THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, for the time being.

Author’s notes:

Lord Orchald is “played” by Sean Connery. The law enforcement details are based on the books about medieval life by Frances and Joseph Gies, although there are differences.

CHAPTER 6 – AN EYE FOR AN EYE

(In which our main heroine finally makes her first appearance, and we can watch Lord Orchald mete out proper justice.)

[The Marketplace of Halabor, on the 27^th day of Thrimidge⁽¹⁾, in the year 2998 of the Third Age]

More than a fortnight had been gone since Mistress Eryn’s murderer had been found, but the trial had to wait ‘til the return of Lord Orchald, as he alone was entitled to judge over such grave cases as murder, robbery or rape. His able and fastidious bailiff, however, had not wasted any of that time and went on to find proofs and witnesses that would bring further light into the case.

“He had the man’s scrip searched,” said Artbranan, the Lord’s elderly notary, who naturally had been present, due to his office, and scribbled down meticulously every oh-so-mundane item found there, “as well as the belongings of his two shipmates, for who can tell whether he had any complices in that foul deed? Perchance, he could have hidden his bounty among the rags of one of his mates.”

“And has he?” asked Henderch; since Lord Peredur had taken over the investigation, news did not reach him as quickly as he would have preferred.

“Naught by Comur, the first mate,” replied the notary, “but some sort of golden necklace was found in the scrip of that simpleton Fotla who steers the Kingfisher, so he was taken into custody as well.”

The tax collector, who was sitting with them in the Drunken Boat, enjoying a proper dinner after work, shook his balding head.

“Fotla is way too old and twice the size of the young man I saw in the Town Hall that night," he said. “And no-one would be foolish enough to choose him as a complice. He would blurt out everything in the worst possible moment. Nay, I imagine the murderer has hidden the necklace among his things without his knowledge.”

“Do we know for sure if the necklace belonged to Mistress Eryn at all?” asked Henderch.

“Nay, not ‘til it is shown to Mistress Pharin,” said the notary. “For now, ‘tis locked away in the Castle and shall only be brought forth when the court is gathered and the witnesses called in.”

“Well,” said the tax collector, “it cannot take much longer. Lord Orchald is expected to return home any time now, I hear.”

As if answering his words, the faint clatter of hooves broke through the usual, tampered early evening noises of the Marketplace. But instead of a mounted rider, a small, four-wheeled cart turned in and halted before the Drunken Boat. A well-built cart it was, covered by a rough canvas awning to shield it from the weather, and pulled by a mule – a dun-coloured gelding, sturdy-legged and long-faced, with a carefully plaited black tail and mane.

Barely had the cart come to a halt, a woman of about thirty hopped off of it, wearing a mauve dress over her undyed linen gown, her reddish brown hair neatly tucked away under her wimple and the simple white veil healers usually wore. Her even, pale face and arched eyebrows reminded Henderch of someone – he just could not tell of whom. Not yet, anyway, but he was certain he would figure out in time.

In the next moment, old Mistress Pharin came forth from the tavern in a whirlwind of rustling skirts and pressed the newcomer to her ample bosom in a hug that would have bruised the ribs of a grown man.

“My girl, oh my girl,” she exclaimed in a joyous voice that could be heard all over the Marketplace, “the Lady Nurria be blessed that you have finally come home! You have been away far too long!”

Henderch eyed the two women curiously, and despite the great age difference, he now could detect the family resemblance between them. The newcomer was not the stunning beauty Mistress Pharin was said to have been, but she had the same smooth features, high cheekbones and full mouth, although without her elder’s regal posture. Her gold-flecked eyes, however, unlike the piercing sky blue ones of Mistress Pharin, had the grey glint of Dúnadan heritage.

“Correct me if I am wrong,” said Henderch carefully, “but is this...”

“Mistress Angharad, Pharin’s granddaughter and the most skilled healer this town has ever had,” the tax collector nodded. “She has been learning herb lore in Lossarnach for years by now. ‘Tis safe to assume that she has come to witness the trial of her mother’s murderer, I think.”

“But if she came all the way from Lossarnach, then Lord Orchald cannot be far, either,” said Henderch. “Mayhap he reached the Castle already.”

“That is likely,” agreed the notary. “I shall be better going back too, then. He will have need of me, shortly.”

“No doubt, news of his return will be cried all over the streets, soon,” Henderch nodded. “And the court will be called together in a short time, I deem, which will be a good thing. This case needs a clean and satisfying end, so that people can return to their daily work in peace.”

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

Curiosity made Henderch accompany Artbranan to the Castle. Watching Lord Orchald’s hunting party return was always a delight – it was usually a large one, one that would have made the ruler or any Gondorian province proud. Halabor might have lost much of its former importance as a trade town, but the forests of the Lord were still rich in game, and like most high-born Dúnadan nobles, Lord Orchald considered hunting a way of life – and rightly so. The deer, boar and other quarry supplied a substantial share of the meat for the Castle table, thus taking off a great deal of the burden of feeding the Lord and his household, which would otherwise lie on the shoulders of his subjects. Also, the forests supplemented game with nuts, berries, mushrooms and other wild edibles.

