Importuning and Accusations

            Isumbard Took returned to the Mayor’s office from the banquet hall bearing a plate of food with him, which he started to set on the Mayor’s desk.  He paused before turning to address his cousin Everard, asking, “Where’s Frodo?”

            Everard shrugged.  “Went to the privy a few moments ago.  He’s not any too comfortable today.”

            Hillie added, “He’s not been able to sit still. He’s not just rubbing at his shoulder—he’s wearing a bandage along the back of his neck, and it appears to be giving him fits.”

            “Wonder what that’s about?” Bard said.  “I know he was wounded there near his shoulder, but hadn’t heard of anything on his neck.”

            The rest of the Took lawyers who’d agreed to help sort out all the documents that had been gathered into the room during Lotho’s reign over the Shire indicated they knew no more than did Isumbard.  Tollie commented, “Apparently he’s bothered by too much light today.  Keeps trying to find a way to keep the light of his lamp out of his eyes, but still allow it to shine on what he’s reading.”

            The rest nodded their agreement to his observation.  Bard sighed, set his plate on the desk, and took two documents that lay on the left corner to the table where he’d been working to examine them.

            Hillie asked, “How did the meeting with Gander from Westhall and the Brandybucks go?”

            Bard shook his head as he sat down.  “Nobody’s agreed as to what is to be done with that Bedro Bracegirdle.  The folk in Westhall are none too eager to have him sent back their way, but the Master’s not happy keeping him in a storage hole in Buckland, either.  But with all the misery he dealt out in the Marish while he served as one of Lotho’s Shirriffs, Sara doesn’t dare have him moved to a more appropriate place in Kingsbridge, and the Bracegirdles don’t want him on house arrest anywhere in their holdings, which is why he and his dastardly father were sent on internal banishment to Westhall to begin with.”

            The others exchanged glances before Everard said with a sigh, “Then it appears that Saradoc may well be stuck with his presence in the storage hole for a time.  I don’t envy him.”

            Bedro Bracegirdle and his father had dwelt in Westhall for better than a score of years.  Bigelow Bracegirdle had been caught dosing ponies and gambling with weighted dice far too often, while his son Bedro had the reputation as an unabashed bully without even the care to avoid observation seen in Lotho Sackville-Baggins as a tween, and together they’d been ousted from Hardbottle and its environs and sent in disgrace to the edge of the Shire.  It was no wonder that the village head for Westhall was not welcoming the lout back with open arms, particularly not now while the village was recovering from the privations of the Time of Troubles.  At least Lotho had shown the discretion to settle Bedro in the Shirriff House there near the Brandywine Bridge rather than stationing him along the western borders between Westhall and Greenholm.  That would have been a total disaster!

            At that moment Frodo returned, a thick folder in his hands.  “Did one of you tell Rodrigo Diggle where I was?” he asked.

            “No,” Hillie assured him.  “He looked into the room and saw the desk empty, and left without a word to us.  Must have guessed where you might have gone.  Did he leave you with that?” he asked, indicating the folder.

            “Yes,” Frodo said, eying it with reluctance.  “Apparently Alyssum has written a new will, and they want me to examine it myself.  They are certain all of the Shire’s lawyers have become dishonest after what was done by those Lotho and Timono suborned while we were gone.”  He set it on the desk and rubbed at his shoulder, his brow wrinkled with discomfort.  “They are to return after nuncheon, he told me.”

            Everard Took looked over from where he and Tollie had been sorting property sales documents by date written.  “Diggle?  Do these Diggles feel they have a right to impose on you?”

            Frodo gave a single nod.  “Relatives on the Brandybuck side.  Rodrigo is nephew to my Aunt Dirna, who married my mum’s brother Saradas.  He’s not as prone to criticism as she is, but he can be bad enough.  But Alyssum—she tends to misunderstand everything she sees.  You’d swear she was the one born to the Diggle family at times.”  He sighed and shook his head, finally moving behind the desk to sit down.

