Chapter 15. For Whom the Bell Tolls

Hunethon's worst fears were realised as he examined the result of his handiwork. The length of the rope had been just right; any longer and Will's toes would have touched the ground, conceivably bearing his weight, but certainly interfering with the sharp jerk Balanurthon had taught his assistant to aim for in a successful hanging.

However, despite the extra length he'd given the rope, together with the careful coordination he'd worked out with the guards, he saw to his dismay that Will's mouth gaped, as if he fought for air, and he could see the man's chest moving convulsively as if by sheer effort sufficient air could be drawn in. Worse, he could hear the painful sound that meant the rope had not completely collapsed the prisoner's airway, which, if the neck had not been broken on impact, was the next best outcome. Will was struggling for air, dying by inches, as it were. Sick, Hunethon stared into the man's half-open eyes, but he saw no awareness there. He hoped it was not mere wishful thinking.

He jumped as the sergeant muttered in his ear. 'You want me to rap him on the side of the head with the pommel of my sword? Crack his skull--finish him off quickly?'

Hunethon gave a nervous glance to the Steward, who was talking quietly to the huddled Halflings. 'No,' he said after a moment's thought. He didn't want to bring his apparent incompetence to the attention of the Steward, certainly not on this day of mishaps. 'No,' he repeated. 'Let him be.'

The sergeant nodded, clearly unhappy over the situation. 'Why did he have to go to his death in such a cowardly fashion?' he said under his breath. 'A good, clean death you would have granted him... What did he hope to gain?'

Hunethon shook his head. 'I don't think he was one of those, after all,' he said. 'I think, perhaps, he was taken with some sort of fit. Look you now, even now, though his eyes are open, he sees us not. It is the natural effort of the body you are seeing, but there is no fear, no panic, no... struggle in his countenance.'

The sergeant looked more closely, nodded, and turned away, ordering the torches to be lit in anticipation of sunset before calling to his men to form up. Moving to stand before the Steward, he saluted. 'Ready to escort the King's Counsellors to the palace, my lord.'

Merry's arms circled Pippin, holding him close, though the younger cousin stood so stiff and still he might have been hewn from wood or stone. Merry's thoughts were jumbled as he looked steadily at the bodies hanging from their ropes. His face was grim. 'We'll wait,' he said. 'We'll wait until his loved ones come to claim him.'

It was the least they could do, to honour Will and Jack. Besides, he thought harshly, he didn't trust the Steward where it came to Jack's welfare. The man would likely throw the old fellow into a damp, cold cell and not tell the King about it until the morrow, if Elessar should somehow return this evening instead of in the morning as he'd originally planned. It was all too clear that Bergil had missed the mark, had not been able to find the hidden hunting lodge where the King's reclusive kinsman secluded himself and his family.

Samwise had turned away after the first moment, and seeing Jack, limp and unresponsive despite his guards' efforts to revive him, he hurried to the old man's side. 'Unbind him,' he said, and there was that in his tone that made the guards hurry to do his bidding.

At that moment the sunset bells began to ring.

***

After the bells had tolled their evening song, marking the span of time from the sun's first kiss for the horizon until she disappeared, but before her glory had faded from the sky, a slow clip clop approached, and Targil appeared, leading one of the large but gentle carthorses. The great beast's head drooped sleepily; he was not often called out of his stable at this time of night, and he'd had an early morning, bringing produce from the farmers of an outlying village into the city marketplace before the market opened.

When his master stopped, he was contented to stop too, resting his head on Targil's shoulder and being rewarded by gently scratching fingers that moved along his jaw. His load was light, this evening, compared to his morning's work; instead of harness, a partner by his side, and a wain behind them, he bore only a pair of folded blankets on his back.

Turamir emerged from the back of the greengrocer's shop bearing two lanterns, already lit in readiness for the descent of darkness. And following him...

The greengrocer took a sharp breath and moved to intercept his middle daughter. 'Seledrith,' he said gently. 'Stay here. There are sights not fit for thy tender eyes, daughter. We'll fetch them home shortly, but...'

He could not see her features, hidden beneath a heavy veil, but his heart was torn as she spoke in answer. 'Do not bid me stay, Father,' she said, her tone harsh and brittle, as if at any moment it might break. 'We... we were married nearly two years, and we were friends before that, and though I feel now as if I never knew him, still, I go to honour what I thought he was to me...'

'Daughter,' Turambor whispered, but Denny placed a hand on his arm to stop him.

'It is her right,' he said.

The greengrocer closed his eyes in grief and swallowed hard, and opening his eyes again, he said, 'The babe…?'

'Fed, and sleeping,' Merileth said at her sister's side. 'I will watch over him until you return, Airin and I will. But I doubt that he will stir.'

'He rises in the middle night,' Seledrith said, 'but I imagine our work will be done well before.'

'Daughter,' Turambor whispered once more, and then he held out his hand to Seledrith, and she moved to slip her hand into his, and they walked together, father and daughter, and his sons followed with the horse, and Robin as well, with Denny at his side.