Unlike most noblemen, Lord Orchald was quite lenient toward the villagers and the townsfolk when it came to the use of his extensive woods. True, the felling of trees was strictly limited – the woodworkers, carpenters, coopers and wheelwrights had to keep book on the numbers and quality of the trees they had cut, and the Lord’s foresters kept a wary eye on them and dealt with trespassers swiftly and without mercy. But the poor were allowed to gather fallen branches and other dead wood to heat their huts, and the swine were allowed to pasture in the forest and get fat on the acorns under the oaks and beeches. And when the Castle servants had collected all the nuts and berries and mushrooms that needed to be preserved for the winter, the people of the hamlets scattered all around Halabor could have the rest. There was still plenty left each year, and Lord Orchald often said that it would be a waste and an offence to Yavanna to let them rot while there were hungry mouths still in the cottages.

He also gave the farriers leave to hunt for foxes, hares, badgers, squirrels, wild cats, marters and otter, for a the proper fee, as the hides were the livelihood of these people. Besides, these beasts were considered harmful for the boar and the stag. Wolves were free prey, but because of their increasing numbers and perilous nature the Lord had ordered that they be hunted by mounted parties of archers. Henderch himself had joined those parties sometimes and knew that Wargs from the North had been slowly infesting the forests for some years by now, making the hunt more dangerous than ever before.

Thus it was understandable that everyone was waiting anxiously for the return of Lord Orchald, who had rode out with his son, his huntsman and a group of mounted archers some days earlier, to find a pack of wolves reported by frightened cottagers, and deal with the beasts that had attacked helpless wood-workers repeatedly. He had all but emptied the Castle of the able-bodied men, leaving only the household knights and a few Castle Guards to its defence, so that the Wardens had had to patrol on that part of the town, too. ‘Twas a perilous thing to do, but everyone knew that the wolves had to be dealt with, not only to protect the cottagers and the woodworkers, but because they would otherwise massacre the game in the forests.

Henderch and the old notary happened to reach the Castle shortly after the hunting party’s arrival, and found the courtyard in great disarray. Servants and grooms and men-at-arms were hurrying to and fro in an unnaturally agitated manner, and Mistress Gilmith, the chatelaine, was coming from the forebuilding of the Great Hall’s entrance in a blur of rustling shirts and in the state of frightened practicality. She was an elderly matron just a year or two short sixty, of clear Dúnadan origins, the loose sleeves of her dark blue surcoat pinned back above her elbows, so that they would not hinder her in her household tasks. Her silver hair was almost completely hidden under a crisp white wimple, above which she wore an embroidered headdress of the very same fabric. The bound of keys was jingling on her belt as she ran – a rare sight in the always well-organized Castle household. As a rule, Mistress Gilmith was not easily frightened, thus Henderch guessed at once that something must have gone very wrong.

Looking around him he discovered the Lord’s huntsman, Alston, a tall, erect, vigorous man past fifty, who was trying to bring some sort of order into the current chaos, sending the dog-keepers to the kennels with their beasts, shouting at the falconers to take the birds to the mews, and quarrelling with Master Hrotgar, the stabler, for the grooms were not fast enough clearing the courtyard of the horses for his taste. As Alston, too, was calmness in person under normal circumstances, Henderch’s feeling that something very had had happened became even stronger.

“What is wrong?” he asked Borondir, the head of the household knights, a strong-minded, taciturn, able man in his forties.

Instead of answering, Borondir stepped aside to give him undisturbed view at a pallet that had been laid onto the stone-paved courtyard with great care. Upon that pallet, pale like death under his sunburn skin, lay young Lord Herumor, the apple of his old father’s eye, broken and bruised, bleeding through his makeshift bandages around his midriff.

“What happened?” Henderch rephrased his question, this time aiming it at one of the men-at-arms, one of the expatriates of Rohan, by the name of Folcmar.

“’Twas my fault alone, fretted the lean, straw-haired young man in despair. “We were following the trail of the pack, when, all of a sudden, a stag broke out of the thick woods, mayhap alerted by the dogs’ scent, and ran between us. We were expecting wolves, you see, and in my haste, I lifted my shortbow too high. The arrow grazed the beast’s horny back, but only made it mad with fear. It broke out to the left, where our young lord was waiting, and ran down his horse. The impact threw Lord Herumor from the saddle, and the stag trampled him down. Béma, if I could just die myself and save his life! It was my fault, mine alone!”

“’Twas an accident; a terrible, unfortunate thing, yet no wrongdoing of yours,” a deep, sombre voice replied, harsh with suppressed pain, and glancing up, Henderch saw Lord Orchald coming, still in his dark green and brown hunting clothes, his silver hair pulled back into a tight ponytail from his bearded face.

