Chapter 26. We'll Cross that Bridge When We Come to It

Pippin sat watching Tolly’s face as they rumbled on, scarcely heeding Meadowsweet’s low-voiced pleading, punctuated at intervals by a word or two from Mardi, while Freddy’s snores provided a steady counterpoint. Tolibold, who’d faithfully served three Thains, Pippin and his father among them. As a tween he’d run messages for old Thain Ferumbras; he’d been sent out by Paladin on dangerous information-gathering forays during the Troubles; he’d served as a member of Pippin’s escort and then as the head of escort since Pippin had become Thain. Tolibold, who’d sworn an oath to protect the Thain and his family. Tolibold, to whom Pippin had sworn an oath in return.

The hobbit was dying, far from his home and children, and it was Pippin who had brought him to this end. It was not just the desperate journey, to bring Tolly to the King, but more. It was the accumulation of recent events: false accusation, the apparent death of Ferdibrand, a cousin but closer than a brother to Tolly, seeking the ruffians who’d struck down Ferdi and taken Farry and threatened horrific damage to the lad, and then escorting those ruffians who remained to their deaths.

Tolly, who struggled to hold up against dark moods during the winter months in the best of times, had been pulled down, and when claimed by fever, had not had the strength to fight his way back to health. Pippin had the feeling that even now something nagged at the hobbit, something to do with the ruffians he’d escorted to their deaths, or the earlier ruffians that he hadn’t turned over to the Rangers patrolling outside the Bounds.

Not quite an hour had passed when the steady motion of the coach lessened. The coach turned, and there was the sound of cobblestones under the wheels. They had arrived at the Blue Goose, and somehow, Tolly still breathed. Pippin’s resolve grew within him. He would not just sit helplessly by and watch this cousin slip away. He wasn’t sure just what he could do, but he’d do something!

No point in sending for a healer as they settled Tolly in a bed. Mardi was a healer, and Woodruff, before they’d set out upon this desperate journey, had done her best, and she was the finest healer in the Shire.

Haldi was waiting with the landlord in the foggy courtyard between inn and stables, as Ned drew the ponies to a standstill. It was the work of a few moments to carry Tolly’s litter into the inn, down a corridor to his bed, warmed and waiting for him.

Meadowsweet walked alongside the litter, holding Tolly’s hand, her face streaked with silent tears. Hilly helped to carry the litter, helped to settle his brother in the bed, and then turned to the door. Mardi called his name, but, head bowed, he simply shook his head and slipped out of the room.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Pippin said, rising from the bed. He took Tolly’s hand, to press it, and looked to Mardi in surprise. ‘But... his fever’s broken!’

Mardi shook his head. ‘His body’s failing,’ he said. ‘His hands, his feet... they’ve grown cold. It’s Death’s chill, moving slowly from the extremities, inward. When the chill reaches his heart...’

Pippin nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, and his resolved hardened suddenly into desperate decision. Impulsively he grabbed at Mardi’s arm. ‘Keep him going, as long as you can,’ he said. ‘I’m going for help.’

‘Help...?’ Mardi said, looking up in puzzlement and not a little annoyance. ‘What help? There’s no help to be found, anywhere in the Shire, with Death so close at hand... I’ve done all I know. Woodruff...’

‘Even Woodruff could not help,’ Meadowsweet whispered, ‘and her, with all her healing and skill...’ She caught her breath in a sob and could say no more.

‘Don’t give him up,’ Pippin said, as urgently as he knew. ‘Don’t give him up, Sweetie; don’t let him give himself up. Keep talking to him.’

Her head was bowed, but she nodded, and he hurried away. He half thought to find Hilly in the common room, drowning his sorrow, but that hobbit was not there. The innkeeper was, however, and a good thing, Pippin thought privately, that he didn’t have to waste time searching for him.

‘Landlord!’ he said, catching at the innkeeper’s sleeve. That hobbit was busy, of course, seeing that the tables were properly set for breakfast, for any travellers who wished an early start, while one of his sons laid a good fire in the great hearth.

‘Aye, sor,’ the innkeeper said. ‘You were wanting something otherwise?’

‘One of the post ponies,’ Pippin said, ‘fastest you’ve got, and ready to go just so soon as you can have the beast saddled and bridled!’

‘Right-ho!’ the innkeeper said, for he was not one to question the Thain, of all people, especially as the post ponies were owned by Thain and Master together, placed at inns all along the way between the Tookland and the Ferry.

