Chapter 33. In which a well-earned rest is interrupted

About the same time Ferdibrand was wakening wordless, and Mayor Sam and Tolly were well on their way, slowly escorting the ruffians out of the Bounds, another laden pony was arriving at the Great Smials with full escort.

‘What’s this?’ Old Tom said, emerging from the stables. ‘Ruffians?’

‘Just one,’ Hilly said, dismounting, giving his reins to one of the excited stable boys who were gathering to see this “event” as flies gather to honey. He patted the pack pony’s neck and reiterated, ‘Just the one.’

‘Is that what this whole muster was about? One ruffian?’ Old Tom said, incredulous. ‘He’s the one who put Ferdibrand in the grave?’

Hilly, having met Healer Mardibold and his party of gaffers coming towards Hoard Hill, knew that Ferdi was out of the grave, having heard the full tale from the healer, and he snorted at Old Tom’s choice of words.

‘What happened—was he the one who set off the powder?’ Old Tom said.

‘Do you think he’d be whole as he is, if he had?’ Mardi said, easing himself out of the saddle. ‘Hilly said they looked about for that one, but haven't yet found so much as a hair, or a button off his clothing.’

‘Vanished in a puff of smoke!’ one of the stable lads said in awe.

‘Blew himself right out of the world, more like,’ a gaffer said, sliding down from his pony and rubbing his stiffened back. ‘I’m for a bath, I am.’

Reginard, apprised of the arrival, hurried out of the Great Smials. ‘You got them?’ he said, and looked to the laden pack pony. ‘One ruffian? Why isn’t he on his way to the Bounds?’

‘Thain’s orders,’ Mardi said. He hadn’t talked to Pippin, himself, but the mustered hobbits had told him all of what the Thain had said. Remarkable orders they were, too, and soon the Talk would be going all around the Great Smials.

‘Where is the Thain?’ Regi said, looking past the body of hobbits, as if he expected to see more entering the yard. ‘Did he go to fetch his son?’

Mardi exchanged glances with his younger brother, Hilly, who’d sent his mustered hobbits back to Hoard Hill, on meeting Mardi and the muster of gaffers, and spoken privily with Mardi as they escorted the young ruffian to the Great Smials. Soon enough Farry’s peril would be common knowledge, but only Mardi and Hilly had the facts, of the hobbits gathered there in the yard, and no one at the Great Smials yet knew of the terrible ordeal the young hobbit had suffered, and Pippin had determined that he would be the one to tell Diamond, if at all possible, and no one else. It seemed that events were supporting the Thain’s plan.

‘Something like that,’ Mardi said, cautiously.

The steward stiffened at the evasion, like a hunting dog coming to the point, and Hilly added hastily, ‘There were more than just the one ruffian to deal with.’

‘So he’s dealing with the others, and then fetching his son back to the Smials,’ Regi said.

‘Aye,’ Mardi said. ‘But he sent orders, as to what he wanted, and as we don’t know just when he’ll be back we had better set his plans in motion.’

‘Doesn’t do much good to stand around on the stones, talking about it,’ Hilly agreed.

Regi gave the two another suspicious glance. He’d find out what was what, when Pippin arrived, but he could smell a conspiracy when one was staring him in the face. ‘Very well,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Just what did the Thain want us to do with a dead ruffian?’

***

‘You want me to do what?’ Glen, senior grave digger said in astonishment, called from his sleep to the Thain’s study.

‘Dig a grave twice as long as you usually do,’ Regi said. ‘We don’t want to bury the fellow sitting up. Doesn’t seem proper, somehow.’ The dead ruffian had been bent over the pony, but Mardi had assured the steward that the stiffness would pass off, and they’d be able to lay the fellow out in the established manner.

‘We’re going to bury a filthy Man in the Tooks’ burial ground?’ Glen said.

‘He won’t be filthy, once the healers get through with him,’ Regi said. They’d laid oilcloths on one of the long tables in the great room, and the body would be washed, the many wounds stitched, the whole decently shrouded before being carried from the Smials, across the flagstone yard and out to the burying ground.

He still didn’t understand what it was all about. The young ruffian would be buried, with all decency, and the Thain when he returned would speak over the grave, and supposedly he’d explain to the Tooks why this Man was violating the Tooks’ burial ground.

What Regi did understand was orders. He’d been following Thain’s orders for a long time now, much longer than Pippin had been Thain as a matter of fact. He didn’t have to understand them, to carry them out efficiently. And the Thain, any Thain, in Regi’s experience, usually had a good reason for what he ordered.

For his part, Glen was growing more alert, the last mists of sleep clearing away. ‘A grave long enough for a Man,’ he said. ‘I think we can manage.’ He had a hobbit-sized grave already dug, after all, empty and waiting, since Ferdibrand didn’t seem likely to need it at the moment.

‘Good,’ Regi said. ‘You have until the dawning. We’ll have the burial then, whether or not the Thain has returned. He’ll speak the words when he gets back.’

He wondered when that would be, and what Pippin was doing at this moment...

***

‘Change ponies here,’ Merry shouted, and Pippin waved, gathering Farry’s limp body a little closer in his arms, to spare the lad the jolting gallop as his pony tired. Merry would carry Farry on the next stretch, and they’d trade when they changed ponies again.

He was grateful for the whim they’d shared, placing swift ponies at intervals on the Stock Road between Tuckborough and the Ferry, that messages might pass at speed between Brandy Hall and the Great Smials. They’d paid for themselves on more than one occasion, no more than now, when young Faramir’s future hung in the balance.