            Just then the office clock began its routine prior to its infrequent episodes of chiming the hour.  There was a series of clunks and grinds as the chiming mechanism set to work, followed by ten unpleasant clanks.  All witnessed Frodo wincing at each one.  “I am going to have to write to Gimli about having the clock fixed,” he said, finally taking his hands away from his ears.  “Either it should chime nicely once an hour, or it shouldn’t strike at all.  I don’t know if he is as familiar with clocks as Dwalin’s son Dorlin, but there must be some Dwarf who can fix it one way or the other.”

            “So let it be!” murmured one of the Tooks, and the rest laughed.

            They worked in relative quiet for an hour.  Bard quietly briefed Frodo about the conference regarding Bedro, which he had attended as the representative of the Thain as well as on Frodo’s behalf, and Frodo took some notes before returning to his perusal of Alyssum Diggle’s will, now and then taking a small bite from the plate Bard had brought in.  Once Bard returned to his task of going through the two documents he’d taken from the Mayor’s desk, he kept watch on Frodo.  It was plain that Frodo was not comfortable today.  He frequently shifted in the Mayor’s chair, and was rubbing both at his shoulder and his neck.  As Tollie had noted, he was constantly shifting the lamp on his desk, and at last he laid the will aside and sat rubbing at his eyes as if they also causing him distress.

            As Bard’s pocket watch gave a soft, melodic ring to indicate it was time for elevenses, Frodo leaned back in surrender to his various discomforts.  The Took rose and approached the Baggins’s desk.  “We will be going over to the inn for a bite and drink,” he advised.  “Do you wish to join us?”

            Frodo shook his head.  “I’ve this to deal with,” he said, tapping the offending will.  “I would ask perhaps Everard to talk with Alyssum regarding her provisions for her children and so on, but since he’s a lawyer I doubt she would listen to him in her and Rodrigo’s current mood.  But how she can believe she can leave half of her inheritance from her mother to her son, another half to her older daughter, still a third half to her second daughter, and leave the remaining half to her own sister….  Just how many halves can there be she’s leaving to all these people?”  He shook his head again.  “It was far easier to explain to Pippin when he was a child that the meaning of ‘multiply’ was different when applied to figuring than when the Powers told the Elves to go forth and multiply than I suspect it will be explaining to Alyssum Diggle that cutting her assets into different portions of the same size does not allow her to give a full half to each of her heirs.”

            Hillie sniggered.  ‘I’ll wager the son’s half is to be significantly larger than that to be left to the sisters.  I have dealt with some of the family in the past, you see.”

            “Unless Allium marries before her brother, “ Frodo confirmed.  “Then she is to inherit the larger half.”

            The assorted Tooks were straightening the articles lying before them and dimming lamps prior to leaving the office.  “Good fortune in talking sense to them,” Hillie commented.  “Common Hobbit sense doesn’t appear to be well represented in Alyssum’s Greensward relatives, or so I’ve noted.”  He turned down the lantern by whose light he’d been working.

            Frodo was again rubbing his eyes.  “So I have noted as well,” he muttered.

            “You fellows go ahead,” Bard directed. “I shall be there directly.”  Led by Everard, the Took lawyers left the Mayor’s office, several of them laying finished documents on the right corner as they passed Frodo’s desk.

            “What is the bandage for on your neck?”

            Isumbard’s question appeared to take Frodo by surprise.  “What bandage?” the deputy Mayor asked.

            Bard gave a sigh.  “Do you think that no one notices it?” he asked softly.

            The Baggins touched the part of the bandage that showed, and his shoulders slumped.  He admitted, “I have a boil there.  Sam cleaned and bandaged it last night.  It appears to have refilled during the day.”

            “I could send for a healer to drain and dress it again,” Bard offered.

            But Frodo had straightened with alarm.  Before the Took finished his suggestion, Frodo was already protesting.  “Oh, no!  Sam will be by this evening, and will see to it.  He knows just what to do.”  His face had gone paler than usual, except for the bright points of pink in the center of his cheeks.

