Appendix D: To Visit the King

It was the crowd that amazed Osbehrt most of all: the sheer number of people, hundreds-and-hundreds of them everywhere you looked! Annis said, in her supercilious eight-year-old way, that when you got enough hundreds together in one place, you were supposed to call them thousands, but Osbehrt disagreed. He thought that hundreds-and-hundreds sounded much bigger than thousands. And there were so many people that he needed the biggest number he could get in order to explain them.

There were people crowded in the city, in houses and inns and stables and storehouses. Anyone who had kin or friends or trade partners in Edoras was staying within the walls of the city, and many more who had arrived early enough were encamped on properties belonging to the King. Of old this would never have been allowed, Father said, but Rohan had a new, young King who was eager and bounteous. They were at the dawn of a new time of peace and plenty, Father said, and the new King wished to usher it in with welcome and generosity.

But all of these hundreds-and-hundreds of people could not possibly be housed in the city. They spilled onto the plain, sheltering in farmyards or cattle-byres, spreading their tents, or simply sleeping out beneath the stars. There were nearly as many horses as there were people, paddocked or picketed or set quietly to roam. No one seemed to think twice about it, for to the folk of the Mark their horses were as family, but to Osbehrt it was wondrous. He had never seen so many people, but he had never even imagined so many horses, all of them tended and loved and beautiful.

Osbehrt’s family had a tent. It was no hastily-erected jumble of canvas tarps and green timber, either, but a proper tent with sewn walls and carved poles and a curtain down the middle to close off the sleeping area. It was their summer home, that tent, and although it was old and weather-stained it was tight; sturdy in a storm and cool even in the hottest sun. Osbehrt was proud of his home, and of the neat little cooking area that Mamma had set beside it. He was proudest of all of the position of their camp. It was right beside the great road that wound south to Gondor: the road up which the King would come home.

The old King, good Théoden King, was dead. He had been killed in battle far away, fighting for the Riddermark on a foreign field so that the war need not come home to her green lands. Father had ridden to that battle, in the muster of Lord Elfhelm, Marshal of the Mark. He said that King Théoden had fallen fighting a terrible black beast, and that his sister-daughter, the White Lady, had stood over his body as she slew the thing’s rider.

There was a terror in Father’s voice when he spoke of this, plain even beneath his reverence for his fallen King and Lady Éowyn. Osbehrt did not understand it, and he did not want to ask. It was frightening enough that his father had been in such a battle. Bruntaegl, their faithful old horse, had been killed by an orc’s sword, and Father had leapt from the saddle just in time to keep from being crushed like Théoden King. Osbehrt did not want to think about it, for even worse than the loss of a beloved mount was the knowledge that his father might so easily have died.

Mamma said they must be joyful. Father had not been killed, and the King had been very old. To be sure it was sad that he was dead, but he had defeated the enemies of Rohan and now all could be free. Father said that young King Éomer was merry and brave. He had come home after the battles were over, riding at the head of his army. Father had marched with the unhorsed men, for there were many who had taken such losses in Gondor and far away at the other battle. Of that one Father did not speak, save in whispers to Mamma when they thought the children were fast asleep. Nyle was too small to lie awake listening, but Osbehrt and Annis had both learned much this way. They pooled their knowledge in secret, when Mamma thought they were at play.

Now at last it seemed the frightening times were over. It was the journey to the city that made it real for Osbehrt, and the festive atmosphere of the great sprawling camp of happy folk. Most of the soldiers who had gone to the war had gathered to pay tribute to the great Lord under whose banner they had fought, and after a hard campaign there were many new friendships. Father, who before the war had known few men beyond their own little community of herders, now had friends from all across Rohan. He had friends among the Gondorhim too, he said, and Osbehrt found this wonderful.

The new King had ridden back to Gondor, so that he might bring home Théoden King to be laid to rest in his own land. The great lords and princes of Gondor and of many other lands would ride with him: all the great heroes of the battles that Father spoke of with such reverence. He told stories of the men of the White City, and of King Elessar who had sailed up out of the South to win the battle before its gates. Osbehrt thought these tales were the most marvelous he had ever heard, for they were real and they had happened in his lifetime – not long ago or in imagined lands far away.

So it was on the morning of King Éomer’s return that Osbehrt stood, neat and scrubbed and clothed in his new green tunic and his first pair of real winingas, at the edge of the road with Annis at his side and Father and Mamma behind. Nyle had begged, in his not-quite-three-year-old way, to be allowed to stand with his brother and sister. He had soon tired of waiting, however, and had seated himself in the long grass on the slope of the ditch to pluck a lapful of clover buds. Looking at his little brother, Osbehrt felt a pleasing sense of proprietary seniority. Surely he had never been as small and as simply entertained as Nyle!

The sound of the horns came first, and the jostling crowds began to hush. People were lined up six and seven deep all along the road, but because Father had secured such a good site for their tent, Osbehrt and his family were right in front. Father had an arm around Mamma’s shoulder so that she could lean towards him. She had been so thin and careworn after he had ridden away: those long weeks had seemed even longer to her than to Osbehrt. Now she was rosy-cheeked and always smiling, and she was getting plumper, too. Osbehrt was glad: Father was always saying she was too thin.

‘They are coming! They are coming!’ Annis cried eagerly, dancing up and down on the spot. She too was wearing new clothes: a pretty yellow kirtle and shoes of red leather. Lord Elfhelm had rewarded all those who had fought with him. Father’s stipend had been too little to buy a horse to replace Bruntaegl, but it was good that now they all had good new garments without worn spots or patches. They would get another horse someday, Father promised. The look in his eye when he said it made Osbehrt wonder.

‘I can see them!’ Osbehrt exclaimed in wonder, following his sister’s pointing finger to where a dark mass wound away down the road. There were banners above its head, fluttering brightly in the breeze. Mamma put her hand upon his shoulder, loving and hushing at once.

Again the horns sounded. Now the horses at the head of the column could be seen. The first was ridden by a standard-bearer holding high the proud White Horse of Rohan upon its green field. Behind them rode a guard of Riders, the plumes of their bright helms stirring in the wind. As they drew nearer, Osbehrt could see that they rode in tight formation around an enormous wagon drawn by two snowy white oxen. There upon the wain was a golden bier, and on it lay an old man as if in sleep.

