyone knew that insulting an Elf-lord could have consequences. Lord Orchald, like many of the Dúnadan nobles, respected Elves greatly. Especially Gildor Inglorion, who was known to have been one of the heroes of the Last Alliance and stayed with the Lord in the Castle, whenever his Company travelled through Halabor.

Those books were now Austell’s most cherished possessions, which he kept displayed on open shelves during the day but carefully locked away in a strong, iron-bound chest for the night. Unlike the books he usually sold – which consisted of plain, though legibly written sheets bound in simple wooden boards, with leather glued over them for more protection – these Elven works had thin silver covers mounted on the wood, decorated with small, colourful glass beads and enamel plaques. Austell kept them chained to the shelf, for they were very valuable, and some misfit might want to steal them for the cover alone.

He was startled from his thoughts by his young grandson who came stumbling into the store through the back door.

“Grandfather, Mistress Medraut wants you to take a look at her finished column ere she continues.”

Austell nodded. The talented lady copyist had been working on a copy of an ancient Elven herbology ordered by Lord Orchald as a Yule gift for Mistress Angharad. And though Medraut knew her Tengwar well enough, she did not understand Quenya, thus mistakes were inevitable. The book had been translated into Westron for daily use, yet the Quenya names of the individual herbs were added for the more educated herbalist to use. T’was a very popular book, titled How the Healing Herb Became, with colourful and very accurate drawings of the herbs discussed.

“Stay here and keep an eye on the store,” said Austell to his grandson. With his thirteen years, Ainwar was a very reliable lad already, in the middle of his learning years as an apprentice book-binder. He could take care of the store for a short time.

Austell crossed his wife’s workshop to reach the narrow stairway that led to the upper floor. Mistress Brissen, as short and rotund woman, with an unruly mane of iron-grey hair forced into a knot on the top of her head, was busily gluing leather on the wooden cover of one of their simpler books, ordered by the Town Hall for teaching purposes. Her small, bright brown eyes were reddened from the fumes of the glue, and Austell was thankful that their grandson would soon be able to take over some of the work. Brissen’s eyes had been weakened considerably in the recent years, despite all of Mistress Angharad’s ointments. She needed more rest.

Truth be told, so did he. As he once again climbed up the steep stairs and not for the first time since lunch break, he asked himself again whether it truly had been such a good idea to turn their former kitchen into a copying manufacture. Sure, the scribes did not suffer from cold-stiffened fingers here, and the ink dried remarkably quickly, too. But his old limbs protested against climbing the steps every time he had to check a newly finished column or drawing.

He had to admit that the small room was a true blessing in this cold weather, though. The hearth that kept the entire house warm made it an oasis of warmth, and as the windows looked to the south and the west, it had more light than any other room in the house.

Three desks stood in the room, each facing the windows. At the first one, Austell’s sister-in-law, Bechulle, was preparing the sheets of parchment for her granddaughter, scraping them clean of scales and incrustations, smoothing them with a pumice and marking out lines and columns with a long, narrow ruler and an awl. She had been an excellent copyist in her younger years – in fact, she had been the one to teach her granddaughter this intricate craft – but as she had passed the seventieth mark a few years ago, her eyes were not the same anymore. Her hands were still steady, though, and having her sheets prepared so that she could set to work at once was a great help for Medraut.

Bechulle was also very good at making quills and sharpening those that had become dull by the long use, and she did not mind performing those small tasks at all.

Medraut worked at the next desk. The sheet of parchment on which she was currently writing was held in place by deerskin thongs on both sides. Her desk was the one closest to the hearth, which was handy to dry the ink more quickly. The desk had several round holes in its writing board for the oxhorns with ink of different colours. Each oxhorn had a cover to keep the ink from drying out untimely. Unlike most scribes who preferred the quill, the light-handed Medraut wrote with a fine brush – a method that made her handwriting a true piece of art.

Austell read the newly finished column very carefully. Twice. Medraut was an attentive copyist, but mistakes happened, even to the best. Sometimes the illuminator did not leave enough space for the picture caption, and it had to be crowded in somehow nonetheless, even impinging on the text – that would lessen the worth of a finished book, more so if it happened twice or more. Sometimes a copyist finished the assigned section in less space than it had been allowed, leaving blank sections in some columns. That, again, was a reason to lessen the price. Now and then words or entire lines had been skipped, especially when the copyist had worked long hours and grown too tired to focus.

Fortunately, all Austell had found this time was a small spelling error, and one easily corrected at that.

“Look here,” he pointed at the Quenya name next to a beautifully drawn picture of a snowdrop with the blunt end of the brush. “You wrote nieninqui here. This should be nieninquë. But that is not so bad. You can bind this dot with a loop to the letter and no-one will ever know that you have erred here.”

The young woman thanked him, smiled and did as she had been instructed. Austell let out a small sigh of relief. Lord Orchald was a generous customer, but he only accepted flawless work. Any serious mistake would have meant for Medraut to redo the entire column, and they were on a tight schedule here, with Yule only a week afar by now.

He walked over to the third desk, where his eighteen-year-old granddaughter was drawing the pictures of the herbs, lettering the captions in red and decorating the initials with meandering branches drawn with gold and silver ink. Austell smiled. It had been costly to apprentice Crowan to an artisan in Minas Tirith, but it had more than paid out. The girl had become a very good illuminator, and as the wealthy merchants and craftsmen had grown to value an ornately made book – if for naught else but for its worth in coin sometimes – the little copying manufacture had begun to bring in more money during last year. If things continued that way, Austell thought, he might need to look out for another copyist, as Medraut would not manage alone.

After Lord Orchald had paid for the herbology, he would be able to afford that. And he could begin to save some money for Crowan’s dowry as well. There were several promising young men in town: clerks, sons of wealthy merchants or craftsmen, who would be happy to marry such a nice girl with a trade on her own. Crowan was past eighteen; t’was time to start looking for a suitable husband.

After Yule, Austell decided, he would begin to ask around.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: The entire family of the book-seller died in the destruction of Halabor. Crowan was still unwed at that time.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: The names Emerië and Emerwen are from “The Unfinished Tales”. Look up “Aldarion and Erendis: The Mariner’s Wife” for background.

Day Eighteen – The Lord’s Bailiff

As many other minor nobles in Gondor, Peredur, Lord Orchald’s bailiff, lived outside the town, in a well-made house at the centre of Emerië Manor, the ancient home of his family. The place had been named by his late mother, the Lady Emerwen, who had had an unhealthy interest for Númenórean history, particularly for the most difficult and narrow-minded heroines of it, whom she had apparently considered a role model – with less than pleasant consequences.

In addition to the Lord’s house, which was built of stone, there were various other buildings, such as storehouses, guest houses, workshops, stables, servants’ houses and a free-standing kitchen. There were also enclosures for animals, grain stores and a training area for the soldiers that Lord Orchald had to send to the aid of Gondor’s army in the times of need.

Aside from the Castle in town, Emerië Manor was the other centre of Lord Orchald’s power, and it was from here that he carried out some of his many duties to the Steward – with the increasing help of his bailiff. As a leader in war, Lord Orchald was responsible for the raising, equipping and training of the local army (small as if was in these times), which was drawn from among the lesser nobles and upper ranks of the peasantry in the lands that belonged him. As his training ground at the Castle was too small for troop movements, the old Lord often rode out to Emerië Manor to oversee that training that was led by the much younger Peredur on the daily basis.

Peredur also covered for Lord Orchald in overseeing the building and maintenance of roads, bridges and fortifications. He had ministered the King’s laws in Lord Orchald’s name and enforced the King’s justice, as they said, even though Gondor had not had a King for centuries. (Nor did they need one, in Peredur’s opinion. He was perfectly content with how the Stewards had ruled.) He also oversaw the work of Wella, the tax collector, to make sure that the King’s and the Lord’s taxes were paid on time.

All those offices made Peredur the second most important man in the entire area, right after Lord Orchald; and, to tell the truth, he enjoyed his own importance quite a bit. When not carrying out these duties, he often amused himself by hunting in the Lord’s woods nearby, or was entertained in his hall by Rhysiart, the wandering minstrel. Or he gave feasts for his neighbours, arranging some entertainment for the younger people, like an archery contest, a horse-race or some other popular sport.

On occasion, Lord Orchald stayed at the manor with his son, young Lord Herumor, which Peredur and his wife found a good thing, as the young Lord was still unwed, and they had a lovely daughter who needed a suitable husband. So far, their efforts had not brought any fruit, although it seemed to Peredur that Lord Orchald would welcome such an alliance between their respectable families. No wonder; Peredur’s bloodline was almost as ancient as the Lord’s itself, and Innogen was a beautiful and quick-witted girl, with the most excellent manners. It would have been a perfect match – if only Herumor could see the advantages of it.

All those activities were performed during the milder seasons, though. Emerië Manor was fairly quiet in winter – more so as Peredur’s second-born had been away to esquire training in Prince Adrahil’s court in Dol Amroth. Well, that and the fact that the Lady Emerwen, Peredur’s haughty and pompous mother had died at the beginning of summer, which had more to do with the peaceful quiet in the manor than young Elendur’s absence.

And that very same fact gave Peredur the chance to finally do something he had been planning for a long time. Something he felt he had to do, yet he had not dared to give it a try as long as his mother was still alive. The Lady Emerwen had been a woman of very strong opinions – which meant that no-one else was allowed to have any opinions, unless they matched hers.

“Do you believe he will come?” asked his wife, the lovely Lady Iorwen. “He is said to be a very proud man.”

“He agreed to pay us a visit when I asked him in the Town Hall last week,” replied Peredur with a shrug. “I do think he will come. If for naught else then to see the place where he was born. I would do it if I was him.”

“I do wonder though whether you are as alike in the inside as you are by looks,” said Lady Iorwen thoughtfully. Their daughter, not minder lovely than her mother, grinned suddenly.

“Let us hope he is a bit less stubborn than Father,” she said, “or else we shall never see him face to face.”

Peredur gave him a stern look. One that would make his soldiers quiver with fear.

“More respect towards your sire, young lady,” he said, but his eyes were twinkling. Innogen seemed not the bit intimidated. She just laughed quietly.

In this very moment the old Tevyth, the seneschal of their house, entered the hall.

“My Lord, a man named Odhrain wishes to see you,” he said. “He says you are expecting him,” he added a bit doubtfully. Peredur nodded.

“I am. Lead him in, please.”

Tevyth bowed and opened the door to let in a tall, dark-haired, grey-eyed man who had the same hawkish face as Peredur himself. The man was wearing a long-sleeved, black velvet tunic, lined with fur, and breeches, and a sleeveless, belted surcoat of fine wool, and above it a hooded mantle, fastened on his shoulder with a decorative silver clasp. On his feet were boots with high tops of soft leather. He looked every bit the nobleman he was – by all but the letter of the law.

“This is… almost frightening,” murmured Innogen, looking from her father to her uncle and then back again.

“Nay,” said Peredur quietly. “Frightening is the fact that we have waited for more than fifty years to arrange this get-together. I wish I had been man enough to disregard my mother’s opinion and done this a long time ago.” He turned to the visitor and added with a somewhat embarrassed smile. “I would like to welcome you in our home… brother.”

Odhrain looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I hope you understand, my Lord, that I am having slight… difficulties with getting used to that particular title.”

Lady Iorwen and her daughter exchanged amused looks. Stubborn, Innogen mouthed soundlessly.

“No-one could blame you for that,” said Peredur, still a little embarrassed, “after how you have been treated by our father. I hope, though, that in time we may find away to get to know each other better.”

Odhrain was clearly still suspicious. “Why this sudden interest for me?” he asked. “Even considering your lady mother’s disapproval, you could have approached me in town without her knowledge. Yet you never did. Why now?”

“My mother was not the only obstacle,” admitted Peredur. “Alas, my late brother used to have the same disposition, and our sister is not very different in mind. Lady Iorwen has been the only one to encourage me to make this step.”

“Mayhap my judgement had been influenced by the people of Lossarnach,” added his wife with twinkling eyes. “The Lady Emerwen was most displeased how much of the barbaric customs of the Old Folk have poisoned my thoughts.”

“Apparently, the blood of Westernesse runs thin in all of us,” commented Innogen in a half-hearted imitation of utter shock. “Even in Father. What a shame!”

“I care not,” declared Peredur. “If the future Prince of Dol Amroth can call one of the Haradrim his brother, I certainly can do so with someone who actually does share the same blood with me.”

“Moreso now that you only have Belthil to nag you about it, and she is safely off to Belfalas, terrorising her own family,” said the Lady Iorwen dryly.