“Hunting is perilous business, as we all know,” continued the old lord, “more so when we are hunting for the evil creatures of the Shadow. Sadly, such things are known to happen.”

“But my Lord, if I only had lowered my bow just a fracture in time, the stag would now be dead and your son unharmed!” cried out the poor man.

“Do I know that?” asked Lord Orchald gravely. “Do you? Such foresight is granted to the mightiest of the Valar alone; ‘twould be unseeming for us mere Men to measure us with their measure. Be in peace, lad; I blame you not, and neither would my son, could he raise his voice to speak. We should now see how we might save him, if, indeed, there still could be saving for him. Master Henderch,” he looked at the Chief Warden, “I understand that your leech is very skilled at healing wounds. Would you see to it that he come to the Castle at once?”

“We can do better than that, my Lord,” Henderch replied. “Mistress Angharad has just returned home, less than an hour ago. I believe she can be of better assistance; but I shall send for Cathbad, too, nonetheless.”

“I thank you with all my heart,” said Lord Orchald; then he turned to the huntsman. “Alston, we still have unfinished business in the forest. Let the men rest ‘til dawn, but in the morning, you shall ride out gain. That pack needs to be hunted down and slain.”

The huntsman nodded in grim agreement. “Aye, my Lord. But there are too few of us – may I recruit helpers among the woodworkers and the cottagers?”

“You can take with you everyone who is able and willing,” said the old Lord. “I lay this issue into your capable hands, Alston. I… I need to be with my son.”

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

Errand boys were sent out running to fetch Mistress Angharad and Cathbad, the leech of the Wardens, as soon as they could come. Being closer to the Castle in her grandmother’s tavern, the healer was the first to arrive, calm and quick and business-like, not the least in awe of the Lord of the town. She examined young Herumor briskly but thoroughly, feeling for broken ribs under the pale skin of the slim torso that was flecked with darkening, purple-ish bruises, and pressing a careful palm against the young man’s belly to find possible inner wounds. Her smooth, oval face was serene and unsmiling, and her arched brows knitted in concern over those gold-flecked, grey-blue eyes.

“He does not bleed in the inside, and that is good,” she finally judged; her voice was deep and smooth, too, not unkind but somewhat detached. “There are at least three broken ribs, thought, that I can feel, and mayhap two or three more bruised. The surface wounds and abrasions are not life-threatening, but we shall need to anoint them, or they would get inflamed. My Lord, I would like to take him to the Infirmary, where we can keep an eye on him all the time.”

“Btu he will live?” asked Lord Orchald anxiously. She nodded and smiled for the first time, and that smile brightened her face in a beauty no-one would have expected. It only lasted a moment, then she clouded her brightness behind the veil of duty and attendance again, but all that had seen it would never look at her the same way.

“He will live,” she assured the worried father, “and he will heal without scarring, if I can take him in my care – and if he listens to me. It will take time, but in the end, he will be as good as new.”

Lord Orchald looked down at his son, who lay under a light cover upon his pallet, stretched on his back as if he had already been prepared for funeral. His breathing was shallow; the intake of breath barely lifted the blanket over his breast, an apparently painful, too, for he seemed to labour hard for each small gulp of air. His head was properly bandaged now, his brow beneath the linen wrappings swollen and bruised so badly that one eye was completely swollen shut. ‘Twas a discouraging sign, one that made the father’s heart bleed.

“If you save him,” said the old Lord to the healer, “you shall receive the apothecary’s house as your payment; the one that joins the Infirmary and has stood empty all these years. And your children and their children shall have it after you, as long as one of your line is alive.”

Angharad looked up at him with detached sympathy.

“My Lord, you need not to promise me aught,” she said gently. “What I can do to restore your son to full health, I shall do. I am a healer – I cannot and must not extract such promises for doing that which I am meant to do.”

“Nonetheless,” said Lord Orchald, “once my son stands before me, strong and hale and unharmed, the way he was still in this morn, the apothecary’s house shall be granted to you as a gift. My notary will provide the papers as it is due. Indulge in an old man’s folly,” he added softly. “Or do you think my son’s life is not worth a mere house to me?”

To that, Angharad could not give any other answer than incline her head and accept the generous gift in proper gratitude. Four strong men carefully lifted the pallet with their young Lord then and left the Castle to take him to the Infirmary. ‘Twas but a short way along the river bank, but the men-at-arms accompanied them to keep the curious townsfolk at distance. Angharad followed them in the company of Cathbad who had come in the last moment and wanted to offer his well-proved skills at dressing the wounds.

“And now,” said Lord Orchald, turning to his bailiff who had held back respectfully ‘til the more urgent issues were taken care of, “tell me about this murderer of ours, Peredur!”

