Hotspur & Steelsheen Ch. 3 – Wind-Throwed

The storm descended upon Thengel and his men in a blink. When securing a tent or any kind of shelter proved fruitless, the riders were forced to return eastward toward the greenway, with the cold wind in their faces. They had already traveled deep into the wooded valley before the storm suddenly kicked up, stirring up the canopy of new spring leaves. Sheets of rain began to fall so hard it hurt when the drops fell on exposed skin. Gladhon suggested in a series of shouts that they find one of the two streams rather than the road, as the folk of Imloth Melui were more likely to live on the water.

He had been right. Despite the noise of the storm, they heard the stream tumbling down from the valley wall shortly before they saw the first light of a homestead. A hermitage, from the look of the squat, hive-shaped stone cottage built agains the bank.

Gladhon banged on the wooden door and a head popped out after a short wait. It was a raggedy, salt-and-peppery head with eyes set back deep into the skull. The eyes surveyed the group with some surprise, lingering on Thengel before the hermit finally took note of the weather condition. A goat's head appeared through the door and bleated at them.

"Caught in the storm, eh?" His voice cracked. "Not a nice one to be out in, either."

"We would be much obliged if you'd share your shelter," Gladhon spoke for the group.

"If you don't mind the goats," the hermit replied.

They were relieved to find any shelter at all, even if it meant bunking with the hermit and his goats.

He sniffed, then told them where they could find a lean-to in a stand of trees behind the hut for their horses to shelter. They stabled the horses, took their belongings, then made their way back to the hut. Once inside, they hunched under the domed ceiling and dripped on the family of goats piled inside. The stink of them made Thengel's eyes water, which was a blessing in disguise as it blurred his vision. Their host, they discovered, was a nudist. An interesting fact that had been hidden by the door.

Thengel and his men spent the night packed into the hermitage, despite his misgivings. The space would have been confining for one man, let alone six. Also, Teitharion, as the man was called, made Thengel uncomfortable. When Thengel introduced himself, the man said he already knew who he was. Then there was the fact that Teitharion was an artist, the sort with those half-baked, idiosyncratic eyes that moved as if they were seeing two worlds overlapped against one another. He kept staring off at things that Thengel couldn't see.

Then there were the questions. For instance, "Aren't you expected in Minas Tirith this time of year?" Teitherion had given him a very knowing look.

Thengel's men stiffened around him at the mention of Mundburg. Even the goats seemed aware that their master was treading into forbidden pastures.

Thengel's expression hardened.

Teitharion went on, undisturbed by what he saw. "Just how old are you now?"

"Older," Thengel replied, voice hard as nails.

Teitharion nodded sagely. "I remember when you first rode into the city," he mused. "A moving spectacle, completely pathetic. I painted your picture, a boy with hair grown half-way down his back like a girl's, riding a horse most Gondorian men couldn't handle. The stuff histories are made of." His hand wavered in the air. "I titled it, The Wayward Son in Exile. I tried selling it with all my other paintings when I retired from public life. Nobody wanted it. Had to donate the thing to the Archives - much to the amusement of my rivals." He spat.

Thengel grinned dangerously, a telltale sign that he had reached the end of his patience. The expression had caused better men than Teitharion to soil themselves, but the artist missed it completely when he bent down to nuzzle one of his goats. Thengel had to hand it to Teitharion. He had a knack for knowing exactly how to make a group of Rohirric warriors extremely ill-at-ease. Thengel's presence in Gondor, though far from classified information, remained a taboo subject among the revolving door of Rohirric body guards sent to Gondor over the years. The atmosphere in the hermitage felt taut as a bowstring and the past was a poisoned dart. Pluck at the string and someone was bound to get hurt.

Moreover, it unsettled Thengel to discover that deep in the wooded valley of Imloth Melui, a place he had never been, a perfect stranger had memories of the day which had seemed like a threshold to Thengel. Not even Cenhelm could claim as much. The men his uncle had sent with that boy - Thengel had a difficult time thinking of himself as that youthful heir of Fengel King - had long since returned to Rohan. It seemed anymore that only Thengel's foster father and brother ever recollected Thengel before he had decided he needed to cut his hair in the same style as Ecthelion's and wear the same clothes. He felt more comfortable in the foil of Ecthelion's lieutenant than in the skin of the prince of Rohan.

