Chapter 6. For Whom the Silver Trumpet Sounds

'If you please, my l--,' Anborn said, stopping himself not quite in time. Sam was roused from his dismay by the sight of the tall guardsman trying to reel back in the forbidden "lord", a word Sam had rejected with some vigour the last time the man had tried to bestow it.

'Sam,' he said, forcing himself to speak pleasantly, 'or Samwise, if you prefer.'

The guard shook his head. 'Mithrandir has forbidden...' he began.

'Forbidden? The use of my right name?' Sam said, not knowing whether to be more startled, or bemused.

'He said that "Sam" was allowed, or if we wished to honour you and risk your wrath at the same time, we might address you as "Master Fullwise" or even "Ring-bearer"…' The guardsman's voice trailed off at the expression on Sam's face, and he clearly decided to stop while he was ahead.

Sam was thinking that Gandalf's sense of humour certainly seemed to have returned to its pre-Birthday Party levels, but in the next moment he noticed the dawnlight flooding in at the high window and remembered the urgency of his errand. 'The King...' he said. 'We weren't quite through...'

'There was an emergency in one of the lower circles, serious enough to require his attention; after which he is likely to go to the Hall of the Kings,' Anborn said. 'I am sure he'll make time to see you again, when he has finished with the hearings for the day.'

'Finished...' Sam said desperately, and grasped at the man's hand. 'But I must see him before, I must, without fail!'

'I am sorry, my l--Sam,' Anborn said. 'I am afraid that will not be possible.'

'The Nine Walkers are to have access to the King at any time,' Sam reminded, but the guardsman shook his head. The custom was observed, so much as possible, but it wasn't always practical. Frodo had refrained from bursting in on a meeting with the ambassadors from Harad, for example, when Pippin had exhibited signs of fever, choosing instead to send a written message, which languished in its folds until well after luncheon.

Samwise tried to imagine himself marching up the centre of the Hall of the Kings, shouting demands to call a halt to Beregond's hearing, but in the end he couldn't, nor could he imagine any of the other hobbits doing so, not even in a body. It was as Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had said: bad as the business was, it was the business of Men, and not a thing where hobbits could have any influence.

Sam thought rather resentfully to himself that hobbits had had a great deal of influence in the affairs of Middle-earth, lately. But it was hardly Anborn's fault, and so he allowed the guardsman, who had swept the room with a glance--including the round stone hidden under its covering, to lead him from the room, closing the door firmly behind them, and escort him down the stairs again.

He could scarcely meet Frodo's eye when he appeared at the breakfast table of the comfortable house they shared with Gandalf. Frodo sighed and turned his attention to his bacon and eggs, though he pushed them around the plate more than he ate of them. Merry entered, droplets of water still clinging to his curls from his morning ablutions. 'Well,' he said. 'What is the plan for today?'

Frodo opened his mouth, but before he could speak Pippin entered, his eyes bright and a bounce in his step. 'I haven't seen hide nor hair of that young rascal, Bergil,' he said, 'and I had promised him especially the end to the story I was telling him, the day before yesterday. I know he was off duty from running errands yesterday, but...'

'He's off duty this day as well,' Frodo said, his tone so matter-of-fact that Sam stared in astonishment at the half-truth. But Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had sworn to Captain Beregond that they would keep Pippin away from the hearing that would culminate in the Captain's death, him (and themselves as well) not wanting Pippin to stand witness thereto. 'Ansell is here in his place--I believe he's brewing more tea at the moment. Did you want anything, besides to tell the rest of that story?'

'No,' Pippin said, lifting the lids of each of the chafing dishes in turn on the low benches that served as hobbity sideboards, and helping himself at last to eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade, apple compote, and beans.

Frodo lifted his serviette from his lap and dabbed at his lips. 'Well then,' he said, 'You're rather belated, Pippin! I wanted to do a fair bit of writing today, and so... first to the Houses of Healing, to talk to old Ioreth about the Siege and the healing of Faramir, Eowyn, and a cousin of mine, and afterwards to the Hall of Records...'

Pippin sighed. Strider had assigned him to escort Frodo unless specifically summoned to attend the King, and on days like today the business promised to be perishing dull. He did not know that Frodo had requested this arrangement, that he might keep his young cousin under his eye and out of mischief when Pippin wasn't occupied with service to the King. The only bright spot was the regular appearance of trays bursting with food, to tempt the Ring-bearer's appetite. Frodo was very generous in sharing with those around him.

The morning proceeded much as Frodo had predicted it would. Merry went off to see to Eomer, promising to join them later. Ioreth produced a quantity of sweet cakes for Frodo's companions, which soothed Pippin's boredom wonderfully well as the old woman droned on about events during the Siege. Merry arrived near the end of the narrative, accompanied by the expected trays of food, and they made a good meal, and even persuaded Ioreth to join them, though it was "between-times, why I only broke my fast a matter of bare hours ago!"

Pippin ate more than his share, to fortify himself against the boredom of the Hall of Records, though the eldest of the keepers of the records had a taste for sweets and was always pressing the hobbits to try this treat or that, and discussing the antiquity of the recipes that his wife stirred up, for he often copied these out of the old records during the long, slow times when no one required his services.