Then she, too, turned to Odhrain and said. “I’, too, regret that we have waited for so long to do that which should have been done years ago. The truth is, we all feared the Lady Emerwen’s poisoned tongue and foul moods. Living under the same roof with her was not easy, at the best of times. I hope, though, that it is not too late already, for I would like to know you better as well… and our children could use an uncle.”

She was so charming that – like many other people – Odhrain could not resist her. He bowed gallantly and kissed her hand.

“I shall try my best, Lady Iorwen,” he said. “Yet you must understand that I have never had a family of my own. And I am not very good with children… everyone in the Warehouse could tell you that.”

“We are not that small anymore that you could frighten us too much,” grinned Innogen. “Well, save from Númendil, that is. But even he is old enough to begin his esquire training in Dol Amroth next year, and there he would be frightened worse, I deem.”

Odhrain raised an eyebrow. “Is he now? Then he can call himself very fortunate. The court of Prince Adrahil’s is said to be the finest in the entire Gondor, and his weapons masters are among the best.”

“Have you ever been to Dol Amroth?” asked Peredur, for the longing in his half-brother’s voice was obvious.

Odhrain shook his head. “I have never got any further than Minas Tirith,” he said regretfully.

“Would you like to?” asked Peredur. “Would you like to see the Sea, just once?”

“Of course I would,” Odhrain shrugged. “But I have work to do here. A lot of work. I cannot afford travelling around at my leisure.” Not like you – the unspoken comment was very clear.

“Alas, neither can I,” said Peredur. “Lord Orchald is an old man, and though his hand is still steady with the sword, there are many tasks I must do for him. The numbers of those are increasing each year. Which is why I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to accompany my children on their journey to Dol Amroth.”

“Me?” Odhrain was not sure he had heard correctly. Peredur shrugged.

“Well, I cannot go. My brother would usually do it, but he is dead. You are our closest kin here – and you are an experienced man. I do not want to send Innogen and Númendil with only servants and guards to escort them.”

“You would trust me with the safety of your children?” Odhrain still could not quite believe it. Peredur raised an eyebrow in eerily the same manner as the other man had done before.

“Are you telling me that you are not trustworthy?”

“Of course not,” snapped Odhrain. “’Tis just… unexpected.”

Peredur nodded, smiling. “I know. I also know that it is a little… selfish to ask a favour from you, after we all have ignored you for half a century. But I had to make a start somewhere, and this is as good an opportunity as any.”

Which was absolutely true, of course.

“You two can discuss the details later,” Lady Iorwen interfered. “Right now, we need to sit down to supper, or else it will go wrong. You do not want to waste a perfectly good supper, do you?”

They did not. And thus the family walked over to the feasting hall, talking a completely bewildered Odhrain with them.

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

Note: This request saved Odhrain’s life, as he was in Dol Amroth with Peredur’s children when Halabor was destroyed. Peredur, his wife and their entire household were slain. More about the fate of his children will be mentioned after the story of Day 24.

Next update: December 19.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Nineteen – The Farmer

Like most other farms in Anórien, Archu’s farmstead consisted of a hall, in which his entire family lived, and outbuildings like stables, storehouses, barns and so on, all this surrounded by fields and pastures. His was one of the larger farmsteads around Halabor, with 51/2 hides of land. Only his brother-in-law, Wron, had a larger one.

They both owned their lands – in fact, Archu’s family had been farming here for almost four hundred years. That meant that he did not owe Lord Orchald any service in respect of labour as some of the less well off farmers in the area did. At first sight, his farmstead seemed quite prosperous.

But as in many other cases, appearances were deceiving. He still had to pay ground rent and one pig a year to his lord and to the town respectively, as well as his taxes. He was also expected to perform carrying duties (unless he could pay the carter to do so in his stead, which he could not), help build and maintain fences and fortifications – something that had become increasingly urgent in these dark times – and sundry other duties.

What hit him the hardest, though, was the obligation to provide a soldier for the local army when commanded. He had not been able to afford any hired help for many years, thus he had to send one of his own sons when needed. And that was a demand that could have easily ruined him and his entire family.

The farm was large, the labour plenty, and of his thirteen children, only five were sons. Ardan, his firstborn, was supposed to take over the farm one day and worked from sunrise to sunset with his entire family, so that there would remain anything to take over when that day arrived.

Meddyn, his second-born, had been the one chosen for soldiering duties and was away to Lord Peredur’s manor too often to be of any true help. Archil had gone to town with three of his sisters to earn some coin, which was a great help when it came to paying the taxes, but his strength was sorely missed on the fields. He had been such a good ox-caller, working in pair with him had gone faster and easier than with anyone else.

The two youngest lads, Mudden and Erc, were barely of age, and though they worked ‘til they could work no more, they just lacked the strength of a grown man. It would take years yet ‘til they would be able to replace Meddyn and Archil. Years Archu was not sure they had.

His farmstead was mainly an arable one, although he did own a few sheep, goats, cows and pigs to provide meat, milk and wool for the family – barely. They had naught of it left that they could have taken to the market in Halabor – they practically lived from the crop they grew. But that was work that demanded many hands, particularly in harvest time. Hands Archu no longer had to his disposal.

He would turn seventy next year: a small, heavy-set man, hardened by almost three scores of back-breaking labour. He had seen good times, although not many of them, and bad times, which seemed to be a constant happenance lately. Sometimes he wondered whether the townsfolk in Halabor, sitting behind the safety of their protective walls, knew how harsh life out here was. Last autumn’s harvest had been scanty, and he knew that they would contend with random raids by the Hill-men or even Orcs in this winter. The town – or the garrison on Cair Andros for that matter – could offer them little help. Lord Peredur would ride out to their help if he learned about the threat in time, but he would most likely arrive too late.

And the soldiers on Cair Andros were under constant threat themselves. From the Orcs crossing the River. From the raiding bands of Rhûn, coming across the Wetwang. From the Hill-men teaming up in greater numbers every time. ‘Twas painfully obvious that they would not be able to hold out forever.

What would then become of the farmers? With a little thinking, Archu could count at least six farmsteads that had been raided and burned down in the last ten years. At least six families slaughtered, with barely a survivor or two. And that while they still had at least some protection, from both the town and the garrison.

He had thought about giving up the farm and moving to town. Sydnius would take in his elderly in-laws; he was a generous man. But Ardan and his family had no other way to make a living, and they could not manage the farm alone, not even with the help of the younger siblings. Nay, Archu could not abandon his firstborn, not after the lad had practically poured his lifeblood into those ungrateful fields. As long as his old hands could hold the plough, he could not turn his back on it – or on the place that had been the family’s home for almost four centuries.

Besides, he still had three unwed daughters who needed a husband. Alas that he could not give them any dowry! But they were good, hard-working lasses; mayhap some farmer’s son would take a liking to them. They would make good wives – had been taught everything that needed to be done on a farm.

Of one thing Archu was certain: he would never again marry off a daughter to any man just because that man would take them without a dowry. Nor would he allow any daughter of his to seek work in town, unless he had taken a look at the place first.

Once, in a time of greet need, when the harvest had been destroyed and his youngest children starving, he had allowed the middle ones to go to Halabor, in order to be able to feed the rest of the family. That had been something they simply had to do – and Vacia and Telta had paid the price, while Archil had become a bitter, withdrawn man, whom his father could barely recognize. At least Vicana had been more fortunate. Still, Archu was not willing to take such a risk again… well, not until they were not starving yet.

He gave the peacefully ruminating ox a friendly pat on the wrinkled neck and left the stable to return to his home. The wind was sharp with the promise of more ice and snow again as he crossed the courtyard, drawing his heavy woollen mantle about him as tightly as possible. The tearing in his joints was getting worse with each passing day. But there was no healing herb against old age.

A call from behind his back made him halt on his path. He turned around, his eyes tearing in the cold wind, and saw his grandson Vinnian, Vicana’s oldest, approaching from the direction of the town, leading a sturdy pack mule. The lad was waving and grinning broadly. His breath was puffing out in small, white clouds, but he did not seem to mind the cold. Ah, the joys of being young and full of strength!

Archu waited for his grandson to catch up with him, glad to see the lad again.

“What are you doing out here in this weather?” he asked, after they had embraced each other heartily.

“Father wanted me to bring out his Yule gifts, in case we could not get out later,” Vinnian explained. “It seems that Yule night will be very cold this year.

Archu eyed the heavily laden mule in surprise. “Has your father sent us the entire town?”

“Just a few comforts and necessities,” Vinnian shrugged. “He knows how hard it is to get those things out here. And he can afford it.”

That was very true again. Unlike his brother, the carter, Sydnius took his responsibility as the head of the clan very seriously, including his wife’s family, which would not have been his duty. He had always been generous with his Yule gifts, knowing exactly what people living on a farm needed most – and adding a few things that were not necessarily needed, just to make the children happy.

“Well, let us go inside, then,” said Archu, once again touched by the thoughtfulness of his son-in-law. “Let us have an early Yule.”

Vinnian laughed. They led the mule into one of the stables where it would be warm and content, and the young lad shouldered all the bags and sacks the good beast had been carrying. He would not let his grandfather help him, insisting that he was strong enough to bear a few gifts.

They entered the long, sparsely lit hall, where Messbuach, Archu’s wife was grinding the grain for tomorrow’s bread with a hand mill. She was small and thin like a wraith; giving birth to seventeen children, thirteen of whom had survived, had drained most of her strength. And yet she never sat idly, not for as much as a moment.

Seeing her grandson, she left her work now, though, standing on tiptoes to hug the lad and give him a peck on his reddened cheek. The younger children – some of them barely older than their nephew – set aside what they were doing to greet him as well.

After numerous hugs and kisses had been exchanged, the bags were opened and each gift accepted with many ahs and ohs. There were mittens and warm stockings, and scarves of wool, new knives for the men, and needles and yarn for the women, small jars of honey, linen bags with nuts and raisins and dried fruits, a few bottles of wine and even a small barrel of good ale – the latter was not from Sydnius but from Gennys, who, although not directly related to the family, wanted to do something for them as well.

But the greatest awe and the roundest eyes were shown when Vinnian opened the small wooden crate he had kept back up to the last moment. In it, there were “honeymen”, one for each member of the family, and a precious, golden Yule candle of the purest beeswax, adorned with a sprig of holly.

Archu stared at the candle unbelievingly, his eyes full of tears and wonder.

“I have never had one of these,” he whispered. “I knew people have them for the night of Yule, but I have never even seen one before.”

“Then ‘tis time for having one, I deem,” said Vinnian, kissing his grandfather on the cheek. “Blessed Yule, Grandfather. May the next year be a better one.”

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

Note: Archu’s family was slain shortly before the destruction of Halabor, the farm burned to the ground. From Vinnian’s immediate family only his sister Ailne survived.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: The sick room of the Infirmary was modelled after the one in the still operating medieval hospital “Hôtel-de-Dieu” in Beaune, France.

Day Twenty-One – The Beggar and the Dimwit

The Infirmary of Halabor was another one of the important things built during the better years of the town. It was several hundred years old already, yet it still served its purpose rather nicely, thanks the devoted healers working in it. It was a long, two-store building, built in typical Halabor style: the ground floor was made of stone, the upper floor of solid oak beams. The hospice itself – with the adjoining kitchen – occupied the entire ground floor, with the herb mistress and the helpers’ living quarters and the storerooms upstairs. Only Mistress Angharad, the actual healer had a small house of her own, joining the Infirmary in the right angle from the South.

The long hall on the ground floor could take in eighteen patients at once. The canopied and curtained beds stood in two parallel rows, 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, where each patient could take care – or have taken care – of their needs, men and women lay in the same room. They could not see each other from the bed curtains anyway. To see the actual shape a patient was in, one needed to sit on the law stools placed next to each bed.

Healing the sick and the injured was not the only purpose of the Infirmary, however. They also took in old people without any close kin who had become too old, too week or too confused to take care for themselves. Currently, one-third of the hospice beds were reserved for such permanent dwellers.

Galhir, the beggar, was one of these people. Once he had been a soldier in Gondor’s army and had served in the garrison of Osgiliath faithfully. But after a particularly brutal fight he got trampled to the ground by frightened horses, and not even the best healers of Minas Tirith could save his legs. He lost them both, just above the knee.

It had taken him a long time to heal – as much as he could be healed, that is – and even longer to learn how to scuttle around on hands provided with wooden patters, dragging his lower body behind him on a little wheeled trolley. But after a while he learned it and could move around at considerable speed that no-one would expect from a man without legs. For a few years, he eked out a meagre living by begging at the town houses of noble families of Minas Tirith, but he quickly grew tired of that life and the hunger and cold that had become his constant company.