Thengel forced the muscles in his face to relax as he willed his temper to recede. In twenty years he had learned something about containing it, but it had always been swift and strong like the storm that had caught them that evening.

The conversation died out with the mention of Minas Tirith and his men were pulling their cloaks over their shoulders to sleep slumped against the curved walls of the hut. Thengel unrolled his own cloak and pulled the hood over his head, but sleep did not come right away. The goats were fidgety and Teitherion mumbled the names of his rivals in his sleep. At least, Thengel thought they were the rivals. They might have been the names of his goats.

They rose before dawn to discover that the horses were missing and the rickety lean-to where they had been stabled utterly collapsed under the storm.

"Well?" said Cenhelm over the sound of the wind. It hadn't died down, even if the rain stopped and the clouds dispersed. It reminded Thengel of Cenhelm's warning from the day before.

"Teach me to follow a whim," Thengel replied bitterly. They ought to have ridden straight to Garth Arnach. "Grab your gear, gentlemen. We're hunting horses this morning."

Thengel put Thurstan and Guthere in the lead, as their tracking skills were superior. After the initial confusion old and new tracks along the bank, Guthere picked out that the freshest trail of hooves in the soft earth led south. Eventually it left the river bank, for the woods. They followed this for several miles when the trail showed signs that at least one of the horses had veered away from the others, Guthere went on his own to see if it was a dud trail or not.

While they waited for him to return, Thengel crouched with his back against a tree trunk and took the opportunity to pass around one of their water skins. He murmured his thanks that they had their saddlebags, even if it meant carrying them as the heat of the day increased with the rising sun. The other blessing was the strong wind that blew coolly out of the east, the forest full with the sound of its rushing and the bony creaking of limbs. Thengel could feel the tree rocking against his back as it rocked the canopy above, scattering the light that filtered down through the waving leaves. He watched the patterns change on the forest floor, mesmerized until Cenhelm interrupted his revery after the water had gone around several times and they had eaten a mouthful of bread.

"Guthere ought to be back by now to report," Cenhelm pointed out impatiently "It's nearly noon. Béma only knows how far the horses have gone by now."

Cenhelm spoke correctly, as always. A feeling of unease settled over their band. They waited for the prince to command them. Reluctant to split the group any more, he decided they all would follow the trail in the direction Guthere had gone in hopes that they might meet him coming back.

They fanned out beneath the trees wherever the heavy undergrowth would allow, though keeping one another within the line of sight in case Guthere or any of the horses should show themselves. Thengel's unease turned to dread when they had walked nearly a mile. Guthere shouldn't have come this far.

"Prince Thengel - over here!" he heard Thurstan cry. Gladhon and Cenhelm rushed with Thengel toward their companion's voice.

Thurstan kneeled beside a fallen tree near the roots, which hung in dirty tangles. The dirt around it looked loose and recently disturbed. Around them, the other trees, all tall and wide with age, leaned ominously in the wind. Below Thurstan, Guthere lay unconscious and in a bad state, half obscured by branches which had trapped him beneath the trunk of the old beech tree.

"I can't get him out," Thurstan told him. "Help me lift the tree away."

It took some doing to lift the branches enough to pull Guthere out from under them. The branches that had trapped him had also saved his life, keeping the full weight of the trunk from crushing him, skull, neck, and spine. They tried waking Guthere, but then they discovered something that made all of their hearts sink into their guts. Barely visible through Guthere's thick, red hair, a gash arced just above his left ear, revealing cracked bone. The branch had broken his skull.

Although bloody, the wound seemed to have congealed. Odd, as head wounds bled profusely. Guthere's face looked swollen and deathly gray. There were cuts on his face and neck, but the leather hauberk had protected his chest from scrapes.

"Do we have anything to bind the wound?" Thurstan asked.

"Nothing but dirty clothes."

"Binding won't be much help for a cracked skull that's not bleeding," said Cenhelm, even as he cut a sleeve from the spare tunic in his saddlebag. "He needs a healer."

"We shouldn't move him like this."

"We can't leave him here," Thengel pointed out. "It'll take twice as long if we find a healer and have to bring him back. If our ill-luck holds, we'd most likely get lost trying to find our way here again."

"How will we carry him?" Thurstan asked. "Guthere's not exactly a bucket of oats."

Cenhelm frowned deeply. "And where is there to go? Back to the hermit's hut? The bad air would kill him if the head wound did not."

"No," said Thengel. "Gladhon, you're our guide. What do you say?"

