Chapter 1. Message from the King

It was teatime, and the Mayor’s family (at least, all those who had stayed behind when Sam travelled to Gondor with his wife and eldest daughter) were to take tea in the Thain’s private apartments. They had said goodbye to their parents at the Gate of Buckland. Their sojourn, while parents were away, started with a month at Brandy Hall, and then they moved on to visit the Thain and his family at the Great Smials. They’d been at the Great Smials for nearly a month now. The plan was for them to spend the next month at Cottons’ farm, and then go on to Buckland to await the travellers’ return.

But word had come from Buckland just a little earlier, a message from Gondor!

Young Faramir Took imagined the passage of that message, all the way from the hand of the King to the hand of the Thain. It helped that he had travelled to Gondor himself, and more than once, in his young life. He had actually seen the hand-off of one urgent message just as his family had arrived at one of the King’s outposts along the Greenway. How thrilling it had been! The call of a silver horn, floating on the breeze; the sudden flurry of action on the part of the guardsmen who’d been greeting the arriving hobbits; the powerful horse coming quickly into sight, surging up the Road; the hand-off of the leather bag to the next Messenger, waiting and ready; and at last, the thrilling gallop away, at top speed!

Farry had wondered long at the contents of that message pouch, on its way to the Lake, to the Steward of the Northern Kingdom, as the King was at that time in Gondor. His father had made a jest about the difficulties of a united divided Kingdom – but Farry had thought only of the thrill of riding fast, fast as the wind, bearing important news. For some time after, he’d dreamed of being a Pony Post rider. The reality of it was that he’d follow his father as Thain… if only his father should live long enough for Farry to reach his three-and-thirtieth year.

Farry would give up all his dreams, and take on the Thainship, and happily, if it only meant long life for his father. He’d lived all his life in the shadow of the fear of death – thanks, or perhaps no thanks, to the gossip he’d overheard at a young and tender age. Pippin, nearly crushed by a troll in the Outlands, his breathing further compromised by a bad bout of the Old Gaffer’s Friend* and lingering injury from an accident, lived life as fully as his constrained lungs would allow – more fully than a lot of hobbits of the Shire, Farry thought (even at his young age, but he had the right of it).

But the simplest thing could carry his father off, or so he’d heard. A lungful of smoke or dust, or even something as minor to most hobbits as a cold in the head that became a cold in the chest… Farry had watched the healers closely watching his father, even though they might think they were being circumspect. He’d seen a few of his father’s frightening bouts with breathlessness, and heard of more, though never directly – more from lurking quietly and listening to the grown-ups talk. Even though they were fond of saying Little pitchers have big ears! they were not always so careful about observing caution in their Talk.

…but little Forget-me-not was regarding him with serious eyes and a quivering lip, as if she could sense his distressing thoughts. Farry put on as big a grin as he could and tickled her until she squealed, and then he hugged her tight to quieten her, so that Thain and Steward would have no need to hush them.

The Message had come from Gondor at top speed, borne by King’s Messengers all the way to the Gate of Buckland and Brandywine Bridge, and from thence to the Great Smials by Pony Post. Farry had been playing on the hearthrug before the fire in the Thain’s study, amusing his younger brother and sister. They’d come to escort their father to tea, but Pippin had a matter of business to finish before he won free of his desk, and so he was in quiet discussion with Regi, his Steward, when a sharp rap sounded on the door and the escort on duty opened the door to say, ‘Pony Post, sir! Directly from the hand of the King, he says!’

‘Well then!’ Regi said, getting up from his seat to take the message from the Post rider’s hand and bring it to Pippin. ‘Direct from the hand of the King! What could it mean?’

Pippin slit the fancy-looking envelope and shook the message out of its folds, scanning quickly down the page, with the eyes of everyone on the room on him. He quickly relaxed, and somehow it was as if everyone exhaled at the same time to see it. Not bad news, then…

Looking up, he said, ‘Well, Regi, it seems the Mayor will be staying in the Southlands for some time longer than he’d originally planned.’

‘Not bad news, I hope,’ Regi said. ‘He hasn’t broken his other leg, or anything?’

Pippin laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Seeing how he broke his leg on my account, earlier, and how I’m not there in Gondor with him,’ and he looked hard at Regi from under his eyebrows, as if to say it was the Steward’s fault that he had not travelled to Gondor in the Mayor’s company, ‘why, he has no good reason to break his other leg, now, does he?’

‘None of your nonsense, now, lad,’ Regi said automatically, and Pippin laughed again, and Farry smiled and tickled young Merigrin until that little one chortled with glee.

‘No, but it’s good news, and I’ll be happy to share it at tea. Would you and Rosa like to join us?’

‘You’ll have a table full already, with the Mayor’s family,’ Regi demurred.

‘The more, the merrier, that’s what I always say! I’ve always wanted to make up one gross at tea in the best parlour, or even second-best, as Bilbo did at his infamous Party,’ Pippin said, and held up a finger in the face of Regi’s anticipated, “None of your nonsense!” ‘Well, I have! Still,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I suppose I’ll have to give up on that dream at least, seeing how a gross of hobbits would have to be stacked like cordwood to fit into any of the parlours. They’d fit in the Great Room, of course, but what would be the fun of that?’

Regi took a deep breath, obviously suppressing the sentiment he wished to express. Three none-of-your-nonsenses in a row would be two too many. It was obvious that the news, whatever it might be, had put the Thain into high good spirits, and far be it from him to squelch the hobbit. As it was, he really did want to know what good news could keep the Mayor longer in the Southlands. Four or five months (two months there, and two back, with a month or so in the White City itself) was more than long enough for Mistress Gamgee to be away from her younger children, as it was.

‘Very well,’ was all he said. ‘We’ll be happy to join you.’

***

*Author's Note: "Old Gaffer's Friend" is a Shire term for pneumonia.