            Bard considered the deputy Mayor’s countenance, his shadowed eyes, the greyness of his skin.  “You can’t accept help when you need, it, Frodo Baggins?”

            Frodo’s lip quivered as he turned away.  “I do not want people to see it.”  He turned back slowly to face Bard, his head now held defiantly.  “I do not like for people to see—to see the scars.”

            “You have so many?”

            “I have enough.”

            Isumbard searched Frodo’s eyes before going back to the subject of the boil.  “You say that Sam knows just what to do.  Then this is not the first time you have had a boil there?”

            A slow shake of the head.  “No.  It comes back every two months or so.  Sam learned from Aragorn how to deal with it.”

            “Can they not probe it to find the reason it reoccurs?”

            “Lord Elrond tells me that it is in an area where it is dangerous to probe too deeply.  He says that such a thing could leave me paralyzed permanently.  He would not do so, and Aragorn is loth to ignore the advice of his Adar.”  Seeing the next question coming, he added, “Our King’s birth father died when Aragorn was only about two years of age.  He and his mother were both ill when word came that his father had been slain in an attack by orcs, and they were spirited away to Rivendell to recover.  It was put about that the child heir of Arathorn had died of the fever, and that his mother needed special healing to recover from the loss of both her husband and her son.  He grew up as if Lord Elrond were his father, although he knew ever that his own father was dead, and that he was no Elf.”

            After another pause, Bard said, “You did not eat much of what I brought you from the meeting.”

            Frodo gave a bitter smile.  “Oh, I tried some of the fruit, but my stomach roiled.  I too often feel nauseous when the boil comes up.  Sam will bring me fresh tea to aid me to stomach my food.  I can do without until then.”

            “As if you weren’t already too thin!”

            Frodo’s voice took on a note of steel.  “That is enough on the subject, Master Took.  You had best leave that you have time to get a bite before you must return to our work.”

            Bard knew a command when he heard it.  But he did not leave immediately, instead turning to the coat stand and bringing over the leather bottle that hung there.  Refilling Frodo’s mug, he suggested, “Hopefully you can stomach this.  It may not be the draught that aids your digestion, but I have seen it help you feel better in the past.  While we are gone, you should rest your eyes.  Sleep if you can, Frodo.  You do not appear to have rested properly last night.”  He capped the bottle, and laid his hand on the Baggins’s shoulder before restoring the bottle to the stand and leaving the room, softly closing the door behind him as he left.

            Frodo tried to reread Alyssum Diggle’s will, but gave it up as a bad job in but a moment’s time.  He shook his head in surrender, put out his own lamp, and rested his arms on the desk and his head on his forearms.  Perhaps he should allow himself to sleep—if of course, sleep would come.

                                                                                       ********

            A soft movement of air disturbing the hair on his neck roused him.  At first Frodo was uncertain where he was.  He was sitting at a desk—ah, the Mayor’s desk, with his head on his arms, the Queen’s jewel comfortingly in his right hand.  The room was dark, unfamiliarly dark, and he realized he was not alone.  But it was not the voices of the Tooks who aided him that he heard, but that of someone he did not quite recognize.

            “And why is it so dark in here?”  The voice was deep for a Hobbitess, deep and rather throaty.  “I do not understand, Rigo.  Is no one here in the Mayor’s office?  I thought that Cousin Frodo would be here.  He is supposed to be deputy Mayor, after all.”,

            Rigo?  Oh, yes—the Diggles, Rodrigo and Alyssum.  But they weren’t to be here yet, were they?

            “We are a bit early, my love.  We said we’d be coming after nuncheon.”

            At that moment the office clock chose to announce the hour for the second time that day, grinding and whirring and eventually clunking out twelve strikes that did not sound the least bit musical in nature.  Apparently Isumbard had decided that the deputy Mayor deserved to get some level of rest, and had kept his lawyer cousins at the inn, perhaps in further consultation with those Brandybucks who were still within Michel Delving.  Also, Tollie had spoken of going with Everard down into the old storage holes to speak with those who were to excavate the cells that Frodo had commissioned for those Hobbits who needed to be imprisoned as much for their own safety as to protect the remainder of the Shire from any more of their misdeeds.  The time the Tooks spent away from the Council Hole would still prove productive, he knew.