Gladhon considered a moment, looking for all the world that he wished someone else had been guide. "If we make a litter, we can carry him to Bar-en-Ferin," he said eventually. "It is the closest settlement, I deem."

So, they assembled a makeshift litter for Guthere out of sturdy, young branches run through several tunics to hold them together and bear the man's weight. Like slaves carrying a Harad king through the marketplaces, or pallbearers, they carried Guthere's litter out of the woods toward the greenway. Picking out a path through the bracken proved difficult and Guthere was not a lightweight, but he made no sound and they were too worried to complain about the difficulty.

Their spirits rose a mite when at last they saw a stone wall through the trees, heralding a settlement. Over the top of the wall, they saw clouds of white and pink. The crowns of fruit trees in blossom.

Gladhon seemed doubly encouraged by the sight. "We've reached the orchard. Good. The house isn't far."

"Whose house?" Thengel asked.

"Lady Morwen's."

Thengel had a sudden misgiving. Would a lady help a group of foreign soldiers? Would she appreciate them carrying a bloodied man into her home? Gondorian women were not especially sturdy, he thought. At least, not the ones he knew in Minas Tirith. But then, what choice did they have? Guthere would die without aid.

They followed the road under a colonnade of beech trees before Gladhon led them down a narrower path that parted an arbor of birches. They were all relieved when they saw the eaves of a house peeking out through the canopy of leaves.

The woodlot ended in a grassy yard. They were near the house and beyond it were several outbuildings, a barn and smaller sheds. A host of mottled dogs raced toward them, making a racket. Thengel and Gladhon had to kick them back.

A plump, dark-haired girl appeared around the opposite corner of the house carrying a large basket of garden stuff. She yelled at the dogs to quit yawping at squirrels before she saw the strangers who had attracted them. The basket dropped when she saw their gory cargo. Bundles of greens spilled out at her feet. The color bled from her cheeks and her eyes were large with panic. She looked like she might scream.

"Peace, we are friends," said Gladhon hurriedly. "Our companion is injured. We need a healer."

The girl seemed at a loss for words, simply gaped at the straw-haired men. The dogs were silent but tense, feeding on her paralysis.

"What is your name?" Thengel asked with exaggerated calm. He admitted they were probably a fright to look at, between their foreign looks and the mess Guthere was in. When working with frightened new recruits in Ithilien, he discovered it helped to communicate with them if they started with something familiar, facts they knew by rote such as their names.

"Ioneth," she said automatically.

"Ioneth," he continued, "We need to tend this man's wounds. Can you take us inside?"

The sound of her name, though strange on his tongue, seemed to pull her out of her stupor somewhat. The girl nodded dumbly, even if she couldn't manage words. After picking up her basket, she led them in through large arched doors into a hall. It was a spacious, long room built from heavy beams and plaster that had been patched over and painted many times. Thengel could see a stair that led up into the second story, a wider door that led, perhaps, to the kitchens, and a hearth behind scattered furniture.

A stately old woman met them there, attracted by the sound of the door. She carried a bundle of rich fabric in her arms, half lifted as if to display it. Thengel could tell from her expression that she expected someone else, but after she took one look at the men, their litter, and the pale Ioneth, she rearranged her expectations and seemed to understand what to do. Thengel muttered a prayer of thanks to Béma for at least one level head in the place.

"I'm sorry - I found them in the yard and —" Ioneth stammered as the iron-haired woman pulled her out of the way of the litter so that the men could get in through the doors.

The old woman ignored her and spoke directly to Thengel and his men. "Set him over there," she said, directing them to a long, heavy wooden table. She cleared off candles, a jug of flowers, as well as the embroidered runner that they rested on, to make room for Guthere's body.

They laid the bloodied Guthere on the table and carefully withdrew the litter from under him. Cenhelm helped Thurstan disassemble the branches from their tunics.

"What happened here?" the old woman asked. "A hunting accident?"

Gladhon answered, "We were caught in the storm last night. This morning we found our companion struck down by a fallen tree in the northern end of the valley."

"Wind-throwed," the old woman muttered knowingly. "It's solid wood that way. Too many old trees." Then she addressed the girl. "Gundor's in the kitchen finishing his lunch. Tell him to fetch Nanneth immediately. Ask Hareth for something to use for bandages."

Ioneth seemed happy for an excuse to leave the room. She disappeared in a trice through the passage beside the hearth.