The innkeeper’s wife insisted on pouring Pippin a mug of tea before letting him go out into the freezing, predawn fog, and he gulped it down as she’d fixed it, with plenty of milk and sweetening, though he preferred his tea plain. At least it was steaming hot.

‘Thanks!’ he said, slamming down the mug and turning to the door.

He found Hilly just outside, staring towards the stables, bright with lantern-light. ‘Hilly,’ he said, touching a stiff shoulder.

His cousin started at the touch, half-swung-round, his fear and grief shining in his eyes. ‘Is it over already?’ he said, taking hold of Pippin’s forearm. He swallowed hard. ‘I saw... they brought out one of the post ponies...’

‘Not for a message back to Regi, no,’ Pippin said. ‘But for a message to go forward...’

‘Where...’ Hilly said, and his shoulders slumped, and he spoke the next words in a dull tone. ‘Where would you send me, Sir?’ For it was clear to him that the Thain had seen his cowardice, and recognised it for what it was, and was sending him away to spare him the pain of watching Tolly die.

‘Not sending you, Hilly, at least, not a-ponyback.’ Pippin said, taking hold of the hand that grasped his arm and swinging Hilly back towards the entrance. ‘I’m sending you to Tolly’s side, old lad, to talk to him, sing to him, what ever you must do to keep him going until I return.’

‘Return—!’ Hilly gasped, turning to the Thain. But Pippin pushed him once again toward the entrance, even as he spluttered something about the need for escort.

‘Aye,’ Pippin said, ‘that’s a direct order, and I’ve no time for fools. Go to Tolly, Hildibold, and hold on to him just as hard as you can! You’re his only hope! Mardi’s given him over, and even Sweetie, but you’re the stubbornest Took I’ve had the good fortune to know, and I know I can count on you...!’

Pippin pulled the door to the entryway open and pushed Hilly through on the last words, and the dumbfounded hobbit found himself stumbling into the inn, even as the door boomed shut behind him.

A lad had led the pony out into the courtyard, and Pippin ran lightly to the side of the prancing beast, thrust foot into stirrup, and was off at a gallop quite before he’d settled into the saddle, as Hilly emerged once more from the inn, shouting after him.

‘Another post pony!’ Hilly said, advancing on the open-mouthed lad who stood staring after the Thain.

‘Aye, sor,’ the lad said, and they went into the stables together, to fetch another of the fast ponies, and saddle and bridle.

And yet, by the time he pulled up the girth, though he’d worked at top speed, Hilly shook his head, knowing defeat. He didn’t even know where the Thain had gone haring off to. How could he expect to follow the hobbit, to provide the proper escort?

A direct order, Pippin had said, and Hilly bowed his head.

‘Sor?’ the lad said, holding the pony’s reins that Hilly might mount.

‘Yes, lad, sorry, lad, put him away,’ Hilly said, turning away to run a sleeve across his eyes. A direct order. ‘It’s too late,’ he muttered. ‘Too late.’

***

Had the situation not been so desperate, Pippin might have revelled in the solid feel of the well-muscled pony between his knees, the sting of the wind-whipped mane on his cheeks, the exuberance of the fast-galloping rhythm of hoofs and breaths and nodding head. He had the illusion of flying over the road, a sense of freedom as he’d seldom known in the years since he’d been sworn in as Thain. He was unencumbered by escort or paperwork or pressing decisions; he had but one thought in mind, and that was speed.

It seemed no time at all before he was pulling up before the Smiling Smelt on the outskirts of Stock, near the crossroads where the Stock Road ran on to the Ferry landing, and the Dike Road ran north and south—north, to the Brandywine Bridge, was where Pippin was bound, for the Ferry would not be running this time of year. It was still dark, as a matter of fact, and not the slightest promise of dawn-light brightened the dark and icy fog that enshrouded the Marish, though lantern-light shone from the stables, where early chores had begun, and lamp-light shone out from the inn’s kitchen, and a smell of baking issuing from the chimneys teased the nose in the chilly air.

‘Post pony!’ he gasped to the blinking stable hobbit who’d trotted out at the sound of dancing hoofs on the cobbles of the courtyard.

‘Yessir, at once!’ that hobbit said, snapping round to ready one of the fast ponies kept for that special purpose.

Another stable hobbit poured out steaming tea from the kettle on the hob, and Pippin sipped it gratefully, for the first time aware that his face was numb and stinging with the cold. He pulled up his muffler as he put down the mug, settled his cloak more closely about his shoulders, and nodded his thanks.

And so it was that the stable hobbits never realised that it was the Thain himself, riding as if his life depended on it, who carried an urgent message to the Bridge, and beyond.