            “Stars above!  What an awful racket!” complained Alyssum.  “No wonder Will Whitfoot is reluctant to return to his duties!”

            Frodo let go of the Queen’s jewel and started to lift his head from the desk, but was overtaken by a wave of dizziness he’d not known in months before he could get even an inch off the desk’s surface.

            “There’s someone there?” Alyssum exclaimed.  “Oh—it’s Cousin Frodo, and—and he is drunk!”

            Frodo braced his hands on the desktop, and with supreme effort pushed himself upright.  He started to speak and found he needed to clear his throat.  “Will Whitfoot is too ill to return to work here in the Council Hole,” he said, his voice raspy.  “And just why do you assume that I am drunk, Mistress Diggle?” he asked.  He reached for his mug, but she grabbed it away from the desk, and was sniffing at its contents.

            “It is full of ale,” she said darkly.

            Frodo was incensed.  “It is not!  That is my tea!”

            Alyssum held the mug close to her chest.  “And who,” she demanded, “drinks tea from a mug like this one?  What—you have no proper teacups and saucers here in the Mayor’s office?”

            Rigo reached for the mug, and she allowed him to take it.  He sniffed at it.  “Doesn’t smell like ale to me,” he said.  “Smells like herbs.”

            “It has that liquor made with potatoes in it,” she insisted.  “You can’t easily smell that!”

            Frodo closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and did his best to collect himself.  “It smells like herbs because it is an herbal tea that was recommended for me by several healers," he said from between gritted teeth.  “There is no liquor of any sort within it.”

            “Then why is it not hot?”

            “Why should it have to be hot?”  Frodo gazed at this Hobbitess with frustration.  “I cannot keep it hot at all times, and we have found it to be equally effective whether hot or cold.”

            Rigo asked, “And why do you need an herbal tea?”

            “That is my own concern,” Frodo responded.  “May I please have my mug?”

            Against his wife’s objections Rigo returned the mug to the deputy Mayor.  Frodo took a deep draught from it before setting it down on the desk on the other side so that Alyssum could not easily take it again.

            His gaze on the two intruders into the office was considering.  “As you noted, you arrived some time before you were supposed to do so.  The Took lawyers who have been aiding me to sort and evaluate those documents that built up here while the Mayor was imprisoned by Lotho, Sharkey, and the Big Men went out for their elevenses and suggested that I rest, as I did not sleep well last night.  I do not understand why it is of any concern to you that I was doing so when you arrived.  They usually turn down the wicks when they leave the room so as not to unduly waste lamp oil.  My eyes are particularly bothered by my own lamp today, so I extinguished it before I laid my head on the desk.  Does this answer your questions?  As for using a mug rather than a teacup and saucer—if you will look around you will note that we all use mugs while we work.  They don’t have to be refilled too often, and as we are working no one is expected to be at the level of decorum where the niceties of polite usage when entertaining are to be followed.”

            Rigo glanced uncomfortably at his wife, but the tone had been set with Alyssum, and she was not ready to give up her feelings of insult.  “You should always be ready to greet anyone entering the office properly,” she pronounced with a definite sniff of disapproval.

            Frodo rolled his eyes.  “If you say so, Mistress Diggle.”  He reached for a match, pulled his lamp before him and lit it, settling the glass back into place with a grimace before moving the lamp back to the side once more.  With a sigh he pulled the will back before him.  “I have been through your will more than once, and although I am not a lawyer to advise as to all requirements for such an instrument, there are several errors that need correction before it can be filed, much less before it can be acted upon.”

            “But there is nothing wrong with that will,” Alyssum interrupted.  “I should know, for I wrote it myself!”