His hair was arrayed about his head, snowy white and gleaming in the sunshine. His beard was combed upon his breast, two fine plaits lying atop it. He wore his mail and the garments in which he had ridden to war – clean now, but stained, they were more honourable than any robes of velvet or satin. Sitting at the King’s feet was a little person, like a child and yet with such knowledge and sorrow and understanding in his eyes that Osbehrt knew he was grown. His hair was brown and very curly where it peeked from beneath his bright helm, and he was clothed in green and white like any knight of the King’s household. In his arms he held a fearsome sword, cradled like a precious treasure.

‘Is that him?’ Osbehrt whispered, reaching back to tug at Mamma’s skirts. He did so by feel, unwilling to take his eyes from the spectacle. ‘Is that the King?’

‘Hush, dear one, yes,’ answered Mamma, very softly. ‘Yes, that is our King, our good, wise Théoden King.’

‘Who’s that beside him? Is that his little boy?’ asked Annis. She moved to point, but Father reached and caught her hand, clasping it firmly but lovingly.

‘That is his esquire,’ he murmured, bending low so that the children could hear. ‘That is Meriadoc the Holbytla, one of the Halflings who came south with Gandalf Greyhame when he rode to meet the King. He carries Herugrim, the sword of the King with which he smote the Serpent.’

Osbehrt looked at the little Rider with new amazement. Everyone talked about the Halflings, and how they had come from far away to throw down the Enemy and drive away the Shadow. In the last few days he had heard more stories than he could even remember of these Holbytla who had appeared out of legend. All the men who had fought in Gondor and away across the Great River spoke of them with reverence.

The wain was passing now, and all the people were silent. No one spoke now. No one bowed or curtseyed as they would have done before the living King. All stood silent, solemn, the men with bared heads and the women with their hands upon their breasts. Children, wide eyed and awestruck, watched as their valiant King passed by. Even the babies seemed to know to be quiet. Among all those hundreds and hundreds of people, scarcely a sound was heard. Many eyes shone bright with tears.

Riding behind the bier on a tall grey horse was a young man, bareheaded and golden of beard. He was clad in the mail of a Rider of Rohan, but over top he wore a green tabard embroidered with the swift White Horse of the royal house. The mane and tail of his horse were braided in many braids, twists of green silk adorning them. His face was sombre as befitted the moment, but there was joy in it also: the joy of a world made free.

‘That is the new King,’ murmured Father. ‘Sister-son to Théoden was he, and he led us over the river to the last battle before the Black Gate.’

Mother made a soft sound and reached for his hand, clutching it as if she feared he would ride away again. Osbehrt wanted to tell her that such a fear was foolish: Father could not ride off again, because Bruntaegl had been slain and now there was no horse to ride off on. But his eyes and his attention were drawn instead to the next row of mourners riding behind the bier.

There were two more Holbytla, one upon the right and one upon the left. Their clothes were bright and costly, and their grey cloaks seemed almost to shimmer as they rode. Yet it was not they who held Osbehrt’s eye, even as murmurs of Ring-bearers and Frodo Nine-Fingered began to ripple through the crowd nearby. He was looking at the tall Man who rode between them upon a horse larger than any Osbehrt had ever seen.

He, too, was bareheaded in respect for the dead, and he was clothed all in black: even unto his mail. Upon his chest, where Éomer King wore the White Horse, this man wore a White Tree stitched in white silk and silvery stitches too bright to be silver. Its blossoms were tiny gems, and atop it there was a crown like a winged helm. There were stars above that, and Osbehrt hurriedly counted them. Seven stars, all glittering. The man’s face was proud and noble, pale and solemn and yet with the same essential joy that sat upon the brow of the new King of the Mark. And for as long as he was able, Osbehrt stared at that fair and joyous face.

He scrunched up his eyes, and he bunched his lips into a puckered little ring, and he stared as hard as he could, because something about that face reminded him of the winter cottage in the little dell. He could not think why, and that made him stare all the harder. They were passing by now, and another row was coming: a figure in white upon a grey horse, and two – one lithe and one stocky – together upon the same steed. Osbehrt felt the angry burst of irritation of a child who has been presented with an unfinished story or a puzzle that cannot be solved.

Then something remarkable happened. Just as they were passing, just as the two fine ponies and the huge warhorse were stepping beyond Osbehrt and into Annis’s direct line of sight, one of the Halflings spoke. It was the Halfling on the tall Man’s left, between him and Osbehrt’s side of the road. And the tall Man turned to look at him, and he smiled.

Osbehrt’s hands flew to his mouth to keep the shout of amazement from escaping. He drummed from one foot to the other, unable to keep still. In the grass, Nyle stopped digging in his lapful of little blossoms and looked up to see what had so excited his brother. Annis didn’t notice: she was turned up to Father, whispering about the Holbytla. But Mamma did, and she put her hand on Osbehrt’s shoulder to calm him.

Instead, it only broke the dam behind which the cry had been roiling. ‘Mamma, that’s him!’ he exclaimed, pointing at the man in black. ‘That’s him, that’s my man! My man in the hay, Mamma! It is!’

She bent to hush him. People nearby were frowning their disapproval on the disruption. Annis turned to glare at Osbehrt, clearly mortified. Drawing near now were two beautiful ladies, one in grey and one in white, one dark and one golden, and they were flanked by two lords: the near one dark, and the far one with silvery hair. The shadow-haired lady turned her head to the sound, but Osbehrt hardly noticed her. He was twisted back over his hip, in part to look up at his mother and in part because by doing so he could still see the tall Man’s black cloak and free hair.

‘It’s him! Remember? The man in the hay! I found him, and he smiled, and then you said you’d whack him with the sickle?’ he babbled eagerly.

‘Be silent!’ Mamma hissed, dismayed. He could be heard at some distance now: folk were searching for the source of his voice. When Osbehrt opened his mouth again, he found himself suddenly up in the air, swinging onto his mother’s hip as she held his bottom with one arm and clamped the other hand over his mouth. Osbehrt wriggled, trying to writhe free, and succeeded in slipping his chin from her palm.

‘It is my man in the hay!’ he shouted indignantly. ‘His hair was all tumbly and tangled, and his face was dirty and now it’s not, but it is—’ 

He was cut off with a shrill mmph as Mamma covered his mouth again. This time she wasn’t about to let him slip. Her face was scarlet with embarrassment and anger.

‘Annis, mind Nyle!’ she hissed. Then, not waiting to see if she would be obeyed or even if she had been heard, she turned around and began to elbow through the crowd with Osbehrt bucking in an attempt to get free.

