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The Road to Edoras  by Dreamflower

CHAPTER 48

Clovis scowled at Bredwyn and Frealiss who sat across from him, as the three of them worked at their assigned task of polishing up the silver. The two girls were chattering away in Rohirric, and though he’d begun to pick up some of the language simply from being around it so much, he still could not understand one word in twenty, especially as fast as they were speaking.

The two young scullery maids were far younger than he in actual years, though they were probably not that much younger in the way that Men reckoned these things. If they had been hobbit lasses, he thought they’d be in their mid-tweens judging from their appearance and behaviour. Both of them were fair--Bredwyn had hair the colour of wheat, while Frealiss had pale hair, nearly white. Bredwyn was plump, and Frealiss was slender. And though both of them towered over Clovis, Frealiss was a bit taller than the other maid. He found both of them very annoying. They never stopped talking.

He picked up another piece of the silver cutlery, and began to polish. While this task was not as onerous as pot-scrubbing, it was a good deal more boring. Though that wasn’t to say that pot-scrubbing was not boring as well, but at least it was not as boring as polishing the silver. On the other hand, the silver weighed a lot less than the pots.

While he did not understand the words the maids were saying, he knew the gist of their conversation simply by the expressions on their faces. The whole of Meduseld was all a-twitter with gossip about the visitors that would be arriving in only a couple of days. Apparently some princess or other would be coming, and she was expected to possibly marry the King. The maidens of Meduseld seemed divided into two camps: those who cherished hopeless infatuations with the young King, and so were jealous over the coming of the princess; and those who thought the idea of a foreign princess was wonderfully romantic.

But it didn’t matter, just as it didn’t matter that he could not understand most of what they said. They all had the same sort of moony-faced look about them, only the infatuated ones pined and sighed miserably, and the romantic ones smiled and sighed happily. Either way, it was a very soppy way to behave.

But then their tone of voice changed, and they glanced at him. One of them said the Rohirric word for “hobbits”--holbytlan.

“Klah-vess?” Bredwyn said to him. The girls could speak Westron when they wanted to--all the servants at Meduseld had to be able to speak Westron at least a little bit, as the court would often have foreign visitors.

Clovis looked up. “What?” he asked sullenly.

In heavily accented Westron, Frealiss said “Your people, the holbytlan, will leave soon to Mundberg to the High King far away. Will you farewell them?”

Clovis shrugged. “I dunno,” he mumbled.

“But, Klah-vess, your fa, he too is leaving. He is, how do you say--ill. Will you not be sorry to see him go?”

He glared at her angrily. “ It’s *his* fault I’m here! It’s all his fault I’m not back at home instead of stuck in this pile doing servant’s work!”

Both of them stared at him in shock, and then Frealiss pursed her lips. “It is in my mind, Klah-vess, that sorry you will be someday.”

The two girls returned to their own polishing angrily. But at least the confrontation had stilled their tongues for a while.

Clovis would have liked to stamp off and leave them, and leave the boring task as well. But Mistress Grimhild would simply make him go back, or set him to another job he did not want to do. The last time he’d refused to finish a job, she had told him he would not get his supper until the task was completed--however long it took.

He was a hobbit. He knew better than to jeopardize his next meal.

With a fierce scowl, he rubbed the goblet before him angrily. If only there was some way out of his predicament.

_____________________________________

Mistress Poppy smiled in triumph as she watched Viola guiding their patient in a slow stroll of the small garden. She had been quite emphatic in her conversation with the King.

“Mistress Poppy, if he is well enough to walk about, he should be put in the dungeon with the other prisoner.”

“My Lord, he may be well enough to be walking for brief distances. I do not want him to tire so easily on the rest of our journey. But if you put him in there, he will most assuredly sicken again. I will not be responsible for the consequences.”

“Very well, then, you are the healer.”

“That’s right. I am. My Lord.”

He had laughed at her then, but she had her way. Now twice a day they were bringing him out to get some fresh air and exercise. It was a good thing, too. They’d had word that the escort to Minas Tirith would be arriving in less than three days. Presumably, their escort would rest for at least a day or two, before they all set out again. It would be a much shorter journey this time, but it would still be physically taxing.

Not for the first time she wondered what would become of their patient when they reached this great city for which they were destined. Éomer King had impressed her with his sensible and fair solutions to the problem the younger traitors had posed. And she had heard enough to feel fairly certain that the High King was at least as fair and sensible, if not more so.

But she was no fool. She had gathered early on that Gondorian law was a good deal less flexible in certain things than it was elsewhere--that was, after all the reason the young stone-throwers had been brought here for judgement instead of there. While it was unlikely, it was within the realm of possibility that the High King might find himself constrained to be harsher than he would want to be.

She watched the patient as he walked with Viola, who was pacing him just right--enough to stretch his limits somewhat, but not enough to overtire him--and wondered. He was a broken hobbit; he had lost his position, his wife, his home, his name and his sons. She was sure that he had learned his lesson, but it was too little, too late.

What *would* come of him?