Fortunately, some of his former comrades had decided to move to Halabor, and they asked him to go with them. He could still be useful, they had said. He could still sharpen the swords and polish the mails, even in his current condition. And he could read and write, though not very well. Henderch had been certain that he would make himself useful. And he did.

Of course – unlike the Wardens – he could not count on a payment. Nor could he live in the home of the unwed Wardens, the steep stairs being just one of the obstacles. Thus he got granted a bed and daily meals in the Infirmary, for the grace of Lord Orchald, while he scuttled over to one of the watchtowers or to the House of the Wardens almost every day. During the fairs or before great feasts he still set up his pitch near the Town Hall on the Marketplace, or right at the Market Hall in front of Rollo’s Gate, as foreign merchants tended to be open-handed after having made good business. After some initial hostility, the other beggars had come to accept his occasional presence. More so as they knew the Wardens would not allow them to harass a former soldier.

Today, however, was too cold for him to set up a pitch. In fact, it was too cold to leave the Infirmary at all. But he still could make himself useful in a number of ways. There were many tasks that could be done sitting in a high chair, and as the youngest dweller of the Infirmary with his forty-eight summers, he would find it shameful to do elsewhere.

Manning the obstacles of getting washed and dressed with relative ease born of long years of practice, Galhir made himself on the way to the kitchen. He hoped that Mistress Lendar would find something to do for him – his aching bones longed for the warmth of the kitchen hearth. T’was not a long way, as the old peoples’ beds were the closest to the kitchen; for their old bones it could never be warm enough. He was, however, stopped on his track near to his goal by Mistress Angharad.

“I hope you may be able to help us, good Galhir,” she said in that deep, pleasant voice of hers. “See, poor old Cynan is suffering badly from the creaks and pains in his shoulder and back. We need someone with good, strong fingers to rub flax seed oil set with mustard and wolfsbane into his joints. Meurig would do it, but he has his hands full with splitting firewood. Have you done anything like that before?”

“Nay, but I worked with horses in Osgiliath,” said Galhir. “I recognize knots and inflamed joints and know how to treat them carefully – if someone can get me to the right height.”

“Meurig can do it,” replied Mistress Angharad, “and he would be most grateful for you taking over this particular task. He is always afraid to hurt the old people, as he is so very strong.”

That was doubtlessly true. Meurig, some ten-odd years Galhir’s junior, had the strength of an ox, the good, peaceful nature of an ox, and the endurance of an ox. Alas, he also had the slow wits of an ox. Had he always been that way or had he retreated to this simple, child-like mindset after the Orcs had brutally murdered his entire family, one could not tell. Their farmstead had been a lonely one, far from town and from their neighbours, with whom they had rarely kept any contacts. Little Edwy, Meurig's only living kin (saved by having run away to watch the foxes a day earlier) was too small to remember what Meurig had been before.

In any case, he seemed strangely complacent, as always, as Mistress Angharad and Galhir approached him. He had already placed the slightly confused old Cynan in a low chair and was about to pull the rough woollen tunic from the old man’s shoulders. Seeing the healer, a broad smile spread slowly all over his square, good-natured face, which was brown and weathered like it had been during the years he had spent on the farm. After all, he still worked on the Infirmary’s crop fields from early spring to late autumn.

“I bring good news, Meurig,” said Mistress Angharad. “Galhir here offered to rub old Cynan’s shoulders for you – if we can find a high enough stool for him, that is.”

“Sure we can,” said Meurig in his slow, pleasant manner, and dragging a higher stool forward from one of the storerooms, he simply grabbed Galhir by the hips, lifted him as if he had been but a child, and placed him on the stool safely. He was very skilled in lifting and moving patients who could not do so alone, and, despite his fears, he never crushed anyone with his great strength.

Galhir thanked the gentle giant who nodded pleasantly and trotted out into the icy cold to split some more firewood for the kitchen. Mistress Angharad looked after Meurig fondly.

“He is a good lad,” she said in the manner of a loving mother rather than that of a lover, although everyone knew that the two were to be betrothed after Yule.

T’was a good enough match, despite Meurig’s slow-working mind, found Galhir. For truly, Meurig was not a fool, just… slow. But only when it came to thinking. He was a hard-working man and a friendly one. And he was very good to little Edwy, whom he treated as a son. Besides, Mistress Angharad did have enough wits for both of them.

Galhir liked the healer very much. She was good at her craft, skilled and tireless, although sometimes a little impatient with the complaints of her charges. More so when she suspected that they were just fishing for sympathy. But she had no life outside the Infirmary, at least not since her grandmother’s passing. T’was certainly beyond time for her to get married, if she ever wanted to.

Galhir knew that Mistress Angharad sometimes got visited by Young Herumor in her house. A beggar had a lot of time on his hands, and he saw a lot. Not that he – or indeed anyone from the Old Folk – would find anything wrong with the whole thing. If young Lord Herumor took a fancy to her an she was willing, t’was their business only. The healer answered to no-one but herself, having no living kin in town, and she deserved a good time.

It could not last long, of course. Sooner or later, Lord Orchald would put his foot down and demand that his only son married someone of his own rank. That was the way things were done, and Mistress Angharad had chosen wisely to take Meurig as her husband. He would treat her well, would never make any accusations about the past, they could share work – and little Edwy would have a mother. Galhir had little doubt that Meurig had considered the boy’s well-being when he had accepted Mistress Angharad’s offer.

The healer thanked him and left to look after poor Etterna. The fisherman Brannoc’s mother-in-law did have kin in town, but she was quite mad and Brannoc feared for his smaller children, thus asked for her to be taken in the infirmary. Here the poor madwoman was given a mild draught that kept her peaceful and sleepy most of the times, but one needed to keep an eye on her. She would get frightening fits every time and again, and in those times she needed to be bound to her bed as not to harm her fellow patients.

But today was not one of those times, Galhir noticed thankfully, massaging the achy shoulders of old Cynan vigorously. He found and loosened the knots in a way that hurt but felt good at the same time. The old man closed his small, bleary eyes in pleasure, making happy little noises, while Mistress Angharad talked to poor Etterna soothingly, so that she would take her draught. At the same time, another slightly confused female dweller of these halls of mercy, old Eubrwrast, was prattling in the kitchen, and the clatter of Meurig’s axe could be heard from the outside.

Today, they were all warm and content and not in too much pain. Small blessing as these were, Galhir appreciated them greatly. It was the closes thing to a family a man in his situation could hope for.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Mistress Angharad had managed to hide the patients in the deep cellar of the Infirmary before the Orc attack. Most of the old people, however, died from the smoke of the burning house that was seeping down to the cellar. Galhir refused to hide and fought the Orcs as well as he could ‘til he was slain.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Twenty-One – The Dice-Maker

It was the usual, busy evening in the Old Sailor when Breach, the dice-maker, entered the common room, with a brand new board for hlatafl under one arm and a pouch full of dices in his hand. Gennys was standing behind the counter, pouring beer, mead and ale into the tankards brought back regularly by Belu, the pock-marked pot boy.

At one of the game tables, the tax collector's sons were engaged in a game of kvatrutafl with Hrotgar, Lord Orchald’s horse-master. Hrotgar’s daughter, Hilla, who sometimes worked with Mistress Crodergh in the herb gardens, assisted her father, drinking just as heartily.

Hrotgar’s sons, Folcmar and Einar, were sitting at the other game table, playing hnefatafl on a beautifully carved board with 11x11 squares, using twenty four light pieces, twelve dark pieces, and a king that was called hnefi or cyningstan. A game with that many pieces was a difficult one and usually took a long time to be finished, more so if the players were of equal skill and knew each other’s tricks like these two did.

At the regular tables, the workers of the Warehouse were eating their supper, the two scribes, Jutus and Dufgal, were nursing their usual tankard of ale (after which they would dutifully return home to their families), and even a few apprentices or journeyman from the neighbouring workshops spent their time in merry company. In other words, this was an evening just like every other.

Breach slowed down on his way to the counter to watch the hnefatafl game for a moment. Einar had already trapped Folcmar’s hnefi with three of his dark pieces (the player with the king had half the number of the pieces of his opponent). He only needed to move one more piece into the right position to win the game. But his own pieces, too, were in danger, as Folcmar had built up his strategy well enough. As the rules did not allow to pass over a piece, Einar had to navigate around his brother’s cleverly placed pieces in order to approach the hnefi from the fourth side. Apparently, he was in no hurry to make his move.

“They have been at this game for two days,” commented Gennys, shaking his head in tolerant amusement. “And from the sight of it, it can take two more days – or longer – ‘til they finish it. I fear I shall never understand the attraction.”

Breach shrugged. “Does it matter? It keeps your business running – and mine, too.”

“True enough,” Gennys nodded. “Speaking of which: have you brought the new dices? I was most embarrassed when that chance patron was caught by falsifying the old ones last week. Though I should be grateful that he was. Had the provost thought I had been the one doing it, it could cost me my living.”

Which was very true. The beer-seller had been most fortunate that the culprit had been revealed in time. There were harsh punishments for falsifying the dices.

“Here you are,” Breach handed him the pouch; then he presented the new board, too. “And here is the hlatafl board to replace the one that has been broken two weeks ago.”

“That is most kind of you,” said Gennys, examining the nicely made board. “Let us hope this one will last longer than its predecessor. Oh, and you have carved a board for merels on the other side, I see! Now I shall have to watch this one double sharply.”

“You should not allow the Rohirrim to drink and gamble at he same time,” Breach suggested. “They are too strong for their own good.”

“I am running an ale-house, Master Breach,” said Gennys patiently. “Do you truly think I would tell my patrons not to drink, whatever else they might be doing?”

“There is some truth in that,” admitted the dice-maker.

“Besides, when they break something, they pay for it generously,” added Gennys with a grin. “Now, what do I owe you for the board and the dices?”

Breach named his price, which was reasonable as always, and Gennys paid him without haggling. That alone told the dice-maker that the other man had kept some profit: the difference between the price that had been named and the price that the Rohirrim had paid. At any other time, Breach would pursue the issue. But only four days before Yule, it would have been immodest to do so. Gennys could use a few extra pieces of coin on a dozen places – beginning with a new roof for the house. And Breach could afford to be generous, just once in year.

“How is business going?” he asked instead. Gennys shrugged.

“I cannot complain. ‘Tis a lot of work, but honest work, at least. To tell the truth, on some days I am looking forward to the curfew, though. What about yourself?”

“Me, I cannot complain, either,” replied the dice-maker. “Yule is a good time for toy-makers. Little girls get a new doll, little boys get wooden horses or little carts or toy soldiers… we have more than enough to do.”

“I can imagine,” said Gennys. “Your toys always look like they could awake any time.”

But Breach shook his head. “Nay, ‘tis not me who has the talent for dolls and other toys. ‘Twas the gift of my father and grandfather. A gift my younger son shares but I never had.”

“Is that why you have taken up the task of making dices and gaming boards?” asked Gennys. Breach nodded.

“Aye, it is. At least I am good at making those.”

“It must be hard,” said Gennys, “not to be able to continue a craft that has been done in your family for generations.”

“’Tis not about the skill,” said Brach thoughtfully. “I know how to make toys. Only the ones I make never seem to come alive when they are finished. My father used to make dolls that were like little ladies. You would verily expect them to open their mouths and speak. Bened, my second-born, has just begun to try his hands on dolls, but it seems he will make beautiful ones, too. I am glad he has the gift I lack. At least so there will be someone to take over my father’s abandoned business one day.”

“What about your firstborn?” the beer-seller inquired.

“He lacks the gift just as I do,” sighed Breach. “That is why he chose to become a bow-maker. Mayhap ‘tis better so. That is wood-work, too, and in these times, there is a greater need for strong bows than for pretty toys.”

“Besides, it got him a wife,” said Gennys, who knew that Breach’s son had married the bow-maker’s daughter, less than a year ago.

“Now, with that he could have waited a few years and no mistake,” commented Breach dryly. “They are both barely out of the nursery. But Osbern was so besotted with that girl that he could barely wait ‘til finishing his apprenticeship. In any case, they are husband and wife now, and they area bout to make me a grandfather, soon,” he shook his head. “I do like the girl, but I still think they should have waited.”

“Mayhap they should,” Gennys allowed. “But sometimes marrying one’s childhood love can turn out well.”

