Tales from 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.

Genre: General

Rating: varies from story to story. Mostly G, though.

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

Timeframe: There isn’t one in particular. The date is usually given to each individual part.

Summary: Independent little stories, featuring various inhabitants of Halabor.

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

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Introduction

This series contains independent vignettes featuring Halabor, an imaginary little Gondorian fishing and merchant town that lies on the western bank of the Anduin, opposite Cair Andros. For years, I wrote similar vignettes in the form of an Advent calendar, but the stress to produce a new story for each of the twenty-four days of Advent was getting too much. So I decided to write and post future Halabor vignettes in irregular intervals, whenever inspiration would hit.

Those who are familiar with Halabor will no doubt find names and characters they have seen before. But there will also be new ones. In a town with 700-1000 inhabitants, there are many stories to tell. Unlike in earlier cases, there is no common story frame for these vignettes, save from the fact that they all take place in Halabor. The only common fact they contain is that each one mainly features young Lord Herumor, the heir of the Lord of Halabor, in various situations where he is getting familiar with his future duties and subjects.

Some basic background info for those still unfamiliar with the settings: In the beliefs of the Old Folk, Nurria is the local equivalent of Yavanna. The Old Folk is the people who lived in Gondor before the arrival of the Númenóreans – and that most likely made up the major part of the local population. I made them related to the people of Bree (from afar), which is why they use the Bree-calendar and the same names for the months or the days of the week. The names they bear are usually old Cornish or Celtic names – I could not come up with so many original ones on my own, and I wanted them to have linguistically related ones.

To make it easier for my readers to find their bearings, I will eventually post a timeline and a list of the most important characters, places, guilds, etc.

Welcome to Halabor and enjoy your stay!

Soledad

 Tales from 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.

Genre: General

Rating: G.

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

Summary: Young Lord Herumor visits the annual rose harvest on the oil merchant’s fields.

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

The Rose Harvest

Summer came early in the year 3002 of the Third Age to Halabor, a small Gondorian fishing and merchant town that lay at the western bank of Anduin, opposite the southernmost edge of the isle of Cair Andros. Here, where the sheer rock upon which Lord Orchald’s castle had been built many hundred years ago thrust into the body of the Great River, the water was as wide and calm as the Sea, and people simply called it the Lake, even though it was none, for the undercurrents ran deep below the surface and did not re-emerge from all that calmness but farther south, where the vellum-maker’s workshop stood.

With the coming of the summer came the season of the rose harvest. Thrimidge⁽¹⁾ had already been very warm this year, and Lithe⁽²⁾ proved even warmer, thus the rose gardens were in full bloom at the beginning of the first summer moon, which was an unusual thing, but not entirely unheard of. There could be no doubt whatsoever that the harvest would be finished ‘til the Summer Days⁽³⁾,  and that the yield of rose oil and rosewater would be exceptionally high this time.

It also meant that the wives and daughters of many a poor farmer would have much work – and thus earn good coin for their families – at the beginning of the summer. Harvesting roses was women’s work; one had to be small to do it more easily, with small hands and agile fingers, and one needed great skill and experience to avoid the ever-present thorns as much as possible.

Even so, no-one who had ever harvested roses could avoid small injuries or even long, vicious scratches on their bare arms. Sleeves were generally rolled up or pinned back, as clothes could not mend on their own as living flesh could, and the poor womenfolk rarely had spare clothes to replace the ones torn during the back-breaking work in the rose gardens.

Said gardens lay near the river bank, joining the herb gardens of the Infirmary from the east and the crop fields of the same Infirmary from the north. Further eastward from them stretched the lavender fields, which also belonged to Master Faelon, the oil merchant of Halabor, who not only traded in spiced and scented oils but also produced a great variety of them, prominently walnut, hazelnut and almond oil and vinegar, but also rose and lavender oil, rose water, various spirits made of hazelnuts and juniper or even pine seeds. He had his oil shop on the ground floor of his townhouse, but his warehouse, his oil mill and the still rooms were out here, amidst the rose and lavender fields, as it was easier to bring the majority of his products directly to the Old Port, where his barge lay at anchor, ready to ship his much sought-after wares to the South: to Minas Tirith, to Linhir and Pelargir, sometimes even as far as Umbar and Nah-Harad.

The making of rose oil and rosewater had but a short tradition in Halabor. The craft – and the skills needed to practice it – had been brought there by Mistress Eirendel, the wife of the old oil-merchant, from Linhir, one of the chief towns of Lebennin, which lay right above the mouth of the River Gilrain. To the present day, Mistress Eirendel supervised the rose harvest personally, despite her advanced age.

She was a tall, imposing woman of Dúnadan blood – albeit of common birth – who ruled her fragrant empire like an exiled queen, as much as she had grown fond of her home as time had gone by. She had brought the roses from the South, too: a rich, particularly fragrant sort called the Haradric Damask that grew surprisingly well in Halabor’s colder climate. Unlike the local varieties that were white or yellow or pale pink, mostly, her rose gardens turned into a fragrant, moving sea of deep red and vivid pink at harvest time – a sea that threatened to swallow the busy workers among the bushes.

As always, on this Meresdei⁽⁴⁾ the harvest had begun at daybreak and proceeded ‘til about the fourth hour of the day⁽⁵⁾. As always, Mistress Eirendel had stood next to the door of the still rooms all those hours, tall, erect and dark-clothed, despite the warmth that could be felt even in this early time of the day, her raven hair, coiled in heavy braids on either side of her fine-boned face, barely touched by the frost of age. Only the slightly shrunken flesh of her cheeks revealed that she was not longer young, mayhap beyond what was considered middle age for the Old Folk, not though for her own Dúnadan kind. Her hands, though strong and shapely still, betrayed her with swollen knuckles and seamed veins, showing that in spite of her elegance, she was used to hard work all her life.

“’Tis always best to harvest the rose petals while the dew is still on them,” she explained to the new workers who had come to the harvest for the first time this year; due to the excellent weather, more hands were needed than usual. “The heat of the day would cause the fine oils to evaporate into the warm air. See that only the rose petals are taken; no green bits are allowed.”

Young Lord Herumor, who had come in his father’s stead to oversee the rose harvest this year, watched with interest as the workers carefully shook the harvested rose petals from their wicker baskets into large canvas sacks, which then were loaded with the same care onto small, two-wheeled carts, on which they made the short journey from the rose gardens to the still room.

“Care must be taken not to bruise the rose petals,” explained Mistress Eirendel, seeing their young lord’s honest interest for the process, “or else they would begin to ferment before their time and the whole day’s harvest would be lost. These are delicate flowers. But feel free to go with the workers, my Lord, if you want to see what will be done next.”

His curiosity piqued now, young Lord Herumor followed the workers to the still rooms, which joined the oil merchant’s warehouse on the opposite side as the oil mill. Once there, the sacks of rose petals were unloaded from the cart and unceremoniously dumped on the smooth, cool stone floor of a large, empty room.

“Here they will ferment for a while,” said Mistress Goneril, who was not only the daughter-in-law of Mistress Eirendel but also her niece, at Herumor’s questioning look. “Decomposition helps to produce more fragrant oil inside of the rose petals.”

“How long does it take?” asked Herumor, taking a deep breath. The room was incredibly aromatic already, making it hard to breathe. It was also quite warm in there, thus he shed his light cottee hurriedly; the open-necked, fine linen shirt he wore underneath was more than enough to serve proper decorum.

“Several hours,” replied Mistress Goneril. “’Tis better to heat up the steam jacket when ‘tis not so hot in the outside anyway.”

Herumor eyed the already two feet thick rose petal mattress with dreamy eyes. “It would make a bedding beyond belief,” he said softly.

Mistress Goneril laughed. “And it would ruin a day’s hard work beyond help,” she answered. “I must ask you to stay away from it, my Lord. Rose petals are very delicate.”

“That is what your aunt told me,” said Herumor.

“And she was right, of course,” she replied. “That is why we cannot extract the oil with the help of steam. Once hit by the heat of steam, the rose petals would form mush, which does not permit complete distillation.”

“How do you do it then?” asked Herumor.

“We do it with water,” Mistress Goneril led him to one of the still rooms, where the distiller – a large copper container that could take about a hundred gallons of water – stood in the middle. The container was surrounded by the steam jacket, into the bottom of which the steam was introduced through a copper tube.

“First we fill the still with water – fortunately, the creek that operates the oil mill has enough of it, and we can simply pump it right into the still rooms,” she explained. “Then we fill in the rose petals, about one hundred pounds of it, packing the still to the top, to overflowing. The steam then causes the water inside the pot boil. If we heated the pot by direct fire, we would burn the rose petals, as the water inside would evaporate as the process goes on, and the rose petals would contact with the hot sides of the still.”

“And that would be bad, right?” asked Herumor.

Mistress Goneril nodded. “One thing you never want to do, my Lord, is to burn your raw material.”

“And heating the pot this way you can prevent that?” Herumor was still a little doubtful.

“Oh, aye, that we can indeed,” she waved in the general direction of the pot. “You see, our still is a two-storey operation. First we load the rose petals into the top of the still, where they must float freely in water in order for them to be distilled. When the distillation period is over, the bottom of the still is opened to remove the spent rose petals and the remaining waters.”

Herumor frowned. It sounded like an incredibly complicated process, where a lot of things could go wrong at every step. Who would have thought that the simple folk had the necessary skill and knowledge to deal with such a delicate operation? He would have expected this from Elves, mayhap from some very skilled craftsmen or craftswomen in Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth, but never from the Old Folk. He began to understand his father’s deep respect for their subjects; a respect that was whole-heartedly returned by the people. He also began to see why his father had insisted that he came to the rose harvest (just as he had been sent to watch the crop and fruit harvests, to visit the workshops of various craftsmen and the farms): he needed to know his future subjects in the same depth his father had come to know them, in order to be a good Lord for them one day.

“I still cannot see where the rose oil would come out,” he admitted, more than a little confused.

Mistress Goneril laughed. “It does not come out in the same form you can buy it when it has already been filled into small bottles,” she said. “As the distillation proceeds, the distillate is captured in a receiving can, with the attar – the rose oil – floating to the top. After the attar has been separated and gathered, the remaining waters must be redistilled, in order to remove the oils which have not been separated from the waters the first time. These then will be added to the already gathered attar, filtered and blended back together, ere they could be filled in bottles.”

Herumor listened to her with growing respect. She could not be much older than he was, a tall, slender, energetic woman with a wide white brow, a sweet, oval face and wide-set, lovely eyes that saw anything but looked at anything with understanding and pity. She was not beautiful as her aunt must once have been, had not possessed the same stern bearing and dark radiance, but there could be no doubt that she was capable of keeping the whole harvest well under control when needs must be. Gentler than her aunt, aye, she still had the strength of true Dúnadan breeding, even if not nobly born.

“’Tis hard work you are doing here, you and your hired hands,” said Herumor, wishing he could have phrased his respect a little better. “I have never thought it would be so complicated… ‘til today.”

“Aye, it is complicated,” she agreed, “and great care must be taken to prevent the distillate from being soiled. That would ruin all the previous work in a wink of an eye.”

“You seem to know the entire process by the heart, though,” said Herumor. “Where have you learned it?”

“Our family has been making rose oil and rosewater, back in Linhir, for at least four generations,” she replied. “’Tis said that one of our forefathers married a woman from Near-Harad, and it was she who brought the skills and the knowledge with her. That is why our attar is so different from that which is produced in Lossarnach: wilder, more intensely scented and heavier.”

“Is that also the reason why you mostly sell it in the South?” asked Herumor.

She nodded. “Aye; people in the South have different tastes. My husband takes an entire shipload of attar, lavender oil and nut oils as far south as Umbar each year; although the nut oils are much asked for in the Riddermark, too.”

“Master Thaneau is a brave man,” said Herumor, “to sail into Umbar at a time when things are a little… tense between Gondor and that realm.”

Mistress Goneril shrugged. “’Tis not any worse than having to bother with the Hanse of Lebennin all the time,” she said. “The merchants of Umbar know how to keep the Corsairs under control. They know that if our barges were raided we would no longer send our wares to them – and that is not within their interests. They want our wares, so they have to see that our barges arrive safely. Oh, their taxes are high, outrageously so, but we can still earn good, honest coin, thus we are not truly concerned about that.”

“’Tis still seems strange to me to have such friendly contacts with Umbar, of all places,” said Herumor.

Mistress Goneril shrugged again. “Everyone needs the trade. The great and mighty lords fight their wars, but ‘tis the merchants who keep things running behind the battlefields.”

Herumor still found this view a little simplified for his own taste – after all, due to his father’s contacts to the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth he knew all too well what (or rather who) was truly pulling the strings that directed the moves of Umbar and the Haradric realms. Ere he could say aught, though, one of the hired workers came to speak with Mistress Goneril. She was one of the farmers’ wives, if her tanned face and rough hands were any indication, and an elderly one at that.

“Begging your pardon, Mistress,” she said in her scratchy voice, “but the rose water from yesterday has been bottled.”

Mistress Goneril nodded. “Have the girls take the bottles to the cold room in the stone cellar. I shall send down Howel, too” that was the oil merchant’s clerk, “with the inventory books, so see to it that the bottles are marked properly. We have several standing orders from the neighbouring manors already, and I wish not for the bottles to be sent to the wrong place. Howel will show you how to store them ‘til they can be sent out to the customers.”

“Understood, Mistress,” the old woman scurried away, and Mistress Goneril looked after her with a certain fondness.

“Good old Demelza,” she said. “She has been working for us during harvest season for longer than I have been alive, I think. She is such a great help for us. I know not what we would do without her.”

“Why is that?” asked Herumor in surprise.

Mistress Goneril gave him a somewhat sad smile. “You see, my Lord, we are strangers here, Aunt Eirendel and myself. No matter how long we have lived in Halabor already, the Old Folk will always see us as foreigners. But what they would take from us with resentment, they take from old Demelza willingly. We are fortunate indeed to have her working for us.”

