THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

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

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

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

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

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

Author’s notes:

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

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

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

CHAPTER 1 – HOMECOMING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall have ale, like Hirwas here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC

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

End notes:

(1) Solmath = February

(2) Mede = July

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

(4) Wintring = October

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

(6) Blooting = November

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