It was not as hard as one would have expected, for Mamma had freed up a space near the very front of the throng, and everybody was eager to budge up a little as someone filled it. In scarcely more than a few heartbeats they were back through the crowd and Mamma was striding across their little camp-kitchen to the tent. Now Osbehrt was livid. He was being pulled away from the procession, away from the spectacle he had waited for days and days to see. Yes, he had seen the Kings, the old one and the new one, and that was the main thing – but there were more and more people coming, and they all looked interesting! Hundreds of people, he thought. Not hundreds-and-hundreds like the people on either side of the road, but certainly at least two hundreds. He wanted to see them all!

He was so startled when Mamma’s hand left his mouth to whip aside the door-curtain that he did not immediately think to shout. They were inside and he was on his bottom on the rope bed before he knew what was happening. The bedframe broke down into four pieces so they could fit it in the wagon, and Father had strung the ropes good and tight and let Osbehrt and Nyle walk on them until they didn’t squeak. The mattress was filled with hay they had bought in fat bales from a hawker from a nearby farm. It was a good bed, and Osbehrt bounced a little as Mamma put him down.

He let out only a squawk that was not quite a protest before Mamma swooped down before him, anger burning across her face and one finger upraised to wag before his nose.

‘What do you mean, shouting and making a spectacle of yourself?’ she hissed. She still did not want to yell at him, even though they were hidden now, because you could hear things through the tent walls. Even now Osbehrt could hear the murmur of fascinated voices, free to remark upon the many fair and unusual folk now that the bier with Théoden King had passed on towards the city. ‘I told you, your father told you, we both told you to behave!’

His mother’s wrath stripped away Osbehrt’s defiance. He had not seen Mamma so angry since the winter Nyle had been born, when she had been pale and worried all the time and tearful and weepy much of the time and downright furious some of the time. She had been halfway between weepy and angry on the day Osbehrt had found the man in the hay, he remembered. That was why she had sent him and Annis outside: because Osbehrt had tried to pet Baby Nyle, and Baby Nyle had squawked and Mamma couldn’t bear it.

Yet though no longer defiant, Osbehrt was still defensive. ‘But Mamma!’ he protested in a tiny voice. He sounded like a mouse. Silly Annis had insisted his man was a mouse, too: he remembered that. A mouse in the hay, she had said. She’d been wrong. ‘Mamma, that man in the black mail—’

‘That man in the black mail is the King of Gondor!’ Mamma snapped breathily, still mindful of the volume of her voice. ‘He led the armies in the war and he fought the orcs at Helm’s Deep and he is a great man and a hero. What nonsense were you shouting at him? Shouting! Like some kind of wild man’s brat instead of the good little lad of the Mark I raised you up to be. And our dear King not hardly gone past on his funeral bier—I don’t know what came over you!’

‘But Mamma—’

‘Hush!’ She bit off the word quickly, her voice very clipped. Her legs were shaking and she whirled around to sit beside him on the bed. The ropes and the straw tick sagged towards her as she planted her elbows on her knees and drew one hand over her mouth. ‘Hush! Don’t you say a word to me, Osbehrt. Not one word! I’m so angry that I don’t… I don’t know what…’

Then she fell silent, her face buried in one hand while her other arm moved to hug her middle. She rocked to and fro, and her breath came in sharp, hurtful little hitches that made her back twitch as if with hiccoughs. Osbehrt sat silent, apologetic and dismayed but knowing that any disobedience (such as speech) would only make it worse.

He waited, while the noises outside grew steadily louder and merrier and the clop-clop of iron-shod horses went on and on. He waited until Mamma’s breath evened out and the cherry red flush left her cheeks and she stopped rocking. He waited until she let go of her middle and scrubbed her face in both hands and turned her head to look at him, still leaning far over her lap.

‘Well?’ she said. Now she did not sound angry, only tired and a little bemused. ‘Are you going to tell me why my good little boy was screaming after the King of Gondor?’

‘I wasn’t screaming,’ Osbehrt muttered, twisting the hem of this tunic in both his hands and kicking one dangling foot so that it swung.

‘What’s that?’ Mamma prompted in the voice she used when she wanted to coax them to speak up clearly.

‘I didn’t scream, I was shouting,’ he said, louder but now sullen. ‘A scream’s a scared noise, and a shout’s a happy one.’

‘I see,’ Mamma exhaled. She pursed her lips, now gone pale, and she blinked twice before speaking again. ‘Why did you shout, then?’

‘Because he’s my friend!’ said Osbehrt. ‘That man in black, he’s my friend.’

‘The King of Gondor,’ Mama said, very slowly; ‘is your friend.’

Osbehrt nodded. ‘He’s my man in the hay,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure about it ‘til he smiled, but it’s him all right.’

‘Man in the hay?’ echoed Mamma, looking so perplexed that she was almost in tears.

‘You know!’ Osbehrt said exasperatedly, thumping the backs of both hands into his lap, palms upward in helpless vexation. Hadn’t she been listening? ‘The man in the hay. The one who didn’t steal the hens.’

Mamma’s brow furrowed still more deeply, and then her eyes and mouth widened into three round rings. ‘The wild man!’ she breathed, her words strained. ‘The wild man we caught trying to sleep in our hay the winter when Nyle was born.’

‘Yes!’ Osbehrt said triumphantly. ‘My man in the hay!’

A shaky, half-hysterical laugh came from Mamma’s throat. ‘Oh, child, that was just some strange traveller who thought our feed would make a nice bed: he wasn’t anybody at all. He certainly wasn’t the King of Gondor.’

Osbehrt scowled. Being laughed at was far worse than being scolded. It made him feel like a baby: like Nyle. ‘It’s him. I know it,’ he muttered.

Mamma laughed again, more heartily this time, and smoothed his hair. When her hand cupped the back of his head she drew him to her and kissed his brow. ‘You’ve always had a lively imagination, my little man,’ she said fondly. ‘Look at you, trying to make a campfire tale out of one peculiar afternoon when you weren’t even as big as your brother is now!’

‘But he is my man in the hay!’ Osbehrt protested. He knew he was beaten, though. Grown folk never believed you once they started to laugh. He frowned down into his lap as his mother hugged him closer and kissed him again, this time on the cheek. ‘He is. I know it.’

lar

That was still his firm position two days later, but Osbehrt no longer voiced it. Father had only chuckled and said what a lively imagination he had: he’d make a storyteller one day, maybe. Annis laughed uproariously and went around announcing to her new friends that her brother thought he knew a King! Mamma humoured him politely, but he could see she was only petting. Only Nyle believed him, and listened with round eyes and rapt attention when Osbehrt related the story in whispers while everyone else was singing about the cooking fires or dancing in the soft green grass between the tents.