            “That,” muttered Frodo as he opened the document to its first page, “is all too evident!”  He began running his finger down the page, but paused when Rodrigo Diggle spoke.

            “And just what did you mean by that?” he demanded.

            “By what?”

            “That comment of yours!  Are you calling my wife a fool?”

            Frodo gave a deep sigh.  “And if it is obvious that she does not know how to divide things into equal portions?”

            “And what am I to do—cut each item into pieces so each of my heirs receives the same amount?” Alyssum asked.  “That doesn’t work, does it?  What good is half a chair, or half a face flannel?”

            Frodo closed his eyes and reached for his mug, dragging it to him and taking several swallows.  At last he replaced it from whence he’d brought it, and looked down at the will as if it could tell him how to properly question or explain matters to these Diggles.  It was a few moments before he thought of a way to begin, only to hear Alyssum murmur to her husband.  “Don’t you see what I mean, Rigo?  Look at him—so addled with drink he cannot think what to say!”

            The former Master of Bag End again gritted his teeth, seeking to control his temper, which was already brittle considering the pain of his shoulder and his neck.  “I assure you, Alyssum Greensward Diggle, that I have not had any ale, wine, hard cider, or anyone’s home-brew for two days or better.  I rarely drink any more, and almost never more than a mug of light ale or a small goblet of wine at a time; and I have not been drunk for many months.”

            “Too good to drink like a proper Hobbit, eh?” sneered Rigo.

            Frodo fixed the Hobbit with a steady glare that had Rigo taking a step backwards.  “Which is it to be, Rigo—am I a drunkard, or someone who feels himself to be better than you?  You cannot have it both ways, you realize.”  He took a deep breath.  “I was never given to drinking so much that I regularly became drunk, and I drink even less now than I did before we left the Shire.  There was little in the way of alcohol to be found within the wild lands we traversed, and although I was never stinted while we stayed in the King’s city, still I was not encouraged to drink overmuch there.  We each and all had much to recover from once the war was over, and we were warned that excess drink would slow our healing.”

            Everard and Tollerand Took paused at the door to the Mayor’s office, surprised to find Frodo Baggins speaking of such subjects with a couple they did not recognize.

            “The Diggles?” suggested Tollie in low tones.

            Glancing into the room, Everard responded, “So it would appear.  I believe we should interrupt.”  With that he led his kinsman into the office, and in tones intended to emphasize Frodo’s position, he indicated, “The delvers who will be excavating the gaol you are commissioning have sent their plans.”

            Tollie stepped forward to lay the plans before Frodo.  “They have agreed with your suggestions for ventilation, and have made their own suggestions for the construction of commodes for the cells.  They think that this will allow the gaolers to more easily empty the chamber pots without allowing prisoners to escape.”

            Frodo gave the first sheet a swift glance, then handed them back to Tollie.  Indicating Rodrigo and Alyssum, he explained, “Let me finish my business with the Diggles here and I will then have time to examine these further and discuss what might need to be changed.  Please hold them for me until then.”

            “A gaol?” questioned Rigo.

            “Would you wish for the likes of Bedro Bracegirdle or Marcos Smallburrow to be housed in your village after what they did to the people throughout the Shire?  Smallburrow was taking the finest objects he could find in the ‘Gathering and Sharing’ and hiding them away or giving them to his mother, while Bedro saw to the burning of at least four businesses in and around Kingsbridge and Waymeet.  I am afraid no one else wants either of them or Timono Bracegirdle within their vicinity.”

            “But no one knows where Timono Bracegirdle is,” Alyssum objected.

            “Merry and Pippin should have him in hand within a week’s time,” Frodo said, wincing as he rubbed at the back of his neck.  “We should have a proper place to keep them safe ready before they are brought here.  But the progress of the cells for the gaol has nothing to do with your will.  You wish to make provisions for four heirs, I understand?”  At her nod, he continued, “Then you must divide your assets into a minimum of four portions, which means a minimum of four fourths.  You cannot have more than two portions if you divide your assets in half.  But, since you want one portion to be significantly larger than the other three for either your son, or your daughter Allium should she marry before her brother does, then the four portions cannot be strictly fourths, either.  You must decide the size of the primary heir’s portion, and then the remainder can be divided into three portions, or thirds, for the benefit of your younger daughter, your sister, and whichever did not receive the primary portion.  Does this make sense to you?”