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

The trial of Mistress Eryn’s murderer was held two days later – not in the Castle itself, but in the Town house, for this was a matter of the Town Council as much as that of the Lord. Mistress Eryn had been their faithful and trusted clerk for decades, after all. Although the final judgement belonged to Lord Orchald, he instructed his bailiff to lead the trial, with four members of the Town Council to act as co-judges, listen to the evidence and deliver their verdict unanimously. These were: Master Ludgvan, the provost, by the importance of his office alone, Sydnius, the reeve of the Old Port, Master Suanach, the head of the Merchants’ Guild, and Muathlan, the old spice-merchant – and also a lawperson of vast experience – whose judgement in such issues had been highly valued in town since he had taken his place among the Guild leaders.

The Town Hall itself, aside from the small, pigeonhole-like offices framing it, that could be accessed through hidden doors behind the faded tapestries, usually served as the place where the weavers could spread their cloth during the two great markets of the year – and every time the Guild would want to control the quality of their work. ‘Twas a long, chill, stony hall, not very inviting, albeit well-lit through the windows set high under the roof. That was a requirement for the Guild leaders to see whether the cloth had any fault, and thus served well in the regular occasions when the Hall was also used as a courtroom.

At the far end, a long table had been placed for the judges, and a large armchair, separately, for Lord Orchald, who wanted to watch the trial from the side. Opposite him, a small writing desk had been readied for his notary; old Artbranan was also a lawman and often advised his lord – or the bailiff – in legal issues. Aside from that, he was needed to write down everything that would be said and done during the trial. Odhrain, the head clerk of the Guild, sat on his right to do the same for the Guild’s own records.

The doors of the Hall were guarded by two of the older Wardens. As Lord Orchald’s men-at-arms were still away wolf-hunting, he relied on Henderch’s well-probed men in this case. They had once been soldiers, most of them, after all. The spectators were sitting in wooden benches, in front of everyone else Mistress Pharin, her incredibly blue eyes cold and hard in her usually kind face like glittering ice. Her granddaughter, Angharad, sat on her side, clad in plain, dark, well-made clothes, one strong, warm hand resting on the old woman’s forearm.

Lord Peredur now entered the Hall, followed by the four other judges, who had put on their best for the occasion, including the long gowns worn only on very important days. The bailiff took his seat without ceremony, and as soon as the town’s respected burghers had arranged themselves behind the table, he ordered the murder suspect to be led in.

Tow of Peredur’s sergeants, who had ridden with him from Emerië Manor, dragged in the accused man to face his judges. A gawky, lean young fellow Sydnius had called him the day before, when he had spoken to Henderch, and in truth, their murderer was a miserable wretch of a man, large of elbow and knee, with a gaunt face and hollow cheeks that spoke of a hard life. His cottee and hose were ragged and threadbare, so soaked with muddy water all the time that even now, dried out properly, it would have been hard to guess what their original colour might have been. He had wide enough shoulders to make him a well-proportioned man, had he only been better fed; but in the state he was, he might not have had a decent meal on a regular basis all his life. His face was pallid under the slight tan he had gained while serving on the Kingfisher, and his hollow eyes darted around in terror from one judge to another.

Lord Peredur raised an eyebrow at the pitiful sight of him. But as a man of experience who had dealt with many kinds of villains in his years as bailiff, he knew that he was looking at a wild and dangerous creature. Not by nature, perhaps, but made so by desperation. Like the wolves, this man might be driven by hunger and need; yet like the wolves, he felt no mercy in his urge to have those needs taken care of. Whose fault is it that men have come to such a state, the bailiff thought. Is it the ceaseless struggle against Mordor? Or is it the looming of the Shadow along our borders? Yet whatever the reason is, we must deal with the consequences now – and it will not be pleasant.

“What is your name?” he finally asked.

A pale tongue darted out for a moment to wet parched lips, as if the felon felt it hard to answer even such a simple question.

“D-Dudoc, my Lord,” he replied in spite of himself. His voice was low and dull now, laced with fear but also with reluctance. Again, Peredur’s eyebrow rose an inch. It was a name not taken from the tongue of the Old Folk; it had almost a Dunlendish sound to it.

“Are you from this neighbourhood, Dudoc?” he continued his inquiry.

“Who can tell?” answered the suspect with a question of his own. “I was found in a ruined hut in the New Port, some six and twenty years ago, and no-one knew where I came from or how old I was. A babe of six moons perhaps, perhaps older. An old fishwife took pity of me and cared for me ‘til I turned nine or so. Then she died, and I had been on my own ever since.”

“You never truly learned the craft of the carpenters then,” said Peredur. “For though I was told that you had called yourself a carpenter’s journeyman when approaching Mistress Eryn in this very house, I lean to believe that was a lie.”

Dudoc gave a self-deprecating snort. “Why, certainly it was – who would have taken an orphaned port rat like myself as an apprentice? I never learned any craft. I worked in the port sometimes, helping with the boats, or carrying the wares…”

“… and plundering them,” Sydnius added with a dark smile. Dudoc shrugged.