It was mid-afternoon, and most folk were resting. Théoden King would be buried upon the morrow, and tonight all the people would drink the funeral ale to speed him on his way. Heavy wagons laden with huge casks had already been sent out of the city, and tables set up where the new King’s men would serve out the drink. It was by order of Éomer King that all the people were to remember and to celebrate the great deeds of his mother’s brother, to mourn his dying and to rejoice in his victory. Mamma said there would be revelry until the dawning, and she had gone to lie down for a nap with Nyle.

Annis, always eager to be the obedient eldest, was also resting in the little box-bed the children shared. She would be too big for it soon, and then Father would have to build another frame bed instead. Osbehrt didn’t like that idea. He liked the little bed, where the three of them curled up cosily even on the coldest nights. But nobody asked his opinion, just as nobody believed him about his man in the hay.

He was sitting by the ashes of the cooking fire, legs crossed, and he was drawing in the dirt with a stick. Around the ring of stones that grew fiercely hot when the flames danced in their middle, the grass was scorched away to the stubble, and the earth was soft and mealy. It made a good place to draw. Osbehrt was drawing the hay rick, fat and rounded, and the little cottage and the henhouse. They stayed there every winter now, and Father had made it up very nicely. A couple of other families had built their own cots nearby, and so there were friends to play with now. But that winter it had been a very shabby, lonely place and often cold, too.

The visit from the man in the hay was one of Osbehrt’s happiest memories of that winter. It had been so unexpected, coming around the great mound of hay to see him with his shaggy hair and his strange, dirty clothes and those big boots. For a moment Osbehrt had been scared, but just for a moment because then the man had smiled, and he had a wonderful, welcoming, kindly smile. Then Annis hadn’t believed him, which was vexing, but Osbehrt had been proved right, which was marvelous. And afterwards, when Annis and Mamma saw about the chickens, they had all puzzled over it together and laughed. When Father came in with the kine, they had all laughed again. Even toothless little Nyle had smiled, his very, very first smile. All because of the man in the hay.

The crunch of booted feet made Osbehrt look up. Two tall men stood on the other side of the camp hearth, near the trestles and board that served the family as a table. One was dressed in black, and one was dressed in bright blue. They had high helms, one with wings on either side of it and the other with golden tracings and long blue plumes. They were grave looking men, and they regarded him pensively.

Then the one in blue looked at the one in black, no longer grave but somewhat chagrined. He shrugged his shoulder, and he said something in a tongue Osbehrt did not know. The one in black grimaced, nodded, and then squatted down to peer at the boy.

‘Are you called Osbehrt?’ he asked. His words were clumsy and sort of muddled about the edges, as if he didn’t usually talk like the people of the Mark.

‘Yes…’ Osbehrt said warily, looking from the crouching man to the standing one. The man in black still looked very grave, but the one in blue was smiling.

‘And a sister called Annis?’ asked the man ineptly.

Osbehrt frowned, trying to find the question in what seemed like a mere statement of fact. Then he heard more footsteps, this time behind him, and his father spoke.

‘This is my son,’ he said. ‘What business have you speaking to him?’

The man in black stood up. ‘Knights, we are, of Gondor,’ he said. ‘A boy, Osbehrt. His sister, Annis.’

But Father spoke the tongue of the men of Gondor, and he used it now. He made a statement, and then thrust out his chin proudly and put his left hand upon the hilts of his sword – the wrong hand to draw it with, but the correct hand to caress the pommel in boast. The blue man’s grin broadened. He said something, and then he and Father clasped hands and clapped one another on the shoulder. Then the man in black launched into a lengthy speech that left Osbehrt befuddled and his father increasingly wary.

Father said something else, and the man in blue spoke. Then he asked a question, looking as if he had just been asked to take some terrible risk in fording a stream. The man in black shook his head solemnly.

Then Father spoke hurriedly to the men. The one in blue shrugged again and nodded, and Father bent and seized Osbehrt’s arm. Almost before he could scramble to his feet, Father was hauling him away from the men and into the tent. He thrust aside the curtain that separated the beds from the area where they took visitors or ate on rainy days.

Mamma’s eyelids fluttered at the sound, and she swallowed sleepily. She was lying curled on top of the bedclothes, for the day was hot, and she had Nyle curled in against her nice, plump stomach. Her hair was loose and she smiled dreamily up at her husband before understanding his expression and sitting up with a start.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘There are two men here,’ he said grimly. His hold on Osbehrt’s arm had changed from imperious to possessive. His eyes darted to Annis, wide awake and sitting up in the trundle bed, and there was a fire of protectiveness in him. ‘They are knights of Gondor. One, from Dol Amroth far away, was unhorsed in the first battle. We marched together, though we did not know one another.’

That must have been the man in blue, Osbehrt thought. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what the men wanted when his mother did it for him.

‘They were sent to find a family from Eastemnet, with a daughter called Annis and a son called Osbehrt, and another son also,’ said Father flatly. ‘They have been moving through the camps, asking, and some of the folk directed them to us. They are here to bring us to the Golden Hall.’

‘What?’ Mamma gasped. ‘Why?’ She was sitting up now, clutching a half-asleep Nyle to her. He mumbled something unintelligible and plucked at the front of her kirtle. Mamma hushed him absently and stroked his hair.

‘It seems we are wanted by their Lord,’ Father managed. His voice was very tight, and his lips had gone white. ‘All of us, even the children.’

‘But why? What have we done?’ Now Mamma was pale, her free hand fluttering. She put her feet upon the floor and made Nyle sit up on the bed. He scrubbed at his eyes, flummoxed but uncomplaining in his little-boy way.

‘I do not know,’ said Father hoarsely. ‘Perhaps Osbehrt’s outburst…’

Mamma’s eyes grew large as hen’s eggs, and her hand flew to her throat. ‘You don’t think he could have offended their King!’ she cried, her voice a hoarse whisper of horror. ‘They won’t… won’t arrest you?’