Eventually the four hobbits were strolling down a corridor on the way to the Hall of Records, when they heard brisk footsteps approaching behind them. They turned to see Beregond, his friend and closest comrade Targon marching by his side, the Captain of the guard behind them as if an escort. For the first time since Denethor's death, he was dressed in full uniform, wearing the black surcoat with the Tree broidered in silver on the front, instead of the plain black surcoat he'd worn to the Black Gate and back again. He had not been allowed to wear the uniform of a guardsman since that terrible night when he abandoned his post to save Captain Faramir from the flames. However, once again he was the picture of a Guardsman of the Citadel from head to polished boots, his helmet under his arm, silver wings gleaming. The only thing missing was his sword from its scabbard.

Pippin greeted him with delight. 'Beregond! You're a guardsman again!'

As Pippin moved to walk with the men, Merry pulled him back by the arm. 'Pippin, no!'

Pippin tried to shake him off, but Sam saw Merry's fingers whiten as he tightened his grip, and the older cousin said, 'Pippin, you mustn't, you don't know what is happening.'

'What's the matter with you?' Pippin demanded.

'Pippin, he's going to his execution!' Merry said bluntly as Frodo took Pippin's other arm.

'What do you mean?' Pippin cried out. 'No, I don't believe it! Beregond!' He stared after the three guardsmen, who did not break stride nor look back at his shout.

'He didn't want you to know,' Merry said, looking as wretched as Sam felt. 'He was hoping we would leave for the Shire before this, and you would never know.'

'But why?' Pippin cried miserably, and then sagged in his cousins' grip. He knew why. He knew very well.

'Pippin?' Frodo asked gently.

The younger hobbit shook his head. 'It's my fault,' he said brokenly. 'If I had not stopped to talk to him that night, he'd never have left his post.'

'Faramir would have died,' Merry said softly.

'No,' Pippin said, still shaking his head. 'No, I could have found Gandalf, he could have been in time.'

'Faramir would have died,' Merry repeated. 'You know that, Pippin. It was Beregond's life... or Faramir's. Beregond made that choice. You must respect that.' He didn't have to like the laws of Men, but he could understand that they were better off to have laws to live by.

Sam stood by, tongue-tied, feeling as useless as a pair of boots in Bag End.

'Come, Pippin,' Frodo said. 'You need to sit down.'

'I don't want to sit down!' Pippin protested. 'I want...' he sagged still further and looked as if he was about to faint. 'I want...' he said more softly, then, 'I don't know what I want...' He took a few sobbing breaths and straightened again.

Sam stiffened as a guardsman came up to them, but he brushed past the gardener and touched Merry's shoulder.

The Man seemed ill at ease, but said, 'So you know about the hearing...'

'Yes,' Frodo said quietly.

'It is tradition for this sort of execution to take place at midday. When the silver trumpet sounds...' the Man looked grimly at Pippin. 'Are you well, Sir?'

Pippin laughed without humour. 'As well as can be expected.'

Sam saw that Merry was as surprised at the question as he was himself, but the guardsman continued, 'There is a garden, where the friends and family wait to receive the body.'

Pippin nodded.

'Beregond charged me to find you, to tell you, if you were still in the City when his hearing was called.' He gave them directions to the garden, saluted, and marched away.

They found Beregond's older son and the rest of his family waiting in the little garden set aside for families to receive the bodies of their dead, to take them to the final resting place. The younger son had been taken away in one of the wains when the City had been evacuated before the Siege, and with things as they were Beregond had determined to leave him with his grandfather in Lossarnach after the victory. There was no use in tormenting so small a lad by giving him to his father for a span of hours or days, and then snatching him away again.

Birds sang, a spring breeze blew, the day promised to be fair.

Merry and Frodo supported Pippin as they entered the garden, and Sam hovered solicitously, helpless to do more. Pippin shook off their hands and went to greet Bergil and the widow Gilwyn, whom the guardsman might have married under different circumstances, and her son Fargil.

'I'm sorry,' Pippin said, but could find no other words to add.

Gilwyn's face was pale, but calm. 'He didn't want you to know,' she said softly. 'He set great stock by your friendship. He would do nothing to jeopardize your recovery.'

'Can we do anything?' Frodo asked.

She shook her head. 'You can wait with us. You can honour his memory.' Her voice broke, and she turned away for a moment to compose herself.

Bergil slipped an arm about her waist and faced the hobbits. 'Thank you for coming,' he said soberly.

Bergil's arm still about her waist, Gilwyn took Fargil's hand, and held out her other hand to Pippin. The four walked together to the little fountain, stood watching the water cascade into the bowl in a never ending stream.

Frodo and Merry stood together, and Samwise a little apart, his failure a bitter taste in his mouth. A silver trumpet rang out above the City, and the mourners stiffened.

The hobbits wondered as a great shout was heard, but Gilwyn bowed her head and raised it again, saying only, 'His comrades honour his passing.'