He’d thought it all over and done with, when he’d opened the goatskin bag with its dreadful burden. He’d thought it finished, once more, when Hoard Hill had gone up in smoke and destruction. And then, seeing Farry bound, gagged and blindfolded, with the ruffians fighting over him, and the victorious ruffian taking a knife to the lad... The rescuers had misunderstood, of course, thinking that the ruffian meant to take a last, terrible revenge, and they’d pierced him with many arrows in a desperate attempt to save the lad—it was a wonder that none had hit Faramir, Thain’s finest archers or no.

The joy that had pierced Pippin, sharp as any arrow, to hear his son speak! ...to see Farry’s eyes, bright with wonder, blinking at him... The joy had been fleeting. Farry had been distressed at the young ruffian’s death, surely, and Pippin had understood, not long after, when Merry demanded the pouch he still carried—he’d forgotten, in recovering his son. He’d dug it out without disturbing his clinging son, and then he’d put his arms back around Farry, holding him tight, his gratitude renewed along with the horror of what might have been.

Opening the pouch, examining the contents closely, Merry had said slowly, ‘Sheep’s, or goat’s, I think...’

‘Farry?’ Pippin said, looking down to the tousled hair, all he could see of his son, who still buried his head in his father’s chest. ‘Is that what happened? He saved you, by tricking the other ruffians? Where did he find a goat?’

But Faramir neither moved nor spoke.

‘Farry?’ Pippin said, trying to put the child away, enough to look into his face. But Faramir clung all the tighter. He raised his voice. ‘Fennel?’

The healer looked up from treating the worst of the red-headed ruffian’s wounds—they wanted him to survive, at least long enough to reach the Bounds. It was the least they could do. No easy passing for that one, not if the hobbits could help it, though they wouldn’t go out of their way to torment him, either. They would simply let him suffer the natural consequences of his actions. ‘I think you can take him now,’ he said to the Mayor. ‘I’ve stopped the worst of the bleeding. You might give him some water along the way, if he wants a drink, but I don’t think you ought to be feeding him.’

‘Weren’t planning to be feeding him, or the other one, either,’ Tolly said. ‘A little water,’ he added. ‘I can see that. Thirst can be a terrible torture. But they won’t have all that long to hunger.’

Fennel suppressed a shiver. ‘I don’t want to know about it,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me I patched him just so the Rangers can take his life.’

‘What did you think the Rangers did with ruffians?’ Tolly muttered, but then the Thain repeated his call, and Fennel hurried to comply.

Sam made quick farewells to Pippin and Merry, assuring the latter that he knew just what needed to be done, and then he and Tolly, the ruffians and their guard, began the slow march to the Bounds.

Fennel had turned away from the red-haired ruffian with relief—a relief that was to be short-lived, for when he pulled the son of the Thain free of his death grip on his father, neither he nor Pippin nor Merry, nor any other hobbit, could get the little lad to respond to anything said or done to him.

Farry’s face was pale, his breathing shallow, his eyes closed, and he lay limp, almost as if he were dead... or dying. Though a fire blazed before them, kindled for warmth while they tied up the loose ends and made sure Faramir was fit to travel, the lad’s skin was cold to the touch. Pippin felt fear renew its grip upon him.

‘There’s not a mark on him!’ Fennel said, after making his examination. ‘I can’t explain it, sir. There’s not even bruising on his abdomen, from the fall we saw.’

‘Farry,’ Pippin said again, touching his son’s cheek, to no avail. He stroked the lad’s curls back, and took a shaking breath at seeing the black line inked around the base of Faramir’s ear. ‘Farry? All’s well, lad, all’s well again. You’re safe, and we’re going home.’

But how could he bring Faramir back to Diamond, like this?

And then, astonishingly, there was a rapid drumbeat of hoofs approaching. The archers stiffened, raising their bows to readiness, and the hunters, who’d been going over the ruined ground for sign of the ruffians’ doings, straightened their backs and looked up.

‘Halloo!’ came a shout, and then, ‘Thain Peregrin! Master Merry! Mayor Sam!’

‘Here we are!’ Merry shouted, waving, and a lone rider broke from the copse, pulling his pony to a stop, steaming in the cold sunshine.

‘Master Merry!’ the rider said, ‘I’m that glad to find you!’

‘How did you know where to find us, Ilberic?’ Merry said.

‘The King sent me, right to this spot!’ Ilberic said.

‘The King!’ Merry said, in shock.

‘He’s at the Bridge! He rode down from Fornost like the wind itself, they say, sent to the Hall, said to find you. He said to bring the lad to him—Faramir, he said—that it’s a matter of life and death! I don’t know how he knew, but he is King, after all...’ Ilberic said. He had a very good opinion of King Elessar, having heard a great deal of him from Merry and Pippin, while sitting near the hearth sipping at brandy.

‘How does he know?’ Merry demanded once more, but Ilberic could only shake his head.

Merry turned to Pippin, all indecision gone. ‘Pip,’ he said. ‘We’ll ride with all speed to the Bridge...’

‘The post ponies,’ Pippin said, fighting down the growing fear for his son. He gained his feet as Merry spun on his heel and ran to where the ponies waited. He threw down the cup of tea, untasted, that had been pressed upon him, and whipped off his cloak, wrapping it around his son.

‘Fennel,’ he said, ‘you stay here with the search party. I want to be sure that last ruffian is gone, blown into little pieces. I want to see the pieces! Keep the Smials Tooks here searching; the rest of the mustered hobbits may return to their homes.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Fennel said. Part of it, he knew, was Pippin’s effort to keep Diamond from finding out the news until her husband could tell her himself. He wondered just how successful the scheme would be. ‘Good luck, and safe journey!’

‘And quick return, I hope,’ Pippin said, turning away to mount the pony Merry had brought to him. ‘How do you suppose Strider knew...?’