‘I do not know,’ Father said again. Now his face was hard, almost angry-looking, but the hand that held Osbehrt was shaking. ‘They are outside now: we are to come at once. Quickly! Put right your hair. Annis, get up. Osbehrt…’

He looked down at his son, took him by the shoulders and turned him, and brushed off the seat of his trousers and the tail of his tunic. Then suddenly Father was on his knees and hugging Osbehrt tightly to him.

‘It isn’t your fault,’ he whispered, squeezing his son nearer still. He stroked his hair like Mamma so often did, smoothing down the straw-coloured curls. ‘These great Lords and their tempers… it isn’t your fault.’

Osbehrt didn’t feel that way, as Mamma hurriedly made herself presentable and put a fresh smock on Nyle; as Annis combed her hair and asked anxious questions that were met with curt replies; as Father took off his old comfortable tunic and drew on his new, stiff one. He belted his sword over it, too, and this time with grim determination instead of pride. Whatever was happening, Osbehrt thought as they stepped out to huddle before the tent door, it was most assuredly his fault. He had shouted at the King of Gondor, and now these men were coming to take them away.

The man in blue held out his hands to Mamma, who had Nyle in her arms. He said something that only Father could understand, but Mamma did not need words to know what he wanted. Fearfully she shook her head and hugged her youngest child closer. Annis was holding onto Mamma’s wide woven girdle as she had not done in years – not, Osbehrt thought with a sickening lurch of his stomach, since the day she had come out so bravely to wave the poker at the man in the hay. Father stood very stiffly.

The knight smiled and made a deprecating gesture. Then his countryman said something firm and very brief, and they started to walk. For a moment not one of the family moved. Then Father reached and took hold of Osbehrt’s hand. He put his other palm in the small of Mamma’s back, drawing her forward in a tiny, lurching step.

‘Come,’ he said. His voice was hoarse but determined. ‘Whatever it is, at least we’re together.’

Osbehrt was a good walker. A boy had to be, growing up among the travelling herdsmen. He could walk five leagues in a day and hardly even be tired when camp was made – well, not tired enough to fall asleep straight off before supper was ready, anyhow. The walk up the hill and through the city of Edoras was not more than four miles, but it was the longest walk he had ever taken in his life.

No one said anything: not Father, not Mother, not the man in black, not Annis (which was extraordinary) or even Nyle. Only the knight in blue spoke a couple of times; once when they climbed up onto the road, and once at the city gate. As they went, people stared after them. At first it was folk they knew: herdsmen from their own band, or men who had ridden with Father under Elfhelm the Marshal, or new acquaintances they had made since setting up camp. Then the watchers were people who did not understand why a family of their own sort was being led off by two tall, armed men with dark hair and strange voices. Then, in the city itself, curious faces peeked out of windows and doorways, took in the sight, and moved on to other business. City folk were too busy to be interested for long.

Osbehrt had never been in a city before, and he had heard stories of Edoras all his life. He wanted to look around and take in all the marvelous sights and sounds and the new smells (not all of them marvelous, though some certainly were). But he could not. He could only trot along beside his father, stalwartly keeping pace and trying not to cry. They were in trouble. He had brought trouble on them all. It was all his fault.

At last they reached it: the high Golden Hall of the Meduseld. Now they stopped, all four of them. Father and Mamma and Annis and Osbehrt froze in their tracks, unable to go any further. They stared in awe at the sight before them. Even Nyle stared, his fingers in his mouth and his other hand curled around Mamma’s arm. She hitched him higher on her hip, but it was just a reflex. She was as petrified as the rest of them, awestruck by the splendour of the Hall of the King.

There was a guard before the doors, and he was a man of the Mark. Osbehrt almost wanted to run to him, weeping with gladness, and to beg him for help. Surely a good man of the Mark would not let strangers take away a family of their own folk to face some terrible foreign Lord, would he?

But the guard exchanged a few curt words with Father, and then took his sword. He took Mamma’s knife with the smooth bone handle, too. It was just a knife for cooking and butchering and things, but it was as long as her forearm and she always carried it in a sheath on her hip. Father had to take Nyle so that she could remove it. When she handed it to the man her hands were shaking as if she had a palsy.

‘Fret not, lady,’ said the guard. ‘I learned my craft from the noblest doorwarden Edoras has ever known. I shall suffer no man to touch your treasure.’

Then he ushered them through. Father’s hand quaked briefly as the doors swung wide, but he tightened his hold on Osbehrt’s and marched forward with his shoulders squared bravely and his head held high. He drew Mamma close, and Annis nudged in nearer to her mother’s leg, and together they walked into the cool shade of the hall.

The sunlight fell in long shafts from high windows in the westward wall, casting the place in curious one-sided shadows. Many pillars rose to either side, shooting upward towards the great roof high above. Osbehrt followed these with his eyes, awed, but he felt the tug of his father’s hand and realized he had stopped walking. After that he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, which was set with stones of many colours carven with letters and shapes.

‘Look at the weavings!’ Annis breathed, her own fright momentarily forgotten. But Mamma hushed her, and they went on.

They walked past a long hearth set in the middle of the hall, as if this were any landholder’s lodge. There was a fire burning, but it was banked with ashes for its heat was little needed in these summer days. Osbehrt looked up, meaning to ask his father why the King should have so ordinary a thing in his hall, and that was when he saw the dais.

There was a high gilded seat set upon it, but it could barely be seen. Nor could the carven wooden chair draped with a swath of white satin that had been set beside it. For before each of these stood a man: both tall, both majestic, both clad in bright garments with joy upon their brows. One was Éomer King, Osbehrt saw at once, and he was too marveled to be frightened. The other was the great King of Gondor, no longer wearing mail or his black raiment.

They had all stopped, but the two knights were behind them and they had to go on. Father swallowed hard as he started forward, approaching the throne and the two Kings. There were other people nearby, Osbehrt saw. The lady in grey stood near the King of Gondor, only today she was clad in violet like a maiden on Mayday morning. Beside Éomer King stood a lady proud and lovely: a lady of the Mark and so like the King that Osbehrt did not need to be told that this was the Lady Éowyn his sister.

Off to one side, in the cool comfort of the shadows, there were chairs and couches gathered together, and there many fair folk were sitting and sipping of wine and tasting of bright fruits laid out on golden plates. They had been talking quietly together in words Osbehrt did not understand, but they fell silent as the little family drew near, watchful.

It was Éomer King who spoke first. ‘These are the children, Osbehrt and Annis?’ he asked. The knight in black answered clumsily in the affirmative. Then the King looked at Osbehrt’s father. ‘What is your name, good herdsman?’ he asked.