At this point their conversation was interrupted again, this time by an elderly man – the tenant of the lavender fields – who told them that the harvest was done for the day, as it was getting too warm already.

“Breakfast is being served behind the warehouse,” he added ere leaving them again.

Mistress Goneril looked at their young lord expectantly.

“We would be honoured if you broke your fast with us, my Lord,” she said. “Our fare is simple, yet tasty enough – or so your lord father has always found when he came to visit the rose harvest. As you have said yourself, this is hard and delicate work; sharing the table with the Lord or his heir always means a great deal to our hired hands.”

Herumor accepted the offer without much ado. His father, and his grandfather before him, had long adapted to the simpler ways of the Old Folk and ruled their subjects in the manner of caring fathers rather than like many other Dúnadan lord. He knew the same would be expected from him, too, and that was fine with him, honestly. After all, had his late mother – a cousin to Lord Forlong of Lossarnach – not come from the Old Folk, too?

Thus he sad down in his modest finery with the hired hands to the long trestle table, shared with them the milk and porridge that was offered for breakfast, laughed and jested with them and told them stories about his years as an esquire in Dol Amroth and about the strange customs in the Princes’ refined court. The simple folk listened to him with rapture, like children who are told fairy tales.

Mistress Eirendel, watching him from some distance, nodded contentedly.

“He will be a good Lord for Halabor one day,” she said to her niece. “Just like his lord father.”

~The End – for now~

End notes:

(1) Thrimidge = the Middle Earth equivalent of our May

(2) Lithe = the Middle Earth equivalent of our June

(3) Summer Days = the additional days between June and July, which make it possible for each month to be exactly 30 days long

(4) Meresdei = the Middle Earth equivalent of our Monday. (On ME, Highday corresponded our Friday and was considered the day of rest, therefore the week started with what we'd consider Saturday. Yes, it is complicated, I know. I have had my own set of headaches about is.)

(5) the fourth hour of the day = 10 AM. In Gondor the hours were counted from daybreak (generally from 6 AM) rather than from midnight.

Tales from 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.

Genre: General

Rating: G, for this story.

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

Summary: Young Lord Herumor pays a visit to the oil mill.

Author’s note: The oil mill of Halabor is based on a really existing one in Sarlat, France, which has been producing walnut oil and related products using the same methods since the early 1620s. Most of the work is still being done by hand.

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The Oil Mill

Autumn had come with a mild warmth once again in the year 3002 to the small Gondorian fishing and merchant town of Halabor, and with autumn came the time of walnut harvest. Some of the rich, aromatic nuts had already been harvested while still green, either to preserve them in honey, or else to make a fine walnut liquor of them, to the joy of the customers. But now at the end of Halimath⁽¹⁾, the nuts had finally shed their shell and began to fall from the trees. The first farmers – traditionally the tenants working in Lord Orchald’s fruit gardens – were arriving already, carting large canvas sacks full of walnuts to Master Faelon’s oil mill, near the crop fields of the Infirmary, to have the Lord’s annual share of walnut oil pressed. Others followed them, either to have their own oil made, or to sell the nuts to the oil merchant for the same purpose. Work in the oil mill was well on its way, although it would be the fullest in the upcoming Wintring⁽²⁾.

Master Faelon, the old oil merchant, was something of a rarity in Halabor, a small town mostly peopled by the Old Folk, under the rule of a lesser Dúnadan nobleman. He hailed from a family of almost pure Dúnadan blood – his ancestors had come with Erellont, the founder of Lord Orchald’s House, from Númenor on one of Anárion’s ships – but of common birth nonetheless. As simple men-at-arms, his ancestors had served the House of Erellont faithfully, first in Ithilien, and later in Lossarnach. When their Lords had been forced by circumstance to seek a new home in Halabor, though, one of his forefathers had chosen to become a merchant instead of a soldier, and they had traded in oil, spirits and other such products ever since, with the blessing of their Lords, who, too, had had their modest profit from that change.

Due to their origins, they had excellent contacts as far as Pelargir, Harlond or even Umbar in the South and Dale and Esgaroth in the North. The oil-mill – the only one still working this side of Minas Tirith – was as old as the trading business of its owners, yet still in the best working order. As walnut oil, vinegar and spirits earned an important part of Master Faelon’s profits – and thus the taxes he paid his Lord each year – Lord Orchald had made it his custom to pay the oil mill a visit when the walnut harvest began.

This year, however, he did not come in his own august person. Instead, he sent his only son, young Lord Herumor, as a sure sign that the young lord was supposed to begin learning his future duties in earnest. Master Faelon had no objections. Like everyone else in Halabor, he liked their young lord a great deal, as Herumor was an easy-going, personable young man who treated everyone with respect and took his duties seriously… save one. He seemed reluctant to find a suitable bride just yet, saying that he was still too young (which was, in all honesty, quite true) and wanted to take his time to find the right woman to share the rest of his life with.

In all other things, he was a responsible and obedient son, who knew what he owed his family and his subjects. He had already taken over some of his father’s duties, mainly those that required much bodily exertion, like the training of the Castle Guard and working with the new Wardens. It seemed now that Lord Orchald had decided to introduce his son to the more peaceful lordly duties as well, and young Lord Herumor went willingly everywhere his lord father had sent him. Like to the oil mill on this very day, to watch the fruit of their orchards being turned into the finest oil that was highly valued all over Gondor, from the border of the Mark down to Pelargir.

The young lord was welcomed before the oil mill by Master Faelon personally. True to his Dúnadan origins, the old oil merchant (as opposed to his son and heir who was doing the journeying part of the business in these days) was still in a respectable shape, albeit he could not be far from his seventieth summer… or perchance already beyond it. Tall he was, compared with his fellow townspeople, dark-haired and grey-eyed; perhaps greying a little around his temples, and there was much silver in his neatly trimmed beard, but still, no-one would have guessed his true age by his looks alone.

“My Lord Herumor,” he greeted the young knight with honest pleasure, “welcome to our modest manufactory, welcome! ‘Tis always a delight to show it to a new visitor; to explain how things are done. How come that your lord father has sent you this year, though? He usually likes to visit the mill at harvest time.”

Herumor laughed. “Father said I was way too generous in using walnut oil for my scabbard and horse gear, thus I ought to learn how much work is needed to produce it. But I have come gladly. It surprises me every time anew how much skill and knowledge our people possess. It makes me proud to have the privilege to protect them.”

That was the way he usually talked to his subjects: always courteous, always having a well-founded compliment for them… the same way his lord father did. Master Faelon nodded in contentment. Lord Orchald and the Prince of Dol Amroth had done a good job with the young lord’s education; about that there could be no doubt. Herumor might have been a spoiled brat at the time he had left for Dol Amroth, albeit always a good-hearted one; he had come back as a man grown, and an honourable man at that.

“Come with me then, my Lord,” he said, “for the hired hands have already begun with the cracking of the walnuts, and we will barely have enough time to see the mill properly ere today’s work must begin.”

He gestured to the right, and Herumor followed his directions eagerly, curious to see everything that belonged to the oil winning. Thus they came first to the long, narrow shed behind the warehouse, in which firewood for the winter was stored most of the year. Right now, though, a long trestle table was standing in the middle of it, with benches on both sides, and two dozen or so women and young girls were sitting there, cracking the walnuts on smooth, flat pebbles with small hammers, picking out the sweet kernels from among the crushed shells and throwing them into flat wicker baskets in the middle of the table. They were so fast that it sounded as if a swarm of woodpeckers would knock on the nearby trees, looking for something edible. When a basket was full, small boys emptied it into one of the really large ones standing next to the entrance, waiting to be brought to the mill.

“They are very skilled,” said Herumor in amazement. “But will they be able to keep up this speed all day?”

“Nay, of course not,” replied the oil merchant, “but they do not have to, either. ‘Tis only so urgent ‘til the first sixty pounds of fruit have been filled into the mill. After that, they can slow down, for making the first amount of oil would take several hours.”

“Can the walnuts not be knocked in advance?” asked Herumor. “Or would that make the kernels dry out too much?”

“It would,” replied Master Faelon, “which is why we cannot do it. Now, we should not linger here too long. I wish to show you the channel wheel ere it gets turned on fully.”

He led the young lord further behind the building, where a small creek came down from a nearby stony hill, falling from considerable height of a sheer rock and driving the large oak wheel ceaselessly. The wheel itself had a small protective outbuilding, barely large enough to contain it properly, which joined the mill itself from the back.

“This is the very core of our mill,” explained Master Faelon, surveying the wheel with unabashed pride. “Over a hundred and fifty years old, but still in perfect working order. It must have been quite the woodcarver who has made it. ‘Tis so heavy that – using the power of the falling water – it can easily drive the grinding stone.”

“The water flow seem a bit too weak to me for that,” commented Herumor with a frown. He had seen the flour mill often enough to know that more power was needed to bring a grinding stone to turn.

“That is because we have reduced it for the time the mill is not being used,” said Master Faelon and showed him a crank that hung on the wall. “As soon as the sixty pounds of fruit are filled into the mill pan, we increase the water flow, and the channel wheel begins to turn the metal axis, which goes under the grinding stone, driving the gear above it, which, in turn, drives the other metal shaft, also situated above the grinding stone, and…” he trailed off, realizing that he had lost the younger man somewhere during his little pontificating. “Come with me, my Lord,” he said, smiling. “’Tis easier when you can actually see what I am talking about.”

Entering the grinding room, Herumor had to admit that seeing the entire system indeed made it easier to understand how the mill actually worked. The middle of the room was dominated by a huge, flat stone pan of some sort, in which the grinding stone – an intimidatingly huge thing – stood vertically on its side. It was fastened to the second metal shaft, of which Master Faelon had just spoken, in the middle, so that if could move around in the entire pan. The gear above it was made from some hard wood.

“Rowan?” asked Herumor, a little uncertainly.

Master Faelon nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis used in order to prevent any noise, or else we would all go deaf here; the foreman first. After all, the grinding wheel weighs almost a thousand pounds.”

“Made in granite then, I assume,” said Herumor.

Master Faelon nodded again, this time a little distractedly, for several men entered through the other door, emptying great baskets full of walnut kernels into the huge stone pan that already seemed full enough.

“This will do for the time being,” he said to Bodric, the foreman of the mill: a stocky, slightly balding man near fifteen years his junior. “We should start the mill. Open the crank of the channel wheel, and you,” he looked at the men with the now empty baskets. “Bring me the prepared firewood to the heating room.”

They all did as they had been told. Moments later Bodric returned, holding a flat wooden paddle twice the span of his hands, yet without a hilt. With this paddle, he began to spread the walnut kernels and later the grain, as soon as the grinding wheel began to move around, so that the resulting grain would be of even quality. ‘Twas almost frightening to watch, as he had to lean out of the way of the huge granite wheel in time at every round it made.

“He knows what he is doing,” said Master Faelon placatingly, seeing Herumor’s concern. The wheel was moving almost noiselessly indeed, Herumor noticed, hoping that Bodric would not miss its approach anyway. “He has done this for more than twenty years. He knows the mill by heart… almost better than I do.”

“How long takes it for the walnuts to be crushed?” asked Herumor.

“Three quarters of an hour,” replied Master Faelon. “They must be ground very fine, you see, or we cannot obtain a proper walnut paste, of which the oil will be pressed.”

Herumor looked at Bodric, who was bent over the stone pan, spreading the grain and kernels tirelessly, with new respect. Doing that for three quarters of an hour would certainly kill his back. “How do you make a paste out of the grain?”

“By adding water to it,” explained Master Faelon, “About two pints for the sixty pounds of walnut grain. The paste is then collected and poured into a cast iron cauldron, where it is then mixed and heated by a wood fire, at a fairly low temperature, for another three quarters of an hour.”

“Why must the heat be low?” inquired Herumor, following the oil merchant to the adjoining heating room, where two men were already about to stock the oven, upon which the enormous cauldron stood, with firewood.

“Heating is the most important and most delicate operation in the oil production,” explained Master Faelon. “The more the oil is heated, the better the yield in the press, the stronger the taste and the darker the colour. Heating is indeed essential for bringing out the fruit flavour, which is why I need to watch the flame myself. Much experience is needed to produce the right flavour.”

“Does this meant hat different customers prefer their oil in different shades and flavours, and that you can control it by controlling the heat?” asked Herumor in surprise. He always only saw walnut oil in one version: honey-gold.

The old merchant nodded. “Aye, that is basically true. For sale in our shop or to sellers, we heat the oil at an average temperature to obtain an average yield for a moderate colour and taste: not too strong and not too light. However, the Horse-Lords of the Mark prefer their oil almost greenish-blond, with a very mild taste, while for the shipments that go to Pelargir or Umbar, we need to make it deep amber, sometimes even a rich brown. Those are then very strong in taste, but that is how the Southrons like it.”

Herumor made a mental note of the fact, intending to order a bottle or two of that strong Southern version for Master Andrahar of Dol Amroth. The Armsmaster hailed from Harad, after all; perchance he would welcome the familiar taste. He was duly impressed by the fact that the oil merchant could make the oil match his customers’ different tastes, though.

“That is hard work,” he said, wanting to voice his respect.

“It is,” agreed Master Faelon, “but it also brings a handsome profit, so we are not complaining. If you will forgive me now, my Lord... I need to start building the fire in the oven. But Enea here,” he nodded towards a plain-looking woman who was entering the room at his very moment, “will be glad to show you the press, I am certain.”

Enea, who was the foreman’s wife and youngest sister to Howel, the oil-merchant’s clerk, bowed obediently and led the young lord, who was, in fact, younger than both her own sons, to the press, which was situated in a small adjoining room. ‘Twas a fairly big thing, the press was, and the small room was so filled with the heavy sweetness of crushed and heated walnuts that Herumor found it hard to breathe.

“This is where the walnut paste is brought, carried by a wooden shovel, once the water poured to the grain at the end of the crushing evaporates,” she explained. “We then cover the mould with heavy canvasses that we use as a filter to let the oil through and hold the paste. Then we put it all between these two thick pieces of wood, the top one protected by an iron plate from the screw, which then comes down gently, driven by the millstone’s force, to press out the oil from the paste.”

For a moment, Herumor remained silent, amazed by the complexity of the oil mill, a machinery within which every piece had its own purpose and helped to operate the next one at the same time, from the channel wheel to the screw of the press. His father had been right. He had needed to see with his own eyes the amount of work and skill behind the oil production, in order to truly appreciate the end results.

“How long does the paste need to stay in the press?” he finally asked.

“About a quarter of an hour,” answered Enea. “With sixty pounds of walnut kernels under the grinding stone, we obtain three gallons of virgin walnut oil in the press. With hazelnuts or almonds, the yield is only two gallons of virgin oil out of sixty pounds of fruit. Those are much harder than walnuts and contain not so much oil.”

“You seem to know the operation well enough,” said Herumor.

Enea shrugged. “Bodric and me, we have worked for Master Faelon all our lives. While ‘tis true that I work more for Mistress Eirendel in the still room nowadays, I still get to help out in the mill during harvest season; mostly with the bottling of the oil, as I have steady hands and a good eye for measure.”

“Is it bottled right as it comes from the press?”

“Of course not!” Enea laughed. Once pressed, the oil obtained is still cloudy. It needs to be decanted in a drum for two weeks, at the very least, so that the sediments can fall to the bottom. Only then can it be bottled, when it has become transparent like coloured glass.”

“And what happens with the residue that remains in the press?” asked Herumor.

“Oh, that,” she said with a shrug. “We make flour of it and sell it to the husbandmen. The swine particularly have an appetite for it, and it makes them nice and fat. Almost as good as feeding them on acorns, it is.”

Still blown away by the complexity of oil production, Herumor thanked the woman who then hurried off to catch up with her work. The young lord stayed in the oil mill all day, watching every phase of the oil-making in detail, even trying his hand on the walnut-cracking, only to admit that he could not even come close to the speed of the women working there.

When he had several blackened fingernails due to misdirected hammer blows, he declared defeat and followed Mistress Eirendel to watch the bottling of the oil in relief. ‘Twas not this year’s yield yet, of course, rather the disposition of last year’s rests. Nonetheless, it was a pretty sight. They allowed him to give it a try, too, and he managed not to drop the small bottle or let the precious oil run down its side rather than into the bottle itself. That seemed to please the women, and they offered to share their simple food with him, which he accepted, for despite being a grown man (well, barely) and a knight, he still had the appetite of a growing boy.

“’Twas the same with my own lads before they hit twenty-five,” said Enea comfortingly. “You will grow out of it, too, my Lord.”

“I hope so,” Herumor sighed. “’Tis embarrassing, truly it is. I shall end up like Uncle Forlong if I go on like this.”

At that, the women laughed so hard they had tears in their eyes, for no-one could have been more different from their slender young lord than Forlong the Fat, the much-loved and well-respected Lord of Lossarnach, who might be his uncle but with whom he had no likeness at all. Not where looks were concerned in any case.

“That,” declared Mistress Eirendel. “is highly unlikely, my Lord. But even if the unbelievable might happen one day, as long as you share the generous heart and bravery of your lord uncle, I think not that any of us would mind it too much.”

“Except, perchance, the pretty young girls in town,” commented Enea, grinning.

Herumor blushed furiously, which caused even more giggling among the womenfolk present, who seemed to find his embarrassment endearing. So much so that he found it better to leave with the last shreds of his dignity still intact.

Walking homeward along the bank of the Great River, he thought of his years as an esquire in Dol Amroth, the splendour of the Prince’s castle and the riches of his town and smiled thoughtfully. He had loved Dol Amroth and the courtly life (after he had got over the terrible homesickness, that is), but now he realized that he could live no-where else than in Halabor. This was his home, and this simple folk, who possessed surprising skills nonetheless, were his people, and he could not imagine having anyone he would rather live with or any place he would prefer to this one.

Becoming the Lord of Halabor one day suddenly seemed a lot less frightening, despite the responsibility that would come with it.

~The End – for now~

End notes:

Halimath is the Middle-earth equivalent of our September.

Wintring is the Middle-earth equivalent of our October.

Tales from 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.

Genre: General

Rating: G.

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

Summary: Young Lord Herumor rides to Emerië Manor to meet his father’s bailiff and oversee the training of their men-at-arms.

Author’s note: The Lord’s bailiff first appeared in “The Last Yule of Halabor”, but also features in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter” and “The Young Knights”, so far. Herveig first appeared in "The Young Knights". The noble youths appeared in “The Last Yule of Halabor”.

A nobleman’s “honour” also meant in earlier times all the lands that belonged to him: fields, manors, meadows, forests, etc.

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

Emerië Manor

The 9^th day of halimath in the year 3002 of the Third Age found young Lord Herumor, the only son and therefore the heir of Orchaldor, lord of the small Gondorian fishing town Halabor near Cair Andros and some of the adjacent lands, on the way to Emerië Manor, where his father’s bailiff had his dwelling. He had been sent by his father to carry several messages to Lord Peredur – that was the bailiff’s name – and to see how the training of the men-at-arms was going on.

Like all Gondorian nobles, Lord Orchald – as he was called by his subjects – also had to send a certain number of armed men to help protecting the land from Mordor’s forces, and it was the duty of the bailiff, who also happened to be the Lord’s steward, to train those men properly. Being a Swan Knight himself, just like his overlord and the young heir, Lord Peredur was certainly more than fit to take that duty upon himself. Lord Orchald only visited a few times each year to see the progress. This time, though, he had sent his son in his stead, saying that Herumor needed to get used to leadership in time.

Emerië Manor lay a couple of miles northwest from Halabor, in a trim, compact little village named Helston. This was not the first time Herumor visited the village – he had been there quite a few times with his father, in fact – but the first time that he looked at it with true interest… and he liked what he was seeing.

The village apparently had its own mill – and a thriving one, if the carts full of grain sacks waiting before it were any indication; it seemed the best place for the farmsteads beyond easy reach to Halabor to bring the grain to be ground – and the fields of the demesne were wide and green, the phoughland well tended. Clouds of finely-woolled sheep stood on the grazing fields like freshly fallen snow, watched by large dogs. ‘Twas said that the bailiff’s mother, Lady Emerwen, was very fond of sheep and wanted them around her all the year.

The village lay clear of the edge of the forest, closely grouped around the manor and its walled courtyard. The house, as it was proper for a landed lord carrying an important office, was fairly large and built entirely of stone, with a squat tower as solid as a castle keep. It also seemed quite ancient, the stone grey and withered from high age, but that was not surprising. Lord Peredur’s line was as old as Herumor’s own; their ancestors were said to have come from Númenor together.

Within the pale, Herumor was greeted immediately with the alertness and efficiency that had always been customary for Lord Peredur’s household. A groom came at once, to take the bridle of Cealaigh, and a young page came bounding down the steps from the hall door to greet the heir of his overlord and inquire about his business here. He was, however, waved away firmly by an older steward who had emerged from the stables.

“My Lord Herumor,” said the steward, an experienced and sharp-minded man who had been in his lords’ confidence since the days of the late Lord Narmacil and thus was well aware of what kind of respect they all owed to the overlord and his heir, “you are most welcome in Emerië Manor as always. I am Tevyn, steward of my lord Peredur’s dwelling here. How may I serve you? Have you business within?”

“Rather without, if Lord Peredur will consent to my presence,” answered Herumor in the same courteous manner. He had never spoken to the elderly steward before, but he knew that the man was the bailiff’s confidant in more things than one would believe, thus it seemed wise to show some respect. “My lord father has sent me to look on the progress of our men-at-arms in his stead this year.”

“Young bones are better suited for that kind of activity than old ones,” said the steward wisely. “I am certain that Lord Peredur will gladly have you on the training ground, my Lord. Jevan here will show you in. We shall see your beast cared for in the meantime.”

The page, perhaps fourteen years old, bright-eyed and lively, moved eagerly to do so as he had been instructed. Some younger son from among Peredur’s tenants, thought Herumor, placed by a dutiful father where he could readily get advancement. A good choice it had been for the boy, as the bailiff was known not to be a hard master for such as met his standards. And by the alert, bright face of the boy, he would meet those standards well enough.

Young Jevan led Herumor to a panelled solar beyond the hall, and went to inform his lord about the unexpected visitor. Less than five minutes later, the door of the room opened upon the master of Emerië Manor.

Peredur son of Narmacil, Lord Orchald’s bailiff, was a strong-minded, taciturn, able knight – a Swan Knight, which meant a quality of its own, even among the respected knights of Gondor – close to fifty, and old of experience of both warfare and office. He had been overseeing the raising, equipping and training of the local army (woefully small as it was in these days), which was drawn from among the lesser nobles and upper ranks of the peasantry in Lord Orchald’s lands for decades, just as his father and his father’s fathers had done before him. As the training ground at Halabor’s Castle was too small for troop movements, these tasks had fallen to the master of Emerië Manor in the olden times already. Aside from the Castle in Halabor, this manor was the other centre of the overlords’ power, and it was from here that they carried out some of their many duties – first to the King, and in later times to the Steward, with the help of their bailiffs.

Therefore Lord Peredur was the second most important person within Lord Orchald’s small honour, and a mere glance at him showed that he had been well chosen for that office. Of Dúnadan descent – even though his line had inevitably mingled with the blood of local nobles from time to time – he was a proper representative of his Númenórean ancestors: a tall, spare man, erect and vigorous, with a short black beard trimmed to a point, and a pair of sharp, daunting eyes, grey like a clear winter morning. His raven-black locks were shorn right above his shoulders, in knightly fashion, and he was clad in the same simple garb as the common soldiers, for they were right before the time he would visit the training ground.

As he had known Herumor practically since his birth, he clasped forearms with him unceremoniously and invited him to go down to the training ground at once.

“There you can see the men’s progress with your own eyes; mayhap even try your blade against some of them… or against me,” said the bailiff, grinning. “I would like to see whether your aim is still as sure as it was in the days after your knighting.”

Herumor grinned back at him in delight. “It would he an honour to try my sword against you, my Lord Peredur,” he replied. “And as I have not brought Starfall with me, the match would be more than fair, based on the skills of the sword-arm alone, rather than on the advantages of a Númenórean-made blade.”

For the sword Starfall, gifted upon him by Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth on the very day of his knighting, was an ancient weapon indeed, forged of meteoric iron and brought from Númenor to Middle-earth by the Prince’s forefathers. Even a mediocre swordsman could have done great things with it, and Herumor, taught by Master Andrahar himself, was one of the best Gondor’s noble youth could offer. For him to use Starfall during a friendly sparring match would have been most unfair indeed.

They walked down together to the training ground, where a heavy-set man in his late thirties was instructing the men-at-arms at the intricacies of swordplay. He was wearing a padded gambeson, like the others, and they were practicing with wooden swords.

“Our weapons master, Captain Merddyn, son of Archu,” said Lord Peredur with obvious appreciation. “He is my best man-at-arms and will likely be for a long time. Imagine that he came to me holding a sword as if it were a kitchen knife; he has certainly learned a great deal in the last six years.”

“The son of Archu, the farmer?” asked Herumor in surprise.

The bailiff nodded. “As he does own his farmstead, Archu has to provide one armed soldier for the protection of your lord father’s demesne. I imagine that he is not very happy about it; providing a soldier with armour and weapons is a costly matter, and they doubtlessly miss his help on the fields. But their loss is our gain; Captain Merddyn has taken to the sword like no-one else, and nowadays I can leave the training of the newcomers in his more than capable hands.”

“You let him train the noble youths as well?” asked Herumor, for some of the trainees were obviously not from the common folk but sons of the local Dúnadan nobles. He recognized among them Meneldur, the son of Lord Malanthur, Íbal son of Azrubêl and his brother Nimruzîl, all three of them between seventeen and twenty, if he remembered correctly. And if there were three of them, there had to be more.

Lord Peredur shrugged. “It harms them not if they learn a little humility; especially Meneldur who fancies himself the greatest warrior since the fall of Númenor.” He grinned and called out to the weapons master. “Captain Merddyn, we have a highly respected visitor today. I thought mayhap young Master Meneldur could show his skills.”

The captain turned around, recognized Herumor – everybody in and around Halabor did so at first sight – and broke out in a broad grin.

“My Lord Herumor!” he cried out in delight. “’Tis an honour indeed! We will be glad to demonstrate the weapons skills of our pupils, more than glad. Well, Master Meneldur, if you do not mind…”

Meneldur was a lanky young man of clear Dúnadan origins, clad in very fine gear and wearing the colours of his father’s small yet old House. He was supposed to be knighted in the next spring and very sure of his own abilities. He came forth eagerly, perchance driven by the desire to best his low-born weapons master before the eyes of his overlord’s heir.

“Are we allowed to spar with steel, Lord Peredur?” he asked.

The bailiff looked at his weapons master in askance. Captain Merddyn shrugged.

“Why not? I shall go easy on him, so that he would not suffer any serious injuries,” he promised with a grin.

“Steel and shield,” clarified Peredur. “I wish no bloodshed today; besides, I want to see how the youngling works with his shield.”

If being called a youngling angered Meneldur, he gave no sign of it, just bowed and accepted the conditions. A young page was sent to fetch his sword; a sharp sword it was, beautifully crafted, with a life-stone to it.

“This weapon,” he said with obvious pride, “is called Whitting. My ancestors have carried it in many a fray. With it, I shall show you, my lords, how a nobleman of true Dúnadan blood fights.”

There was something in his tone that caught Herumor’s attention… and not in a good way.

“Does he find it below his dignity to be taught by a master of common birth?” he asked the bailiff in a low voice.

Lord Peredur pulled a face. “Young Meneldur is very proud of his origins,” he said diplomatically.

“In other worlds: he does,” concluded Herumor. “That is foolish. I find myself fortunate to have been taught by Master Andrahar in Dol Amroth. What does a man’s birth have to do with his skills with the blade?”

“Nothing, of course,” said Peredur in agreement. “And young Meneldur is just about to learn this very important lesson. Let us hope that it will last.”

In the meantime, another page had brought Captain Merddyn’s sword; ‘twas a simple weapon but well-made, for his particular use. The other esquires and all men-at-arms not on sentry duty gathered around the training ground to watch their weapons master fight with true steel, as it was a rare occasion.

Peredur gave the sign, and the two opponents began to circle around each other. They apparently knew each other’s fighting style well enough not to make any careless mistakes. Still, Meneldur was the first to attack, driven by the urge to prove his skills. He aimed at Captain Merddyn’s side, which seemed to be unprotected. ‘Twas a well-executed stroke, but not quick enough; the weapons master leaned out of the sword’s way in the last moment, so that it did not bite upon him. Then he whirled about his sword swiftly, shifted it from hand to hand, and heaved Meneldur’s legs from under him with the flat of his blade.

“A good warrior is always prepared for everything,” he said. “The Orcs will not follow the rules of sparring, either.”

There were laughter and whistles among the onlookers, and Meneldur’s face darkened with anger and humiliation. Leaping to his feet, he charged his opponent, spitting ugly words through gritted teeth as he did so. Merddyn shook his head in mild dismay.

“You have never a word but ill if things do not go according your wishes,” he said; then he leaped upon the young man and struck at Meneldur’s shield forcefully. It slipped away, and Meneldur was smitten on the breast and fell backward, dazed, coughing violently.

Herumor furred his brow in concern. “Was that not a bit much?” he asked, fearing that the esquire might have suffered serious harm.

“It serves him right,” answered the bailiff coldly. “These are not manners I would willingly allow in my house. But worry not, my lord. His head is hard – a little too hard at times, I would say – he will wake out of his swoon shortly. Now, then,” he added, looking at the rest of the trainees, “who else would like to try his blade against that of Captain Merddyn?”

A young man in his mid-twenties, brown-haired and dark of eye, with broad cheekbones and a stubborn jaw, raised his hand. He wore the belt of a knight and the colours of Lossarnach, and seemed strangely familiar for Herumor, although he could not identify the emblem upon his breast.

“I would like to try, my Lord,” said the young knight. “But I would prefer to do so with practice swords, if you do not mind.”

“That is reasonable,” nodded the bailiff. “Very well then, Herveig. Let us see that you have been knighted because you can handle your blade properly by now.”

The young knight laughed. “Well, I still prefer the battle-axe, but I hope I shall bring no shame to the good name of Lossarnach, my Lord.”

Herumor looked at him with interest. “Herveig?” he asked. “You are the foster son of Lord Benniget of Gwenter, then, are you not? I knew my father has sent for you, but I knew not that you have been knighted already.”

Herveig of Lossarnach laughed again. “The whole truth is, my Lord, that my mother had a change of the hearth and made me the gift of two of my father’s manors when I came to Halabor. The two smaller ones, true, but they keep me horsed and armed, if naught else,; and as Glanwenap is one of them, which has been the seat of my father’s family for a very long time, my name, too, has been restored due to this gift. I am well content.”

Herumor nodded in delight upon hearing of the young knight’s good fortune. Herveig was the legitimate son of Herve of Glanwenap, a lord of three manors near Gwennap in Lossarnach, but his father had died shortly before his birth and could not acknowledge him according to old custom. Thus those three manors went to his mother, the Lady Marcharid, by the right due to Herve’s widow, and with her to Lord Benniget, her second husband. This meant that the manors that should have been Herveig’s, had his father lived to officially accept him as a son, would have been inherited by his foster brother, leaving him empty-handed, had his mother not changed her mind.

“I can imagine that Benead was not all too happy about losing two manors to the natural heir,” said Herumor, remembering that Lady Marcharid had two children with her second husband, a son and a daughter.

Herveig shrugged. “He will get all the lands of our father,” he usually referred to Lord Benniget, who had always been good and decent to him, as our father, while he called his late sire my father, to make a difference. “He will be well off with that. And Haude gets the third manor of my father when she marries… she will turn sixteen next summer.”

“The largest of the three, I deem,” said Herumor.

Herveig nodded. “Aye; but she will need it. I am a knight now, I can earn my living with my sword… or rather with my axe,” he added, laughing. “She cannot do the same, and you know as well as I do, my Lord, that noble-born daughters are not supposed to learn a craft and live from the labour of their hands. I do not envy that manor from her. She deserves a good life.”

Herumor could vaguely remember the pretty girl-child, round-faced and just a little shy, barely ten years old back then, attending to the tournament his uncle Forlong had organized upon his own knighting.

“I remember her,” she said. “She seemed a happy child.”

“She was,” replied Herveig, “and with her own manor to be the mistress of, she will be a happy wife one day. I wish her to be happy. She deserves it.”

In the meantime, practice swords were brought, and now the opponents readied themselves for the sparring match. Coming from the Old Folk himself, although from the lesser nobility, Herveig of Glanwenap was as strong and heavy-set as Captain Merddyn, yet more than a decade younger, and lacked the captain’s excellence with the sword. On the other hand, he was lighter on his feet and faster, thus the chances were almost even.

Knowing that his best chance would be speed instead of mere brawn, Herveig struck the first blow. ‘Twas a powerful one that would have cleft Merddyn’s shield, had they parried with true steel. The captain returned the stroke to the like peril, with a force that made Herveig stagger. But he was a strong young man and used to withstand the blows of heavy battle axes, thus he found his footing quickly again... few other men could have recovered so easily.

They exchanged similar blows three or four more times, then Herveig changed tactics and tried to hit the seemingly unprotected side of the captain, as Meneldur had done before. Merddyn parried the blow with a force that broke off the point from his practice sword and notched that of Herveig. The sword-point flew upon the young knight’s hand, wounding him in the thumb. The joint was cleft, and blood dropped upon the training ground.

“That is enough,” said Lord Peredur, staying the fight. “There is no reason to get any worse injuries. Go to the healers, Herveig, and have them take a look at your hand.”

“You fought well for one who prefers the axe,” added Captain Merddyn. “We shall make a swordsman out of you yet.”

Unlike Meneldur, Herveig made no great issue of being bested by the captain. He declared that there was no shame in losing against the weapons master – who, after all, was called so with a reason – and that he would have his injured hand taken care of. But first he wished to see the sparring match between Lords Peredur and Herumor.

Peredur had no objection to that, and thus Herveig stuck the wounded finger into his mouth while watching them, to keep the wound clean. The two lords, too, fought with shields and practice swords, Herumor being given one of the spare gambesons to dull the force of the blows he might suffer. For while Lord Peredur was a slender man, he also had a steely strength in his sinews as many who had sparred with him could tell.

Herumor knew that, too. This was not the first time he had tried his sword against the bailiff since the day of his knighting, and he had lost against him as many times as he had won. They were evenly matched: age, strength and experience against youthful speed, skills and endurance; theirs promised to be a spectacular fight, as both had learned swordplay in Dol Amroth and had won their fair share of duels. The knights and men-at-arms of emerië Manor were most eager to watch them spar.

Herumor attacked first, trying to tire out the bailiff with speed, dancing away from Lord Peredur’s parries with almost Elf-like grace. Master Andrahar had taken great pride in helping his pupils to develop a unique fighting style, each according to the best of his abilities – and it showed. But Peredur had been trained with Andrahar, under the tutelage of Ornendil, the former weapons master of Prince Adrahil, and thus he could find the right answer to Herumor’s moves.

After a long string of blows and parries and counterstrokes, it was Herumor who began to tire out. His sword-arm became heavy, and his shield-arm began to hurt under the weight of Lord Peredur’s powerful blows. He hacked away with a last, desperate attempt to bring his opponent down, but his sword stuck fast in the border of the bailiff’s shield. Peredur whirled it up, just when Herumor was striking out, wrenching the sword from the young lord’s hand with the blow of the shield edge. At the same time, he struck out, hitting Herumor at the knee-joint and brought him to fall.

“Do you yield?” he asked, touching the point of his sword to Herumor’s throat. And while it was just a practice sword, the onlookers found the sight unnerving.

“I yield,” replied Herumor, smiling, and accepted the helping hand of Captain Merddyn to get back to his feet. The weapons master was not amused, though.

“That,” he declared, “should not have happened. Have you neglected your weapons practice, my Lord, or are you ill or injured?”

“None of that,” answered Herumor, flexing his sword-hand to get the cramp out of his fingers. “Although ‘tis true that I instruct more in these days than actually fight, since I have taken over the training of the Wardens in swordplay.”

“You have?” asked the bailiff in surprise. “Why does not Chief Warden Henderch work with them?”

“He is suffering from his old wound more than before since the rainy water has set in,” explained Herumor. “His bad shoulder pains him too much to spar with his men right now; and they desperately need the practice.”

“So do you, if this performance was any indication,” said Lord Peredur sternly. “I could have slain you in several different ways during the last sequence of our spar. That will not do, and you know it.”

“Of course I know,” replied Herumor with a sigh. “I wish I could ride out to Emerië Manor every other day to spar with Captain Merddyn, but I cannot. I am needed in too many places.”

“You can always practice with the Castle Guard,” pointed out the bailiff. “Captain Borondir is an experienced and able knight; he would not allow you to grow soft as you seem to have done lately. Take your safety seriously, my Lord; we cannot afford to lose you.”

Herumor laughed, believing it a jest, but the bailiff seemed deadly serious.

“My Lord,” he said, “I know that your father intends for you to grow into your future responsibilities gradually, but I believe I have to tell you this now. Your life I not yours to put at risk as you please. Should you die untimely, the people who depend on you would be left without protection, and that would be very bad indeed. You are needed – we all are needed – to keep safe those who labour on the fields to feed these lands. Being a lord of men is a terrible responsibility; one that we cannot refuse once it has been laid upon our shoulder.”

“And I know that well enough, as my father has raised me in that spirit all my life,” replied Herumor, a little annoyed, for he did not feel he needed a lesson in the matter.

The bailiff nodded. “Good. You may then understand that taking care of your own safety is part of that responsibility. But enough of this now. Captain Merddyn can finish today’s weapon’s practice without us. We shall go back to the house for midday meal.”

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

Refusing the invitation would have been unforgivably rude, and thus Herumor followed his father’s bailiff back into the house. According to time-honoured custom, Lord Peredur ate in the great hall of his house, together with his family and household.

Said family consisted of his wife, the Lady Iorwen, a lovely noblewoman from Lossarnach – albeit of pure Dúnadan origins – and their children: Innogen, a bright girl not quite fourteen yet, and two boys, Elendur, nine, and Númendil, six years old. But the true ruler – or, if rumours could be trusted, the true despot – of the family was Peredur’s widowed mother, the Lady Emerwen, a formidable (not to mention intimidating) matron in her mid-seventies, who was sitting in a canopied chair at the middle of the already set table.

She came from an ancient family of Belfalas and saw herself – as a close acquaintance of the Lady Tirathiel of Dol Amroth – as the last true defender of Númenórean tradition. And indeed, she did have that timeless look only women of true Dúnadan stock could have, with a pale, oval face that still carried the ashes of a great beauty long gone. Her large, dark grey eyes lay deep in their shadowed settings, and the fine imperious bones of her face had kept their elegance, despite her somewhat shrunken cheeks. The hair that was coiled in heavy braids on either side of said face was iron grey and covered with a thin black veil. Her body, tall and erect and black-clothed, had grown angular and lean with advanced age, and she had an air of cold disapproval about her.

She greeted Herumor in the manner of an exiled queen – as if he would be her subject, not the other way round. Although this was not the first time they met, Herumor felt every bit as intimidated by her as when he had to face old Lady Achren, Forlong’s mother. If rumours that her late husband, too, had sought a little warmth by a serving wench in their youth, Herumor could understand it. Some high-born ladies could truly frighten a man out of his mind.

Others, on the other hand, could fill a man’s hearth with warmth and joy. Like the Lady Iorwen, for example, who had performed the near-impossible task to lead a happy life in a house ruled by Lady Emerwen – despite the fact that her marriage with the considerably older bailiff had been arranged by their parents. She was such a heart-warming contrast to the Lady Belthil, Peredur’s sister, a mirror image of what their mother must have been in her youth, that Herumor felt he could breathe much easier in her presence.

When, after the Standing Silence, the servants – overseen by the elderly steward – began to carry in the midday meal, it became clear that Númenórean tradition was indeed kept strictly in Emerië Manor… down to the scholarly opinion that held digestion to be a process similar to cooking. For the food to be properly absorbed, so the old sages of Westernesse had said, one’s stomach had to be filled in an appropriate manner; meaning that light foodstuffs had to be consumed first, followed by gradually heavier dishes.

According to this somewhat outdated rule, the midday meal started with a stomach-opener: round pastries basted in honey, called crispels in these lands; followed by fruays, an apple bread pudding, as apples were easily digestible fruit. Then came vegetables, in this case a simple cabbage dish called cabochis, then mete ryalle, a pork and chicken pie representing both lighter and heavier meats, served with almond milk broth, as well as chestnuts and peas. Those fruits were considered difficult to digest, although for his life, Herumor could not have told why. The meal was finished with tart the bry, a cheese tart, and wine, flavoured with fragrant spices.

This was a proper Númenórean meal indeed – well, save from the fact that originally poultry and heavier meats should have been served as separate dishes – and Herumor savoured each course with great delight. His father might be the overlord of Halabor and the adjacent estate, but in their home, there was much simpler fare than in the bailiff’s, aside from high holidays. Lord Orchald hated waste, and with a household as small as theirs, there was truly no need for more opulent meals.

Herumor understood that. He even agreed with his father, finding Númenórean table rules a bit forced and in some points downright ridiculous. That did not mean, though, that he would not miss the abundance of the Prince of Dol Amroth’s table sometimes. He was a young man with a healthy appetite, after all, and it seemed that the bailiff’s cook was a master of his craft, capable of offering artistic variations of food, despite his somewhat… limited sources of ingredients. Even though he had to use locally made oils – those of poppy, walnut, hazel or filbert – instead of the aromatic (and hereto largely unknown) olive oil generally used in the South, especially in the royal court of Dol Amroth, the dishes were excellently made, and the wine – Dorwinion red – worthy the table of a prince.

From the slightly raised dais, where the lord’s table stood, Herumor, seated on the place of honour on his host’s right, could see the entire hall. Two long tables, set to form a U-shape with the dais, stretched towards the entrance. On one side sat the knights and men-at-arms of Lord Peredur’s house, on the other one the ranking servants of his household, with the elderly steward at the head and with the young grooms near the door. A meal in a noble house was traditionally a communal affair and practiced as such both in Dol Amroth and in the Castle of Halabor – or in Lord Forlong’s home in Lossarnach. Apparently, old Lady Emerwen was a valiant defender of this honourable tradition, too, if her barbed remarks about ‘certain lords in Belfalas and Minas Tirith who prefer to sneak off to enjoy private company during meals’ were any indication.

Nonetheless, Herumor knew that such things happened. His own father had mentioned with dismay that certain rich hosts had picked up the custom to retire with their consorts to private chambers to enjoy more luxurious treats, while serving inferior food to the rest of the household that still dined in the Great Hall.

“Dinners and suppers out of the Hall, in secret and private rooms, should be forbidden,” Lord Orchald often said with disapproval, “for from that practice arises waste and no honour to the lord and lady.” He also had his chatelaine, Mistress Gilmith, watch that the servants not make off with leftovers to make merry during the night, for he considered such reresopers, which were often paired with drinking and gambling, a form of gluttony and therefore immoral. Leftovers from Lord Orchald’s table were usually sent to the Infirmary, where they were given to the beggars, the ailing and the poor.

After the midday meal, Herumor returned with his host to the training grounds; this time to the archery ranges, to watch the men shooting at targets. They were reasonably good at it; not half as good as the Ithilien Rangers, of course, and they could not even come close to the archers of Pinnath Gelin or the Morthond Vale, either. But they were good enough to hit an Orc between the eyes before it could come close enough to kill them, and, as Lord Peredur said, that was the important part of the whole exercise.

Afterwards, they watched the foot soldiers fight with battle-axes; a practice that came from Lossarnach and could prove very effective against Orcs, as many of those were considerably shorter than grown Men. With this weapon, the men proved much better than with the bow.

“Your father’s Warden, the Dunlending, has begun to teach them, but he could not come out here often enough to train them regularly,” explained Lord Peredur. “Fortunately, Herveig has taken over from him as soon as your father brought him here from Lossarnach; and they have made considerable headway since then.”

“It comes naturally to the simple folk who are used to axes as tools, I deem,” said Herumor, “albeit battle-axes are very different, of course.”

“Still, they have at least something to them that people already know,” replied the bailiff. “Unlike swords, which are alien to them.”

“Do you believe we will be able to keep Halabor safe?” asked Herumor quietly. He needed to ease his heart but did not wish to discuss his concerns with his father. The old lord had enough to worry about already.

The bailiff thought about that for a moment; then he shrugged.

“We will do our best,” he said. “Beyond that, we can only hope – and why should we not? Gondor has already endured three thousand years. We have survived the attacks of the Balchoth, the Easterlings, the troops of Mordor led by the chief of the Nine, the Kin-strife… why should it be different in the future?”

“’Tis not Gondor as a whole I am worried about,” said Herumor, “’tis Halabor. My ancestors had once armed troops that rivalled those of Pinnath Gelin or the Ringló Vale. With so many swords, it was easy to protect the town and our lands. But now? Barely a thousand people live within our walls, and all we have to their protection are your men here, the Castle Guard and a handful of Wardens. Would it be enough to hold off the sea of well-armed Orcs? Or the raiding Easterling bands? Or the Hill-men when they come down from their hills, killing and pillaging and destroying everything in their ways?”

“We have to,” answered the bailiff simply. “This is all we have.”

Herumor nodded. “My point exactly. If courage and tactical knowledge would be all that is needed, my father could tear down the very walls of Minas Morgul with a handful of poorly-armed fishermen. But no matter how skilled our men might be, how valiant their hearts are, Mordor has the numbers. And sometimes numbers are all that you need – assuming they are high enough.”

“You are in a dark mood today, my Lord,” said the bailiff gently. Herumor shrugged.

“Not just today,” he admitted. “There are times when I believe all I have done since my return home was to worry.”

“You are young and new to your responsibilities,” said Peredur. “You will get used to them in time.”

“When?” asked Herumor. “It has been six years, Lord Peredur, and I am growing more concerned about the fate of my town with each passing day.”

“’Tis understandable,” said the bailiff. “But truly, you need not to worry so much about the future. No man could ever add as much as a single day to his life by worrying; all anyone could ever achieve by it were grey hairs. You shall grow into your duties in time, never doubt it. I have, too; and let me tell you that my father used to have his concerns about that.”

“Aye, but you are not alone for your burden,” said Herumor. “You have got a brother and a sister to support you.”

“And fine support they have been to me, all their lives!” replied the bailiff with a mirthless laugh. “My brother only leaves the court in Minas Tirith for a visit at home to demand what he believes is his due as a nobleman of true Númenórean descent, regardless of what it might cost us and whether we can afford it or not. As for my sister… well, she is obsessed with having a proper marriage and has no mind for aught else.”

“Is she not a little old for that?” asked Herumor; then he ducked in shame and blushed furiously. “My pardon, Lord Peredur. I did not want to indicate…”

“But you are right, nonetheless,” replied the bailiff. “Her choosiness is the reason why she has not found the right match yet… and were it up to her, she might never do so. Fortunately, higher powers have been involved in the matter. Our mother hopes to marry her off to one of her former suitors who has recently lost his wife, as soon as the time of mourning is over.”

His voice had gained a certain… wishful tone, which surprised Herumor.

“Are you looking forward to the Lady Belthil’s departure?” he asked. He had always wished for siblings that he had never had. Peredur sighed.

“I dearly love my family, and that includes my mother and my siblings,” he said. “But I must admit that my mother and my sister are very much alike; in that they are both imperious, opiniated women who like to tell others how things should be done properly. Having only one of them in the house would bring us some much-needed peace.”

Herumor shuddered by the imagination of living under the same roof as the Lady Emerwen and her similarly-spirited daughter, but he found it more wise to keep his thoughts unspoken.

“And as we are speaking about marriage and about continuing the bloodline,” said the bailiff, “has your lord father already found a suitable wife for you?”

Herumor made a long-suffering face.

“He is giving me some leeway to make my own choice,” he replied, “but he keeps bothering me about it. I cannot understand why. I am only twenty-four, after all. He was not yet wedded at my age, either.”

“That is true,” said Lord Peredur. “But you must remember that your father is of pure Dúnadan blood, while you are not. He could expect a longer lifespan than you van.”

“I know,” answered Herumor with a sight. “That is why he insists that I find myself a suitable wife… to strengthen the bloodline again. Sometimes I truly wonder if blood is so important why did he marry Mother in the first place?”

“He loved her very much,” said Lord Peredur gently. “I know it. I have seen them in love – ‘twas a beautiful sight.”

“And yet he would not give me the same chance,” retorted Herumor bitterly.

“That is different,” reminded him Lord Peredur. “The Lady Humleth came from the Old Folk, ‘tis true, but she was of noble breeding – no one questions the rank and nobility of Forlong of Lossarnach, or that of his kinfolk. But you, the last scion of the oldest House of Gondor, cannot bind yourself to a woman of common birth, no matter what you might feel for her.”

Herumor’s face was deathly pale with shock. “Where do you know…?”

“Even we get the gossip out here,” replied the bailiff with a smile. “And while I understand that this is hard for you, we both know that such a bond simply cannot be made.”

“Mayhap ‘tis against custom,” admitted Herumor. “But would it be the right thing to wed someone just because she is of suitable status, while my heart belongs to another one?”

The bailiff shrugged. “Dúnadan ladies know what they owe their bloodlines, too,” he said. “They know well enough that they rarely can follow their own hearts… even less so than we males can. But that does not always mean a dread life. The Lady Iorwen and I have not chosen each other in the first place, either; do you truly believe that we are not happy together?”

“Nay,” said Herumor, “for even a blind man could see your happiness. But would you truly marry off your only daughter to a man whose heart belongs to someone else?”

“To any suitable man?” clarified Peredur. “Nay, I would not. To you? It depends. If Innogen would be inclined to accept you – after having discussed the details thoroughly – then aye, I would. But it is too early yet to consider such things anyway. She is still too young. Ask me again in five years’ time should your lord father still not have chosen for you by then.”

Herumor shook his head, decidedly uncomfortable with the thought.

“That would be… awkward,” he said. “I have always thought of her as the little sister I never had. We used to play together as children… and she is still barely more than a child.”

“Children grow up,” replied the bailiff. “Times change. So do people and their relationships. Who knows, perchance even my sister will find the strength in her heart to become a good lady of her husband’s people.”

Suddenly, Herumor felt great curiosity to learn who of the nobles of Gondor would feel brave enough to marry the formidable Lady Belthil.

“I know ‘tis not my business,” he began hesitantly, “but if you do not mind my asking… which province would be so fortunate as have her as its lady, soon?”

Peredur grinned. “Oh, that would be a long and thorough lesson in modesty for my beloved sister, I deem,” he said. “Lord Golasgil might be a member of Gondor’s Council, yet the lands of Anfalas are harsh and meagre, and even the nobles there lead a rustic life.”

“What sort of men live there?” asked Herumor who had never been to the Langstrand.

“Mostly herdsmen, hunters and fishermen,” replied the bailiff. “Poor folk, related to those of Dor-en-Ernil, but much more rustic. Lord Golasgil still has the ancient keep of his family near Marghas Byghan, a small merchant town in the south of the province, but those are about the only fortified towns. The long coastline is quite vulnerable to pirate attacks.”

“I know,” said Herumor. “Prince Adrahil used to send patrol ships along the coastline of the Bay of Belfalas, as far as the Cap of Andrast, as Anfalas had but a handful of small ships to the protection of the mouth of the River Lefnui.”

The bailiff nodded. “Anfalas is one of the largest provinces, yet so sparsely populated that Lord Golasgil can barely find enough men to protect his own keep and the few larger settlements, none of which is bigger than Halabor,” he explained. “More than all, he would need ships to patrol the coastline, but ships are a costly investment. I believe he hopes that the modest wealth of Belthil could help him to build at least a ship or two more. She still owns lands in Belfalas, which she inherited from Mother’s family.”

“But has Lord Golasgil not already courted her when they were young?” asked Herumor. “Was that just for her lands, even then?”

“Nay, I do not think so,” answered the bailiff thoughtfully. “After all, Belthil used to be a stunning beauty – in truth, she is still beautiful for a woman of her age – and many wished to wed her. Only when she rejected Golasgil did he begin to look elsewhere and married a gentle, good-hearted lady from Pinnath Gelin. Unfortunately, she was also very fragile and died last winter, after long, terrible suffering. They say Golasgil was heartbroken, for he had come to truly care for her during their shared years; even though she was very ill, most of the time.”

“What ailed her?” asked Herumor.

The bailiff shrugged. “Not even the Elven healers from Edhellond could tell. All I know is that she became ill shortly after giving birth to their second son – he must be about sixteen or so now – and was in constant pain ‘til her death. She was also wilting away, losing weight and strength little by little with each passing day. She became almost wraith-like in the end, and too weak to even leave her bed anymore.”

“It must have been terrible for Lord Golasgil to watch her fade away,” said Herumor with compassion.

The bailiff nodded. “No doubt it was. That is why he decided not to marry out of love after the death of the Lady Meresel, I deem. That, and the disarray of his household that needs a firm hand to be brought in proper order again.”

“That would be a task well-suited for the Lady Belthil,” commented Herumor innocently, but his eyes sparkled.

Peredur laughed, too. “Oh, certainly!” he said. “And mayhap a modest life, filled with duty and hard work, will teach my dear sister what our parents failed to teach her: that being of Númenórean blood means responsibility, first and foremost.”

“Are you sure ‘tis not a lesson you want me to learn?” teased Herumor.

The bailiff shook his head. “Nay,” he said, “for you have learned that lesson already, and I have little doubt that you shall act upon it when you have to. And that time will come, sooner than you might think.” He glanced up at the sundial embedded into the side of the stone tower of his keep. “’Tis getting late. Are you staying for the night or do you plan to return home before nightfall?”

“I shall go home,” answered Herumor. “Father would be worried otherwise, as we have not planned for me to stay away for more than half the day. Besides, I have promised him to look at our account books with old Artbranan, the notary.”

“In that case I will send four men-at-arms with you,” said Peredur.

“There is no need for that,” protested Herumor. “’Tis but a short road, and a safe one. Never have Orcs or footpads bothered the travellers between emerië Manor and Halabor, and I doubt they would begin to do so today, of all days.”

“That may be true, although no path is truly safe in these days,” said the bailiff. “But the more important thing is: you are supposed to have a proper escort, whether the roads are safe or not. You are the heir of our overlord; your people expect you to be protected. For seeing you in the company of armed men makes them feel safe.”

“Aye, but it makes me feel like a prisoner,” grumbled Herumor.

Lord Peredur smiled. “I remember my father having a similar argument with yours once. But even Lord Orchald yielded to the necessity; and so should you. As their lord-to-be, you belong to your people, just as they belong to you. If you do not want to accept an escort on your behalf, do it for them.”

That was an argument Herumor could not truly counter. Thus he accepted the inevitable and left for home in the company of four young swordsmen, who were more than pleased to escort him – it meant that they could spend the night in Halabor, which was much more fun than the barracks of Emerië Manor.

~The End – for now~

End notes:

Marghas Byghan means “Small market” in Cornish. The little merchant town is my invention. It is supposed to have been the first foothold of the Hanse of Lebennin in Anfalas.

More about the Hanse of Lebennin is told in “An Autumn Fair of Halabor”. A short essay explaining the Hanse as well as a description of its member towns is posted to the Otherworlds board, in the Ardaverse section.

Tales from 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.

Genre: General

Rating: G

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

Summary: Young Lord Herumor visits Archu’s farm and learns about cheese-making. At the same time, the Great Chamber of Halabor Castle needs to be repaired.

Author’s note: Archu and his family first appeared in “The Last Yule of Halabor”. Their home is based on Old Saxon houses.

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

The Cheese-Maker

Halabor, on the 25^th of Blodmath, in the year 3006 of the Third Age

It were days like these that made young Lord Herumor realize how different his hometown was from the South of Gondor where he had spent the four most formative years of his youth. In Dol Amroth, even close to the end of rhîv, the weather had been most pleasantly mild. Had it not been for the short, violent storms above the Bay of Belfalas, one would never have thought that the summer was already over.

In Anórien, however, the winters had been unusually hard in the recent years; and Halabor lay in a cold spot anyway. Which meant that the cold weather usually arrived around the eleventh of Blodmath, and was steadily getting worse from that day on. After the mild, moist days of early autumn, Blodmath had come with heavy skies and dark, brief days that sagged upon the roofbeams and lay heavily upon the heart.

Finally, on the 24^th of Blodmath, the first snow arrived, too, riding the wings of a blizzard storm that tore on the rooftops, dislodged shutters and gates and upturned carts all over the town. During the night, Lord Orchald was roughly awakened by a sudden stream of icy water splattering right into his face. Swearing like Herumor had never heard him swear before, the old lord jumped off his bed and called for his elderly manservant, or, indeed, any servant within earshot, to find him a dry bed elsewhere – anywhere would be right, he added, as long as it was dry – and to find out what had happened.

Old Sador got the other servants from their beds to examine closely the ceiling of the Great Chamber, where the old lord had lived alone since the untimely death of his beloved wife. The first drenching soon slackened, but a steady drip went on, and was soon joined by several more, spanning a circle a yard or so across.

“We will have to call the roofer in the morning,” said Mistress Gilmith, the chatelaine of the Castle, grimly. She was a very strict woman of pure Dúnadan blood who did not tolerate anyone – or anything – to act out of order. “We cannot leave the Great Chamber in this condition for the winter… or our lord sleeping in a servant’s chamber.”

Madern, the roofer, arrived shortly after daybreak to examine the damage of the Great Chamber. He was in his fifties and robust as a bull, his builder team – consisting of him, his brothers-in-law: the stonewright and the plasterer, and their helpers – the best one this side of Minas Tirith. Upon his arrival, Mistress Gilmith relaxed visibly, knowing that the important matter of their lord’s comfort was in good hands.

“This is not good, my lords,” said the roofer, after having climbed the roof and taking a good, hard look at it. “The storm last night must have torn the lead in several places, and the snow has filtered in between the slates, even caved a few of them. And the leak is getting worse.”

“What is your suggestion, Master Roofer?” asked the old lord resignedly, knowing that it will cost him a good amount of coin to have the repairs made. But it could not be helped.

Madern scratched his head. “Well,” he said, “it will certainly be unpleasant to work on the roof during such weather… perilous even. But if we delay repairs ‘til thaw comes, you are in for a flood, my Lord. Right now, the damage is limited; leaving it untouched during winter might aggravate it greatly.”

“Can you afford to take the risk?” asked Lord Orchald, concerned. The last thing he wanted was one of Madern’s team suffer a terrible accident while working on his roof.

Madern nodded. “Aye, I believe so. We have timber, we have slates, and we have lead left from the latest repairs on the ramparts. The ground is frozen hard at present, but there will be no great difficulty in raising a scaffolding.”

“It will be bitterly cold to work up there, though,” said the old lord.

Madern nodded again. “True enough,” he admitted, “more so as we shall have to shift the fallen snow first, in order to replace the broken or displaced slates and to repair the lead flashings. But if we work in short spells, and are allowed a fire in a warming room all day as long as the work lasts, it can be done.”

Lord Orchald considered the possibilities for a moment, then he nodded his venerable head in agreement. “Very well; do it,” he said.

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

When the roofer left, the old lord returned to the small chamber into which Sador had temporarily moved him during the night. It was a comfortable little room, right behind the Great Hall, meant originally for the servants who would attend to the guests in the Hall, to warm themselves during breaks, as it could be easily heated by a brazier; and it never became truly cold, as it got a great deal of warmth from the Hall itself. Besides, it was close to the Great Chamber, thus Lord Orchald could get his things easily, without having to walk through half the keep.

Still, the old lord looked uncomfortable after having discussed the necessary repairs with the roofer in the icy cold. He kept rubbing his hands over the brazier, and from time to time, a shiver seemed to go through his entire body.

“My old bones have had enough cold for one day, ion nîn,” he said to Herumor ruefully, accepting a large mug of mulled wine from Sador and inhaling its spicy scent deeply. “I would ask you to accompany Master Wella to Archu’s farm today in my stead.”

Herumor nodded readily. He knew Archu; the elderly farmer was one of their chief tenants, and the tax collector was supposed to drive to his farm on that very day to collect the ground rent for the Castle from him.

“Of course, Adar, if that is your wish,” he said. “But why are we needed anyway? I do not believe that Archu would be hostile to Master Wella. He is a good, honest man.”

“Which is the very reason why you need to go with Master Wella,” answered his father. “’Tis not for him; ‘tis for Archu and his family, who have lived through hard times in the recent years. Our tenants need to know that we are concerned about their well-faring; that we care about them. Visiting them from time to time eases their hearts; and in these dark days that is needed, more than anything else.”

Herumor knew the wisdom of his father’s words all too well. He had been taught how to be a lord of Men – and a good, reliable and responsible at that – from a very tender age on. First at his father’s knees, then, when he had begun his training as a Swan Knight, at the most refined court in the entire Gondor, from the Prince of Dol Amroth himself. He knew that the well-being of the people was the responsibility of their lords, and that a lord had to serve his people, just as his people served him.

And thus the seventh hour of the day found him riding after the cart of Master Wella, the tax-collector, accompanied by two of his father’s men-at-arms. Not that he truly needed the escort, of course. The way between the town and Archu’s farm was a short and safe one, and he himself too well-loved for anyone to wish to cause him any harm on their own estate. But his status as the heir of the Lord of Halabor demanded that he did not travel unprotected. Besides, the presence of the men-at-arms gave people a reassuring feeling of safety. As long as the men of their lords roamed the borders, they could sleep more peacefully.

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

Archu’s farm lay north of the town, beyond the meadows where the horses of the Castle were kept during the summer. It was one of the largest farms on Lord Orchald’s estate, with five and a half hides of land, consisting of a hall and outbuildings, such as stables, storerooms, barns and so on, surrounded by fields and pastures.

“This is mainly an arable farm,” explained Wella, a short, thin, flat-chested man in his middle years, to the young lord, “although Archu does own a few sheep, goats, cow and pigs to provide meat, milk and wool for his family. His wife is a cheese-maker; the only one who makes cheese that is almost as good as that of the Dunlendings. Only that she makes it of cow milk, mostly.”

“The farm must be quite prosperous, then,” said Herumor, knowing that good cheese was much sought after and could bring in handsome coin.

“It used to be, for a long while,” replied Wella. “After all, they have been farming here for the last three hundred and fifty years… or longer. But the raids of the Hill-men have hit them hard; they have lost at least four full harvests during the last ten years, and even more before. Archu can barely feed his family. Had your lord father not chosen to collect his due according to that which they actually can harvest, instead of insisting on a certain amount of coin or goods, they would have lost the farm years ago.”

“But Archu owns the farm, does he not?” asked Herumor. “That means he does not owe Father any service in respect of labour, as some of the less well off farmers on the estate do.”

“True enough,” said the tax collector. “However, he still must pay ground rent and one pig a year to your lord father as well as to the town. He also has to perform carrying duties, unless he can pay the carter to do them for him – which he cannot, and Merryn, despite being his son-in-law, is too much of a cold-hearted bastard to do it for free. Forgive my language, my Lord, but that carter brings out the worst of me.”

“You are not alone with that,” replied Herumor with a faint smile, for few people were so generally loathed in Halabor as Merryn, the carter… save perhaps old Mistress Rybwrast, the fishmonger’s mother. ‘Twas a riddle, how someone like Merryn could be the brother of Sydnius, the innkeeper,  well-liked and much-respected reeve of the Old Port, or Gennys, the owner of the town’s only ale-house, a young man as likeable as the carter was not.

Wella nodded. “That is true, my Lord. Merryn is not someone a poor man like Archu could hope to get help from.”

“Are you not exaggerating, calling the owner of the second-largest farm on the estate poor?” asked Herumor with a frown.

The tax collector shrugged. “He might be well off when it comes to the size of his farm, but that does not make him rich… or even wealthy. He had to feed thirteen children while they were still growing up; and now that they are all grown, seven of them are gone or have their own families to feed, and the ones still at home can barely keep up with the work. ‘Tis not just the fields and the livestock; they have to help build and maintain fences and fortifications around Emerië Manor and other endangered places, and provide a soldier for the troops on Cair Andros… which means another pair of hands lost for the farm. And Archu cannot afford to have any hired help, save from harvest time; so aye, they have a hard time to keep going, no matter how prosperous the farm might be. A heavy rain season, a draught or a sudden frost could ruin the family beyond help. These are trying times for the simple folk, my Lord.”

Looking at the farmstead, which they had reached in the meantime, Herumor could not question the truth of the tax collectors words. For an establishment that had supposedly been prospering – more or less in any case – for near four hundred years, the farm showed severe signs of wear and tear. Part of it – like the upturned cart in the front yard, or the damaged thatch of the roofs – was most likely the result of last night’s storm. But there was quite a bit of older damage in the wattled fence that encircled the long, low buildings; damage that should have been repaired long ago, and would have been, too, had all working hands not been desperately needed elsewhere.

The storm had torn out the wings of the gate that was cut into the fence, leaving behind a gap wide enough for two carts to pass through side by side. The farmer himself, a short, wiry man in his late sixties, was assessing the damage and discussing repairs with his eldest son and heir, Ardan, who looked like a younger version of him by thirty or so years. They looked up, hearing the rattle of the cart, and – recognizing the tax collector – Archu gave a weary sigh.

“Master Wella,” he said tiredly, “we have been expecting you. Do come in and warm yourself a bit; travelling in this weather must be hard on your chest. Lord Orchald’s due has been prepared and is ready to be loaded onto the cart.”

“That is good to hear,” said Herumor in Wella’s stead, “but I would like to see more of your farm, if you do not mind, good Archu. Master Wella here says that your wife makes the best cheese west from Dunland, and I would like to learn how it is done; unless it is a family secret, of course.”

The farmer had only now realized his presence and blushed deeply in embarrassment over his mistake.

“Lord Herumor… ‘Tis an honour to welcome you in our humble home,” he said. “Do come in; there are no secrets, and Messbuach will be glad to show you how she makes here cheese. But first, you must honour our hall by having a drink of ale with us!”

Herumor’s first reaction would have been to refuse; his father did not like him drinking such lowly beverages as ale, and he did not want to deprive the family of even more resources. But he also knew that doing so would have been the worst possible insult toward the simple, hard-working man, thus he expressed his thanks and followed the farmer inside.

Passing through the now ruined gate, they came into the front yard: barely more than a short lane, connecting the buildings within the fence. There were five of those, some of them facing the gate with their narrow side – where the entrance was – others joining them in a right angle. All five were built in the same pattern: long, rectangular, sunken-floored buildings, with timber walls and thatched roofs; and all seemed quite old and in need of smaller or bigger repairs.

The largest building was the hall, of course, in which the family lived and worked. It was a well-made, spacious house, its outer walls supported by diagonal oak beams from the outside at every section. Like most farm buildings in the neigbourhood, it was built entirely of wood – in Rohirric, style, rather than in the usual stone-and-wood fashion of the Old Folk – with the sunken central part of the floor built over with wooden planks, and small chambers framing the longer walls on both sides, to provide some semblance of privacy for the family members.

The stables joined the hall in a right angle from the left, while a barn – serving both as a granary and to keep the firewood and the hay dry – stood on its right side, reaching halfway forward to the fence and creating thus a small courtyard between stables, hall and barn, where the women could work when the weather was more pleasant. Again, in a right angle from behind, another building joined the barn, almost as large as the hall itself: the place where they kept eggs and other foodstuffs, and where the farmer’s wife made and stored the cheese. Next to it was a poultry-yard – a fairly large one – and before that a cottage, in which Ardan, the farmer’s heir, lived with his own family.

Behind the poultry-yard, two large haystacks seemed to have stood; now the hay was spread all over the pastures beyond the buildings. Herumor briefly wondered why the hay had not been taken into the barn long ago; but perhaps there was no more room where to put it.

“You will have a great deal of work, collecting and drying that hay again,” he said to the farmer, who shrugged in defeat.

“It cannot be helped, my Lord. I have sold those two stacks, with ten others, to the hay merchant; he has just failed to take them with him so far. We shall have to give him some of the dry haycocks fro our own and try to salvage as much of these as we can. ‘Tis not the first time; nor will it be the last one, I fear.”

“But if it was his fault, for not collecting his wares in time, why should you bear the consequences?” Herumor could not believe what he had just heard.

Archu laughed tiredly. “I could refuse, of course,” he said. “But if I did, he would never buy my hay again. That is a risk I cannot take. You must not stand here in the cold, though, my Lord; and you neither, Master Wella. You know I would never cheat on Lord Orchald, so come into the hall. My sons will see that everything is loaded onto the cart properly.”

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

It was obvious that the tax collector trusted the farmer implicitly, for he followed him without hesitation. Herumor did the same. Inside, it was fairly dark, most of the light coming from the central fire built on a raised clay hearth that served for both, heating and cooking. There were a few tallow candles, still unlit, on the table; the family probably only used them at nighttime, utilizing the hearth fire and what little light could come through the small windows, stretched over with vellum, to work by.

Furniture was very sparse in the shared middle part of the hall. Herumor assumed that the small private chambers, screened off from the main hall by simple, home-made curtains, would contain benches that could serve as seating during the day and as sleeping areas at night, as well as iron-bound chests for personal belongings. He had seen them in other farmhouses often enough. Around the walls were plain hangings of thick, simple wool, to keep draught out. A loom stood in the back, opposite the front door, with a half-finished piece of good, homespun wool cloth hanging on it, and a trestle table was placed next to the heart.

The women of the family were sitting at that table, on wooden benches, busily shelling corn and grinding it between the two stones of the hand-mill for dinner, which would most likely consist of hoecake and milk or weak ale, as it often was among poor farmers. Herumor recognized the farmer’s wife, a tall, painfully thin, almost wraith-like woman, whose beauty had long been used up by a hard life, filled with heavy labour and the birthing of seventeen children, thirteen of which had survived into adulthood.

Of the other, younger women, two were very much like her, only still as strong and healthy as possible for someone working so hard on so little food as they did – her daughters, one still this side of twenty and a lovely little thing at that, the other one in her early twenties, still pretty, but the hard life had already left its marks upon her tired face. The fourth woman was short, broadly built and ruddy-faced, age-wise somewhere in the middle between mother and daughters; most likely Ardan’s wife.

While no-one showed aught but the utmost courtesy towards Master Wella, it was the young lord’s presence that caused the true excitement. Life returned at once to the weary eyes of Mistress Messbuach, her hollow cheeks colouring most pleasantly from the thought that she would be allowed to pay host to the heir of their lord. She shooed her youngest daughter, whose name was apparently Saba, to bring forth the best drinking cups (which turned out to be plain and modest zinc ones, but still), called out to her son Erc to bring a pitcher of ale, ordered her other daughter, Vilbia, to fetch the small white cakes from the pantry, and generally, she made a delightful fuss about the noble visitor.

Herumor endured the fuss about his person in good humour. He was used to people getting excited when he appeared among them; he was the only son of their lord, after all, and the folk extended the love they felt for his father over him as well. He accepted one piece of the small white cakes that had probably been made for some special occasion, knowing that the mistress of the house would be heartbroken, should he refuse. The small cake was actually very tasty; surprisingly so, considering the meagre sources the simple folk had at their disposal.

He complimented Mistress Messbuach on them, who blushed prettily, looking ten years younger all of a sudden, and readily led him to the barn where she made the cheese when he asked to be shown the process.

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

The barn was surprisingly warm, considering that it was not usually heated. But it was protected from the cold wind on three sides by other buildings, which probably counted a great deal, and a fire was lit every day when cheese-making was in process, which most likely helped, too. In any case, it was a pleasant place. On one side, the already finished hard cheeses – large, round and flat blocks with a nice yellow crust – were ripening on long wooden shelves. On the other side, milk from the previous day was sitting in large jugs to sour, while in the middle a low stone heart stood, with a copious copper kettle on it, the fire already built under the kettle, just waiting for being started.

“’Tis truly not so difficult,” said Mistress Messbuach, while her daughters came and began emptying jugs of fresh milk from the morning into the kettle. “First, we leave the milk out to sit over night to sour. That is what you can see on this side. Then we heat the milk and add something to sour it: ale, vinegar or, like today, a special mix of spices. Then we take cream from the previous day to start the curding process. When it has proceeded enough, we separate curds and whey by draining or pressing. Then all we need to do is salt and herb the cheese, and it can be served.”

“That does sound simple,” agreed Herumor. “Yet somehow I have the feeling that it would be more complicated in practice.”

“Nay, making soft cheese is easy,” said the farmer’s wife, “and that is what we are doing now, for it takes time for the hard cheese to ripen, and we cannot make more of them ‘til they are ready to be sold. But soft cheese is much asked for, too, especially the one which is called Good Housewife’s Jewel – the very same we are making today.”

“Why is it so well-liked?” asked Herumor curiously.

“We make it with powdered ginger, good rose water that we get from Mistress Eirendel – the best there is, truly – and flavoured honey that Master Keir makes the way we need it, with spices not often used for honey. They make a much milder taste than if we curd the milk with vinegar; although apple cider vinegar also makes a good, spicy taste, which men often prefer. Vilbia, my dove,” she turned to her older daughter for a moment, “do start that fire, will you?”

Vilbia was already at it, handing the tinderbox with great skill. There could be no doubt that both she and her younger sister have learned the secrets of cheese-making at a young age.

“Now we shall seethe a quart of this morning’s milk, which my girls have already put into the kettle,” continued Mistress Messbuach. “When it does seethe, we shall take it off the fire, put it into a fair earthen pan and let it stand ‘til it be somewhat blood warm and we can add the clotted cream.”

“What clotted cram?” asked Herumor, a little confused. “Where would you take that from?”

“We have made it yesterday,” she replied. “Taking a gallon of milk, we seethed it, and when it was seething, we put a quart of morning milk in fair cleansing pans, in such a place as no dust may fall therein. Also, over night we put a good amount of powdered ginger, with rose water, and stirred it together, then let it settle all night. Now we shall add both to the seethed milk, as soon as it has cooled down enough.”

Herumor still did not quite understand the process – all those different sorts of milk confused him to no end – but chose not to dig any deeper. He was certain it would only confuse him further. One probably had to live on a farm to make a difference.

“How do you separate curds and whey?” he asked instead, feeling that a somewhat… safer topic.

“We strain them through a cheesecloth… or butter muslin as it is called elsewhere,” explained Mistress Messbuach. “We put the curds in a fine cloth, with a little good rose water, fine powder of ginger and a little honey. Then we lash great soft rolls together with a thread and crush out the whey with our clotted cream. Then we mix it with ginger and honey again, sprinkle it with rose water and put the cheese in a fair dish. When served with a snowy froth of raw milk or cream, ‘tis a very fine and tasty dish. Lord Ulmondil and his lady wife order a large pan of it each week.”

Herumor grinned. Lord Ulmondil was one of his father’s vassals; not a bad person, but obsessed with seafaring, although he had never commandeered anything larger than a fishing boat. His wife, the Lady Galadwen, came from Dol Amroth and was as obsessed with Elves as her husband was with ships. She was very proud of her refined tastes; preferring soft, sweet cheese scented with rose-water was certainly something she would do. All the better for the farmer’s family; at least that way they could regularly earn some honest coin.

“Mother,” said Vilbia quietly, “the milk is seething.”

“I see,” her mother turned to Herumor. “Your pardon, my lord, but I must tend to my cheese now. I shall make sure that you will be sent a small dish of today’s cheese to see how it has turned out.”

“Thank you, Mistress Messbuach,” replied Herumor, “and thank you for showing me your work; it was most interesting to learn about it. I shall return to the hall now and see how Master Wella is doing, then.”

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

The tax-collector seemed to do well enough, seated at the hearth upon a few sheepskins to keep him warm, thus Herumor left him to the care of the women and went out to the gate again, where the farmer and his firstborn were making repairs. He talked with them a little, asking about the latest harvest, listening to their concerns, and telling them about the excellent work Archu’s second-born son, Merddyn, was doing at Emerië Manor, as the captain of Lord Orchald’s men-at-arms and Lord Peredur’s weapons master.

His words appeared to make the two sad and proud at the same time.

“I am glad that he makes himself useful,” said the farmer, “but it breaks my heart to see him as a soldier all the same. He has a sense for the soil few other people have – certainly none of his brothers – and he used to be an excellent ox-caller. Ploughing has been thrice as difficult since he left us.”

Herumor had heard before that ox-calling was a very special talent. He was still surprised, though, that it would mean so much. He said so, and both farmer and son laughed.

“It shows that you never had to tend to the soil yourself, my Lord,” said Archu. “Let me tell you then, that a good ox-caller is every bit as vital for cutting the land as a good ploughman; and while I worked with a good many in my time, both callers and ploughmen, I have never known one with the way Merddyn has with the beasts. They would die for him. And as good a hand he was with all cattle, calving or sick or what you will. Aye, I was a sorrowed man when I had to send him away to Emerië Manor. Ardan and Erc and Mudden do their best; but being a good caller is not something you can learn. ‘Tis something you must be born for; and Merddyn was surely born for it.”

“I remember watching him work in team with Father,” added his firstborn wistfully. “He never even glanced behind him when walking backward, feeling his way with his feet only, as if he had eyes in the back of his heels. And he was cajoling the weary beasts without a break, albeit his voice would grow hoarse and tired as the day grew longer; calling and luring and praising them along the furrow. He would tell them how they had done marvellously, and that they should get their rest and food, soon; that in no time, they would be going home, and how proud he was of them and how much he loved them – as if they were people, not mere beasts. And the oxen laboured for him, no matter how hard the soil would be, never turning their eyes for him, not for a moment, as if he could give them the strength to go on, him alone. They would do anything in their power to please him, anything.”

“We had to get a new team of oxen after Merddyn had left,” said Archu. “Those two would never work with another caller again.”

“’Tis strange,” said Herumor. “I have heard of hounds dying at their master’s grave, yet never that beasts of burden would be just as faithful.”

“All good beasts are able to respond to love,” said the farmer simply. “Loath I was to send those two to the Castle as part of my annual ground rent, for I knew they would be slaughtered… and they were a good team; the best. But I cannot afford to keep beasts that are no longer of any use. The new team is not bad; and Erc and Ardan work with them well enough. Still, they barely manage a half of what Merddyn used to be with his team.”

“Why did you send him to emerië Manor then?” asked Herumor. “Why not one of your younger sons?”

“Which one?” asked the farmer. “Midac was already married and gone to his wife’s people to Lossarnach. Ecne has left us a year before – we know not whether he is still alive or not. Archil had work in the Riverside Inn, work that brought in honest coin; and besides, I needed him there to watch over his sisters. Erc and Mudden were still very young; I feared for them among armed soldiers, as they are both on the smallish side. Merddyn, on the other hand, was old enough and strong enough to take care of himself.”

“I regret that his loss has hit you so hard,” said Herumor. “I wish we could all live in peace, with no need for armed troops. But the Great Eye beyond the River never sleeps; we need to be prepared. And Captain Merddyn is very good at what he is doing right now. I know I sleep better, knowing that he has the weapons training of our men-at-arms in his capable hands. He is needed.”

“I know that,” replied the farmer, sighing. “And we are grateful for the protection, we truly are. We just… we just miss him terribly, in so many places.”

To that, Herumor had no answer. As the only son of a nobleman and the heir of lordship, he had been prepared to become a warrior from early childhood on. For him, weapons practice had long become second nature. ‘Twas the first time that it occurred to him that other people might not see things the same way. That the simple folk might resent the necessity of giving up a pair of hard-working hands to weapons. Archu was being understanding enough. But how many other farmers might have bitter feelings about their sons taking arms?

Even though Herumor knew that it was necessary – the lands needed to be protected, after all – it left him with a bad feeling. He was relieved when Master Wella finally left the hall to tell him that everything was in readiness, and that they could return home.

~The End – for now~

Tales from 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.

Genre: General

Rating: G.

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

Summary: Returning from Archu’s farm, Herumor has a heart-to-heart with his father’s chatelaine and learns new things about his parents.

Author’s note: Mistress Gilmith first appeared in “A Brotherly Gift” but was established among the very first Halabor characters as the old manservant Sador’s wife.

Halabor, on the 25^th day of Bloodmath in the year 3002 of the Third Age

Dusk was already falling when Herumor, son and heir of the Lord of Halabor, returned from Archu’s farm to his father’s Castle, accompanied by Master Wella, the tax-collector, and two men-at-arms belonging to the Castle Guard. His first look was directed at the long slope of the Great Chamber’s roof, overhanging the drainage channel. He could see the dark timber cage of scaffolding and ladders, and the squat, powerful figures of Madern, the roofer, and his helpers working on the uncovered slates.

In the previous night, the first heavy storm of the winter season had damaged the roof of the Great Chamber – where the lord and lady of the keep traditionally dwelt – shifting the slates and breaking some of them, while the melting snow had found a way through, dousing Lord Orchald in his own bed. The roofer had advised not to wait ‘til the taw, least they would have a flood and far worse damage to repair. He and his helpers had been working since early morning, in short spells, warming themselves between turns in a heated room.

Right now, the brawny form of the roofer could be seen halfway up the long ladder, hefting a holdful of slates many a younger man would fail to lift. Upon the highest platforms of the scaffolding, stacked with a great pile of slates, the tiny figures of his young helpers were moving very, very carefully on the exposed roof.

Sador, the elderly manservant of Lord Orchald, was standing at the foot of the scaffolding, squinting up at the working men in concern.

“The light is beginning to fail,” he said to Herumor, greeting him with a distracted nod; as he practically belonged to the family, there was no need to stand on ceremony between them. “They should come down, soon, ere something bad happens.

“Master Madern knows his trade,” replied Herumor, although the sight of the men upon the slippery roof concerned him too. “I am certain he would not let them endanger themselves beyond reason.”