“That, too, when the need was too great – what other chance did I have? But I never hurt anyone, I swear!”

“We shall see the truth about that,” said Lord Peredur. “Ifor,” he looked at one of his sergeants,” keep an eye on the man, in case he would try something foolish – like bolting. We shall hear the witnesses now.”

Although he rarely had such serious cases to deal with, the bailiff, once again, proved a thorough and straightforward lawman. In the recent days, he had hunted down every single one who might have had aught to say considering the untimely death of Mistress Eryn, and now he called in the witnesses, one after another, shedding light on the sad event two moons previous, comparing the pieces of evidence and putting them together to a larger picture with grim patience.

He began with Jutus, the Warehouse clerk, asking him about the time he had been sent to the Town Hall with the records – a statement that Odhrain could verify at once, having been the one who had sent Jutus there in the first place – as well as about the usual days the strongboxes of the Guilds were emptied. Jutus testified that the boxes had always been emptied on Meresdei⁽²⁾, a custom that the Guilds had changed since then, as it had become common knowledge due to the investigation, and that the day on which the robbery and murder had taken place had been on Sterrendei⁽³⁾, and thus the boxes must have been nearly empty.

Once again, Odhrain verified this, adding that – according to the late Mistress Eryn’s meticulously led books, there had been four silver pieces and twenty-two coppers in the two boxes, counted together. In other words, Mistress Eryn had been murdered for the worth of a fledged sparrow hawk or a hive of bees – not a great sum in the eyes of a well-doing craftsman or a merchant, but probably an unimaginable wealth for a poor wretch of the New Port, thought Henderch regretfully.

After Jutus, Lord Peredur questioned the Warden Belegorn, and even the boy Zhori, who had both been present when Mistress Eryn had been found dead. The boy did not seem to be in awe of all those grim and venerable judges – one of which was, in all likelihood, his natural grandfather – but answered them with the strange invulnerability of children who do not yet understand the dark secrets of men’s lives, having been blessedly sheltered from them by loving womanly care. Belegorn verified everything the others had said before him, adding his own pieces, small though they might be.

“I had not much to do,” he said summarily, “as Master Jutus handled the whole sad affair with great delicacy and practicality.”

“So it seems,” Lord Peredur agreed, releasing the blushing clerk and the Warden and calling before his presence Cathbad the leech, who gave him a detailed account of the position in which Mistress Eryn had been found and of the injuries she had suffered. Henderch, who had been present during the leech’s examination of the body, was called to verify, which he did as best as he could remember.

Next, the bailiff called in Dudoc’s shipmates. Comur, the first mate and the wine-seller’s right hand was a burly, bull-necked fellow of an indefinite age between thirty and forty summers, well-made and neat; he would even be personable, had he not been so curt and withdrawn in manner. He said that he had been the one to hire Dudoc as third boatman for the Kingfisher, having known the man from the New Port where they all had come from – although Comur himself was the scion of well-respected boatmen who could count back his forefather four generations at the very least.

“I met him in the Old Sailor, sirs,” he said, gnawing an uncertain lip, “and as my master needed a third pair of hands, and as I knew him to have some skill with boats as well as more strength than one would believe, I took him with me to the Kingfisher.”

“When did this happen?” asked Lord Peredur.

“On the sixth day of Rhede⁽⁴⁾, my Lord,” replied Comur anxiously. “He had been on the Kingfisher ever since, working hard, and my master was well content with him.”

“On the sixth of Rhede,” repeated the bailiff thoughtfully. “Less than two days after Mistress Eryn had been murdered – and the Kingfisher off to Linhir all this time. Small wonder we have not found our felon here earlier.”

Beyond that, Comur could tell not more, thus the bailiff released him and called for Fotla, the third boatman of the Kingfisher. Also a man from the New Port, Fotla was a leathery, middle-aged, weather-beaten fellow with the round, guileless eyes of a child. Apparently, he also had the mind of a child, for he could tell naught of importance, other than his desperate assurances that he had nothing to do with the golden necklace found among his things, and had never seen it before. His master, the wine-seller, verified that the man had been in his service for many years, and was completely trusted within his limits – which meant as long as he had naught else to do but steer the boat.

“I am leaning towards believing him,” said the bailiff thoughtfully. “Simple of mind he may be, but even a simpleton would find a better hiding place for ill-gained goods than his own scrip.”

“We should take a look at that necklace,” suggested the spice merchant. “Has it been proven already that it did in fact belong to Mistress Eryn?”

“Mistress Pharin has recognized it,” said Lord Peredur, “but we should ask for the testimony of the goldsmith who has made it.”

And so they sent for Glynwayath the ring-maker, the only goldsmith in Halabor, and he came readily and eagerly to help finding the truth. A sprig of an old clan of bronzesmiths, he had chosen a slightly different trade, one that had not been over-populated in the town. A comely young man he was, barely past thirty, of middle-height like most of the Old Folk, and brown-haired and brown-eyed, too, but lean and wiry, with a finely-boned face and even finer hands.