            “Then am I to start cutting each chair into three pieces?” demanded Alyssum.

            Everard could bear it no longer.  He rose from where he’d resumed his place at the tables where the Took lawyers had been working, and approached the Mayor’s desk.  “Ordinarily legacies are divided into portions of equal or similar value rather than into physical pieces, Missus Diggle.  Do you not have more than one table and set of chairs in your home?  Do you have more than one set of china, or more than one set of serving pieces?  Generally the most expensive pieces are set aside for the primary heir, and the lesser ones are apportioned to the remaining heirs as they most easily can be separated.  Is this not your intent?”

            “And why am I to listen to you rather than to the deputy Mayor?”  Alyssum’s voice was most supercilious.

            “Because,” Frodo interjected, “Everard Took is the best Hobbit now present I am aware of for writing a viable will.”

            “And how do I know he was not corrupted by your cousin Lotho Sackville-Baggins?”

            “Perhaps because he was barricaded within the Tooklands during Lotho’s time of ascendancy,” Frodo snapped.  “None of the Tooks were able to get outside the Green Hills area except for Ferdibrand Took, and he was caught, beaten and kicked in the back of the head, and held in the Lockholes until we drove the Big Men out and freed the prisoners.  It was similarly with the lawyers from within Buckland—those also were not available for Lotho or Timono to threaten or suborn into providing tainted papers.”  He covered his eyes with his left hand.  “Even Barti Bracegirdle refused to do Lotho’s bidding, you understand.  Not all lawyers within the Shire were convinced to cheat their neighbors or clients, while most of those who did so were trying to protect family members who had been hauled off to the Lockholes or were in danger of having that happen to them.”

            “So they say.”

            Frodo took a deep breath and slowly lowered his hand.  “I have questioned several of them already, Mistress Diggle, and have seen the state of their relatives who had been held prisoner.  The fears of many of the lawyers for the safety of their imprisoned relatives were real, and what happened to them should never happen to any Hobbit of the Shire.”

            “Then why are you having a new gaol excavated for the likes of Timono Bracegirdle, Marcos Smallburrow, or Bedro Bracegirdle?”  Rodrigo’s voice was sharp.

            “Those held within this gaol will at least have proper comforts for Hobbits and four meals a day,” Frodo answered.  “They will not be nailed into a hole intended to hold apples being stored until they may be wanted in midwinter as happened to one of those we freed, or one in which barley seed and oil had been stored as happened to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.  They will have proper beds rather than piles of soiled rags as we found in the hole where Fredegar Bolger lay, and they will have proper commodes rather than noisome buckets that were emptied perhaps only every four days as we saw in other so-called cells.  None will be starved or made to survive on rancid soup made of potato peelings and carrot ends, or half-slices of moldy or dried bread.  Both Will Whitfoot and my cousin Freddy were near skeletons when we found them and had them carried out.  We will not have this happen to legitimate prisoners.”

            Alyssum sniffed, “They were not so high-minded as you are.”

            “No,” Frodo said, “they were not.”

            The rest of the Tooks were slipping past the Diggles and returning to the tables, each one turning up his lamp as he looked curiously over his shoulder at Alyssum and Rodrigo.  Hildibrand Took exchanged glances with his cousin Tollie, who shrugged.  “Not being reasonable,” Tollie mouthed.

            “So I’ve gathered,” Hillie muttered.

            Frodo continued, again through gritted teeth, “You came here to have your will evaluated, and I tell you again that although I am not a proper lawyer as these are, I have yet come to appreciate how a proper will should be written.  My own personal lawyer, my cousin Brendilac Brandybuck, helped me with the one I had written before I left the Shire, and as I suspect I shall have amended in the future.

