It should be noted that children at play are not playing about;

their games should be seen as their most serious minded activity.

(Michel de Montaigne, 1533 - 1592)

The three Princes of Rohan were working tirelessly and with verve, bringing the open counterweight box into position on the catapult’s frame. The procedure would have overstrained their physical strength, but they had the help of two sturdy lads, Coenræd and Sibyrht. One, the apprentice of Master Ecgbehrt, the carpenter and the other, of Master Ulger, the blacksmith.

The three boys had laboured an entire day with amazing patience and diligence over the drawings.  Amrothos had then approached Ecgbehrt, who was also the ‘ealdorman’ of the ‘burhgemót’ of Edoras, to show him them and to explain what his intentions were. The master woodworker had appeared taken with the idea but also sceptical.

“My Lord, of course I will provide you with the timber and the tools you are going to need to build the device. But the way you had our Princes draw it, it will stand six-and-a half-feet tall and it is going to be more then ten feet long. That means that many of the parts will be rather solid and heavy. Too heavy to be handled by the little ones, I think.”

Amrothos had to admit that he hadn’t taken that into consideration. He was, at the most, a theoriser. But Ecgbehrt, a practical man in every aspect, had a solution to offer almost immediately.

“There are also parts which need to be forged. Let us go and talk to Ulger.”

Both craftsmen had only recently taken new apprentices under their wings. Both lads had worked for less than half a year in their trades. They still needed a lot of practice before they’d become a real help to their masters. Ecgbehrt’s suggestion was that they’d work together with the Princes on the catapult. That would give them the opportunity to try their hand at their own particular crafts and gain experience without running the risk of ruining one of the craftsmen’s commissions. And they could undertake the jobs which required a greater physical strength than boys of nine or eight years had.

The two men and Amrothos had reached the agreement that the ‘cynelice hlafætan’ would pay for all the building materials but that the apprentices’ labour would come for free.

“You may very well ask for compensation for your men’s work,” Amrothos had assured them. “No matter how little experience they have, both of you will miss two strong arms. And they will have to double as nursemaids.”

Ulger had grinned at that. “They will learn quite a bit. It is a good opportunity for them to hone their skills.”

“And we have the unprecedented opportunity to see three Princes of the House of Eorl at work,” Ecgbehrt had added straight-faced.

“That sounds as if you have never seen your King working?” Amrothos had remarked, feigning incredulity. Never mind how much Éomer was fascinated by building, showing no remorse, he left the crafts, which were needed to accomplish what he planned, to others.

“Oh, I am not talking about the trade of a warrior.” The old carpenter had waved that innuendo aside. “I meant at work with their hands. I have been around for a good many years, and well I remember watching both Prince Théodred and Éomer King as young lads on the training field, sweat running from their brows. Caring for their horses or equipment themselves, as well. But a descendant of Eorl wielding a bow-saw or a spoon- auger instead of a sword? Now that will be a novelty.”

It definitely had turned out to be a novelty, one that no resident of Edoras wanted to miss out on. A constant procession of onlookers had flocked to the fenced training field behind the stables. Amrothos had thought it to be the proper location for their endeavour. With the Royal Guard accompanying King and Queen it was hardly used for its actual purpose at the moment and after they had finished putting together the catapult, it would provide enough open space for target practice.

At first the boys had been slightly sceptical regarding their uncle’s suggestion. Primarily Ælfwine had wanted to know what horse-people were supposed to do with such a weapon.

“It does not look as if you can use it on horseback,” he had pointed out after having inspected the construction drawings in the book.

One needed to know that the eldest of the Princes of Rohan considered anything one couldn’t do on horseback as not really noteworthy. Sooner or later he would have to adjust this preconceived opinion in one case or the other, no doubt. Or he would just have to try it on horseback.

But Amrothos hadn’t needed to tax his brain in order to come up with a sound argument that would change number one’s mind. Éomund had forestalled him, thus demonstrating some farsightedness.

“If our enemies barricade themselves, catapults can pound breaches in the fortifications and drive them out. And then we can force them to fight us in open battle where we will defeat them.”  Self-doubt didn’t seem to have a place in his view of the world.

Amrothos had begun to feel sorry for whoever was going to be careless enough to make – sometime in the future - the three Princes his enemies. However, Éomund’s argument had convinced his brothers. They hadn’t even made the tiniest grumble when their uncle had herded them, once again, into their father’s study to do the planning. On the one hand, Éomer’s very private domain housed not only a large table where they could work on the scaling down of the drawings but also provided plenty of parchment and quills. On the other hand could he be fairly certain that they would behave themselves. No matter how much the prospect of being immured in the dungeon might appeal, under normal circumstances their father’s wish was their command and they would at least try to leave his study as they had found it.

Amrothos – to his surprise, as he had to admit to himself - had found his nephews not only willing but also perfectly able to make the calculations necessary for their goal. It seemed the lectures of their various tutors hadn’t fallen entirely on deaf ears. Their drawings had turned out to be neat and accurate. Hroðgar, three years and three days younger than Ælfwine, still needed to catch up on a few of his older brothers’ skills, but the two of them had shown their usual unyielding loyalty for one of their siblings by helping him without much ado wherever it had been needed. They never brushed him off or made him feel that he was, as the youngest, just an appendage.

Their enthusiasm for their project had even increased since they had started the actual building of their catapult. This morning they had woken up their uncle at the verge of dawn. Amrothos had been startled awake when somebody had shaken him by his lower leg. Sitting up with a jolt, he had found his nephews at the foot end of his bed, fully clothed and arranged, from left to right, according to size. Éomund, in the middle, had been carrying a candle. On the right flank Draca had been salivating on the sheets, his breath still giving off an unpleasant odour.

“What is that beast doing in here?” Amrothos had groaned, letting himself sink back against his pillows.

“You need to get up.” Ælfwine had already developed a distinctive tone of command.

“Before sunrise?”

“We have to continue working on the catapult,” Éomund had insisted. “Otherwise we are not going to have it finished before Mother and Father get back.”

“And then the surprise will be spoilt,” Hroðgar had added.

Amrothos had tried to stall for time. “Has nobody ever told you that it is exceedingly impolite to enter another person’s bedchamber without knocking?”

“Knocking?”

Did this chamber house an echo?

“Yes, knocking. You try to attract attention to your wish of entering a room by forming a loose fist and rapping with your knuckles against the door panel. Then you wait until the current occupant of the chamber, behind aforementioned door, calls you and gives you permission to join him.”

“That sounds even more complicated than what Master Caevudor told us about knocking,” Hroðgar had mused. A remark not to be treated lightly. The Gondorian tutor was still confined to bed. He had, however, already announced that he would leave Rohan as soon as he felt strong enough.

“You would not have heard our knocking over your snoring,” Ælfwine had dismissed his uncle’s lecture.

“I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do.” Éomund had changed the candle from one hand to the other. “But that is nothing to be embarrassed about. Mother says all men begin to snore when they get older.”

“And you are pretty old.” Hroðgar had nodded his agreement to his brother’s statement.

“I am not as old as your father.”

“Father does snore,” Ælfwine pointed out.

“Does he, really? How do you know?”

“Mother told us.”

Amrothos had been wide awake by then and beginning to enjoy their small tall. “My sister giving away the royal bedchamber secrets?”

“She only told us when we found her sleeping on a pallet in her solar one morning.”

“She had spent the night there, because Father had been snoring so loudly.”

Perhaps Lothíriel shouldn’t have converted the Queen’s bedchamber into a nursery for the respective youngest.

“That was when he had that bad head cold,” Hroðgar had rounded off their shared statement of the latest royal affairs.

Amrothos had wondered briefly – as he had done on several occasions before - if it only struck him as slightly irritating that the threesome always seemed to equally contribute to their part of a conversation. It also had begun to dawn on him that there was no chance of them letting him get back to sleep.

“Very well. I surrender. Why do you not go to the kitchen house and try to find yourself something to eat while I get dressed? And see if you can find something for me as well.”

“We went to the kitchen first thing,” Éomund had declared. “We have eaten already.”

“And we brought you something to eat.” Hroðgar had held out a piece of oat bread which had been topped by an obscure lump of something that could have been, if his nose were to be trusted, some sort of onion relish. Amrothos had taken it in a reflex action.

“That was very . . . thoughtful of you.” He managed to stifle a sound of revulsion when he saw the monstrous mutt licking his master’s hand clean.

“And here is mead.” Before he had the chance to protest, Ælfwine had shoved a beaker of the strong smelling brew into his hand. The boys must have inherited their mother’s sense of ‘be prepared’.

“We will go now and wait outside so you can get dressed.”

With that final announcement they had left his chamber in single file. And with them had gone not only – thankfully – the dog but also – unfortunately - the candle. Amrothos had found himself sitting in his bed, in his left hand a greasy piece of bread, in his right a beaker of mead. His eyes had taken a moment to get used to the darkness, so that he could locate the nightstand and get rid of his intended morning meal. He didn’t consider onions and mead to be the ideal food to begin the day with.

He had left both bread and beverage on the nightstand, hoping that Ælfgyth would find them and take the hint. And indeed, Meduseld’s housekeeper didn’t let him down. While he watched his nephews struggling with the counterweight box, he made out the tall women coming across the training filed, carrying a promising hamper in her hand.

“Gōdne dæg, my Lord Amrothos,” she greeted him. “You were certainly up and around early this morning.”

“Gōdne dæg, Mistress Ælfgyth. Not voluntarily, I assure you. I was invaded by a determined party of princes at the crack of dawn.”

“I gather their attempt to feed you was not so very much to your liking?”

“Indeed,” Amrothos answered with a hopeful glance at the hamper. “On the other hand, any attempt by you to feed me would be very much appreciated.”

The housekeeper chuckled and gestured towards a couple of sawhorses. “Perhaps you would be so kind, my Lord, as to put a plank or two across those.”

“There is nothing I would rather do at this moment.”

That was no sooner said than done. Amrothos took a cloth from Ælfgyth and unfolded it on the makeshift table.

“How far has the work progressed, my Lord?” the housekeeper asked while she laid out a variety of dishes.

His immediate reply was forestalled by the very loud rumbling of his stomach. He gave the Rohirric woman a sheepish glance. “My apologies, I am starving.”

“One could come to that conclusion,” Ælfgyth replied dryly, handing him a large piece of fruit bread, topped with sweet apple butter. While he tucked in, she poured some tea from a felt wrapped canteen into a small earthen mug. He accepted it with murmured thanks and took a deep sip of the honey flavoured, still hot, brew.

“Mistress, Ælfgyth, you are saving my life.”

“Always at your service, my Lord. Frankly speaking, I had been prepared to come to your rescue much earlier.”

Amrothos, who had been just about to take another bite, looked at her over the expanse of the fruit bread. “You have?”

“Not just me, my Lord, but also Master Ecgbehrt and Master Ulger. And I asked Master Goðhold to hold adequate remedies in readiness.”

“Your confidence in my ability of self-defence is truly flattering,” he growled and stuffed a large piece of the fruit bread into his mouth. Ælfgyth had this unnerving ability to keep her face perfectly straight but, nevertheless, appear highly amused.

“Do not misunderstand, my Lord. It was only that we thought we might have to treat you. Three little boys pottering about with sharp and pointed tools virtually calls for some bloodshed.”

Amrothos swallowed his bread and took another sip of tea to wash it down. “It has not gone by without a few battle wounds,” he admitted. “Hroðgar has pounded every single finger of his left hand at least twice. Ælfwine has got a long scratch on his forearm from a chisel – which I cleaned - and Hroðgar had one of the wooden wheels dropped on his foot. That is the reason why he is limping. To make it even, he hit – accidentally - Éomund with a lath wood so that that one is now sporting an impressive lump on the back of his head. He does not seem to mind. Nobody outside their sworn collective, however, has received any injury. It has not been too difficult to keep them in check. All that was needed was simply a smidgen of ingenuity shown by the right person,” he added with quite a bit of complacency.

Ælfgyth regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Better not to count your chickens, my Lord, before they are hatched.”

Amrothos shrugged her scepticism aside. “What could happen now? Just look at them.” He gestured towards the nearly finished catapult, where Ælfwine was obviously listening attentively to an instruction from Coenræd. “They’ve been with it from the first ink stroke and they will not slow down until they have finished their newest toy. No time for mischief.”

“Hūru?” Ælfgyth threw him a dubious glance and Amrothos thought he heard her murmuring something along the line of ‘heonu hwæt’. Even after having lived for the better part of the past ten years in the Riddermark, the subtleties of the complex language of the Rohirrim sometimes still passed him by. He forbore from asking for clarification when he saw Draca – never far from his masters - prowling closer towards their makeshift food stall. There could be no doubt what he had in mind. Amrothos wondered what his chances were of shooing the overgrown pet away. But Mistress Ælfgyth produced one last item from the hamper; something wrapped in an oilcloth, which turned out to be a very large, meaty bone.

Draca accepted his snack politely and went off to find a quiet place to savour it in leisure.

“You, too, are spoiling that beast,” Amrothos remarked accusingly.

“If you do not provide him with his own food, he will eat yours,” the housekeeper stated a simple fact. Her attention was again directed towards the catapult. “How far will they be able to launch projectiles?”

“That depends on the weight of the projectile and on the counterweight. We should be ready for some target practice late this afternoon. After a few experimental launches we should have the necessary figures to calculate in what proportion the weight of the projectile has to be to the counterweight to produce a certain range. You must understand, Mistress Ælfgyth, this whole project only looks like pure fun for the boys. Essentially, it is strictly part of their education. It is all about mathematics and physics.”

“Really?” She sounded neither impressed nor interested. With the usual Rohirric sense of the practical she asked, “And what are you going to use as projectiles? Stones?”

“Oh no,” Amrothos placated any possible overtones of concern which he might have heard in her question. “I thought we would use old feed bags filled with clay.”

“That sounds at least . . . softer.”

“And you sound rather tense. You can relax, Mistress Ælfgyth. I have everything under control.”

“My Lord, believe me, I have tried relaxing around the boys, but I found . . . I don’t know . . . I feel much more comfortable when I am tense.” She caught his glance – part of it commiserative, part of it amused – which prompted her to explain herself more clearly. “You do not need to be so much on your guard when they are out for some mischief. By now, all members of the ‘cynelice hlafætan’ are quite adept at catching the signs. It is much more hazardous when they are not really up to something but a series of unfortunate circumstances, which they have – thoughtlessly - initiated, gets out of hand.” 

“Nothing is going to get out of hand. I promise you: no more unpleasant surprises until tomorrow, when my sister and the King are back. And then it is up to them to wrestle with their brood.”

“As I said, my Lord, do not count your chickens before they are hatched.” Her gaze was locked on something behind his back.

Snatching another piece of fruit bread, Amrothos turned around to make sure that no new situation involving his nephews had arisen. They were still busy with the catapult – and perfectly peaceful. But then he saw what actually had drawn Ælfgyth’s attention. Two men were hurrying towards them, one of them carrying a large and obviously heavy vessel.

“Is that not Master Baldred?” Amrothos asked, taking a hearty bite.

“Yes, it is,” his companion confirmed, a wary frown forming on her forehead.

Whatever it was that made Baldred the potter rush about Edoras, Amrothos was pretty certain it couldn’t have anything to do with him. 

“Mistress Ælfgyth. My Lord.” The man had lost his wind and needed desperately to draw his next breath before he was able to continue. “I am so glad to find both of you here. I am at a loss. I do not know what to do.”

“Whatever dire straits you are in,” Amrothos replied jovially and still unconcerned, “it cannot be that bad.”

“Oh, my Lord, but it is,” Baldred assured him. “It is your nephew.”

“My nephew?” Amrothos glanced towards the unpredictable threesome. All were still accounted for as they had been all morning. Although the erratic behaviour of the master potter had awoken their curiosity and they had momentarily abandoned their work to watch the commotion that was evolving.

“Not one of them,” Baldred declared impatiently, having followed the Prince’s line of vision. “That one,” he clarified, pointing at the huge, wheel-thrown urn his journeyman, Osgar, had been carrying and had now placed between his king’s brother-in-law and the housekeeper of Meduseld. He was even more out of breath than his master, but his facial expression evinced that he had the utmost confidence that one of them would solve their problem.

Whatever that problem was. Amrothos wondered what this oversized clay jug was supposed to have to do with one of his sister’s trying offspring?

From Mistress Ælfgyth’s muttered, “Oh my!” he reckoned that she had at least an idea what this was all about. The tall woman bent over the urn and addressed it. “So, you have managed to escape the nursemaids once again and tried to hide in there. And now you have got stuck.”

Amrothos knew Ælfgyth as a perfectly sane woman who wasn’t in the habit of communing with pottery. Therefore he was suddenly overcome by an unpleasant foreboding. Cautiously he took a step closer and peered at the contents of the vessel. He was looking at the soft, golden locks of a child.

Nephew!

And as it wasn’t one of them it had to be . . .

“Forðred?”

The child glanced up and Amrothos looked into a pair of big, amber coloured eyes with tiny green freckles around the pupil. Little Forðred smiled at his uncle. It was the sweetest, most enchanting smile one could imagine. If he was able to preserve that smile into adulthood, Rohan’s female population was going to be in trouble.

His uncle wondered if his parents had developed a certain ambition to produce particularly nerve-racking children.

“Sweet Elbereth! How did he manage to squeeze himself inside that urn?”

“If he gets something into his head, almost nothing can stop him from doing it,” Éomund made himself heard. The brothers of the little misadventurer had joined the assembly surrounding the mistreated pottery.

“Mother says he is a bit single-minded,” Ælfwine added to that statement.

“Does she indeed?” And from whom might the boy have inherited that trait? “That does not explain why he felt the urge to cram himself into . . . what actually is that?”

“A storage vessel, my Lord. For grain or cereals.” Baldred elucidated. “My Lady Queen commissioned several pieces of pottery as a wedding gift for the upcoming bond between one of the riders of the ‘hearthweru’ and of the ‘discþegn’ of Meduseld.”

“I suppose the little one went off to do some exploring,” Ælfgyth rose to speak, “and when his nursemaid was about to recapture him, he decided to hide in the urn.”

“You should not let a two year old child wander around Edoras on his own,” Amrothos caught himself lecturing.

The housekeeper of the Golden Hall slanted him a meaningful gaze. “The nursemaids – and all attendants of the Hall, I may stress – are doing their best, but he is not only a very enterprising but also a very resourceful child.”

“Cunning.” Éomund preferred to call a spade a spade.

“It will be great when he is old enough to join us,” Hroðgar declared, probably looking forward to not being the youngest any longer.

“Oh yes, I do not have the slightest doubt that he will make a perfect addition,” Amrothos remarked, knowing that his sarcasm was wasted. The idea of relocating to Gondor was getting more and more appealing. “Herewith, I am offering my sincere condolences to all parties concerned.”

“We have to free him from that urn,” Ælfgyth reminded him.

“But perhaps he wants to stay in there,” Amrothos couldn’t refrain from pointing out. After all, Forðred did appear to be quite comfortable in his confinement and not in the least panicky. Ælfgyth’s glared at him, but before she could start a dressing down they heard a voice from inside the urn. A decided, “Out!”

“I think his shoulders got stuck below the neck, my Lord. I mean the neck of the urn,” Baldred explained. He had probably already examined the situation before he had brought the vessel, and its containing problem, to the problem’s uncle for him to solve.

“Have you tried oil?” Amrothos wanted to know.

“Oil, my Lord?”

“Yes, oil.” What had happened to the virtually proverbial pragmatism of the Rohirrim? “Have you thought about pouring oil into the urn so that he gets slippery and just might slide out?”

Nobody got the chance to remark on that suggestion. Amrothos sensed a movement behind his back and turned towards it.

“Ælfwine! No!”

Too late. The iron crowbar collided with the urn and for a moment the aghast onlookers watched the cracks running criss-cross through the earthenware. Then the urn came apart in dozens and dozens of pieces, leaving the little boy crouching between the broken fragments, looking rather dazed.

Slowly Amrothos turned his head and stared dumbfounded at his nephew. Rohan’s heir shrugged his shoulders totally unperturbed.

“He said ‘out’; now he is out.”

“Have you completely taken leave of your senses?” Never before had it been so difficult not to yell at one of the boys. He didn’t believe in yelling at children – under normal circumstances.

“He has destroyed the urn,” Master Baldred stated in pure consternation.

“I do not care about the bloody urn.” Amrothos availed himself of the opportunity to vent his anger – more his fright, actually – on the potter. “He nearly injured his brother. Seriously!”

“I did not strike that hard,” Ælfwine declared with an unwavering expression, watching Mistress Ælfgyth as she reached for his youngest brother and swept the child up into her arms. “Just enough to crack open the jug.”

“Storage vessel,” Baldred corrected him. “A very expensive storage vessel I have to say.”

“Forget about the blasted vessel. You will get paid for it,” Amrothos assured him through gritted teeth.

“But it was commissioned by our Lady Queen.”

“So you already said. You’d better make haste to craft a new one. My sister will be back at the latest by tomorrow night.” Now, that was a threat if he had ever used one. The people of Edoras feared causing their Queen disappointment more than incurring their King’s wrath.

The craftsman trudged away without another word, his entire posture emphasizing his discontent with the outcome of the situation. His journeyman followed in his wake. The two apprentices, who had watched from the distance, returned to their work.

Amrothos concentrated on calming his breathing. Lothíriel would have recommended a deep and even rhythm. “Is he well?” he addressed Mistress Ælfgyth.

Forðred had snuggled trustingly into the woman’s arms. Thumb in his mouth, his head on her shoulder.

“He has not been hurt,” the housekeeper assured his uncle. “He was just a bit surprised.”

“So was I.” He turned to the eldest of his nephews, thunder in his eyes. “Have you ever considered thinking before acting? You could have bashed his head in.”

“I aimed for his shoulder level.” Ælfwine gave the impression that he really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

“Dislocating his shoulder wouldn’t have been that much better.”

“I was careful. I would never hurt one of my brothers.” On a second thought he added, “Or my sister. I balanced the reasons, calculated the risks and acted upon it.”

“That is what Father told us to do when we hit a snag.” It went without saying that Éomund sided with his brother.

Lothíriel and Éomer always encouraged their children to argue their standpoint, with the result that the brats were amazingly eloquent and always ready to dig in their heels. Nevertheless, Amrothos was determined to assert his position – particularly against a nine year old.

“It was not yours to decide what had to be done in order to free Forðred from his calamity. There were plenty of adults around who were trying to find a satisfactory solution.”

“Just because you grownups were doing a lot of talking does not mean that your solution would have been better than mine. And Father says solutions must come quickly or they come too late.”

“Or you act rashly and make everything worse.”

“Father says . . .”

Being at the end of his tether, Amrothos let himself get carried away. “I do not care what your father says.”

Three pair of eyebrows – eventually four; Mistress Ælfgyth wasn’t in the line of his vision – moved upwards and he received three identical looks, harbouring between disbelief and commiseration.

“You would be better off if you did,” Ælfwine advised him.

 “He is the King.” In Éomund’s books that statement said probably all there was to say.

 “And he is stronger than you,” Hroðgar added with satisfaction.

 “Aye,” Forðred piped up.

Amrothos glared a warning at Ælfgyth. If she said a word, if she just made a single, tiny, suspicious sound he wouldn’t be able to guarantee anything. Perhaps it would be worth any retribution if he could just throttle at least one of the little plagues.

When the housekeeper spoke, however, it was on his behalf. “’Cnihtes’, I remember quite well having heard your father say that you have to obey any of your ‘eam’s instructions without discussion.”

With some delay they grumbled their confirmation.

“I brought some food down here to nourish you over the day.”

“Is there enough for Coenræd and Sibyrht, too?” Éomund wanted to know.

“If you manage to keep Draca away from it.”

“No problem,” Hroðgar claimed with a confidence as if indeed it wouldn’t be the slightest problem to keep his pet beast from wolfing down anything remotely edible.

Amrothos couldn’t care less about the quantity of food. His appetite had gone.

“Get back to work or we will not be able to do some target practice before dusk.” The three Princes set off amiably but their uncle couldn’t refrain himself from calling after them. “And try not to break anything.” He turned towards Mistress Ælfgyth. “Who was the idiot who said ‘the soul is healed by being with children’?”

“It was, in all likelihood, a Gondorian, my Lord.”

It had been a purely rhetorical question, but, of course, a Rohír had to reply to it. But she was right. Usually he was quoting some – mostly departed – Gondorian.

Ælfgyth kept her face straight, but there was this slight tilt of her head. “I think it is time to take the little one back to his nursemaid.”

“Hopefully this time she will be able to keep him out of mischief.”

“As I said earlier, my Lord, we are all doing our best. And I know, regarding our troublesome threesome, I can relax, because  - as you said earlier – you have everything under control.”

With those words she left and that was a good thing, because Amrothos didn’t really want to go down in Rohirric history as the Prince from Gondor who had throttled the ‘boldweard’ of Meduseld.

TBC

‘burhgemót’ – assembly of the common citizens

‘ealdorman’ – the spokesman of the burhgemót

‘cynelice hlafætan’ – royal household

‘gōdne dæg’ – good day

‘hūru’ - indeed

‘heonu hwæt’ – lo and behold

‘hearthweru’ – the guard/hearth-guard

‘cyninges hearthweru’ – the royal guard/the guard of the king

‘discþegn’ – oversees the kitchen staff in the serving of the meals

‘þegn’ – basic meaning is assistant

‘cniht(es)’ – youngling(s), boy(s),

‘boldweard’ - housekeeper

To answer Amrothos’s question: The idiot who said ‘the soul is healed by being with children’? was a Russian (so Ælfgyth’s assumption was wrong, actually), Fyodor Dostoevsky, who was the author of – amongst others – the novel 'The Idiot'.