“Yea, just like in my grandparent’s case, who had to flee all the way from Dale to Gondor, in order to escape my great-grandfather’s wrath,” replied Breach dryly. Gennys gave him an inquisitive eyebrow, for that was a tale he had wanted to hear for a long time.

“Is it true that your grandparents had seen the coming of the Dragon?” he asked.

“His second coming,” corrected Breach. “Aye, they had. They both lived in Laketown and survived the destruction of their home by a hair’s breadth as young children. Grandfather’s family hailed from Dale, though, and when King Bard had his town rebuilt, they moved back there. For a while, there was some tension between Dale and Esgaroth, for the people of the latter had a hard time to forget the destruction of Laketown, and grandfather was forbidden to see his childhood love again. He was even sent to the Dwarves in Erebor, to learn the proper craft of toy-making – that is where our skills come from – and, most likely, to forget her. But grandfather fled as soon as he finished apprenticeship, took grandmother with him, and they ran all the way ‘til Halabor.” He laughed quietly. “A rather… unspectacular end of what was once considered the greatest love drama of the two towns, think you not?”

Gennys shrugged. “Does it matter, if they were happy? But do tell me: have you never wanted to return to the North? To visit the home of your ancestors?”

“Not truly,” said Breach. “I am content here. And the town of my ancestors went down in dragonfire, and there is naught of it left but a few charred logs, rotting in the water of the Long Lake. Nay, father was the one always homesick for the North – and what good did it to him? A raiding band of Easterlings who killed him, mother, and half a dozen travelling companions on their way back. Had he stayed here, he would be still alive.”

Gennys nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “That might be so. Yet I fear we shall face perils as great as the Dragon used to be, here, in the South, and soon.”

“I hope not,” Breach slipped his newly acquired coin into his belt pouch. “I intend to see my second-born grow into adulthood and make the most fabulous toys ever seen in Gondor. Well, I must be off now. Annest will have finished the dress of the doll ordered by Master Selevan by now, and I have promised to deliver it tonight.”

“Your wife has skilled hands,” said Gennys. “I remember the baby clothes she used to make years ago. I doubt not that the doll would be beautiful.”

“She likes her stitching and is very good at it, Annest is,” Breach agreed. “Our dolls would not be half as good as they are, without her work. But I truly have to go now. Have a blessed Yule, you and your family.”

“And the same to you and yours, Master Breach,” Gennys nodded, and the dice-maker, wrapping himself into his fur-lined mantle, elbowed a path through the patrons of the Old Sailor to leave.

Gennys then came forth from behind the counter for a moment to drink a tankard of ale with the Warehouse clerks and pick up the newest gossip. Those two were the best source of news, ever. Whatever happened in town, news about it reached the Warehouse within hours, and the scribes were all too eager to share with the man who provided them with the best ale served between Rohan and Pelargir.

Listening to their gossip always comforted Gennys in a strange way. In a world full of peril and shadows, such simple things as gossiping about mundane things gave life an air of normalcy. In those moments, he could actually believe that he would live to see his debts fully paid. That the dice-maker’s second-born would grow into manhood and make the most beautiful dolls known in Gondor. And that the shadows would depart from their world, eventually, by some miracle.

Gennys smiled, emptied his tankard and returned with it behind the counter. There were still almost two hours left ‘til the curfew. He still had work to do.

On the darkening streets, the dice-maker was hurrying towards his home, in the hope that his wife had, indeed, finished the stitching on the doll’s dress. The rich mercer had promised to pay by delivery, and that one sell would be enough to put a generous Yule supper onto their table.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: The dice maker and his entire family – his widowed sister, his wife, his three children, his daughter-in-law and his baby grandson – died during the destruction of Halabor.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: Mistress Eseld has been inspired by an old nun I used to know. She was the baker of the convent and never asked for anything – save the occasional bottle of beer. Mother Superior agreed that she had richly deserved it. *g*

So, this is to Sister Hedwiga – may she rest in peace!

Day Twenty-two - The Bakers

As most small towns or villages in Anórien, Halabor, too, had its own mill. Well, to be more accurate, the mill, like countless other things in town or around it, actually belonged to Lord Orchald. It was rented and operated by Heryg, the old miller, as it had been by his late father before him, and as it would most likely be by his son after him.

The mill itself – situated near the bank of the Great River, right beyond the herb gardens of the Infirmary and the common baths – was rather small, with a simple horizontal side shot mill wheel. That meant that the water ran down the millrace through a sluice gate, striking the wheel on one side. The sluice gate regulated the amount of water that would strike the wheel, to prevent the millstones from spinning too fast and vibrating too much. It demanded an experienced eye to judge the sluice gate properly, thus it was usually the old miller who watched over it.

Not at this time, though. Right now, the sluice gate was closed and the mill wheel still, covered with a thick layer of ice, and icicles of the size of a man’s forearm hanging from its blades. Fortunately, they had ground enough grain into flour that it would last for the townspeople for weeks, ere the outer edge of the river had frozen over. But various members of the miller’s family had been already hand-grinding grain for several days. One did not want to run out of reserves, and the winter promised to be a particularly long and harsh one.

Other members of the family were gathered in the back room of Mistress Eseld’s bakery, where the large oven stood, for the making of “honeymen”, the man-shaped honey cakes, had come into its final spurt, and every single hand that could hep was needed. The dough for the honey cakes had been kneaded in the previous evening already, rested through the whole night in an unheated storeroom, and was now being rolled out on the large, tin-covered tables, half an inch thick.

Howel, the young baker, and the two pastry-cooks, Ulogen and Wethinoc, were busily cutting the figures of the “honeymen” with small, sharp knives, while their wives and children were painting the figures with egg yolk, so that they would get a nice, golden-brown colour in the oven, and decorated them richly with almonds, nuts, raisins, lumps of sugar or pieces of dried fruits. Finally, they drilled a hole into every piece of cake, where later sprigs of evergreen would be put: holly or pine, symbolizing life and rebirth after the longest night of the year.

Mistress Eseld overlooked the frantic activity like a queen bee would rule over her hive. She had done her part of the work in the previous evening. She alone knew the exact number of ingredients and the right dosage of spices for the secret family recipe, thus she had to weigh and stir all evening, ere the men could knead the dough. Now she was sitting in a comfortable chair at the front door, nursing a mug of dark ale leisurely. She was very fond of Gennys’ ale and saw no reason to refuse herself such small pleasure.

“I have been working in a hot bakery since I was tall enough to reach the tabletop,” she often said. “I still stand up before sunrise each day and labour ‘til sunset. I deserve my daily mug of ale, so be quiet and leave me alone!”

There was certainly much truth in that, but even if there were none, no-one would have dared to protest. Eseld was the mistress of the house who had all the keys firmly on her belt and all family recipes in her memory. Without her, they could not have run the family business. Not even her son knew every secret of their trade, although she gradually introduced him to those. She knew all too well what a power her knowledge meant and was not willing to share everything just yet.

Thus she could afford to sit and rest a bit while the younger family members were doing the more mundane tasks. Someone had to welcome the customers, after all.

Today, she was sitting and talking with none less than Mistress Gilmith, the chatelaine of the Castle, who had come, accompanied by Eseld’s own daughter, Breaca, to collect the “honeymen” ordered for Lord Orchald’s Yule feast. Breaca, married to one of the Castle Guards and the mother of three children herself, was mingling with her family happily, while the two matrons discussed the important things in private.

Though she personally preferred ale, Mistress Eseld knew how to wait on a ranking customer. Thus a bottle of fine juniper spirit was quickly fetched by her little grandson, Ythel, and Mistress Gilmith raised an impressed eyebrow after sampling the excellent taste.

“My great-grandmother’s recipe,” declared Mistress Eseld without false modesty. “I brew it myself each year. Should I send a bottle to the Castle as part of our Yule gift for Lord Orchald?”

“He would appreciate it,” said Mistress Gilmith. “Our Lord knows a fine drop when he tries it, and with all the important guests this year…”

“Aye, rumour is he has invited all the noble families within a day of ride’s reach,” said Mistress Eseld innocently, but her small, button-like dark eyes were shining with curiosity.

“Not all of them,” corrected Mistress Gilmith, with that special gleam in her grey eyes that could only be seen by older women when sharing the latest gossip. “Only those with daughters of suitable age to become the next Lady of Halabor.”

“Oh, my!” Mistress Eseld digested that bit of news for a moment. “So things are turning grave for young Lord Herumor.”

“’Tis about time,” judged the Lord’s chatelaine sternly. “His lord father allowed him free dalliance for more than ten years – he had time enough to find a suitable wife. As he did not, ‘tis Lord Orchald’s right to choose for him. He is an only son; if he does not make his move soon, his House will end with him.”

“Thy say he has lost his heart elsewhere,” said Mistress Eseld carefully.

Mistress Gilmith shrugged. As much as she respected the town’s only healer, she was a Dúnadan and could not approve of her Lord’s heir’s dalliance with a woman of common stock and of lesser blood.

“They both knew it could not last. Master Herumor needs a wife of his own status, which Angharad is not.”

“True enough,” nodded Mistress Eseld. She felt a bit sorry for the healer, but they all knew the rules. “Who are the candidates, then?”

“Well,” said Mistress Gilmith thoughtfully, “that is quite the list. Lord Malanthur has two daughters of an age that is still fairly young for ladies of Dúnadan descent. Lord Azrubêl’s daughter is only seventeen, but he seems very eager to marry her off. Lord Ulmondil’s two daughters are not much older, either, and Lord Felanath’s twins are only sixteen…”

“What about the bailiff’s daughter?” asked Eseld.

“She is a sweet one,” the chatelaine agreed, “and quick-witted, too. I would not mind her becoming the lady of the Castle, and neither would our lord, it deems. But the choice is Master Herumor’s. His father is willing to grant him that much.”

“Still, he does have to make that choice, soon, does he not?” asked Eseld. The chatelaine nodded.

“During this very Yule festival, or so I heard. Lord Orchald wants to announce his son’s betrothal on the day after Yule.”

“And I heard that Angharad intends to marry that dim-witted lad from the Infirmary,” said Eseld.

“Meurig?” Mistress Gilmith pondered over that for a moment. “Well, she could do worse. The lad might not be too bright, but he is comely enough and had a good heart. And ‘tis not so that she would need a wealthy husband desperately. The late Pharin left her enough to last for a lifetime – and she sold the Drunken Boat well enough. She can afford to choose a man whom she actually likes.”

“Meurig is very likeable,” agreed Eseld, “and little Edwy is a sweet boy. They will get along well enough – which is more than quite a few women can hope for.”

“That is very true, alas,” said Mistress Gilmith. “Well, I must go now. I assume you have our ‘honeymen’ packed already?”

Eseld nodded and gestured towards the adjoining storeroom where several wooden caskets stood stapled upon each other.

“There they are. Do you need help getting them to the Castle?”

“Nay, but I do thank you anyhow. Einar is waiting outside. We have to acquire a few more things for the feast, so I thought it would be best to take the cart. Besides, the cold is good against a hangover,” she added with a grin. “He finally managed to beat his brother in that game they had been playing for days, and the celebration last night seems to have been a bit… extensive.”

Both women laughed, knowing all too well what the drink-feasts of the Rohirrim could become on such occasions. Mistress Gilmith then paid for the acquired goods, and the baker’s grandchildren earned a copper piece each for helping to carry the caskets to the cart and storing them safely. That made them very happy and bouncy – so bouncy, indeed, that they got under foot and ruined several “honeymen” in their excitement. Mistress Eseld judged the time ripe for an interference.

“Now, now, my little ones,” she said, leaving her comfortable chair with a bit of regret. “There is no need to ruin all of our honest work. But you know what? Let us go to the cold kitchen. We still have to make those candy apples for the feast.”

The children followed her excitedly, and the rest of the afternoon was spent with rubbing the apples clean and shiny, putting them on long sticks and covering them with bright red sugar syrup. ‘Twas a sticky and funny task, performed with much laughter and singing, and even though some of the sugar syrup got into the children’s hair and all over their clothes, everyone was very content with the results.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Howel, the young baker, his wife Unna and their little son, Ythel, survived the destruction of Halabor. Everyone else from the family died. To Mistress Gilmith’s fate see “Day 24 – The Lord of Halabor”.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Day Twenty-Three – The Scoop and the Trickster

The great festivals of the year were always good for wandering mummers, jugglers and minstrels. At these times, they got easily hired to entertain the guests of a lesser nobleman (the truly powerful and rich lords had their own jesters and singers) or wealthy burgher. That meant a roof above their heads at lest for one night, a warm meal and even a few pieces of coin, the latter often earned by a whole night of hard work.