            “You need to take a thorough inventory of those possessions that are to be your legacy, and decide which items and how much coin goes into the primary portion.  You then must do your best to indicate what goes into each remaining portion similarly, usually trying to make each of the lesser portions similar in value.  I cannot do this for you.  What you have written here is so vaguely worded that you will have the lawyers of the Shire wrestling with its clauses perhaps for years.  It is for this reason I suggest you work with Everard Took here to rewrite your will so that, once you are gone, the will can be executed swiftly and equitably.  Or,” he added, noting her displeasure, “if you do not wish to cooperate with a Took, then you should approach another lawyer of the Shire that you do trust and allow him to work with you so as to have such a document prepared.”

            So saying, he held out the will dismissively.  Alyssum accepted it coldly, glaring at him.  “I see you are not willing to aid me,” she declared.  “But then, why should I be surprised, finding you taken with drink as you were when we arrived!”

            Isumbard stopped just inside the door, shocked at what he’d heard as he’d arrived back in the Mayor’s office.  He was holding a dark lantern from the stable in his hand, and clutched it to his chest.  He looked from Alyssum to Frodo’s face in question, and then with a shake to his head he stepped forward, setting the lantern on the edge of the Mayor’s desk as he confronted the Diggles.  “And just what makes you certain that the deputy Mayor is anything but sober?” he demanded.

            “He was dead asleep when we arrived,” Alyssum Diggle said, her head held high, “and could barely answer us when we could rouse him.”

            “He was asleep?  Well and good, then.  He has been exhausted all morning, and admits he barely slept most of the night.  I myself counseled him to rest while we went to get elevenses,” Bard answered her.  “He perhaps ought to have stayed in the Whitfoot’s place, considering that he is not fully well today.  But I can assure you that he has not been drinking this morning.  Will could not have chosen a better or more sober deputy Mayor, in fact.”

            “He has been very rude to my wife,” Rigo insisted.

            “Considering she apparently mistakes the natural confusion of being roused betimes for drunkenness, I am not surprised,” Bard responded.  “Has he returned your will with suggestions that you consult a proper lawyer as to how to better word it?  After all, when one is attempting to bestow a legacy to four heirs, you will run out of halves with the first two.  Now, if you will excuse us, we have other business we must discuss.”

            “Such as this gaol he is having excavated?” asked Alyssum.  “And with the Time of Troubles barely over, how is the Shire to handle the expense of such a thing?”

            Frodo’s gaze could have frozen boiling water.  “I am not expecting the Shire to finance such an endeavor,” he said.

            “What?”  Rodrigo Diggle was clearly not accepting such a thing.  “Then who is to pay for it?”

            “I am paying for it,” Frodo answered, having risen to his feet and grasping at his chest.

            Not even Alyssum found anything to say about that for more than a minute.  At last she squeaked out, “But how is it you can do such a thing?  I thought that you were stricken into poverty, and that that was why you sold Bag End to Lotho and his dratted mother!”

            Bard again interrupted the Diggles before they could dig themselves deeper into trouble.  “That is more than enough.  Frodo, perhaps you should retire to the privy and calm yourself.  In fact, it might be best if you return to the Whitfoot’s place to get that nap you need.”

            “I believe I have had enough sleep,” Frodo answered.  “But I will leave the room temporarily.  I shall be in the banquet hall.”  His face was strained, and he was clutching tightly the jewel he now wore.  He slid out of his place behind the desk and left the room, leaving Isumbard Took to face down the Diggles.

            “As for you two,” he said, his voice full of the authority of his office as one of the primary aides to Paladin Took, the current Thain of the Shire, “it would seem that you have been badgering the King’s Friend since your arrival in the Council Hole.”

            “What King?” Alyssum asked defiantly.

