Chapter 4. A Tavern Tale

As Legolas had described, the village was set in a clearing in the forest and despite the protection afforded by the trees that surrounded them, and in keeping with the common practice of the times, the buildings were also encircled by a tall wooden wall. The only entrance was the sturdy looking wooden gates that, except for having only the one small opening at a height suited to men rather than another lower down for hobbits and Dwarves, reminded Aragorn of the one at Bree. As in that village, the gates were closed and Boromir knocked sharply on the post to attract the keeper’s attention.

“Good day to you, Master Keeper, may we enter?” he asked politely, directing his words to the face peering with open suspicion through the open window. He studied the two men for a few moments then, obviously recognising their mode of dress, much to Boromir’s relief, he spoke sharply.

“’Tis not often we see the likes of you in this village. What business have two rangers here?” asked the gatekeeper, keeping his tone of voice and demeanour amiable but allowing his eyes to make it known that he would not permit them to go one step further if he was not satisfied with their answer.

“Since you know of rangers, surely you must know we are no threat. We have been travelling for many weeks and merely seek to replenish our supplies, and perhaps share a tankard or two of ale in your tavern,” Aragorn replied exchanging a knowing wink with the man who nodded his understanding.

“Aye, travelling can surely make one thirst for something a little stronger than water to drink, and the few rangers who have passed this way have caused no trouble,” he agreed, moving away from the window to open the gate. “The marketplace is up ahead as you can see,” he said, indicating the small collection of carts and stalls that were in what appeared to be the village square. “The tavern is beyond it and to the left.”

“Thank you kindly,” Aragorn said as he and Boromir stepped through the gateway. The two men were clearly strangers in these parts, so neither was surprised to find they earned some curious stares from the villagers and visiting farmers alike. However, after the initial wary glances, it was apparently decided these travellers meant no harm and frowns of concern transformed to friendly smiles, the occasional word of greeting or simply a nod of the head in welcome.

“I did not realise your Dúnedain ventured this far south,” Boromir said, knowing that Faramir’s men certainly had never patrolled further north than the borders of Ithilien.

“On occasion the hunt for orc and such, or the need to deliver messages to the wardens of Lothlórien brings a ranger this way,” Aragorn explained, carefully avoiding mentioning that in years gone by, he had done so himself. He had not mentioned yet that in his guise as Thorongil, he had been in Minas Tirith. During their brief time away from the Fellowship, the fragile friendship between he and Boromir was beginning to strengthen and Aragorn decided some truths could wait to be told. Boromir merely nodded his acceptance of this answer and, with their own purpose in mind, headed for a cart laden with breads, cheeses and pastries.

“These pies look like something our small friends would enjoy,” he said quietly to Aragorn, rummaging in his pouch for a copper coin, handing it to the woman who ran the stall and taking one of the fruit filled tarts and breaking it in two, giving Aragorn half to taste.

“Aye, they would, and it is long since I have tasted something as sweet,” he agreed, complimenting the baker and licking a small blob of the sticky filling from his finger. “But I am afraid we must limit our supplies to more basic needs.”

“Indeed, but I think we can manage to carry one small treat, especially one that might even bring a smile to Frodo’s, and Sam’s faces, ” Boromir insisted and Aragorn was surprised to realise that although Merry and Pippin seemed to be Boromir’s favourites, he nonetheless also held Frodo and Sam in high esteem.

Aragorn made no further objection and when they moved on to the stall where salted meats were to be bought, his pack was filled not only with bread, cheese and flour, but nine sweet pies as well. Dried fruits, honey, some fresh vegetables and a skin of wine completed their purchases and the two men, now burdened with heavily laden packs, and deeming a tankard of ale as just reward for their efforts, headed for the tavern. Boromir’s coin pouch was somewhat lighter, but he still had plenty of silver, a fact not lost on eyes that were far too observant.

“This is a very homely place, much like the drinking place I favour in my city,” Boromir commented, careful not to mention Minas Tirith by name, as he took a draught of the tankard of ale that had just been set before him by a very pretty maid. When the smile he had offered her by way of thanks did not disappear but turned into a soft chuckle, Aragorn was tempted to ask what was so amusing.

“It was not amusing to begin with, but once he had fully recovered from the events of the day, Faramir saw some humour in the final outcome of the situation,” Boromir recalled. “The lovely young maid reminded me of the first time Faramir and I drank together in public.” Aragorn swore he saw a glint of mischief in his friend’s eyes and raised his eyebrow in an invitation for Boromir to continue.

“It was on the day Faramir achieved his majority, which was also unfortunately the day he made his first kill. He and I and four of our guards were returning from Osgiliath when we were ambushed by a group of robbers. It was my intention to capture them and question them about the numerous other attacks that had been occurring at that time, but they were determined not to be taken. We were of similar numbers, and evenly matched as fighters as well and when the struggle ended, none had survived. I found Faramir simply standing over one of the bodies, unmoving and as pale as a ghost, staring at the blood on his sword.”

“Taking life is not a pleasant experience, no matter how often it needs to be done, but it is especially difficult the first time,” Aragorn said with obvious distaste for the necessity.

“Nay, but as I tried to explain to Faramir, it is part of being a soldier at war, or protector of the people. This was no comfort to my brother then, and even now it is not, but he does what he must. He became both adult and warrior that day, and rather than allow him to suffer his pain alone, I insisted he join me and the other soldiers at the tavern.”

“A wise decision under the circumstances, but what of the maiden?” Aragorn asked.

“Ah, yes. The tavern keeper’s daughter is a lovely young woman, and seeing my brother’s despair, and encouraged by our companions, she tried her best to take his mind off his troubles with a little harmless flirting. Having only previously being permitted to drink wine with his meals, he became rather bold after a few tankards of the stronger brew, and much to the delight of all he took her in his arms and kissed her. Unfortunately her father was not amused and accused poor Faramir, the most noble of men, of being dishonourable! With total disregard for the pride of the Steward’s sons, he then threw us all out!” Aragorn joined in Boromir’s hearty laughter at the recollection, and then sobered somewhat.

“How did you brother fare the rest of the day? What of the Steward?” he asked, thinking that Denethor would not have taken too kindly to hearing of that incident.

“Naturally I took responsibility for the whole situation and Faramir received a severe rebuke from our father for his behaviour. My brother and I spoke at length that night, and I believe I managed to ease his feelings of guilt and remorse. The next day we both apologised to the tavern keeper and his daughter and to this day we a re all friends,” Boromir said, ending the conversation by draining the remaining ale when Aragorn raised his eyebrow and silently mouthed “just friends?”

“It is almost sunset, we should be getting back to the cottage, we promised we would be in time for supper,” Boromir mused watching the maid light the candles as the fading light of day indicated dusk was falling.

“Aye, and although I am no hobbit, I admit I am greatly looking forward to a warm, home cooked meal,” Aragorn smiled in response.

Accustomed as he was to the strange noises of scuffling night creatures hunting for food, and other sounds of the night, Aragorn felt uneasy, as if his senses were warning him they were not alone on the road. When he asked if Boromir felt it too, the man of Gondor claimed not to notice anything unusual, but he respected the ranger’s skills and looked warily about as the gates closed behind them. With a hand on the hilt of their swords, and walking as quickly as possible considering the large packs they were now carrying, the two men left the village.