"Nanneth is our healer," the woman explained. "She trained under the masters in the House of Healing years ago. She may know what to do."

"Thank you," said Thengel. He took her hand and bowed over it. "I am Lord Thengel and these are my men, Gladhon, Cenhelm, and Thurstan. This injured man is Guthere. You must be Lady Morwen."

The old woman blinked, then turned beet red. "Goodness gracious," she said.

Thengel shot a glance at Gladhon, then back at the woman. "I was told this is Lady Morwen's dwelling."

"It is." Even the woman's ears were bright with color. "Forgive me - that is - I am not Lady Morwen, but her servant, Gildis. My lady is not here."

It was Thengel's turn to blink stupidly. She took back her hand. Not Lady Morwen? He had been betrayed by his own expectations and her self-possession and easy command. It was a simple mistake, but the woman's obvious distress and embarrassment at being mistaken for her mistress was palpable.

"Will she arrive soon?" Gladhon asked. "I'm afraid we are trespassing on her hospitality."

Gildis nodded stiffly, her color still high. "I expected her back for the noon meal. She is in the orchard with our overseer."

So they had likely passed Lady Morwen on their way to the house. Thengel preferred that she had been here to invite them in herself. The lady would receive an unpleasant surprise. Still, he thought, she could hardly refuse to help.

A gawking boy of perhaps fifteen passed through the hall to have a look at Guthere. Thengel noticed Gildis give him a sharp look. The boy shrugged and ran out the door.

"Who was that?" Thengel asked.

"Gundor," she answered with a waspish tone. "He probably wanted to know how fast he needed to run."

Thengel frowned. "How long will it take to fetch the healer?"

"Nanneth does not live far, but she is old. Excuse me." Gildis left them to draw their own conclusions, disappearing through the same doors the girl had.

The men exchanged grim looks once they were alone. Thengel laid his hand on Guthere's heavy chest. It barely moved. Without a word, Cenhelm helped Thengel loosen the hauberk to ease the restriction on the man's torso.

"What now?" Gladhon asked.

"There's little we can do except make him comfortable and clean him up," Cenhelm told them.

They stood there feeling useless and anxious about their companion. For men used to action, waiting would always be the worst. But one thing could be done, even if it wouldn't benefit Guthere directly.

"We still need to find the horses. Gladhon, Thurstan, you go. Take what bread and water remains. Cenhelm and I will look after Guthere."

They bowed and retreated from the hall, leaving Cenhelm and Thengel alone with the prone body of their friend.

"Marshal Oswin will not be pleased one of his riders fell on a hunting lark," Cenhelm murmured as Thengel inspected the wound beneath the bit of sleeve they'd torn from a tunic.

"My uncle is rarely pleased with anything I do," Thengel replied bitterly. "But he won't be nearly as unforgiving as I will be if Guthere doesn't pull through."

Cenhelm gave him a strange look which Thengel did not see. "Your uncle's one fault is that he is more forgiving than you realize."

Gildis returned then, bringing clean linen when Ioneth did not reappear. Others of the household were starting to gather out of curiosity. Thengel ignored them, concentrating on his man. Cenhelm cut the sheet into strips with his knife. A bowl of water also appeared, which they used to clean up some of the caked mud and grit.

Thengel gently pressed a wet rag into the gash above Guthere's ear where the blood had congealed. The rag came away red and brown from blood and dirt. He dipped the rag in the bowl and the water turned a murky pink. The gash began to bleed sluggishly. Cenhelm pressed a fresh rag over it.

"We'll reopen all the cuts if we keep this up," Cenhelm observed. "He's already white from loss of blood."

"The dirt has to be cleaned away," Thengel countered.

Their discussion was interrupted by the scrape-and-chink of the iron door latch as it rose and fell, followed by the groan of hinges. Gildis turned expectantly toward the sound. The door swung open and a girl appeared under the arch. Tall, and fair, and gray-eyed. There were pink petals caught in the chaos of her windswept hair that lay around her shoulders like a mantle. When her eyes swept the room and met Thengel's, his breath hitched in his throat.

Gildis stepped forward. "Oh, Lady Morwen. Thank goodness you're back!"

Characters:

Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin

Angelemir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's

Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.

Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach

Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat

Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard

Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir

Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach

Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother

Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother

Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang

Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant

Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui

Teithalion: An eccentric artist/hermit

Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan

Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard