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And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

Chapter 7: The Horseman

  2957-80   Aragorn undertakes his great journeys and errantries. As Thorongil he serves in disguise both Thengel of Rohan and Ecthelion II….

The Tale of Years                                                                             The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

 Aragorn stared at the unfamiliar beam above his bed and struggled for a moment to remember where he was. Barely visible in the half light before the dawn, he could see that carved upon it were many galloping horses. Then he remembered, and groaned aloud in dismay. The wake up call had not yet been sounded, so he rolled over on his straw mattress to catch a few more minutes sleep and thus postpone for a little longer another day in this strange land.

   It was hard being the new recruit. He counted again exactly how many days he had spent in this land of the Horsemen; it was not even three weeks. Long enough, he thought, to discern that there was nothing more he particularly wanted to learn about this place. If he had found it difficult leaving Rivendell to dwell among the Dúnedain, it was as nothing compared to coming to Rohan to live as one of the Rohirrim. For one thing, he was not one of them and never would be. At least among his own people, not only did he belong, but as their chieftain, he had been afforded a certain amount of respect right from the beginning, just by virtue of his title and before he had even achieved anything to be considered worthy of that position. But here, he was accorded no such honour. Here, he was nobody at all. Here, he was the man who cleaned out the swine and the kine; not even the horses. That, he had learned, was an honour that needed to be bestowed by the king alone. He no longer even had the name that just a few years ago he had been so proud to learn was his.

     He wondered how long he must stay in this country before he could return to the North without shame. How ever long it was, it would seem too long. Why ever had he agreed to come here? He was chieftain after all; was he not allowed some scope to shape his own life? It had been Gandalf’s idea, if he recalled rightly, but he knew Elrond approved. Of course he knew and accepted all the arguments: he needed to learn the ways of all the peoples of Middle-earth, not just his own; he needed military experience; he needed to learn how to command men; he needed to grow in wisdom. But so far all he had learned was more than he could ever wish to know about pigs and cattle.

   The sun had not yet risen; but sleep eluded him again as it so often had of late, in spite of his constant tiredness. Instead he lay quietly, as motionless as he could. He had been shouted at enough times for tossing and turning and so disturbing the sleep of the other inhabitants of this hovel which he now called home. As he lay there brooding on the less than happy situation in which he found himself, he could hear the scuttling of rats in the corner of the hut and had to purposefully banish from his mind the memories of his comfortable room at Rivendell which persistently surfaced, unbidden, as if to taunt him further.

   But his childhood home had been much in his thoughts recently. He had returned there for a brief visit before coming south. He was beginning to wonder if that had been wise. After nearly six years on his own, he had carved a life for himself among the Dúnedain and had learned to cope well enough without his family. Seeing Arwen again had only unleashed within him all the frustrated emotions he had spent the intervening years so carefully locking away. Much as he had rejoiced at seeing her again, the image of her in his mind now served to torment him as much as it brought him comfort. 

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf had accompanied him when he rode from the North. Since he first made the wizards’s acquaintance over a year ago, he had already taken him on several journeys to strange and interesting places where he had met some rather strange and interesting people. But this was the first time he had come to Rohan.

   “You will love it there,” Gandalf had told him. “The Rohirrim are great warriors; a little rough around the edges perhaps, but good-hearted folk. They ride the finest horses; very swift and fiery they are. There will be lots of exciting things to do; just the job for a young man such as yourself.”

   He seemed to remember he had indeed been excited at the prospect of coming here and finding new adventures. As they had ridden to Edoras, he had looked with wide-eyed wonder at the vast, open plains of endless grassland and the huge herds of strong horses that roamed upon them. He wondered at the people who lived and worked in this land. He deemed they must be remarkably tough and resilient; their lives no doubt every bit as hard as those of his own people.

   They had arrived at Edoras at the turn of summer into autumn and, with Gandalf at his side, he had quickly gained an audience with King Thengel. Aragorn had only told the king he was a warrior from the North and that he sought an appropriate role for his skills. His true identify he kept secret. But it seemed he had timed his arrival badly. Only the king’s personal éored remained at Edoras at that time. Most of the Rohirrim were away, either patrolling the Westfold from their base at the Hornburg or riding to the watch upon the Anduin from their station at Aldburg in the east.

   However, on Gandalf’s recommendation, the king had been prepared to grant the young man gainful employment helping with the stock that was kept within the city fences. With the men abroad, it seemed there was need of assistance with such work. Aragorn, seeing no alternative, had reluctantly accepted the offer. Then the next day, to his utter dismay, Gandalf had ridden away and left him here alone. Now he feared he would all too easily be forgotten, doomed to remain a herdsman until such time as he could justify his departure.

   He had tried his hardest to make friends here, but he still felt very much an outsider. His looks did not help matters. His dark hair and pale face instantly marked him out as a foreigner. This unfortunately meant he had become an object of fascination and occasionally even ridicule with some of the folk, but since Queen Morwen had a somewhat similar look to her, no one dared make too much sport over his strange appearance.

   His biggest difficulty was that he found conversation to be almost impossible. He had so far only managed to pick up a few words of Rohirric as he found the language quite incomprehensible. The unfamiliar, hard sounds felt coarse to his ears, attuned as they were to the musical beauty of Sindarin. He would lie on his bed in the dead of night when wakefulness plagued him, and struggle to recall every new word he had heard that day. But it was a slow and frustrating task as few showed any inclination to speak to him in Westron so he had little means of gauging the accuracy of his translations. Depressingly, he knew from the frequent amused looks that greeted his attempts at forming whole sentences that his efforts were often wildly awry.

   And yet he felt that beneath the superficially unlearned outlook of these people, there were, as Gandalf had told him, sound hearts beating within. Although he was now just a lowly herdsman, he had still received many a kindness from these people since his arrival in the city. 

~oo0oo~

   He was finally drifting into sleep when a bell sounded and it was time for him to start another day. He dragged himself from his bed and made his way outside to tend his charges. As always the yards were filthy in the morning no matter how thoroughly he raked them the night before. There was much to do. Swill had to be carried from the cots and hay forked from the byres as well as bucket after bucket of water brought to the thirsty beasts from the well. It was, as usual, nearly mid-day before he could return to his hut for his bowl of porridge.

   His labours left him little time of his own. But such as he had, he spent walking the streets and markets trying to better understand these people. He was still a recent enough object of curiosity that he was stared at wherever he went and today he did not feel like tolerating this indignity. Instead, as soon as he was free to do so, he wandered over to the stables to talk to his mare. She was his one link with his former life and a welcome reminder to him that he only had to jump on her back and he could be gone.

   He arrived at the stables to find them surprisingly busy. An unusually large crowd of people was hovering about the entrance to the huge thatched barn that housed the horses of Thengel’s éored and where Aragorn’s horse was still temporarily stabled. But as he approached the doorway, his path was barred to him by a very large guardsman. The man spoke to him haughtily in words he did not understand. But Aragorn was determined to see his horse and so stood his ground and not back down. He met the man’s gaze and spoke forcibly, but politely in Westron.

   “I wish only to see my horse. I have leave of the king to do so,” he said in his most commanding voice. He had never had any difficulty gaining access before. The guard looked hard at the determined young man who towered over him and eventually gave way. He doubted the foreigner really posed a threat, but neither did he wish for an argument with the long sword that he seemed to carry with him everywhere he went.

  Once inside the stables, Aragorn was surprised to find the king and all his family, as well as many from his personal guard, gathered around a very fine looking grey horse. Aragorn unobtrusively made his way over to his chestnut mare, who called to him in welcome when she saw him. He fussed over her, rubbing her wide forehead and pulling her ears. From his tunic pockets he retrieved the apples he had earlier discreetly extracted from the pig swill and fed them to her, hoping no one would notice the giveaway juice dripping onto the floor.

   From the vantage point of her stall, he could see clearly what was happening. The grey horse looked to be in great distress, but she was been encouraged to walk up and down the row of stalls. It was obvious she was in considerable pain and Aragorn quickly surmised she was suffering from acute seizure of the gut. Forcing her to walk was a possible cure for this potentially fatal condition. As he watched and waited, it soon became apparent that this was no ordinary horse of the Mark, but one of the Mearas, and, judging by the attention she was receiving, a favourite mare of the king’s at that. How long she had been in this state, Aragorn could not tell, but the king’s children were becoming agitated and fearful at the lack of progress with curing her. Nine year old Théoden voiced this quite bluntly.

   “Is she going to die, Father?” he asked, sounding more curious than concerned, though one of his elder sisters looked close to tears at the prospect.

   “No, no,” said the king, reassuringly to his children. “Lightfoot will be well again in no time. We must be patient a while longer, that is all.” But the look he gave his wife told a different tale. Morwen understood and tried to persuade the children to come back to Meduseld. The two sisters willingly obliged, but Théoden resisted, far too fascinated by all that was going on to leave now. Thengel eventually relented and allowed his son to stay.

   Aragorn realised the horse’s condition was grave; he had seen this illness often enough before. He knew not what treatments the horsemen used; they were clearly skilled with their beasts, but he knew a thing or two of his own. Quietly, he slipped out from the stables, and made his way to the main gate of the city. Fortunately he had little difficulty explaining to the guards on duty what is was he wanted, and they let him through. Once beyond the wall, he walked purposefully along side the great hedge that encircled the whole of Edoras. As he went, he paid particular attention to any areas of long grass that he came upon. He sought one particular plant. He ought to be able to spot it well enough even among the ungrazed grasses and certainly its strong, pungent smell should lead him to it. At last he came across the tall plant he was seeking and, to his relief, the crowns of seeds were still intact. Hastily he gathered as many as he could, putting them safely into the pockets of his tunic, and made his way back to the stables, skilfully avoiding the zealous guard by mingling with the throng of onlookers.

   The mare if anything was worse. She was now continually trying to lie down so she could roll on the floor and so ease the searing pain in her belly. Aragorn knew she must not be allowed to do this as her distended guts could easily twist which would prove fatal. He watched with mounting sorrow, as the men were forced to beat her to keep her on her feet. She made a pitiful sight.

   Aragorn approached the king cautiously. He was very aware that the well-armed guards would not hesitate to run him through with their spears if they thought their lord was in even the slightest danger.  Fortunately Thengel noticed him and ordered the guards to let him through. The king, having lived for a time in Gondor, had none of his subjects’ prejudice against the foreigner.

   “What is it?” he asked tersely, not welcoming the distraction in the slightest.

   “My lord,” said Aragorn bowing respectfully, aware of some of the dark looks around him, “might I be permitted to offer counsel for the treatment of this horse?”

   “You wish to counsel me on horses?” asked Thengel, with studied patience. “And what do you think to teach the Men of the Mark about the Mearas?” He really could not bend his mind to dealing with this man right now.

   “Forgive me, my lord,” said Aragorn, undaunted and determined to be heard, “but the Men of the Mark are not the only people who know and love their horses. My own folk in the North have great skill with them, and the Elves…”

  “Elves!”

  Aragorn immediately realised his mistake as the guards closed in around him. Ignoring them, he persisted, and reached into his pockets for the seeds. Holding out his hand, he showed the king what he had gathered.

   “My lord, if you will permit it, I have a possible cure right here.”

   All around him he could hear murmurings. The word poison was mentioned. But Thengel was by now desperate enough to try anything. Not only did he not want to lose the horse, but he did not particularly want the mare to die in agony in front of his young son.

   “Tell me more,” he said. “What are these seeds you have there?”

   “They are from the pimpinella plant, my lord,” Aragorn said. “It is common in the hedgerows of my homeland around a little country called the Shire. We use the seeds to treat colic. I found these in the stockade beyond the gate; I went searching for them when I saw the urgency of the situation.”

  Thengel looked hard at the young man. He should have wondered about him before. What was Gandalf doing bringing such a man to serve him? It was a question he must bend his thought towards, however at this momnet, his only concern was for his horse.

  “The mare is too ill to eat,” he said. “What do you propose to do?”

   Aragorn briefly explained that he needed a pestle and a mortar and a jar of honey. These were immediately sent for and he quickly ground up the seeds and, with a little honey, made them into a paste.

   With Thengel’s permission, he then approached the now wild horse. He walked slowly towards the distressed mare, talking to her softly. Her grey coat was darkened with sweat and she trembled violently with the pain. In spite of this, at Aragorn’s murmurings, she stood and allowed him to approach. He stroked her nose for a moment before calmly slipping his hand into the mare’s mouth and administering the paste to the back of her tongue with practised ease. Then, taking hold of the rope on her halter, he quietly coaxed her forward, all the while, calming and soothing the mare, as he had seen the Elves do from his earliest years.

  As he slowly led the horse back and forth, he watched anxiously for any sign of improvement, but the minutes slipped away and there was no change.  He was suddenly aware of how precarious his position, if not his life, had just become. It was a big gamble he had taken. If the mare died, things could go very ill for him. It would be impossible to prove he had not poisoned the horse. Aragorn could feel the tension rising all around him; the murmurings grew louder. Any moment he expected many hands to seize him and haul him off to the dungeons.

    Then at last the mare’s trembling lessened and Aragorn dared to hope she might yet recover. He continued to lead her up and down the row of stalls and soon she was walking more easily. Aragorn felt a great rush of relief course through him. The mare was far from cured, but the imminent danger had passed. And soon the improvement was clear to all. Théoden, watching the proceedings with great interest, was the first to comment.

   “Lightfoot is going to get better, isn’t she?” he asked, smiling up at his father.

   Thengel looked across at Aragorn and replied: “I do believe she will.” He walked over to the mare, now standing quite calmly, and stroked her thoughtfully for a moment.

   “You have taught us all a lesson today, young man,” he said, “and I am not just talking about that herb you used. You have my gratitude; I would have lost a good horse.”

   Aragorn inclined his head. “I am glad I was able to be of service, my lord.”

   Thengel was then aware of an overpowering stench of farmyard wafting towards him from the young man and he remembered where he had sent his new recruit to labour. He made a snap decision. Some of his men might not like it, but, nonetheless, he would have his way in this.

   “I believe Lightfoot will need plenty of attention to see she recovers completely,” he said. “Do you think you might be spared from your other duties to care for her permanently?”

   His joy must have shown on Aragorn’s face for Thengel suddenly burst out laughing. “I see perhaps you might,” he said.

   “Thank you, my lord,” said Aragorn, smiling happily, delighted at this change in his fortune. It might not be the highest of promotions, but it was a welcome start. Certainly he looked forward to sleeping in the stables tonight; they would be a huge improvement on his present accommodation.

   Thengel gave him a long, thoughtful look. Yes, he really must find out more about this strange young man. He was beginning to find him rather intriguing.

   “I am going to keep my eye on you from now on, lad” he said. “Somehow I rather think you will go far in this life.” 

~oo0oo~

Then Aragorn lead the way, and such was the strength of his will in that hour that all the Dúnedain and their horses followed him. And indeed the love that the horses of the rangers bore for their riders was so great that they were willing to face even the terror of the door.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                   The Return of the King