Chapter 1. A Kingly Gift

 ‘Do you think Eomer is trying to tell me something?’ Pippin said. He leaned on the fence, chewing the stem of a long piece of grass, watching Old Tom and half the stable hands trying to subdue the fighting stallion in the centre of the small enclosure.

 ‘He’s the finest piece of ponyflesh I’ve seen this side of Rohan,’ Merry said thoughtfully.

 ‘Yes, but didn’t you tell me that the King of Rohan, on his coronation, was expected to prove his fitness for ruling the Mark by first ruling her greatest stallion?’ Pippin said as the pony reared high, waving his hoofs dangerously as hobbits holding ropes ducked out of the way. 

 ‘This isn’t Rohan,’ Merry began, but Pippin broke in.

 ‘I’m glad of that!’ that hobbit said, wincing as the pony threw himself over backwards, narrowly missing two stable hands.

Grab hold, lads! Old Tom shouted. He’s not through yet, not half!

  ‘He’s honouring you with the finest of Rohan’s ponies,’ Merry said stubbornly.

 ‘I could do with a little less honour, thank you,’ Pippin replied, shaking his head. ‘I must admit, it’d be a quick death to go in there and “master” him.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘At least I’d get out of being saddled with the Thainship.’

 ‘I don’t see what you’re on about,’ Merry said. ‘Your own Socks is impossible, and you manage him perfectly well.’

 ‘My own Socks is not impossible, he’s spirited,’ Pippin said.

 ‘He’s daft,’ Ferdibrand said laconically from behind them. When Pippin turned in annoyance, he waved a hand at the pony in the ring. ‘Him, I mean.’ He’d expressed on other occasions his opinion of the Thain’s pony, but never before Pippin’s face.

 ‘Besides,’ Merry said, ‘No one could master Shadowfax, chief of the Mearas, not even the King of Rohan.’

 ‘I’m supposed to find consolation in that?’ Pippin remarked. ‘And Gandalf did master him in the end.’

 ‘He befriended him, rather,’ Merry said.

 ‘Somehow I don’t think this pony’s about to shake anyone by the hand,’ Ferdi muttered.

Hobbits fought pony to a standstill, but it was an uneasy truce at best. He stood, head high, sweat darkening his coat, not seeming to notice the ropes radiating from his neck in every direction.

 ‘Could Socks have come from Rohan?’ Ferdi said suddenly, his eye going over the clean lines, taking note of the fine head. ‘This one could be brother to him.’ That would explain quite a lot, he said under his breath. Merry snorted. Socks was known for speed and strength and fine foals but precious little sense. Pippin was about the only grown hobbit he tolerated. Of a wonder he was gentle with children, but Old Tom shooed them away from his stall whenever he saw them there, holding out a palmful of carrot or apple to the Thain’s favourite.

 ‘Perhaps this one is descended from Socks, rather,’ Merry said slowly. ‘He did jump a fence when we were visiting Rohan, as I recall, and...’

Pippin threw back his head and laughed heartily until he had no breath left. Gasping, he said, ‘Wouldn’t you know it? This may well Eomer’s way of thanking me for Socks’ contribution to Rohan’s bloodlines!’

 ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Merry said. ‘The perfect jest.’ 

 ‘I see now why they transported him in a box,’ Ferdi said. ‘You cannot ride him, you cannot lead him...’ He broke off, hands tightening on the fence. ‘Hold fast!’ he whispered.

Old Tom was approaching the pony’s head now, crooning a soft sing-song. The watching head rose higher, the nostrils flared red, the ears flattened. The rope-holding hobbits kept their lines taut as stablemaster reached slowly... then the pony was rearing and plunging once more, whistling his defiance. A flying hoof caught Old Tom a glancing blow and he sprawled back.

With a shout Ferdi vaulted the fence to grab one of the lines while two stable hobbits jumped to drag Tom out of reach of the dancing hoofs.

 ‘Tom?’ Pippin asked anxiously as the older hobbit straightened in his rescuers' grasp. Ferdi, relinquishing his line to a stable hobbit, came over the rail in a more leisurely manner than he'd departed.

 'You all right, Tom?' he said, brushing dust from his clothing.

 ‘I’m well,’ the older hobbit said with a grimace. ‘Barely marked me, he did, but we’re no further than we were before. I’d say turn him out in a field of his own, Sir, and turn out any mares you want bred, or put him down. He may father fine foals, but for himself... he’s unmanageable.’

Pippin stared in surprise. ‘You’ve only been working with him a fortnight,’ he said.

 ‘Aye, and it feels like months,’ Old Tom said ruefully. ‘No wonder he was half-starved, and near-dead of thirst when he came out of the box! They had to deny him food and water just to handle him.’

 ‘I cannot believe the Rohirrim would countenance such treatment of one of their beasts,’ Pippin said.

 ‘Of course not,’ Merry snapped. ‘They’d never—if Hamund hadn’t fallen ill along the way...’

King Eomer had sent a knight of the Mark to deliver his gift to the new Thain, but the Man had fallen seriously ill half-way to the Shire. With nearly his last gasp, he’d wrung a promise from the guardsmen who’d found him that they would fulfil his commission. Not able to leave their outpost, they’d handed the pony over to a caravan of merchants travelling to Bree... No telling if the pony had started out half-wild or if the merchants had mistreated him; in any event Old Tom’s diligent care after the merchants’ tender mercies had made little or no difference.

 ‘It’d be a terrible waste to put him down,’ Ferdi said. ‘Look at those lines! He’s built for speed and stamina.’

 ‘He’s intelligent too,’ Old Tom said. ‘But that doesn’t do much good, unless he decides to work with us rather than against us.’

 ‘Very well,’ Pippin said reluctantly. ‘We’ll turn him out in one of the stallions’ paddocks when one opens up after the Pony Sale. Let him make himself at home. At least we can take advantage of his bloodlines,’ he sighed, ‘even if we can’t run him in any of the pony races.’ He shook his head. ‘And here I thought Tookland would have Buckland beat this year.’