THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, at this point.

Author’s notes:

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

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

CHAPTER 5 – IN THE RIVERSIDE INN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now you are seeing the reason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC

Thrimidge = May