Father’s lips parted, but no sound issued forth. He was as pale as the snow upon the high mountains, and now even his grip upon Osbehrt could not disguise the tremor in his hand. ‘T-Tolan, Lord King,’ he said hoarsely, his voice carried high and far by the sedate air of the hall. ‘Tolan son of Toran, a loyal servant of the House of Éorl.’

The King nodded, as if he had expected this. ‘Come nearer, Tolan,’ he said, beckoning. ‘Bring your children and your fair lady wife.’

Osbehrt was the first to step forward. The King’s voice was kind, and beside him the tall, tall dark-haired King of Gondor was smiling. Osbehrt knew that smile. He knew it, and now he was not afraid at all.

But Father was. Father grabbed his shoulder, staying him, and then slid free of Mamma’s waist. He took two long running steps forward, and cast himself to his knees, palms upon the floor and head bowed low.

‘Lord King, Lord King have mercy!’ he cried. ‘Whatever cause these great Lords have for wrath, have mercy upon one who rode in your name, who followed you on foot when his mount was cut from under him. Let my family go from this place, my King, and keep me in their stead!’

Mamma made a high, frightened sound, and Annis whimpered. Nyle was now sucking his fingers so forcefully that the squelch of his spittle could be heard. Osbehrt was watching the young, golden King as his face furrowed in confusion and dismay. His sister looked utterly taken aback, and at his other side the King of Gondor was stepping forward. The lady at his side was the only one who did not seem astonished by Father’s outcry. Her face was tender and just a little sad.

The clatter of costly boots on stone rang out as the King of Gondor hastened down the dais steps. He wore a mantle of some light and gauzy cloth, and it billowed behind him as he dropped to one knee and laid his hands upon Father’s prostrate shoulders. Father flinched.

‘Do not speak of wrath, Tolan son of Toran!’ the King of Gondor said. Osbehrt nearly clapped his hands, for he knew now without any doubt that it was his friend. His voice was the same, though not so strained, and for all his dark hair he knew their speech. ‘Not one among us is wroth with you, and never with your family.’ When Father did not move, he looked back over his shoulder at Éomer King, shaking his head ever so slightly. ‘Not once…’ he breathed, then without even a pause he changed to another tongue to finish his sentence.

The young King, Osbehrt’s King, brave Éomer of the Mark, said something in reply. He moved down onto the first step of the dais. ‘Rise, Tolan son of Toran,’ he said.  'No harm will come to you in my hall, nor to any of your blood. You are my good and loyal subject. You have not been brought here to meet your doom.’

Father’s breath caught and he raised his head to look at his King. Then it was as if he had only just noticed the man kneeling beside him, long fingers still closed about his shoulders. He straightened a little, shying away with a tiny noise of dismay. The dark King drew back his hands gently, and the kindest of smiles was on his face.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, as humbly as an old friend trying to mend a fresh hurt. He spoke their tongue perfectly, with no hesitation and no strange accent. ‘I did not expect my summons to cause you fear. I thought I was known to you, and that you would understand my wish to thank you.’

‘K-Known to me, Lord?’ Father whispered, tense as a hound still expecting the whip. ‘I know you only as the one who sailed the Black Ships to our aid, who led us in desperate battle to great victory. What cause have you to thank me?’

‘Your service would be cause enough,’ said the King of Gondor. ‘Had I but time, each man who fought upon that field or marched that desperate road would have his thanks from my own lips. Yet this is a matter somewhat more particular, and in sooth it was not you I wished to thank so much as your family.’

Father sat up far enough that his palms were no longer on the floor. He drew his arms in across his stomach, loose but defensive. He looked back at Mamma, who was shaking her head like one startled from a dream. ‘My family…’ Father breathed.

Then at last the King of Gondor looked at Osbehrt, his eyes with their peculiar stormy colour merry. His smile grew broad, no longer gentle so much as gleeful. ‘Do you not remember me, Master Osbehrt?’ he asked. ‘You knew me two days past.’

His one hand rested upon his upraised knee. The other he held out in welcome. Osbehrt gave out a whoop of triumph and ran to him, taking a little leap to fling his arms about the man’s neck. He felt a strong hand settle firmly upon his back.

‘I knew it was you! I knew it, I knew!’ Osbehrt sang out. ‘I told them. They didn’t believe me, but I knew!’

He drew back out of the embrace, a little abashed. His parents were gawking at him, and Annis had abandoned her desperate hold on their mother’s girdle. She was frowning thoughtfully, unable to choose between excitement and perturbation.

The man in the hay – now the King in black, Osbehrt thought, except that he wasn’t wearing black now and what did that mean he should be called, then? – was still smiling down at him.

‘As I knew when I heard your call,’ he said. His eyes twinkled conspiratorially. ‘Did your mother scold you fiercely for raising your voice on such a solemn day?’

Osbehrt was about to confirm that indeed she had, but his mother took a timid step forward. ‘My Lord…’ she said feebly.

The King in the Hay turned his eyes upon hers, and they were once more very gentle. ‘It seems I am ever fated to frighten you, lady,’ he said softly. ‘I must ask your forgiveness in this.’

‘I… I don’t understand,’ Mamma protested, shaking her head fervently. ‘I can’t understand.’

‘I don’t understand it myself,’ said Éomer King, coming down to the level of the hall floor and crossing his arms as he regarded the other great Lord. He spoke like a man challenging his brother for an explanation. ‘You promised you would give us the tale when we had your champions before us. Make good thine oath, Wingfoot, and be swift!’

‘Have you a tale for Éomer King, Osbehrt?’ asked the King in the Hay, affable and prompting at once.

Osbehrt was stricken dumb. It was one thing to run to his old friend, whose identity he had been professing for days. It was quite another to speak to his King, who towered so high above him in his splendour, with his throne behind him and his mighty sword upon his hip. He looked up at Éomer King, and his heart hammered within him.

Then there was a slap of soft shoes coming near, and a determined voice said; ‘He was in our hay. Nyle was just a babe, and we got turned out to play, and Osbehrt wandered off – which he was not meant to do! – and he came back ‘round the rick telling tales of a man in the hay.’

The King of the Mark was looking at her now, both amused and still a little perplexed. ‘You would be Annis,’ he said cautiously.

‘Yes,’ she said stoutly, coming still nearer. ‘We went in because it was cold, and then we heard a yelp, like a cat with a pulled tail. Mamma told us to stay, and she went out, and there he was!’