The most important feast of all was Yule, though. For if such a minstrel managed to worm himself into the good graces of a generous patron, that could mean lodging for the entire winter. Mostly in the stables or the hay barns, and they had to work for their food, but it was still better than freezing to the death on the road.

Rhisiart, the scoop, was more fortunate than his fellow jesters. To begin with, he had family in Halabor – he was the brother of Cadwallon, the bow-maker – and though neither his brother, nor his widowed mother approved of his choice of profession, he could always return home for the winter. They kept a small room for him in the loft, and he could go out and get hired in town or in the Castle, or even in Emerië Manor, easily.

This year, he truly got lucky. He had performed before Lord Orchald during the Autumn Fair, and the Lord had taken a liking to his ward, Oswin. The boy, barely fifteen and looking at least four years younger, was a juggler and a trickster. He could spin half a dozen or more painted wooden balls or rings – or even burning torches – so quickly that the onlookers got dizzy from the mere sight of it, could play the rebec with some skill, had a sweet voice, and could twist himself into a knot that would make a serpent proud. Lord Orchald had been impressed by the boy’s skills and told Rhisiart that he wanted them both in his feasting hall for Yule, to give a good performance.

That pleased Rhisiart to no end, for Lord Orchald was known as a very generous patron, and it also meant that he would be with his family in Yule. He praised his good fortune that had brought him the nimble, good-natured boy, some nine years earlier.

He had been travelling along the borders of Rohan in that summer, for the Horselords, not being mighty in books and letters, liked minstrels and could appreciate a good song a lot more than anyone from the Old Folk. Wandering from manor to manor and from homestead to homestead, Rhisiart happened to run into a troupe of tricksters. Truth be told, they were rather a bund of thieves of cutthroats, by the sight of them, formed by the worst Rohan, Gondor or the Dunland could offer.

They had a small, fair-haired boy with them – a small waif of about six, whom they assured to have found as a newly born baby, somewhere in a ditch, with no sign of his mother. They had taken the boy in, taught him their arts, but he was a dull and unpleasant one, they said, not worth the food they were wasting on him.

Rhisiart had felt pity for the child who could hope for no better life than become a thief himself, and offered the leader of the troupe to flick his broken rebec in exchange fort the boy. He could do it easily, as he had learned the art of making or repairing music instruments as a very young man. After some haggling, the other man gave in, and thus Oswin came into Rhisiart’s care. He had not even had a name back then, being only called “boy” or “brat” by everyone.

The scoop, as Rhisiart modestly called himself in Rohirric fashion – after having heard Elven singing during a visit of Gildor Inglorion’s company in Halabor, he did not dare to call himself a minstrel any longer – often pondered over his ward. How old was Oswin truly? What could have been his origins? He was blond and blue-eyed, thus he must have had some Rohirric blood, but he was also too frail and short to be one of the tall and heavily built horsemen. A half-bred, evidently, conceived by accident and discarded as useless garbage.

Whoever the boy’s parents had been, their loss was certainly Rhisiart’s gain, as he had no son of his own. His wife had died in childbirth, and his only daughter, Rannilt, did not wish to wander around with her father, thus she lived in her uncle Cadwallon’s house. Rhisiart did not blame her. Living on the road was a hard thing, and for a girl even more dangerous. ‘Twas better for Rannilt to grow up in the care of her grandmother, together with her cousins, to have a quiet, regular life and to learn what a girl needed to know. She had got betrothed to the carpenter’s journeyman a few moons ago, and Rhisiart was glad for her. Usnach was a good lad with a good, honest trade – he would give Rannilt the life her own father could not.

For Rhisiart, although he had learned the craft of carpenters himself, and beyond that the art of making music instruments by a master in Linhir (whose daughter he had married eventually) could not stay on the same spot for too long. He had a wanderlust in his blood, irresistible and previously unknown in their family. ‘Twas said that sometimes vagabonds were born from very ordinary families, and Rhisiart was the living proof for that: a trickster and gambler, who never avoided a brawl and never refused a drink offered to him.

In truth, without Oswin he might have ended badly. But when he had taken the boy out of the tricksters’ hands, he finally understood what it meant to be responsible for someone. The excellent tricks the troupe had taught the boy were now the main source of their earnings, and he had to see that Oswin was always properly fed and clad and safe. That had taken some getting used to, but in the end, it worked out nicely, and now they actually enjoyed travelling together.

Nonetheless, they just as much enjoyed their annual winter break, when they could have a warm room to sleep in each night and at least one warm meal a day. Oswin performed in the Riverside Inn, the Old Sailor, the Drunken Boat, or in one of the other taverns, The Barn or The Cellar on the evenings, and Rhisiart accompanied him, partly to protect him, partly as people usually demanded the one or other song after the performance. Between the two of them, they earned some honest coin that way (albeit not overly much), and the tavern owners welcomed them, as their performance was good for business. The longer the patrons stayed, the more they drank, after all.

Tomorrow, however, would be a very different engagement.

“You must do your best, and so must I,” explained Rhisiart to the boy, who listened to him with cornflower-blue eyes wide with excitement. “All the noblemen from the neighbourhood will be there, and if we make a good performance, we might get hired for the entire spring. Besides, Lord Orchald is a generous patron. If we are good, he will pay us a lordly price, and then we finally might be able to have that jester’s costume made for you.”

The boy’s eyes widened even more, and his grin grew from ear to ear. He had longed for a proper jester’s costume for years by now, but they had never earned enough to afford it, as Rhisiart had to save some of their earnings for Rannilt’s dowry. Oswin never begrudged the girl her due, she was Rhisiart’s daughter, after all, but it hurt him a bit to always have to take the second place behind her. Now, his time finally seemed to have come.

“Oh, I shall do well,” he promised happily. “I have worked out how to spin eight ball instead of six, and I can now do the trick with six daggers, too.”

“Daggers?” Rhisiart frowned. “Is that not too dangerous? If you fail to catch just one of them…”

“I shall not,” said the boy confidently. “You will see. My hands are steady, and I am fast. It will look great – just like the fire-breathing.”

“Which also makes me a bit uneasy,” admitted the scoop. The boy flashed him a radiant smile.

“No need for that. But if everything plays out as planned, I want little bells on my cap, too. They would look great when I work with torches or fire, and they would catch attention whatever I am doing.”

“And they are pretty,” said Rhisiart mildly. Oswin grinned.

“That, too. I have wanted them all my life.”

“Very well,” said the scoop. “I shall talk to Ludan, the bronzesmith, and see if he can make us a reasonable price.

“Oh, good!” the boy beamed with happiness, and Rhisiart felt a little guilty for having denied him his wish for so long.

True, a costume like that was not cheap. The little bells even less so, as they had to be made of silver, otherwise they would have been too heavy on a jester’s cap. But the truth was that Oswin earned more than half of all their incomes. Incomes, part of which Rhisiart set aside for his daughter who did not want to share their life on the road. It might be necessary, but it was not entirely fair to Oswin.

The scoop patted the boy’s thin shoulder affectionately. Oswin had been most understanding indeed. Now it was time to have his own turn in using their profits. Although Rhisiart suspected that the boy had realized how much better off he was with his current partner than he would have been with the mummers, and that was the reason why he never complained.

“We shall see,” he said. “I promise, if the price is one we can afford, you will get your wish. Now go, exercise your tricks a little, and then get something to eat. You must be well-rested and in good form tomorrow.”

That was very true, and Oswin hurried off obediently. He spinned his balls, rings and torches (without fire, this time) for about an hour or so, and tried the delicate trick with the daggers in the barn where he could be undisturbed. Content with the results, he then returned to the house to get himself a decent bowl of porridge, talked a little with the bowman’s friendly and gentle-hearted wife, and then he went to bed. As Rhisiart had said, he needed to be well-rested for the next, most important day.

~The End – for now~

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

Note: Rhisiart and Oswin escaped the destruction of Halabor, as they were in Lossarnach at that time. The bow-maker and his entire family died.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: Lord Orchald is “played” by Sean Connery.

Day Twenty-Four – The Lord of Halabor 1

At the age of almost seventy-two, Lord Orchald, son of the late Othrondir, was the prime example of the advantages of Númenórean blood. He was still sharp-witted and full of strength, looked at least fifteen years younger than his actual age, wielded his sword like any young warrior and was well-versed in ancient lore.

Not to mention that he also was a Swan Knight – an honorary one, since he had to take over the ruling of Halabor from his ailing father more than thirty years ago, but he still wore his white belt proudly. And, as anyone would tell you in Dol Amroth, to become a Swan Knight was not an easy task, not even for the sons of the most influential lords of Gondor.

Lord Orchald did not belong to any of those well-respected Houses. His own House was a small one, long since having lost all importance that they had once owned, and he was quite happy with that. Still, anyone at least a bit familiar with Dúnadan nobility would have guessed that he came from one of the most ancient families known by hearing his name.

Not the shortened form of it that he had used in these days, mostly for his subject’s sake. He had, in truth, been named Orchaldor – and that was an ancient name from Númenor, from where his ancestors came. And he was well aware of his noble heritage and made sure that his only son understood the importance of it as well.

For even though it had long lost its former importance, the family had moved back from Númenor to Middle-earth way before the last ships of the Faithful had lost the sinking isle. They had originally settled in South-Ithilien, near Pelargir, in the last century of the Second Age and had held extended lands in that now abandoned province. At that time, their importance was seconded only by the future Princes of Dol Amroth, and when the South-kingdom had been sounded, the head of the family was offered a seat in Osgiliath, in the council of Isildur and Anárion.

In the Third Age, though, war and the perilous neighbourhood had forced the family to retreat westwards from the Anduin. At first they settled in Lossarnach, but the found they did not like living there. Thus, led by a Lord named Ostoher, they had moved to Halabor – little more than an unprotected fishing village at that time.

Ostoher had the Castle built, on a cliff rising above the Great River, and also had the great ramparts that protected the town from the roadside, the two gates and some other fortifications – like the Square House in the Old Port – so that his subjects could live in relative safety.

This was roughly six hundred years ago, while Gondor was under Steward Barahir’s rule. At this time – and for the four centuries afterwards – Halabor was a small but strategically important town, with a population ten times of its current one, and its Lords benefited greatly from its location at the crossing of the Great River and the old South Road. They might not be sitting in the Council of Minas Tirith anymore, but they were still important – and highly respected – members of the local nobility.

Until the garrison of Cair Andros had been established, after the Battle of the Crossings of the Poros in 2885. The rearranging of Gondor’s defence line had caused a change in the major trade routes, turning them away from Halabor and directly towards Cair Andros thereafter. Halabor retreated to unimportance, and its Lords lost the major part of their incomes as well as their importance.

Some of the old alliances had survived those unfortunate events, though. Such as the old friendship of the Lords of Halabor to the Princes of Dol Amroth, which hailed from those half-forgotten times when the House of the Falcon still owned lands in South Ithilien. This old friendship earned each future Lord of Halabor the privilege to be tutored in the Prince of Dol Amroth’s court, and – if they had the strength and the will for it – to become a Swan Knight one day. Few noble Houses fallen from their formerly important positions could say that.

Orchald himself had had his training under Prince Angelimir, and he had become a friend of Adrahil, the current ruling Prince. The news of Adrahil’s ailing saddened him greatly, but again, his friend’s health had been fragile ever since infested with that strange Southern fever. Last time they had met (when Orchald had taken his son to Dol Amroth, more than fifteen years ago) Adrahil had already been but a shadow of his former self.

Orchald could not complain about his own condition. He was still strong and hole, even if somewhat slower than in his young years, and he was still an impressive sight to behold. A tall, heavily built man he was, with a ruggedly handsome face that actually looked a lot nobler and finer in his later years that it had looked earlier. The neatly trimmed, short silver beard and the iron-grey hair that he usually wore in a tight ponytail on the nape of his neck gave his features a certain elegance he had lacked earlier. In fact, widowed noblewomen from the neighbourhood still had a hopeful eye on him, just as their daughters and nieces were eyeing his son hopefully.

His son. Orchald’s heart filled with pride as he watched his late-born son, clad in his best clothes, greeting the Yule guests that had already begun to arrive. Barely in his thirties, Herumor already had a great likeness to his father, save from his brown eyes and his softer, more even features. Those he had inherited from his late mother, the Lady Humleth of Lossarnach, a kinswoman of Forlong the Faithful, whose untimely loss Orchald was still mourning. Aye, Herumor was a comely lad, combining the best features of his parents – and he was learned, well-mannered, and a Swan Knight himself. Small wonder that every well-bred maiden in the area (not to mention their parents) had an eye on him.

T’was unfortunate that Herumor had to lose his heart to a common-born woman, and one who was three years older than him, at that. But Lord Orchald did not begrudge his son a little happiness – as long as Herumor was willing to be wedded and bedded according to his father’s wishes and to his status as the last heir of such an ancient House. Fortunately, his mistress, the healer of the town, was a wise and sober woman who understood all too well what could be and what could not.

Lord Orchald had come to an agreement with Mistress Angharad. Herumor was allowed to keep her ‘til his wedding. After that, their intimate relationship had to end. And she was not to give Herumor a bastard child. As a healer, she could easily avoid getting pregnant. She loved Herumor enough to agree with those conditions and had even voiced her intent to marry Meurig, the Infirmary’s slow-witted but good-hearted helper in the not all too far future, just to silence people’s tongues.

There were moments when Lord Orchald genuinely regretted that Angharad’s ancestry made her unsuitable to become the Lady of Halabor. In every other thing, she would have been eminently suitable. But the blood of Westernesse had been already diluted in the veins of the Lords of Halabor. Herumor could not wed a non-Númenórean woman, and even less so one of common birth. Some things could just not be done, and both Angharad and Herumor understood that. No wishful thinking had ever changed the hard facts of life.

Still, Lord Orchald felt guilty about he entire situation sometimes, and he often tried to ease his guilty conscience with supporting Angharad and her Infirmary any way he could. Ordering a copy of the precious herbology for her was but one sign of his respect and gratitude towards this remarkably strong woman who loved his son enough to let him go.

The book had been sent to the Infirmary in the early afternoon, for he could not invite his son’s mistress to the Yule ceremony, of course. Even less so as he intended to finally force his hand during said Yule ceremony. He had invited all members of the local nobility who had daughters of suitable age and status. Herumor would have to make his choice tonight – or his father would. Getting him betrothed and wedded could not be delayed any longer.

The castle being a small one of its kind – especially compared to the White Tower in Minas Tirith or to Lord Forlong’s home in Lossarnach – the feasting hall was not an independent building, just a large room on the ground floor of the riverside wing. It was this wing where the living quarters of the Lord’s family could be found (although these were on the second floor). The adjoining kitchen – which shared the chimney with the feasting hall’s hearth – solved two problems in a simple way: keeping the hall warm in winter and making it easy to transfer the various dishes from the ovens directly to the tables, before the guests.

According to his rank and his function as the host of the festival, a table for Lord Orchald and his family was situates on a dais, opposite the main entrance. A canopied chair was placed at the middle of the table for the Lord, so that he could oversee the feast from his heightened position. The heart-side of the double seat was left empty. That would have been the place of the Lady of Halabor, unoccupied since Lady Humleth’s much too early death many years ago. There were other, simpler chairs, for Herumor on his father’s right, and for the highest-ranking guests who were allowed to the Lord’s table. This time, these were Peredur, the Lord’s bailiff, with his family, and a few moderately rich men of Dúnadan descent who happened to have manors of considerable size just outside Lord Orchald’s lands – and daughters between the ages of sixteen and twenty-eight, whom they were most eager to marry off.

For the guests of lesser rank as well as the guards and the servants of the Castle (as far as they were not labouring in the kitchen or guarding the walls) long, low tables of sturdy oak were placed in three parallel rows, at right angles to the dais. These had no tablecloths, and equally long and low oakwood benches were placed on both their sides. From the stone pillars dividing the room beautiful lamps made of coloured glass (the excellent handiwork of Halabor’s own glass workers) were hanging on long bronze chains from the skilfully wrought halters. Those and the fire in the hearth bathed the room in a soft, reddish-golden light.

The walls and pillars themselves were decorated with evergreen holly wreaths and red berries, mistletoe and pine cones that were painted silver or gold. The shields of Lord Orchald’s House that always hung on the pillars had been cleaned and the colours refreshed. Tin plates and tankards had been laid on the tables, save from the Lord’s table, where all dishes were made of silver.

“Do the preparations meet your satisfaction, my Lord?” a low voice asked, and turning, Lord Orchald met the wise, tired eyes of his old manservant, Sador.

“Everything is excellent, as always when Mistress Gilmith holds the reins,” the Lord smiled, and Sador smiled back, proud of the organising talents of his wife, the chatelaine of the Castle. They had both served the Lords of Halabor practically since their birth, coming from families acquaintanted with the ruling House for generations.

“I fear some of the guests might find our festive table a bit simple for their taste,” commented Sador dryly, giving especially Lord Ulmondil and his lady wife a sidelong look.

Lord Orchald shrugged. “I care not. No-one should spend the Night of Yule hungry or without a roof above their head. If the healers of the Infirmary offered to take in all the beggars for the feast, the least we could do was to send over some of our food. There will still be aplenty – more than we need.”

“You are generous, my Lord,” murmured Sador, but Lord Orchald shook his head.

“Nay, Sador, I am merely giving up on something I do not truly need. ‘Tis the healers who are generous, giving their short time of rest those who need help most. Now, let us greet our guests, shall we?”

Flanked by Sador, he crossed the great hall to clasp forearms first with his oldest guests. Lord Malanthur was his closest neighbour, living in a fortified mansion just outside the area under Orchald’s rule. He was of pure Númenórean origins – or so he declared anyway. Númenórean lore was his chief passion. He studied the history of the sunken island, followed its traditions as well as it was possible, gave his children Númenórean names and had been writing on a book about Númenor for years.

His lady wife, Emeldir, came from an old but penniless family in Pelargir, had brought naught else but the impressive list of her ancestors into their marriage, and she suffered from permanent homesickness. The almost thirty years spent near Halabor were not enough to warm her up to her inland home, and she wore a constant expression of insulted grief on her noble face.

Their daughters, twenty-eight and twenty-two years old, were lovely young ladies, dressed and groomed according to their status and to the festive occasion, but they could not hide a certain air of resignation. Too often had they been displayed for potential suitors during the recent years. Their brother, on the other hand, a comely young man of twenty-five, paraded on his father’s side like a young cock, all too aware of his status as most desirable bachelor.

For his part, Lord Orchald could have lived with either of the young ladies as his future daughter-in-law. Erendis, the older one, had a calm and gentle nature that would complement Herumor’s youthful brashness nicely. Almarian, the younger one, still seemed to have kept some of her joy and hope. She was also a good conversationalist and loved to dance – both useful traits for a lady whose husband had to welcome ranking guests all the time. And they both had handsome dowries, not to mention the fortified manor of their father, which could become crucial in the defences of Halabor.

Thus Lord Orchald was particularly friendly by greeting each family member individually, ere he entrusted them to Sador’s care who was to show them to their place at the heightened table. The lord then turned to his other neighbour, another lesser noble by the rather unusual name of Azrubêl.

Now this was a guest Lord Orchald could happily have done without. Neighbours or not, he only kept contacts with the family for the sake of the Lady Meldis, who was a kind and gentle soul – and a cousin of Golasgil, he Lord of Anfalas. Hers was a family of moderate influence (Golasgil sat in the Council of Gondor, after all) but of no wealth at all, as their lands were harsh and nigh unarable, and their people lived from fishing. Thus she had not had any other choice than to accept Azrubêl’s offer – the only one she had got.

Lord Orchald often thought that it was such a waste for a good and noble woman to live with a fool like Azrubêl, whose entire family had been known to be somewhat… strange for a very long time. Azrubêl’s forefathers had lived near Halabor for at least ten generations, but he claimed to be a direct descendant of some First Age nobles who never went to Númenor. Everyone who knew the history of the Edain knew how unlikely that was, But the entire family seemed to be obsessed with that idea, and they never got tired to explain how the true greatness of Men was buried under the Sea with those faithful ones who would not abandon their home of old.

Consequently, they looked down at the “Númenóreans” with disdain, calling them cowards and traitors. They went so far as giving their children Adûnaic names and speaking Adûnaic within the family – or what they thought to be Adûnaic anyway. Needless to say that all this made them less than beloved among their neighbours, all of which were very proud of their Númenórean origins, and as pretty as their seventeen-year-old daughter was, Lord Orchald shuddered from the thought of becoming related to them.

Not that the family of Lord Ulmondil would have been much better. While Ulmondil was at least well-mannered, he fancied himself quite the mariner – albeit his family had moved from Harlond to Halabor four generations earlier, and he never steered anything bigger than a fishing boat on his arm. He had gone to Dol Amroth to be trained as a Swan Knight, but never got his white belt, which had made him very bitter towards the Prince and his armsmasters. He had married a noblewoman from Dol Amroth, who was quite an Elf-fancier, and they spoke Sindarin among each other. Their daughters, twenty-one and eighteen years old, ate very little and slept even less, so that they would look pale and slender like Elves, their sons preferred the harp to the bow and reading to arms exercise, and the entire family behaved as if naught would be fine enough for them.

Nay, Lord Orchald did not truly want either Edhellos or Faniel to become the wife of his son. But should Herumor chose one of them, he would bear with the choice. ‘Twas Herumor who would have to live with the wife of his choice. And at least they had one thing in common with Ulmondil’s family: their love for Dol Amroth. Even though they would quarrel about the Prince’s person all the time, most likely.

He would be a lot happier getting related to the family of Lord Felanath, Lord Orchald decided. This still fairly young nobleman had been barely more than a child when he swore fealty to him, and had proved to be an excellent and faithful ally ever since. Alas, their twin daughters were barely sixteen. Lord Orchald would have preferred a somewhat older bride for his son. It seemed cruel to force such young girls into the marriage bed already. They should be still playing with dolls. But he knew all too well how in these dark times the daughters of the nobles had taken over the custom of lesser people and married much too young. ‘Twas a sad thing in his eyes, but one that he could not change.

He felt great relief when all the possible brides and their families were finally seated, and he could turn to greet his bailiff, Peredur son of Narmacil, with his lovely wife, the Lady Iorwen of Lossarnach, his no less lovely daughter, the Lady Innogen, and his younger son, Númendil. What surprised him, though, was the presence of a tall, stern-looking man, clad in black velvet, who looked like an older version of Peredur himself.

“My Lord,” the bailiff said, “may I introduce you my older brother, Odhrain?”

“Half-brother,” corrected the man in question and bowed towards their host politely. “My Lord… we have met before.”

“Indeed, we have,” Odhrain was not a warrior, which made a clasp of forearms out of question, thus Lord Orchald only squeezed his shoulders as a somewhat awkward form of greeting. “So, the two of you have finally come to some kind of… understanding, it seems?”

“We have,” replied Odhrain, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation, “though we still are negotiating the terms. Coming here was not my idea, I must point out. He insisted.”

“And a good thing it is that he did,” said Lord Orchald. “I have urged your father to do right with you all the time, but he was not to be moved to that. The more content I am that his son proved to be of a wiser disposition. There is no need to feel uncomfortable. As your family has finally acknowledged you, you have every right to sit at my table with them.”

“Somehow it seems less than flattering that my worth as a person should depend on the acceptance of someone else,” answered Odhrain dryly. “Does the fact that Lord Peredur here calls me his brother now make me a different person? A more worthy person? If it does, then all my previous struggles to become a worthy man have been in vain, as all that was needed was a nod from him. But if it was not, then why is his acceptance the only thing that counts?”

“You ask questions that I cannot answer, I fear,” Lord Orchald could not help but admire the sharp with and stubborn pride of the man who had to wait more than fifty years to get what had always been his right. “Certainly, many of the laws that rule our lives are good and needed, while a few of them have outlived their necessity. But a realm cannot live without laws, even if some of them serve to a disadvantage of some people.”

“’Tis cold comfort for those who get under the wheels of law without a fault of their own,” said Odhrain bitterly. Lord Orchald nodded.

“True enough. Nor do I assume that our law is perfect. But it is not our task – or our right – to change it, and at least your brother had understood what your father was never willing to do: that you are not to blame for the means you came into this world. Try to count your blessings; despite everything, you have fared better than most in a situation like yours.”

That, again, was very true, and Odhrain could do naught else but incline his head in respect for Lord Orchald’s wisdom.

“Come now,” said the old lord, “the table is laid, and the guests are only waiting for us to take our places. Even though I chose to limit our usual excesses a little this year, I can promise you that it will be a supper worthy of a Yule feast still.”