            “Our King!” Bard barked back at her.  “Or did the word that the King has indeed returned not reach your village?  It certainly has reached everywhere else!  And you have been disrespectful to one the King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar honors most deeply for the service he has rendered to the realms of Gondor and Arnor reunited.  He has let the Thain, Master, and Mayor all know that we would all be slaves to Mordor had Frodo not done what he did for the needs of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  And, no, I cannot tell you in detail what precisely Frodo did while he was gone from the Shire, but he has been made a Lord of the Realm, and has been granted reward that the King himself feels is inadequate to his accomplishments made while he was Outside.  Indeed, the same is true for all four of our own who left the Shire to protect our land and to aid in the war as they could.”

            The Diggles stared at him, their eyes wide, and for the moment unable to say more.

            “I suggest that you leave now,” Bard told them.  “If you should wish to know more, you can speak with the Thain, the Master, or Will Whitfoot as our rightful Mayor.  Or you might ask Cousin Pippin or Meriadoc Brandybuck as heirs to Thain and Master, as they know in far more detail just what was done Out There.  But should you let it be known that you were rude to Frodo as deputy Mayor, I doubt that Sam Gamgee would give you the time of day.  You have your will?  Then please go.”

            The two Diggles left, huddled close together as they went.  They did not afterward approach any of those Bard had named as being able to give them more detail as to how it was Frodo Baggins was able to finance the excavation of the new gaol, perhaps in fear they might end up inhabiting at least one of the proposed cells.  They certainly did not return to Michel Delving while Frodo remained deputy Mayor.

            Bard watched them exit the Council Hole and gave a deep exhalation of relief that they were at last gone.  He had seen the expression on Frodo Baggins’s face, one of such ferocity as he had never seen before in the case of Bilbo Baggins’s most intelligent—and usually most thoughtful--heir.  He suspected that if he’d not intervened something terrible would have happened, although he could not imagine precisely what.

            At last he left the office himself, turning toward the entrance to the banquet hall.  There he found Frodo standing before the great sideboard his father had carved just prior to his death, a commission from the Shire’s Council that was still, he knew, to be paid to Drogo’s sole living child.  Frodo was still clutching the jewel at his throat, and he stood stiffly, unmoving, his face without any color, his eyes unblinking.

            Bard moved to stand beside him.  “They are gone now,” he said quietly.  “I am sorry that they apparently gave you such a difficult time.  You do not deserve to be accused of drunkenness and whatever else they said of you.  I thought they weren’t to be here until after nuncheon.”

            “They came early,” Frodo finally answered.  His voice was unnaturally quiet and stiff.

            “Are you ready to return to the office?”

            At last Frodo’s posture relaxed.  Is he about to collapse? Bard wondered.  The deputy Mayor’s head was bowed and his shoulders slumped, and his grip on the jewel relaxed at least some, and he reached out with his left hand to lean briefly on the sideboard.  At length he turned to Bard slowly.

            “I will come back now,” he said.

            Bard held out his hand in case Frodo should need some support.  Frodo’s face was infinitely sad, even troubled.

            “You looked at them as if you were ready to curse them both,” Bard remarked.

            Frodo froze, he eyes now lifted almost in fear to meet those of the Took. At last he whispered, “Oh, but I was indeed ready to do just that.  I thank the Creator that I no longer had—It—around my neck.  I fear I should have done precisely that!”  He closed his eyes, swallowed deeply, and took several steadying breaths before he preceded Bard back to the Mayor’s office.  He paused inside the door, looking at the Mayor’s chair as if he was considering refusing to sit in it again.  In the end he shook himself and resumed his place there.

            He reached out to finger the dark lantern.  “What is this for?” he asked, his voice more normal than it had been.

            “I asked Pease if I could borrow one of his dark lanterns with the sliding cover so that its glare should not trouble you while your vision is so easily bothered.  You can slide the cover left and right so that you can focus the light on what you are reading and not have glare in your eyes.”

            For the first time all day a smile could be seen on the face of Frodo Baggins.  “Oh, but thank you so, Isumbard Took, for your thoughtfulness.  I do appreciate it so much!”

            Bard took another breath of relief, glad he’d been able to ease Frodo’s discomfort in some manner that day.