“There now, sir,” she heard Viola saying, “let’s sit down now on this step for a few moments, and then we will return to your chambers.”

Viola was proving to be an excellent healer. The lass had gained confidence over the course of their journey, and was not nearly so timid as she had once been. It was quite likely that her charge might soon be ready for her mastery, though she was still a year and a half from coming-of-age.

And what then? Would she wed Berilac Brandybuck?

To Poppy’s astute eye, the attachment between the two appeared to be a real and steady one. While Poppy herself had never wished to wed, she knew that her friend Lavender had made a very successful marriage in spite of her career.

Master Dodinas Brandybuck’s apprentice, Thistle Applewood, was nearly ready to go out on her own--and from what she’d heard, Thistle wished to concentrate on midwifery. Perhaps when they returned, she could transfer the small remainder of Viola’s apprenticeship to Master Dodinas. Then the lass could be near Berilac.

She wondered if young Opal would still be interested in apprenticing to her when she returned.

Ah well! She still had much to learn for herself before they went back to the Shire. Poppy was quite ready to move on to the next stage of the journey. She was very keen to meet the Healer-King of the West.

_________________________________________________

Dago put the spoon back on the tray, and shoved the tray to the edge of the door. He gazed at the emptiness of the bowl with wistfulness. These Men did not stint him with the meals. They were always abundant when they came. But even so, they were very far between. Three meals. How did such huge hulking creatures get by on a meagre three meals a day? And he’d seen the portions they took for themselves. Why, in the Shire, even an elderly Gaffer with no teeth left and a bad stomach would eat more at a meal than these big Men did. They fed him twice as much as they ate themselves--but still, he longed for Shire-type meals--three or four generous helpings, and six times a day, if you please!

He got up and paced the edges of the tiny cell, and gazed up at the far off little square of blue, to be seen through the distant and barred window many feet above his head, which had it not been barred, was still too small for even a hobbit to squeeze through, even if one could climb so high, up the bare and stony wall.

Then he flung himself upon the immense and rather hard cot, and rolled himself into a blanket. He would never see the Shire again. He would never be a part of hobbit society again.

For years he’d thought most of his fellow hobbits too tedious for words. They had no ambition, they were content with whatever they had. He knew that he’d been unpopular for his own inclination to amass more wealth. That was one reason he had been drawn to Cousin Lotho. Lotho had, it seemed, more vision than the average hobbit.

But Lotho had bitten off more than he could chew. It was one thing to try and gain more prestige within the families of the Shire--the Bracegirdles, after all, were nearly as old a name as the Bagginses and the Boffins--but Lotho’s reach had exceeded his grasp when he’d brought in all those Men from beyond the Shire.

And then Lotho got what he deserved. Dago shuddered. He did not believe the rumours that Sharkey’s lackey Worm. had eaten Lotho--but dead was dead.

He wasn’t dead yet.

And from what he’d learned, at least he’d be out of here in a few more days.

It might even be worth riding on top of one of those huge horses again, if he could see more of the sky than this little square, and feel the fresh air on his face again.

But he stopped his thoughts before they reached as far as his destination. He most certainly did not want to think about what that other king might do to him.

No, indeed.

______________________________________________

“And then Merry goes marching in, carrying his smelly chamberpot, in front of Bilbo and Miss Dora, of all people, and says ’Look, Fwo, I did it all by myself!’” Berilac threw his head back and laughed heartily, and was joined by chuckles from Freddy, who had heard various versions of this story himself several times over the years, and snickers from Mosco, who had not. Jolly, Rolly and Denny all looked a little scandalized. Of course, everybody did embarrassing things when they were faunts, but it didn’t seem proper to be telling such things about gentlehobbits. Especially to a king!

Éomer, however, appeared to enjoy the story immensely, and gave a roar of laughter. “I can see that among your folk, a cousin is a fair target for japes, no matter how high his standing as a hero!” He shook his head. “I am quite thankful that my older kinsmen are careful of my dignity, and have told no such embarrassing stories about me.”

Freddy’s eyes twinkled as he looked at the king. “Are there any?”

Éomer grinned, and took refuge in his goblet of ale. Instead of answering, he said “Ah, I am going to miss you all when you leave my halls, my friends! I have enjoyed your presence here so much. Hobbits do a good deal to lighten the heart and the spirit of a place!”

Berilac smiled. “We shall miss you as well.” The hobbits had entertained the king to “tea” most of the last few afternoons, though it was actually ale rather than tea which had been consumed.

Just then, there was a tap at the door of the solar. “Come in,” Freddy called.

The door opened. It was Witlaf. “My pardon, sire, for interrupting. But you did say that you wished to be informed the moment the messenger from the north arrived.”

Éomer rose with alacrity. He turned to the hobbits. “I must go.”

“Certainly!” Freddy said, and rose with the other hobbits to give their guest a polite farewell bow.

They watched the king leave in haste, and Freddy wondered what important message could be coming from the north, since they were here now, and the expected guests would be coming from the south?





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