She pointed at the smiling King of Gondor. Father was up on his knees properly now, and he reached for her, trying to quiet her without actually speaking before the two great Lords. Osbehrt noticed that everyone in the small group of people to the side was watching also. Most seemed to be trying to hold back laughter, but a few were not. One man in blue, with long dark hair flecked with grey, looked still more bewildered than Éomer King. Another man was merely sitting, observing the scene with the saddest eyes that Osbehrt had ever seen. He was such a young man, with long dark hair and a slender form, and yet his sad, sad eyes made him look terribly old.

Annis was continuing with the story, explaining how Mamma had challenged the man with the scythe, and she with the poker, and when she came to the part about Osbehrt coming out with baby Nyle in his arms, there was a general chuckle of amusment and Éomer King threw back his head and laughed so that the rafters rang with mirth.

‘You have a stout heart, Osbehrt son of Tolan,’ he applauded. Then he frowned at his friend. ‘Where were your other companions? Surely an Elf and a Dwarf would have proved more remarkable than a wild man, however enamoured of their hay.’

The dark-haired king shook his head. He moved as if to rise, but sat down upon the steps instead, resting his arms upon his knees. Something about this posture seemed to put Father at greater ease than all the kind reassurances in the world, for he relaxed out of his rigid pose and crossed his own legs. From the dais the Lady Éowyn gestured towards Mamma, and out of the shadows a servant appeared, carrying a low-backed chair with carven arms. He set it down, bowed and retreated.

Mamma did not move. She was still clutching Nyle to her with her eyes enormous in their astonishment and her face very pale. There was a rustling of rich cloth as Éomer King sat down upon the step beside the other King. So many Kings, Osbehrt thought dizzily.

‘Please sit, lady,’ said the King in the Hay, indicating the chair and smiling at Mamma.

Her lips moved wordlessly, and then there was a whisper of silk. The lady in the violet gown moved forward, swiftly but so smoothly that she almost seemed to float. She laid her hand gently upon Mamma’s arm and led her to the chair, lending her palm to steady Nyle as Mamma sat. Not a word did she say, but the tender care in her eyes spoke eloquently enough. A tiny, timid smile touched Mamma’s lips, and it was reciprocated radiantly by the beautiful lady.

The King in the Hay looked around at them, a loose storyteller’s ring about him. Annis planted herself down upon the floor where she stood, and the King nodded approvingly.

‘It was not during my travels with Legolas and Gimli, my friend, but some two winters past,’ he said. ‘I was on a desperate errand, pressing northward in great haste, and I was weary and in search of shelter. I came upon a little dell wherein stood a cottage I took to be deserted. A hay rick makes a fine bedchamber in the Wild, and I was tempted down into the dooryard.’

Éomer King leaned back a little, quizzical brows arched. Behind him his sister had now drawn near, listening intently. The folk with the golden dishes were settling quietly amongst themselves. Osbehrt supposed most of them did not speak the language of the Riddermark. Only the sad young man seemed to be listening, no less sorrowful than before. He looked like one who was attending to some favourite storyteller, knowing this is to be the last time he would speak.

‘No sooner had I drawn near than I saw my mistake,’ said the King in the Hay. He fixed apologetic eyes upon Father. ‘What I had taken for an abandoned cot was not. No smoke in the chimney, but the roof was patched drum-tight. Well-tended tools stood nigh; a clean apron; the scent of healthy swine. I was in the first paces of a quiet retreat when these fair young folk came out.’ He gestured to Osbehrt and Annis. ‘All the rest is much as this eloquent young lady has told you, save that when Osbehrt and his brother – what is your name, young warrior? Your sister has said it, and I have forgotten.’

‘Nyle,’ the little boy said. He was leaning forward in Mamma’s lap now, listening intently. The fingers had left his mouth, though his chin was still wet.

‘Nyle,’ the King repeated. ‘When Osbehrt came out with Nyle, their gracious mother gave me leave to go in peace. In her goodness, she bade me fill my skins at her well, for the nearby stream was foul.’ He twisted as he met Éomer King’s eyes very gravely. ‘Saruman’s work, unless I miss my guess.’

The name seemed known to some in the shaded assembly, for several pairs of eyes moved again to the foot of the dais. One of these was the golden-haired lady in white whom Osbehrt had seen in the procession into Edoras. Her eyes flashed almost fiercely.

‘I do not understand, my Lord,’ murmured Father. He was hanging his head, humble, but the terror was long fled from his limbs and his voice. ‘I was told of the encounter, of course, but the stranger was a… well…’

‘A vagabond?’ asked the King in the Hay. His eyes sparkled as if he was about to burst into uproarious laughter. ‘So I was, wending my way North with short commons and too little sleep. Ragged, dirty, thoroughly disreputable to look upon…’

He looked at Mamma as he said this, and she flushed crimson, averting his eyes from his and shying away from the beautiful lady who stood near her.

‘Do not be abashed, dear lady,’ the King said warmly. ‘You dealt fairly with me, and I am thankful. You took me at my word, and I am honoured. You aided me on my journey, and in doing so wrought a far greater good than you could have known.’

The truth and gravity in his voice made Osbehrt feel very solemn, as if listening to one of the deep, funerary songs that were sung now in the last hour before slumber. Yet he was joyful, too, for he could see that his friend was joyful. And he was five, and rather cheeky. ‘Did I wrought a great good also?’ he asked.

The King laughed softly and reached to tap him under the chin with a crooked forefinger. ‘Indeed you did,’ he said; ‘perhaps you most of all. I was in dire need of a little mirth that day, and you provided it selflessly.’

Osbehrt puffed out his chest a little. Annis bristled with a big sister’s envy.

‘Why didn’t you take the chickens?’ she asked.

Momma inhaled sharply, horrified. Father looked confused. Osbehrt, still glowing with pride, graciously allowed his sister to have her moment of attention from the King.

‘Your chickens?’ he echoed. For the first time since Father had flung himself upon the floor at his feet, it was the King in the Hay who looked confounded. ‘I would have blackened my name with shame if I had taken your chickens, after your lady mother gave freely of the gift of water. Why should you ask such a thing?’

‘The latch was broken,’ said Annis. ‘Somebody fixed it with a bit of wire: Mamma said so the foxes wouldn’t get in. But she was sure you took a chicken when you did it, too. Save then we counted, and every one was there!’

