Chapter 35. Eventide

The early winter darkness was coming on, softened by a sifting of snow, when Sam decided that the ruffians had enough food for thought to chew upon. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘this slow pace isn’t getting us to the Bounds any faster.’

Tolly repressed a snort at this obvious statement, but declined to dignify the statement by agreeing with it.

‘Let us mount our ponies,’ the Mayor said, and so the two of them stopped, letting the pack-ponies, led by hobbits of the escort, move ahead, waiting for their own ponies to come up to them. They mounted, and then Sam nudged his pony into a trot, moving to the head of the procession. ‘Light your torches,’ he ordered, and the word was passed through the line, to where Tolly had dropped back, to the end.

The brawny man’s hopes sank further. It appeared that the hobbits were determined to ride through the night, rather than stopping to camp or to seek the shelter of some farmer’s barn or byre. He’d been working steadily and surreptitiously—difficult as it had been, with the hobbits walking in such close proximity—on the bindings around his wrists, and he fancied that they were looser. Whether they left him draped over the pony, or they slung him into a haypile to spend the night, he thought he’d be able to work his way free in the dark hours.

He’d just have to keep working, slowed though the effort might be, on a walking pony. But once his hands were free, it should be quick work to extricate himself from the ropes tying him to the pack-pony’s back. The flickering light of the torches made things a little trickier... but he remembered a place, before they’d cross the Bounds, where they’d have to ford rather a deep stream. If he could slide from the pony’s back at that point, into the water, he could duck under, let the current carry him away. Hobbits distrusted water, and he doubted any would follow him, especially as there were no Bucklanders among them.

***

The early winter darkness was just coming down as Glen shifted his grip on his shovel. Chilly, it was, and with this cold weather they’d had to loosen the ground with a pickaxe. Still, he anticipated finishing well before the middle night, and a good thing, too. He wondered if the gently drifting snowflakes would turn into anything of substance.

Burying a Man—a ruffian at that!—in the Great Smials burial ground! What were things coming to?

He’d have to attend the burial, in any event, to shovel the earth over the body, to fill in the grave. He rather doubted that any Tooks would bother to grace the ruffian with a fistful of Tookish soil.

There would likely be no funeral feast for the fellow, but if Glen decided not to seek his bed, he could look forward to the Naming Day feast for Ferdi and Nell’s little lass. He wondered what they’d name her? Especially with her father mute, according to the Talk, and unable to speak a name...?

***

The early winter darkness was just coming down when Merry and Pippin reached the Crowing Cockerel, halfway to Stock. Merry saw to the readying of fresh ponies, while Pippin tried to get a hot drink into his son. All to no avail. Farry’s lips were pressed tight together, almost as if he feared to open his mouth, and his eyes were squeezed shut. He did not seem to hear his father’s reassurances, but huddled into a smaller bundle of misery when Pippin pressed him.

‘They’ll be ready in a few moments,’ Merry said, blowing on his fingers as he entered the inn. He thanked the proprietor for the cup of hot grog that awaited him.

‘They’re supposed to be ready at a moment’s notice,’ Pippin replied, looking down at his son in his arms. ‘Come, Farry, just a sip, lad...?’

‘The muster has rather thrown everyone out of order,’ Merry said. ‘The Cockerel’s ostler was mustered, along with his sons, and so his older daughters are doing the saddling, along with his younger sons.’

‘And you let the lasses do the saddling?’ Pippin said in surprise.

Merry shrugged. ‘They insisted! Pushed me away, told me to “get out and get a hot drink while you may” and that they wanted to do their part in the general emergency. Seems it rankled, somewhat, that they were not allowed to ride out on the muster with their brothers.’

‘Real spitfires, they are,’ the proprietor said apologetically. ‘Hid away in the Tookland, dressed as lads, during the Troubles, to keep them safe from ruffians’ attentions, and now I cannot do a thing with ‘em.’

‘Marry them off to Bucklanders,’ Pippin said easily. ‘Or to Tooks in the wild Green Hills. A spirited wife is a treasure and not a disgrace, if she has a sensible husband.’

Merry smiled at this piece of advice. Truth be told, both he and Pippin had married spirited lasses, and he wouldn’t trade his Estella for all the world.

One of the “spitfires” appeared in the doorway. ‘Haven’t you finished your drink, then?’ she demanded. ‘The ponies are waiting in the cold and snow!’

‘Snow!’ Pippin said, starting up. He took up his cloak to wrap around Farry, but the innkeeper stopped him.

‘Best you wear that yourself,’ he said, ‘we’ve blankets to spare.’

And in a twinkling Farry was warmly cocooned, and not long after they were galloping out of the yard, galloping into the darkness, their lanterns throwing light ahead of them—not far enough ahead, considering their reckless pace—galloping to where the King waited.

***

‘It’s snowing!’ Rudi said, bursting into the bedroom, though he quieted instantly to a half-whisper, seeing Ferdi sleeping. ‘Snowing, Mum! May we go out and dance in it?’

‘At this time of night?’ Pimpernel said, with a glance at the little clock on the mantel. ‘Why, they’ll be serving eventides in half an hour!’

‘May we take eventides in the great room, Mum?’ Rudi said, not one to be quelled. With his worry for his father abated, and good food and rest over the course of the day, he had quite as much energy as any young hobbit his age ought to have.

‘Yes, my love, you may,’ Pimpernel said. ‘I’ll have my eventides here, of course, just in case your da should waken and want something. Watch over the younger ones, will you, dearling, and come right back after eventides, that they may be tucked up in good time for bed?’

‘I will, Mum!’ Rudi said, bending to drop a kiss atop Pimpernel’s head. He stopped, then, a moment, to stare into Ferdi’s sleeping face, as if to reassure himself, blinked, swallowed hard, smiled and threw his arms around his mother in a heart-felt hug, and then was out the door before Pimpernel could draw breath.

Feasting her eyes on the sight of her sleeping husband, as Ferdi sighed and turned over on his side, his cheek pillowed on his hand, Pimpernel knew just how Rudi felt.

***

‘It’s darkening outside, and starting to snow,’ Sandy, the Thain’s personal hobbitservant said, extending a tea tray to Diamond.

‘Snow!’ Diamond said, and shivered. ‘I do hope my husband is well bundled up!’

‘He’s with Master Meriadoc,’ Sandy said obliquely, and Diamond nodded, reassured. Merry would look after Pippin, where Pippin would not always look after himself.

‘Well,’ Diamond said, picking up the cup of steaming tea and giving it a stir, though Sandy had already (as he always did) fixed it to her preference. ‘I’m certainly glad that Farry is safe and warm, tucked away at Whittacres. I don’t like to think of him, riding in the snow!’

‘No, Mistress,’ Sandy said, though he privately thought that Diamond pampered the lad a little too much. It was a good thing she was expecting the new babe, who’d take some of her tender attentions away from Faramir, allow the lad to grow and mature a bit. He wondered what it would be—a little brother, to play rough-and-tumble with Farry, or a little sister, to be watched over and cozened? In any event, Farry as “big brother” would be loosed from his mother’s apron strings, not that Diamond had tied him all that tightly, but a good thing all the same. Wouldn’t want him to turn into another Ferumbras, after all.

‘I hope they clean up the refuse quickly, and toss those ruffians out of the Shire without delay,’ Diamond said. ‘We’ve had quite enough of ruffians!’

‘That we have, Mistress,’ Sandy said. ‘That we have. Would you care for some of this dried-apple tart?’