He examined the simple, thread-thin necklace of flat, angular chain links carefully, even taking his magnifying glass out of his breast to see it better, then nodded.

“Aye, my Lord, ‘tis my handiwork. If you would care to look at the lock through the magnifying glass, you could see my initials and the stamp of the year engraved in which it was made; three years from now. I only made one such necklace in that year. It was ordered by Mistress Pharin as a Yule gift for her daughter. She even brought the gold herself: an old ring of her late husband’s, too big and heavy for any woman in the family to wear. I had much pain extracting the gold from that ring, as for all  its size and weight, it was mixed with much copper, and thus there was barely enough of it left to make this thin necklace of it.”

“What happened with all the copper?” the provost asked.

“I made a pin of it,” replied the goldsmith. “Mistress Pharin is wearing it now.”

That she was doing indeed, and the goldsmith was released, too. There could be no doubt that the necklace found in the simpleton Fotla’s scrip had belonged to the late Mistress Eryn, and that she had been wearing it on the very day when she had been murdered. That turned the bailiff’s attention to Wella, the tax-collector – the only person who had seen the murderer. Lord Peredur ordered him to take a good, hard look at the man Dudoc and tell them if this was the same man he had seen in the Town Hall two months earlier.

“I have not seen him well,” admitted the tax-collector. “It was quite dark already, and my eyes are weak. There are many penniless young men in the New Port who look the same. But one thing I saw clearly enough: on his left hand, there were two fingers missing. I saw it when he pulled his cottee straight.”

All eyes turned to Dudoc, who tried to hide his left hand, but the sergeants forced it forth again, so that everyone could see that this middle finger was completely missing, and also his fourth finger to the second knuckle.

“I had an accident,” he said defensively. “In Linhir, while uploading the wares to the Kingfisher.”

“That cannot be,” interrupted Cathbad the leech. “These wounds have healed many years ago. Indeed, I do believe that he must have lost his fingers in childhood already.”

“The rats gnawed his fingers off when he was but a lad of eight,” offered the simpleton Fotla naïvely. “He told me himself, on our way to Linhir.”

Dudoc shot him a murderous look but said nothing more, no matter what he was asked.

“It matters not,” said the bailiff after a few fruitless tries. “There seems to be no doubt that this man must be the same one that Master Wella has seen in the Town hall on the evening of Mistress Eryn’s death. Mistress Crewyn, the purse-maker has recognized her own handiwork: the purse that belonged to the victim. We found Mistress Eryn’s necklace in the scrip of Fotla, but we can be assured that it had been laid there by someone else. Also, at least twelve people have witnessed how this man tried to run for his life, threatening that of Telta, the serving-maid of the Riverside Inn, to ensure his escape. Do you wish to question other witnesses?” he asked his fellow judges.

The old spice-merchant shook his silver head.

“The evidence is clear,” he said. “This man is our murderer. According to the law of Gondor, I find him guilty and say he should be hung.”

“What say the other judges?” asked Lord Peredur.

“Guilty,” said Master Suanach promptly; as he had been somewhat influenced by the merciless Haradric judgement of his late wife’s household, he found it most natural that the murderer should pay for his foul deed with his own life. “His life is forfeit.”

“Guilty,” said Sydnius, too. He was one of the few remaining judges of the Old Folk, the representative of an ancient law that was harsh and unmerciful and demanded that a life shall be given for a  life taken, no matter the circumstances. “He deserves to die,”

Thus only Master Ludgvan remained to speak his mind, but the provost showed no great hurry with his verdict. He watched their murderer for long moments, hesitating between pity and dismay. Without a family, without a trade, all alone in a world that while not flat out hostile but at best indifferent towards him, what other chance did this poor wretch have than either work himself into an early grave or to choose a bent path? Hunger and need often drove men to desperate deeds, deeds they would never do under different circumstances.

“I did not mean to kill,” wailed the miserable creature, smearing his tears all over his dirty face with that maimed hand of his. “I just wanted to get the coin. I needed clothes for any master to consider hiring me at all. I never meant to harm the old woman.”

Which was probably even true. Yet Mistress Eryn, a poor, hard-working, elderly woman had been murdered nonetheless, and while Master Ludgvan could not help but feel pity for her wretched murderer, she had deserved better, too.

“Guilty,” said the Master Smith heavily, “yet I shall leave the punishment to the well-proved wisdom of our Lord.”

Lord Orchald had listened wordlessly during the whole trial. He was of two minds about this man who had become a murderer almost by accident. Yet killed he had, no matter that it had not happened by intent. Had he been able to pay wergild, there might have been a way to save him. But the very fact that he had nothing had made him a murderer in the first place. Was there any other way out of this but have him hung?