~TBC~

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

Note: I broke the last chapter into several parts because it was becoming too long, compared with the other ones.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s notes: Young Lord Herumor is “played” by Stuart Townsend. The menu is borrowed from “The Goode Cookery” website; the genuine medieval courses were served on the Bhakil Yule Revel in 2004. Rhisiart’s song is a somewhat changed version of the song Quant je voi yver retorner by the 13^th century poet Colin Muset. The mettarë ceremony is the creation of Altariel and was used with her generous consent.

Day Twenty-Four – The Feast

Lord Orchald might have cut back the usual excesses indeed, but the Yule feast was still a marvel to behold, more so for those of the common folk who were used to have a simple broth for dinner. Traditionally, the meal had four courses, with a “little course” between the second and the third one, and the limitations were that of the amount of food, not that of its variety. In fact, a good portion of everything had been simply sent over the Infirmary, and should there be leftovers after the feast, they would be sent to the New Port, where the poorest families of the town lived. Those had been the lord’s orders.

The first course already could have fed such a family. It began with bread and cheese: cottage cheese blended with a touch of honey, so that it could be spread over generous slices of white bread, fresh from Mistress Eseld’s bakery. Then they had a meat brevet: thin slices of cold beef, baked in butter and covered with a sauce of vinegar and cinnamon, seasoned with ginger, cloves, mace, pepper and salt.

With this dish came sallet: a salad of lettuce, grown in the Castle’s own greenhouse, and spinach leaves, with green onions, red cabbage, cucumbers, raisins, chopped walnuts and red wine. The oranges and lemons added to this particular dish had been brought from Harad by a merchant of Pelargir, specifically for the lord’s table.

A chicken and pork soup called broth of Rohan closed the first course, made with almond milk, white wine, sour grape juice and assorted spices, among them cardamom, nutmeg and even saffron. Of course, hardly anyone in Rohan but Théoden-King himself would have been able to enjoy such a dish – it was the refined version of an original recipe beloved among the Rohirrim.

After this, the guests were fairly stuffed, thus Lord Orchald ordered a break, saying that he had hired a young trickster to entertain them ‘til their stomachs recovered a little. At his sign, in came Oswin, his blue eyes bright with excitement, his straw-blond curls framing his thin face like a halo, and – standing in the middle of the hall – he presented his skills to the possible future patrons.

He began with his balls, eight of them now instead of six, spinning them from hand to hand, so that the ones in the air almost touched the ceiling, so high they flew. Then he exchanged the balls for the painted wooden rings, performing the same dazzling task with them. The next step was whirling the burning torches, these only six by the number, but they made a great impression nevertheless.

Finally, he asked Rhisiart for the daggers. He carried them around, so that the noble guest could check out that they were indeed razor sharp, and then he retreated to the main entrance for t his particular number, so that no-one would get hurt, should he fail in his task.

No-one but himself, thought Lord Orchald, a bit worried, for he did not want bloodshed in his feasting hall, not even by accident. But the boy seemed sure enough of his own skills, and everyone watched with bated breath as the sharp, shining daggers spun in a great, glittering circle between his small hands. The performance loosened the drawstring of the one or other purse, and pieces of copper and even the odd silver piece flew to the feet of the trickster after he had finished, and he picked them up, happily and proudly, bowing his thanks to the generous spectators again and again.

“Have a seat, boy, and something to eat; you certainly deserve it,” said Lord Orchald, but Oswin shook his head apologetically.

“By your leave, my Lord, I would rather wait ‘til I have shown the rest of my tricks. They are more easily done on an empty stomach.”

Lord Orchald nodded. “As you wish. I shall give orders that a sample of aught that you missed from the first two courses would be saved for you. No-one leaves my halls hungry, even less so in the night of Yule.”

Oswin thanked him humbly and got out of the way, as the servants had already begun to carry in the second course. This one contained of carrots, cooked in sugar, benes yfryed (fried beans with onions, garlic and generous seasoning), egg noodles cooked in meat broth and mixed with grated cheese, and Harad’s Joy – roasted capon simmered in whit wine, orange and grape juice, with dates, almonds, raisins and pears.

Once again, the guests could barely move when the course was over, and while they sat there, sipping wine to calm their stomachs, Oswin was called back to present the second half of his performance. This time, he made a show of the suppleness of his thin, limber body, twisting himself into the most grotesque knots one could imagine. There were moments when the spectators became unsure whether they were seeing his arms or his legs, and if his face was truly looking up at them from between his ankles. He finished the performance by turning cartwheels all along the aisle between the long tables, and then getting back from the dais to the front door in a series of somersaults.

When he uncoiled himself, flushed and content, all the guests were clapping their hands, and again, the one or other copper piece flew to his feet, but way less than the first time. Endangering himself to entertain the noble guests paid off a lot better, it seemed.

Still, he saw no reason to complain. His tricks worked out nicely, and the servants were already bringing in the “little course between courses”: venison, roasted with bacon. Oswin washed his hands in the basin behind the door and sat down to the table of the Castle servants eagerly. Now that he was done, he could eat as much as he liked – or could stuff into his belly.

The third course followed immediately, and it was greeted with delighted little cries. For it turned out to be little mutton and chicken pies, seasoned with salt, pepper, cinnamon, ginger, pine nuts and currants, and they were glazed with moistened saffron and decorated with gold leaf and miniature banners of the respective Houses of the noble guests.

Of course, such expensive food was for the lords and ladies only. The common folk got amplummus instead, a variation of the much beloved fried cinnamon apples, only that these were served with cream and saffron.

Rhisiart was asked to play his harp and sing while the fourth course was served. This was a very simple one, containing spiced biscuits and spiced nuts only, and thus the guests could listen to him while nibbling on the one or other piece. He chose a well-known song first, much beloved among wandering minstrels, for it sung about the joys of finding a good place to sit out the cold of the winter.

When I see winter return

good lodging would be found

if a host could I join

who charges me but a coin

who would have beef and pork

ducks and pheasants and mutton

venison, fat hens and capons

and good cheeses in baskets to enjoy.

The guest laughed and clapped their hands, demanding that he repeated the song, and he sung it again, and other songs afterwards as well. In the meantime, it had become completely dark, and the youngest member of the lord’s household announced the appearance of the evening star.

At this sign, the fire on the hearth was quenched and all the oil lamps in the hall veiled, and servants hurried around to give everyone present a candle. The time for the annual Yule ceremony, called mettarë by the Dúnedain, had come. One of the famous golden Yule candles was brought to Lord Orchald, together with a lighted taper. He lit the candle and announced the time-honoured words in his deep, sonorous voice.

“This was the day which was shortest, and this is the night which is longest. But the stars shine upon us, and the year turns now. The darkness passes, and the light shall return.”

He passed the candle first to his heir, so that Herumor might start spreading the light about the hall, then to Mistress Gilmith on the other side, who sat next to the still empty seat of the Lady of Halabor. The simpler candles of the others were now all lit, while the servants hurried to rekindle the fire in the hearth.

Other servants came in at the same time to deliver the Yule gifts: those given Lord Orchald by his subjects and those that he was giving his guests and his household. The gifts were shown around and admired by all present, and everyone had a good time. Only young Lord Herumor seemed uncustomary rave. He drank very little all the evening and exchanged but a few words with their visitors – only as much as could be expected from a courteous host.

“My son, try to show a bit more excitement about the coming of the new year,” said Lord Orchald quietly. “Whatever bothers you – and believe me, I know all too well what it is – our subjects look at us for hope and guidance. On a night like this we must not show doubt nor grief.”

“Forgive me, father,” said the young knight, “but I do not feel like celebrating tonight.”

“Nonetheless, celebrate you will, for that is what our people expect, and they need to believe that there is still hope,” replied his father. “And when the night is over and the morning star appears shining in the skies, we shall announce the new Lady of Halabor, for that is what you owe those who faithfully serve us. Choose wisely, my son; you will have but this one choice for a very long time. I hope you will be as happy with your wife as I was with your mother.”

“’Tis not quite the same,” said Herumor dryly. “You did love mother.”

“You will learn to love your wife as well,” answered Lord Orchald. “There are different kinds of love, and the one between husband and wife, less passionate though it might be, is a honourable kind of love. Be comforted. ‘Tis not a horrible thing that you are going to do. ‘Tis a time-honoured custom… the fulfilment of which is expected from people of our rank.”

“That is little comfort,” said Herumor, and his father nodded.

“That it is. But consider yourself fortunate compared with the young ladies who are condemned to wait for someone who might finally wed them. You, at least, can make your own choice.”

“I know,” Herumor sighed. “And I do not want to keep them waiting beyond reason. I shall announce my choice after the dance.”

His father gave him a sharp look.

It seems to me that your choice has already been made,” the lord said.

“Nearly so,” Herumor admitted. “ Yet I want to speak to her face to face ere I made that choice a final one.”

~TBC~

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

Sorry for the delay. This last day seems to take shape a lot more slowly than I have expected.

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s notes: The dance “Double wheel is actually one called “Sans Serif” – no kidding! I found it on one of the SCA websites. For visuals: Erendis supposed to look like Isabella from the movie “Braveheart”.

Dedication: Bodkin, this one is for you. I hope you are content with the choice. *g*

Day Twenty-Four – The Dance

After the gift-giving, the long tables were swiftly dismantled and removed, leaving only the one for the lord and his guests standing. The lord’s own musicians came in then and made themselves comfortable in the corner left from the main door, prepared to play ‘til the coming up of the morning star. The noble guests rose from their seats again, and the formed a circle in the middle of the room while the guests of lesser rank did the same a little further down the hall.

Traditionally, the Yule dancing began with a carole – a kind of round dance, in which the dancers joined hand as they sang and circled. The steps varied from simple walking to extremely complicated. This time, the Master of Ceremony (who happened to be Lord Orchald’s steward, the old Sador) chose a moderately difficult variety, to the unspoken relief of some participants.

The home orchestra of the Castle was a small one. it contained two elderly men with rebecs, a woman playing a shawm, two young lads, one of them playing a cymbel and one of the drums, and a girl with a twelve-string harp. They were fairly good, as Rhisiart and Oswin judged, enjoying the rare chance of listening to the music instead of making it.

When the guests had enough of the carole – as it could make one dizzy after a while, more so if one had consumed a considerable amount of wine already – Sador asked the lords present to choose partners for the main dance of the evening, the double wheel. This one was a dance for couples. The men formed a circle facing outwards, while the ladies formed a circle outside them, facing them. The pattern of the double wheel foresaw a repeated change of dance partners, ‘til every lord had danced with every lady and finally returned to his chosen partner.

As always, the choices were awaited with eager anticipation. Married couples were expected to dance with each other, but the choice of a widower or an unwed man was watched with the sharpest eyes, and guesswork was started immediately. The nobles liked to gossip as much as the common folk, after all, and this time, some of the fathers could hope to get their daughters married off soon, so the excitement was even greater than usual.

Lord Orchald began the choosing, as was the right of the host of the feast, extending his hand to the Lady Nimloth, Lord Ulmondil’s widowed sister, who was known as a very good dancer. But again, most people who were allowed to go in and out in the court of Dol Amroth were. Lord Orchald was no exception himself, and all had to admit that he made a striking figure in his gold-embroidered tunic and surcoat of black and dark purple, despite his age. He wore his hair open tonight, with a golden circle studded wit amethysts upon his brow, and it shone like freshly fallen snow upon his broad shoulders.

However – understandably enough – the choice everyone was waiting for was that of young Lord Herumor. He was clad similarly to his father, his wavy dark hair freshly shorn above his shoulder, farming his fine features like spun bronze – the only things he had inherited from his mother were the colour of his hair and the elegant smoothness of his face. Even without his rank and wealth, he would have been a most desirable bachelor indeed.

Being who he was, he counted as the best catch this side of Minas Tirith. One could not blame the young ladies for being anxious and impatient. He had waited long enough to choose a wife, and the news that he was to announce his choice in this very night spread like fire among the guests.

Half the circle for the double wheel was formed already, and everyone waited with bated breath for Herumor to make his choice… mayhap for more than just the next dance. The other eligible bachelors, Meneldir son of Malanthur and Azrubêl’s sons, Íbal and Nimruzîl, had to wait for their turn and were not all too happy about it. But being the son of the host and the heir of the noblest family did have its advantages.

A murmur of surprise went over the great hall when Herumor finally bowed before Erendis, Lord Malanthur’s older daughter, and offered his hand to her. For though Erendis was doubtlessly lovely, with a sweet, heart-shaped face and raven-black hair and eyes that were wide and clear like diamonds, with her twenty-eight years she was considered almost too old for marriage already. Dúnadan lifespan notwithstanding, the lords tended to marry off their daughters as young as possible, while the sons were generally allowed to tumble around for a while first.