Mamma looked as if she wished to sink into the floor with mortification. Father was horrified. Osbehrt didn’t understand why. After all, it had been the King who had fixed the latch, hadn’t it?

It seemed it had, for he sighed and shook his head, chagrined and amused at once. ‘I see. Of course you would suspect such a ruffian of chicken-snatching,’ he said. ‘You were quite right to count them. No, I was not after your chickens, nor their eggs. The latch was broken through my carelessness, and I mended it as best I could.’

Beside him, Éomer King was shaking. For a moment Osbehrt wondered if he, like Father and Mamma, was making this out to be some sort of calamity. Then he realized that the young King was laughing uncontrollably and trying to keep silent while he did it. His cheeks were rosy, his lips pressed together, his shoulders quaking. Behind him, his sister was trying to suppress a broad grin. Osbehrt realized with surprise that they were just like Annis and him: sharing a private joke even when no one else was laughing.

For the first time, the lady in the violet gown looked puzzled. Osbehrt could tell she did not know their speech, but he thought she knew the story. Now she seemed lost.

The King in the Hay unfolded his long legs and rose smoothly, lithe as a strong young horse. Father scrambled to rise with him, hurriedly motioning for the children to do the same. Éomer King tried to rise, then bent over his knees and clutched at his ribs. With an exasperated little pursing of her lips, the Lady Éowyn stepped around him and offered both hands to haul him to his feet.

The King of Gondor gave a sign, and a servant appeared bearing a tray upon which were set four silver cups. Two were large, the others small. Just right for little hands, Osbehrt thought eagerly. Then he coloured a bit himself. That was a greedy thing to think, wasn’t it?

‘What is your name, lady?’ asked the King, smiling at Mamma. She had just risen, and she was trying to straighten her skirts with Nyle still on her hip. She froze at his words and looked at him like a doe about to flee for cover.

‘Wilonë, Lord,’ she whispered. ‘Wilonë, wife of Tolan.’

‘Wilonë, wife of Tolan,’ the King in the Hay repeated ceremoniously, taking one of the tall goblets from the salver. ‘You gave me leave to pass unharried through your land, when many would have feared me. You gave me the gift of water, when I could make no repayment. Now the Shadow has been conquered, and the time has come for recompense to be given where it may be. Accept from my hand this gift of wine, the fruit of my land and the work of my people.’

He gave Mamma the goblet, and handed the other to Father. They took them, bereft of words. Then the King took both of the smaller cups and gave them to Annis and Osbehrt. Inside was a little measure of wine, dark as jewels. It smelled sweet and summery, and Osbehrt drank it at once. He was the first one to do so, but Annis followed. Then Mamma sipped of hers. Last of all was Father.

‘The casks shall be brought to your camping-place this evening,’ said the King. ‘For the children I have other gifts.’

A basket was brought, and from it he took a sword and shield. They were carved of wood, beautifully tooled in the style of the weapons of the Riders of the Mark. Upon the circular boss of the shield was carved the Tree that the King had worn on his tabard in the procession. Osbehrt held his breath, not daring to hope such things were for him.

‘Your father fought valiantly at my calling, Osbehrt son of Tolan,’ said the King in the Hay. ‘When you make use of these among your comrades, remember his courage.’

He reached into the basket again, and brought out a knife in a crimson leather sheath. It was the same sort of knife that Mamma carried, but shorter: a grown woman’s knife, in all but size. The handle was of silver.

‘Annis, daughter of Wilonë,’ he said; ‘you stood forth to defend your home armed with only a fire-tool. Now peace is come: put this to some gentler use.’

Annis found her voice where Osbehrt had not. ‘Thank you! Oh, I thank you!’ she gasped, clutching her gift. The King smiled at her, and then his eyes shifted to the right, where Éomer King and his sister stood shoulder to shoulder. He did not wink, but something in the curl of his lip had the feeling of a wink.

Then he reached again into the basket. The lady in violet had stepped from the circle; she was now amid the couches and the quiet watching folk, bent and searching for something.

‘And Nyle,’ said the King in the Hay, tucking his head a little to grin at the boy. ‘Horses I know you must have aplenty, but I suspect you do not possess an Oliphant. Your father can tell you a tale of such creatures, no doubt.’

He gave Nyle a carven wooden animal of some sort, intricately painted and just the right size to ride with his three wooden horses. Nyle took it, looked at it, and hugged it to him jealously.

Now Éomer King spoke. He had managed to school his laughter, and had been watching the gift-giving thoughtfully. ‘Tolan son of Toran,’ he said. Father stiffened and looked at him, still not quite believing all that he had seen and heard. ‘Your mount was cut beneath you on the Pelennor, you said, and still you marched eastward with us?’

‘Yes, Lord King,’ said Father throatily. ‘I should have followed you to the fiery mountain, if that had been your command.’

‘Let us all give thanks that such trials were spared us,’ said Éomer King, the words almost a prayer. Then he studied Father’s face. ‘Have you replaced your loyal mount?’

Father cast down his eyes, ashamed. It was a terrible thing, not to own a horse. Only the poorest households in the Mark did not have at least one. ‘Sire, I am a man of humble means…’ Father mumbled.

‘For your service, and for the hospitality your house has offered to my friend and greatest ally, Elessar, King of Gondor, you shall be furnished with a breeding pair from my own herds,’ Éomer King proclaimed. ‘My Master of Horse will take you to make your choice. Only the Mearas do I reserve, out of ancient custom.’

‘My Lord… sire…’ Father stammered, raising his eyes in disbelief and gratitude. It was a princely gift, and Osbehrt wanted to laugh for joy. Two horses! And the toys, and Annis’s knife, and wine from the King of Gondor: why, they were wealthy!’

The lady in the violet gown was back. She had something in her arms: cloth, neatly folded. She approached the King in the Hay, and she whispered something in his ear before bending her head to receive. He spoke softly, and she listened with a studious look in her eyes. Then she came to Mamma and shook out the cloth. It was a beautiful shawl, all of silk and broidered with trees and beasts and birds of many colours. They seemed to dance across the shimmering cloth. Annis gasped and Osbehrt gaped. With a smooth sweeping motion, the lady lay the shawl about Mamma’s shoulders, tucking it under her arm where she held Nyle.

Then in the language of the Mark, her syllables smooth and her accent flawless, the lady who did not understand their speech said; ‘For the new babe, dear lady.’

The tears glittered in Mamma’s eyes, but she was smiling.

metta