“The ancient law of the Old Folk demands that for a life taken a life shall be given, no matter what,” said the old Lord slowly. “Thus I should have this man hung, as he would never be able to pay wergild for his deed, even if we chose to follow the custom of the Horse-lords. And yet I feel bad about having him put down in cold blood, as he had not killed in cold blood, though kill he did, and is guilty beyond doubt.”

He paused, and all that were present looked at him expectantly, feeling that something unusual was going to happen. What he did was to turn to Mistress Pharin and Angharad with a grave face.

“Mistress Pharin,” he said, you are the wronged party here, and so is your granddaughter. If you wish this man dead, I shall have him hung, for thus is the law, and ‘tis your right to see your kinswoman avenged. Yet if you give his life in my hands, I shall send him to the fighting troops, where he would, in all likelihood, die anyway, but would, at least, be of some use for Gondor, and by protecting lives, he might work off a small part of his debt before dying. What say you?”

Mistress Pharin’s face was pale and closed, her incredibly blue eyes icy and unmoved. Angharad, however, looked thoughtful.

“Where would you send him, my Lord?” she asked.

“To the garrison of Cair Andros,” said Lord Orchald. “’Twould be a hard life, serving under the heavy hand of Captain Hirwel; he is known to drive his men to the limits of their endurance, but a life it would be, even if that of a kept man, for his freedom he would not gain again ‘til the end of his life. And there, at least, he might still do some good to redeem himself, as far as ‘tis possible.”

Angharad looked at the gaunt, desperate face of the murderer with the detached pity of a healer who had seen much and was used to it. She took in the haggard shape, the maimed hand, the threadbare clothes, the fear, the despair – the regret.

“A life given for a life taken the law might demand,” she finally said, “yet his death cannot bring my mother back, and I have no wish to soil my hands with his blood. I am willing to release him into your hands, my Lord, if my grandmother does. For of the two of us, her loss is certainly heavier, having spent a lifetime with her daughter.”

All eyes turned now to Mistress Pharin, who sat rigidly erect on the bench, her ample shirts surrounding her like the folds of a field general’s tent, emphasizing the air of general largeness that was always about her, even on the best of days. Her eyes burned coldly, and the wrath glittering in them would have put Hel, the Lady of the Underworld, to shame. Nay, unlike Angharad, who was young and thus more bent to forgiving, Mistress Pharin was not quite willing to let the man who had robbed her of her only daughter and single companion of many years go easily. Every one waited anxiously, for according the Old Law, she had the right to demand this wretched man’s death, and most of the people present would have said that she should. And Lord Orchald had made it abundantly clear that he would respect her wishes.

“With or without intent, this man has murdered my daughter for a handful of coin,” she said in an icy voice. “His life is forfeit. Yet I do not wish to make any of these good men here his hangman; why should they sully their hands with his foul blood? So I,too,  release him into your hands, my Lord – into lifelong servitude. But I shall demand assurance that should he ever try to leave the place where you send him to live out his miserable life, he would be put down like the rabid dog he is.”

“Thusly it shall be ordered, Mistress,” said the old Lord. “I give you my word.”

“Then he is yours to use him as you see it fit, my Lord,” said Mistress Pharin, and she stood and left the hall with a cold dignity that would have made the legendary Queen Berúthiel proud. Not a glance did she throw back at the man whose life she had spared.

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

Less than an hour later, Dudoc was taken to the garrison of Cair Andros under the guard of two of Peredur’s men-at-arms, to serve there as a boatman ‘til the day of his death. The townsfolk was not fully content with this outcome – they had wanted him hung, as much for their own entertainment as for proper justice, and many of them murred that he would have a better life there than he had ever had, and they found this mercy misplaced.

“Mayhap it is,” Lord Orchald admitted ruefully to his bailiff, the provost and the reeve, with whom he had secluded himself in the Castle for a private council. “Mayhap I am growing soft at my old age. And yet I cannot help but feel that I have somehow failed as the Lord of my people, if a man has become desperate enough to kill for a handful of coin.”

“If you have failed, my Lord, then so have we all,” said the provost heavily. “For ‘tis true that the New Port has not had proper leadership ever since it had been largely abandoned; yet just as true it is that no-one of us has ever made much thought about how people managed to live there.”

“We have our own responsibilities,” countered Sydnius, not quite willing to take any blame for what he never saw as his concern. “The Merchants’ Guild alone has still interests there – ‘tis their duty to look after things in the New Port.”

“Not theirs alone; mine, too,” said Lord Orchald. “And so is it yours, Master Reeve, and yours, Master Provost, albeit to a smaller extent. We all are responsible for this town; and if we wish to last here a little longer, despite that shadow cast upon us from across the River, we must not see it in its parts but as a whole.”

Sydnius, a wise man though unlearned, gave that a moment of thought.

“What would you have us to do then, my Lord?” he finally asked.