Erendis blushed slightly, curtseyed and accepted the hand proffered to her. Clearly, she had not expected to be chosen, not even for this one dance, when there were seven other lovely young ladies, all considerably younger than her. But again, Herumor was said to prefer more… mature partners, so mayhap this choice was not such a big surprise, after all.

Meneldur, Erendis’ brother was quick to ask Faniel for the dance, whose elfin features had caught his fancy for some reason. His other sister, Almarian, was chosen by Nimruzîl – a choice she accepted with some trepidation, for Nimruzîl was known as almost as boring a company as his own father, and only a second son anyway. Which meant that not even rank and wealth could make his self-absorbed manners more desirable.

Nimruzîl’s brother, Íbal, chose Edhellos, shooting his father a challenging look. Íbal did not share his father’s obsession for everything Adûnaic, and he could never forgive Lord Azrubêl for giving him what he considered the most ridiculous name in the whole Gondor. Thus he kept doing things that would irritate his father, and choosing the daughter of Ulmondil, the Elf-fancier, was one of those things. Not that Edhellos would mind, for first, Íbal was a good dancer, second, he was of suitable age, and third, he was the heir of his father and therefore a good match.

Those choices left Peredur’s only daughter, Innogen, in an uncomfortable situation. All remaining youngsters were at least three years her junior and thus unlikely to choose her. Besides, how could she make a sight out of herself, dancing with a thirteen or fourteen years old partner?

She wanted to retreat as gracefully as possible and miss out the most important dance of the Yule feast, when a vision of pride and elegance in black velvet showed up before her with the most polite of bows.

“Niece,” said Odhrain, extending his hand, “I was wondering if you would dance with me? I am not used to the company of such great lords, and the ladies would most likely not give me the shadow of a chance, but I hope I shall not embarrass myself with you.”

Innogen smiled at him in relief. It was most gracious of him to make his offer so as if he would be asking a favour. Besides, he was an imposing sight to behold, even if he was family… and could well be her father.

“Of course I shall dance with you, Uncle,” she replied thankfully. “I am certain that we shall do well enough together.”

“I shall try not to step on your toes,” promised Odhrain earnestly and led her to the circle.

The rest of the couples were made up quickly enough, and now the double wheel could begin. It contained, basically, double turns either to the left or to the right, followed by three kicks, each turn. This they repeated four times, then the lords made a double left turn into the centre of the circle, meeting left shoulder to left shoulder, clapped, and then turned twice to the right, out of the circle, turning over their right shoulder. The ladies did the same, just in the opposite direction, away from the circle and back, in the end facing their dance partner on the same spot they had started from.

Again, they repeated this pattern four times. Then the lords kissed the hand of their dance partner, bowed, and by the fifth repetition of the pattern they also stepped forwards into the place of the man before them. The ladies, once more, did the same in the opposite direction, stepping into the place of the lady before them.

This pattern made each dancer advance one place to their left, skipping the partner of the dancer before them, so that they would dance with the partner two places in front of them. After repeating this four times, the dance continued with the very first pattern again, and lasted as long as everyone was facing their chosen partners again. With fourteen couples in the circle, that was quite a long time, and everyone was hot and flushed when the dance finally came to an end. Especially the young ladies who were hoping to catch Herumor’s eye, as the dance gave each and every one the chance to dance with him for at least one turn.

The Master of the Ceremony called a break, in which both guests and musicians could have some refreshments – mostly in the form of wine. Herumor released Erendis’ hand, after ha had led her back to the table, and looked into her eyes earnestly.

“Lady mine, I would have a world with you if I may. For I have a choice to make tonight, and ere I come to a decision, I need to know your thoughts about the matter.”

“My thoughts?” she repeated in surprise. “What can I possibly say that might help you to make your choice?”

“More than you can imagine,” said Herumor. “Would you sit on the gallery with me? There we can have a private conversation while we remain in plain sight as it is proper.”

Erendis glanced up at the small gallery and nodded.

“Very well, my Lord. I shall be waiting for you there. Give me but a moment.”

She gathered the folds of her heavy silken dress and rushed out of the great hall, right to the small spiral stairway that led to the gallery from the outside. Herumor looked after her thoughtfully.

“A reasonable choice,” his father commented softly, “though I would prefer Peredur’s daughter, myself.”

“She is young,” replied Herumor, “she has many years yet to find a suitable husband. “For Erendis, this may be the last chance. ‘Tis only fair, I think.”

“Would she also think so?” asked Lord Orchald gravely.

“That is something I intend to find out,” said Herumor. “I hope she will. But I wish to leave the choice to her.”

~TBC~

The Last Yule in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer and further details see Part 1.

Rating: General, for this part.

Author’s note: the Halabor Advent Project ends here. Thanks to all who read and commented. Further Halabor stories may eventually follow – after I have finished “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”. Blessed Christmas/Yule/Winter Solstice to everyone!

Day Twenty-Four – The Lady of Halabor

After a short break and the proper refreshments, the guests indulged in round dances again, the musicians playing tirelessly one merry melody after another. Young Lord Herumor, however, joined the lady Erendis on the gallery, and whenever someone happened to glance up to them could see them in earnest conversation. Grave their faces were, much too grave indeed, considering that they were most likely discussing their shared future.

“My lady,” said Herumor, “I do believe that you have heard – just like everyone – that my father wants me wedded before the Spring Fair. And that he wants to announce my choice of a wife in this very night.”

Erendis nodded. “Indeed, it has been discussed in every manor since harvest time.”

“Then I can also assume that you know why I have hesitated to wed for this long,” continued the young knight.

“Everyone knows you have a mistress,” answered Erendis, “and that she is of common birth and therefore unsuitable to become your legally wedded wife. But I must tell you, my lord, if you are trying to find someone who would be willing to turn a blind eye on your… indulgences, I am the wrong choice,” she added with disarming openness. “I can live with my future husband wedding me for other reasons than for having fallen in love with me. However, I am not willing to share my spouse with a mistress.”

“You would not need to do so,” said Herumor, no less openly. “’Tis true that I had a mistress, one that meant a great deal to me. ‘Tis also true that my father made allowances to me in this matter – but only under the condition that I will part with her as soon as the time comes to get married according to my rank and status.” He paused, and sadness flickered across his face for a moment. “That time now has come. We have spoken our farewells two days ago. She will be no competition for my wife, ever. The only contact we shall have in the future will be on official business, and in the presence of others. That I can promise by my honour.”

“And that should be enough for any potential wife, as you are known as an honourable man,” said Erendis. “I would like to ask you a question, though, if you are willing to answer. May I?”

“Certainly, my lady,” replied Herumor, a little surprised. “I promise you an honest answer, as far as I have one.”

Erendis gave him a slight smile. “I have no doubt about that… assuming that this conversation is what I think it is, and that you do intend to propose marriage.”

“It is, my lady,” said Herumor without hesitation, “and I do indeed.”

“Well, then,” Erendis seemed a little uncomfortable continuing, but she did so nonetheless, “why would you choose me? Since we have just established, you are not looking for a wife who would overlook your other indulgences.”

Herumor thought about that for a moment. He did have an answer, of course, he just did not know how to phrase it.

“There are several reasons,” he finally said. “One of them is that I have known you since we were both children, and I have never felt aught but the utmost respect and admiration for you. You are wise and kind and trustworthy – and very beautiful. You would be a great asset for our House. Further, you know as well as I do that running a household like ours is a difficult task, one that I could not do alone. I need someone mature enough to help me shoulder this burden, and I know you have done the same for your mother for years. And finally – forgive me if it sounds a little harsh, but it is the truth – the other ladies are younger than you. They will have plenty of chances to find a suitable husband yet.”

“And you believe I have none?” asked Erendis softly.

“Most young men of suitable families are younger than you,” replied Herumor with an apologetic shrug. “They would look elsewhere.”

“Would you not be more fortunate with a younger wife as well?”

“I am looking for someone who would not only be my wife but also the Lady of Halabor,” said Herumor. “Someone who is level-headed, compassionate and yet strong enough to hold the reins firmly in hand when I am abroad. You are all those things – and more. This Castle has been without a proper lady for too long. I have no use for a young girl who would need years t o learn her future duties first.”

“Are you certain that you are seeking for a wife and not for a chatelaine?” there was a certain edge in Erendis’ voice.

Herumor shook his head. “We already have a chatelaine, and she is very good at that which she does, as you know,” he answered. “She will be a great help for the lady of our House. But being that lady is a great responsibility, no less than ruling Halabor and the adjoining lands one day. My father has carried the burden for a long time. ‘Tis my turn now, and to be able to fulfil my duties properly, I need a lady on my side, just as my mother was standing on father’s side. Can I persuade you to be that lady, Erendis? What I can offer you is more a burden than a privilege, I know. Still, I would prefer to share that burden with you than with any of the other ladies here.”

“At least you are honest,” Erendis looked at him with a sad little smile. “Very well then; I accept. My father would do so in a moment anyway – he had been most anxious to finally get me married off for several years. I thank you though for leaving the choice to me.”

Herumor shrugged. “’Tis not a slave market. Both parties involved should have a say in the matter.”

“Should is the right word,” said Erendis dryly. “Usually, it works differently, though. Glad I am that I shall not have to brought to that market any longer.”

Herumor gave her an unexpected grin. “The only one to whom your beauty would be displayed again is me, lady. I consider that a privilege.”

Erendis blushed but could not help laughing.

“Now I see why you feel the need to marry a somewhat older woman,” she said. “You are still very much that reckless little boy I used to know. I see I shall have my work cut out for me to make you a proper and dignified lord.”

“Guilty as charged,” Herumor admitted a little sheepishly. “Shall we go down and make an announcement then?”

“I believe we should,” answered Erendis. “It seems that my parents have forgotten how to breathe for a while by now, and your lord father looks rather concerned, too. Does he fear that you might change your mind about getting married?”

Herumor laughed. “Nay, he knows I would never go back on my given word. I believe he fears that you might refuse my offer, though.”

“We should go down and put his mind at ease, then,” said Erendis, rising from her seat. “’Tis not a nice thing to torture our parents with uncertainty.”

“But it can be fun sometimes,” replied Herumor with a reckless grin, but he stood, too, and extended his hand to her, escorting her back to the great hall.

Lord Orchald and Erendis’ parents hurried over to them at once, of course.

“Well?” the Lord of Halabor asked. “Have the two of you reached an agreement?”

“We have,” said Erendis simply, leaving any further explanations to her future husband.

“The Lady Erendis agreed to become my wife,” added Herumor in obvious relief. “If Lord Malanthur and Lady Emeldir are not adverse, we can make and announcement, father.”

Erendis’ parents were far from being adverse. They could not been happier, in truth, as they had almost given up hope to get their older daughter married off properly. As Herumor had said, most potential suitors were either way too old or much too young for her. The other young ladies present were of a more suitable age for the young lords.

Thus Lord Orchald gave a sign to the musicians to finish the dance, and when everyone in the great hall became quiet again, he raised his voice to catch their attention.

“My friends, my honoured guests and those who have served our Houses faithfully, allow me to present you the future Lady of Halabor!”

The guests turned towards him in eager anticipation, and when Lord Orchald took the hand of the Lady Erendis, kissed her on the brow and called her his beloved daughter, people cheered and clapped their hands loudly and gleefully. And when young Lord Herumor stepped forth to kiss his bride for the first time before all eyes, there were whistles and calls of encouragement and much laughter.

And while the other young ladies – and their parents – might be disappointed, the servants of the Castle and the invited dignitaries of the townsfolk were most pleased. For it had been a long time since Halabor had had a lady, and all agreed that the Lady Erendis would fill that place wondrously well.

Thus passed the last Yule night ever celebrated in Halabor, and when the morning star shone up on the skies, the guests returned to their chambers in renewed hope and in a happier mood than they had had in a long time.

~The End – this time really~

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

Note: Herumor was slain in a fight with a raiding band of Hill men in early 3008, before he could actually have married Erendis. Lord Orchald died on the steps of his burning Castle, defending it – and his town – ‘til his last breath. His steward, Sador, and Mistress Gilmith escaped, but Gilmith dies shortly thereafter, not being able to get over the destruction of her home. The other noble families – save Peredur’s – were not harmed, fort he Orcs had been specifically sent to destroy Halabor, hoping so to open the way to Cair Andros. The Lords held out in their fortified manors, although they did send their children to supposedly safer places: to Minas Tirith, Forlong’s town in Lossarnach, Linhir, or other cities.