And indeed, barely had he finished speaking when the roofer already shouted something they could not quite understand, turning away to clear the last of the day’s broken slates out of the way of his helpers. Those had apparently understood the command, for they began to descend from the roof to the boards of the scaffolding, lifting themselves carefully down the long ladder to the ground, grateful to leave the work fort he time being. Herumor did not blame them. It had to be bitter work, up there, and in such cold weather, too. He must have spoken loudly, without realizing it, for old Sador nodded in agreement.

“Bitter and perilous, even for men as skilled and experienced as Master Madern and his helpers,” he said. “The short days of the season are no help, either. But another week should see it finished, I deem.”

“Father shall not be happy, having to spend a week out of his own bed,” said Herumor. “But still better than put anyone to risk without grave need. I shall be going to him, then, to tell him about my foray to Archu’s farm. Do you know where I can find him?”

The elderly servant nodded. “He went to the women’s wing, to talk to Gilmith,” he said. “By this weather, all seamstresses and embroiderers are gathered in your lady mother’s working room, as it can be easily heated.”

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

Herumor thanked him for that news and climbed the steps of the forebuilding to the keep’s entrance. He rarely visited the he women’s wing, as it was more or less abandoned most of the year, due to the lack of a proper Lady. Besides – even though he had never known his mother, who had died at his birth – the memories of her still haunted those rooms, thus he tended to avoid them.

During the winter season, however, Mistress Gilmith used the late Lady’s working room, for it was a relatively small parlour, hung with beautiful carpets, and pleasantly warm, due to a small stone heart at the far end of it. It had always been custom that the womenfolk of the Castle did their needlework here when the weather was cold, and Mistress Gilmith kept the tradition alive, for since the death of her lady she had kept the matters of the lordly household in her hands firmly.

There she sat, in a circle with the seamstresses and embroiderers of the Castle, a tall, willowy, active woman beyond fifty, with the free manner and air of authority  habitual in servants who have spent many years in the confidence of their lord or lady, and earned a degree of trust that brings with it acknowledged privilege. For she was of true Dúnadan stock, albeit of common birth: proud, competent and sharp-eyed, doing difficult work that was usually done by trusted males in other households… and she did it well.

Choosing a chatelaine instead of a steward was unusual at best in these days, but when asked about his choice, Lord Orchald just shrugged and said that he had chosen the most competent member of his household for the most difficult task and that he cared not whether that person was male or female. Besides, as Halabor had no Lady at the moment – in truth, had not had one since Herumor’s birth, as the old lord refused to marry again – the female touch was more needed here than it would be elsewhere.

And indeed, few other people, whether men or women, could awake the same respect Mistress Gilmith did. The younger maidservants deferred to her – in truth, some of them went in awe of her – and she offered a handsome view in her dark blue gown, the wide sleeves of which were pinned back to her shoulders so that they would not get in the way of her work, with the stiff white wimple under a simple headdress, made of the same fabric as her gown, and the keys jingling at her waist, bearing witness to her status.

While the other women were mending torn clothes or doing embroidery, sprang or naal-binding, she had a flat, round pillow on her lap, to which a half-finished, yet obviously complex pattern of lace was pinned with delicate brass pins, while she was looping, twisting and braiding at least a dozen separate bleached linen, gold and silver threads, each of which was held by artfully carved bone bobbins. She worked so fast that the jingling of the bobbins almost sounded like music.

After greeting her with a polite inclination of his head, Herumor looked around for his father. He found the old lord sitting in a comfortable chair next to the heart. A small table stood before him, and at the table sat Artbranan, his scribe, a small, bird-like man about his own age, prone to getting an inflamed chest, yet bright and shrewd when it came to numbers.

Both old men were wearing dark clothes – fur lined velvet the lord, good, homespun wool the servant – and both had silver hair, the lord’s down and tumbling over his powerful shoulders, the servant’s short-cropped and thinning, as men of the Old Folk generally wore their hair short. But that was not the only difference between them. The scribe was a simple soul, despite his shrewd mind; someone who rejoiced in the simple pleasures of life. The old lord, however, carried the weight of a great responsibility upon his shoulders, and that made him grimmer than his age would have made him. Near-seventy years were nothing for someone who had the blood of Westernesse in his veins, but concerns, duty and responsibility could make a man age before his time.

Still, he was as watchful and as aware of what was going on around him as ever. He looked up from his wine cup, recognizing Herumor’s steps, and a joyful smile softened his stern features upon seeing his only son.

“You have come back early, ion nîn,” he said. Although they largely spoke the local version of Westron most of the time, just like their subjects, some Sindarin endearments often resurfaced in their daily language. “How did it go on the farm?”

“Well enough, I deem,” replied Herumor with an uncertain shrug. “Those are good, honest people. They lead a harsh life, though. I had no inkling how harsh ere I saw it with my very eyes.”

“Which was one of the reasons why I sent you there in my stead,” said the old lord. “Now, sit with me, have a cup of wine and tell me all about your visit.”

Herumor knew that pointing out how much he would prefer ale would be useless. His father, while fairly lenient with him in many things, had been trying to break him out what he called his ‘pedestrian tastes” for a while, at least where beverages were concerned. A proper lord, even a future one, was expected to drink wine; and a good vintage at that, assuming he could afford it. Ale and beer were things drunk by peasants and therefore unworthy a lord’s table.

This was one matter Lord Orchald was unwilling to compromise, and thus Herumor had to drink wine, despite the fat that it sometimes upset his stomach. He secretly thanked the Valar that they could rarely afford Dorwinion Red; even the pale yellow Lossarnach Limpë, named after the mythical beverage of the Undying Lands, was too much for his stomach sometimes.

He accepted the cup from Finvel, his father’s young page and cup-bearer with a resigned grimace. Fortunately, Mistress Gilmith had trained all servants to dilute their young lord’s wine generously with water, all the time, so that at least he needed not to fear that his stomach would give him any pain afterwards. Still, he hated the taste and thought back with longing even at the weak ale offered him in the farmer’s home. Even small beer would have been better. Mead, definitely. Sometimes the requirements of one’s rank could poison even the smallest pleasures of life.

But that could not be helped, and thus Herumor sipped on his watered wine – or, to be closer to the truth, wine-flavoured water – with a pained expression, while telling about his visit on Archu’s farm in minute detail. His father listened with great interest, although Herumor suspected that interest was focused on his actions rather than on the intricacies of cheese-making. When he came to the end of his tale, his father nodded.

“I am glad they can make some honest coin with their cheese,” he said. “They desperately need it. But for Lord Ulmondil to order so much sift cheese,” he added disapprovingly. “’Tis just shows what strange ideas he has about the ‘Elvish fashion of life’, as he calls it. I hope he shall have the mother wit to send his sons to esquire training to some lord who makes true men out of those boys, or else they will become naught but perfumed courtiers.”

Herumor grinned. “And this you say based on the fact that they prefer soft cheese, Adar?” he asked, amused about his father’s culinary prejudices.

The old lord glared at him in a most disapproving manner. Iron-grey men-at-arms would be shaking in their boots, facing that glare, but Herumor just grinned unrepentantly, and finally his father, too, gave a short bark of laughter.

“Nay, not only based on that,” he replied, “although soft cheese is something for women and children, not for men. Your mother was certainly fond of it,” he added, his keen, sea-grey eyes clouding over with memories, cherished and painful alike.

Herumor would have liked to hear more about that, but as always when talk turned to his late mother, the discussion was finished abruptly, and the old lord left the women’s wing, declaring that he needed to take a look at the wine reserves of the Castle. Herumor glanced at Mistress Gilmith in askance.

“Why is Father always doing this?” he asked. “I mean, leaving in the middle of a conversation, whenever it turns to Mother? I know he loved her deeply, but she has been dead for over twenty years! Surely Father has come to terms with that?”

The chatelaine looked up from her lacework and shook her head thoughtfully.

“I do not believe so,” she replied. “You see, your lord father is very much like you when it comes to the matters of the heart. He married late, for he wanted to wait for the one who would truly capture his heart… and he was more fortunate than you, for he fell in love with a lady who was acceptable for his family.”

Herumor blushed furiously. He knew that he could not keep his… indulgence hidden from a town this small, but knowing it and having it discussed within earshot were two different things.

“I always wondered how they met and fell in love,” he said tentatively, “but never dared to ask Father about it.”

“That,” said Mistress Gilmith dryly, “was a wise decision. He would not have responded kindly to such inquiry, not even from his own son. If you are as curious as you seem, though, I can tell you the tale; for I was present when they first met, as a member of your lord father’s entourage.”

“I would be grateful, Mistress Gilmith,” said Herumor. “I know so little of my mother, as I never knew her. I would like to know what she was like.”

“She was a quick-witted, strong-willed and warm-hearted woman, with features very much like your own,” answered the chatelaine. “As a second cousin to Lord Forlong, she grew up in the Castle of Carvossonn, as she had lost her parents at a tender age, and old Lord Forlyn, Forlong’s father, had her raised as his own daughter. Whatever Dúnadan nobles may think of Lord Forlong – and much of that is unjust and prejudiced – the court of Carvossonn has always been a rich and refined one; and the family of the Lords of Lossarnach well-educated and capable.”

“I know that,” said Herumor. “Madenn and Achren, Uncle Forlong’s daughters, could fit into every royal court in Middle-earth. Why, Achren has married Lord Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, and is the highest-ranking lady in Minas Tirith right now… at least until Boromir finally gets married.”

“Your lady mother was nothing less,” replied the chatelaine. “She spoke Sindarin fairly well, could read and write the Tengwar script as well as the Angerthas, understood the tongue of the Dunlendings and even some Rohirric. She was capable of running a household as large as Lord Forlyn’s, and she knew her way around healing herbs, too… well, to a certain extent anyway. She even played the rebec in her spare time, little as it was.”

“But that is nothing unusual,” said Herumor, a little disappointed. “Every well-bred Dúnadan lady knows those things… and more. What did make Father fall in love with her, of all the ladies of the court?”

“What did make you fall in love?” asked Mistress Gilmith with a forgiving smile. “Who can tell why their hearts react the way they do? Although,” she added, laughing, “the Lady Humleth giving him a piece of her mind about Dúnadan pride and prejudices might have been the very thing that had piqued your lord father’s interest in the first place.”

Herumor stared at her, with his mouth literally hanging open.

“It all began with a fight?” he asked incredulously. It was hard for him to imagine.

“Oh, aye,” replied Mistress Gilmith, clearly amused by her memories. “Your lady mother did not hold back with barbed remarks about how Dúnadan lords believed the entire Middle-earth centered around them; how they believed they were better than other people just because their ancestors had to free from that isle of theirs, after having angered the gods themselves beyond endurance.”

“She said that?” Herumor was utterly mortified. “Father must have been furious,” For while Lord Orchald was without doubt a noble and valiant man and a good Lord of his subjects, he also shared the common Dúnadan fault of being innately proud of his heritage.

“Oh, he was,” Mistress Gilmith laughed quietly. “He became beet red in the face and stuttered with fury every time they got into an argument, which happened at least once a day, to be sure. Lord Forlong, then a fairly young man who delighted in such things, used to laugh himself silly about their fights and kept saying that they would either kill each other in a very short time – or get married even faster.”

“He was right, it seems,” commented Herumor, thinking with genuine fondness of his loud, good-hearted, formidable uncle.

Mistress Gilmith nodded. “That he was. Your lord father asked for her hand after three weeks of heated arguments, and they had the wedding in the next year, barely willing to sit out the customary year of betrothal.”

“Did they… did they keep fighting afterwards?” asked Herumor uncertainly.

Mistress Gilmith shook her head. “Nay; Lady Humleth used to say that they had seen the worst of each other already, so there was no need to continue on that path. Besides, she already had him where she wanted him: on her side. She was a resolute lady who knew very well what she wanted… and how to get it.”

“Was she truly so eager to marry her?” asked Herumor with a smile. “Admittedly, Father must have been a striking figure – he still is, after all – but he was considerably older than her, was he not?”

“Aye, he was; but your lord father is of good Dúnadan stock and thus could hope to be with her for many long and happy years,” reminded him Mistress Gilmith. “No-one would have thought that we would lose her so early on.”

“Because of me,” murmured Herumor, for it was true that his mother paid for giving him birth with her life. “I wonder how Father can bear my presence at all.”

“Nonsense,” said Mistress Gilmith sternly. “Alas, women die in childbirth all the time; just as men fall in battle. That is part of life, and your lady mother knew the risks she was taking. She had lost several babes before you; at least three of whom I know were miscarried, and one only lived a few weeks. She was weakened considerably after each one, and the healers did warn her that any more pregnancies could cost her life. Your lord father knew it, too.”

“Why did they kept trying, then?” asked Herumor accusingly. “She could still be alive, had they given up on children in time.”

“Mayhap; or mayhap not,” she answered. “In any case, they could not afford to give up. The House of Erellont needed an heir. ‘Twas their duty towards the simple folk to continue the bloodline, so that the people would not remain without leadership and protection.”

“And that is why Father keeps harassing me with getting married,” murmured Herumor in defeat.

Mistress Gilmith nodded. “That is true. You shall need an heir, at least one, as much as he needed one. And you must be faster with it, for your time in Middle-earth will most likely be shorter, unless you come after your father’s people entirely; which does not seem to be the case.”

“Why not?” asked Herumor, a little insulted. “I am a Swan Knight, after all; knights do not get any better than that in Gondor.”

“The others can at least stomach their wine, though,” countered Mistress Gilmith with a wink; then she became sober again. “Things are what they are, my Lord. There is a certain order to this world, and we all have to find our place in this order and fit in as well as we can. That is the way of life, whether we like it or not.”

As much as Herumor would have liked to argue with her, he knew she was right. Thus he ceased arguing, which would only have been a waste of time. Besides, he had enough other things to do. He already returned to his chamber when the thought occurred to him: this had been the first time that Mistress Gilmith called him ‘my Lord’.

~The End – for now~