“I have no answer for you just yet,” replied Lord Orchald. “But we must think about the New Port and how we could help the people who eke out a meagre living there. Alms would only help for a moment. We need to find a solution that would last; or else Mistress Eryn would not remain the only one killed out of desperate need.”

“I shall bring this before the Town Council,” promised the provost.

“And I shall talk about it with the estate stewards,” said Lord Peredur. “We need men-at-arms who know the River well and their way around boats, with the town so open and vulnerable to any threats that may come across the water. We should find a way how to feed and train a few more men – for our own good and for theirs.”

“Good,” said Lord Orchald and rose from his seat. “Come to me again when you have found any useful way. I need to see my son now.”

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

Young Lord Herumor had missed all the excitement, as he had been lying in the Infirmary, feverish and unconscious in the healer’s care ever since they had brought him back from the hunt wounded. Old Mistress Crodergh’s herbal remedies had saved him from an inflammation of his wounds, and being out like a light had spared him a great deal of pain from his broken and bruised ribs, but when he finally opened a bleary eye for the first time in days, he felt as weak as a newly born whelp, and he had a taste of fur in his mouth.

“Water…” he whispered, barely audible, but even that small effort hurt.

His eyesight still limited due to a swollen eye, all he saw was a blurred shadow of mauve and white moving at his bedside. A strong, warm hand lifted his head with infinite care, and a cup of fresh, blessedly cool water was held to his lips. He drank greedily.

“Careful,” a low, gentle voice warned. “Small, slow sips only, or you shall throw it up again.”

He blinked, and a pale, solemn face moved into the focus of his vision, framed by a white wimple and a simple veil. And yet it seemed to him as if he had seen a being from another world, though what kind of being, he could not hazard to guess.

“Who… are you?” he asked. The woman, for that she was, laughed quietly.

“You do not remember me, my Lord? Well, it has been a long time. I am Angharad, the daughter of Eryn, the daughter of Pharin. I am the healer of the Infirmary.”

She was counting her ancestors on the maternal line. ‘Twas an ancient custom, almost forgotten even by the Old Folk, and used only when the fathers came from a foreign people. But at least the names she had mentioned put her into a pattern that he could recognize.

“I thought you were in Lossarnach,” he said in a weak but clear voice.

“I was,” she replied. “I have only retuned home a few days ago – just in time to fetch you away to the Infirmary. You were in a truly bad shape.”

“Am I better now?” he asked with a smile. She smiled back at him.

“Not yet. But you shall, given enough time, and if you do as we ask.”

“I shall try,” sighed Herumor. “How long must I stay here?”

“For quite a while yet,” replied Angharad. “Your fewer has just broken, and it had weakened you a great deal. But once your ribs are mended a little, we shall let the Castle servants take you back home – say, in two weeks’ time.”

“Two weeks?” exclaimed Herumor. “What am I to do here for so long? Is there anyone else at all?”

Angharad laughed.

“Why, certainly,” she said. “There are always sick and wounded people who need our help. And we have residents who live here, full time: old and ailing people who have no-one else to look after them. They will be all too glad to visit you, my Lord, and listen to what you can tell them about Dol Amroth and the Sea. So would I,” she added, still smiling, “as I have never seen the Sea, and cannot imagine what it might look like.”

Herumor eyed her a bit warily, as if trying to gauge how serious she had meant it.

“Very well, he said, “but only if you tell me the news of Uncle Forlong’s court. I have not been in Lossarnach since I was knighted there.”

“That I can do,” she agreed. “In truth, I have brought you messages from your uncle and cousins; above all else from Madenn⁽⁵⁾, with whom I have learned herb lore in Imloth Melui. But also from other people who know you. Now, let me first change your bandages and give you a bed bath, and afterwards we can exchange tidings and tales to your heart’s delight.”

The tought of a bed bath made Herumor a little uncomfortable, but he knew that there was no use in arguing with the healers. Thus he submitted to the somewhat humiliating process of being washed by a woman he barely knew – for he had left Halabor at the age of fourteen, and Angharad had been away upon his return – and hen they settled down to discuss people and places and events in Lossarnach that they both knew and valued.

Neither of them could imagine at this time that their lives would be so intertwined one day that naught but death would be able to separate them anymore. How could they? How could anyone imagine what the Valar – or the Old Gods, if one followed the local traditions – had planned for them?

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

End notes:

(1) Thrimidge (or Thrimilch) = May

(2) Meresdei = Thursday. As Friday (Highdei) was the last day of the week, according to the calendar of Bree, which I use for the Old Folk, it corresponds our Saturday, actually.

(3) Sterrendei = Saturday, corresponding our Monday.

(5) Rhede = March

(5) Madenn is an original character established in my other story, “The Young Knights”. She is the illegitimate daughter of Lord Forlong. Since in my stories Herumor’s late mother was a cousin of Lord Forlong, the two are second-grade cousins. Herumor’s knighting is shown in that same story.