Chapter 15: Budgielover
The sight of an unknown man, definitely not a cook, bending over the King's supper stopped the old man in his tracks. Sarnor blinked, rheumy eyes struggling to focus, automatically cursing his failing eyesight. Even the knowledge that the King's Food-taster needed his senses of smell and taste more than sight did not lessen his self-recrimination for growing old.
'What are you doing, soldier?' Even ten years ago, Sarnor reflected, his voice would have come out strong and sure instead of weak and whining. How strange that he might well die simply of old age; the first son of his fathers to do so in over three hundred years--the Enemy had often tried to put an end to the Stewards’ Line.
The man whirled, a stirring spoon dropping from his hand. Stumbling back against the counter, the soldier clamped one hand on the pommel of his sword. For an insane moment, Sarnor thought the man might draw on him.
'Watch it there!' said one of the servants sharply as the spoon clattered against the flagstone. Tossing aside a dishcloth, he hurried back to where the soldier stood rooted. 'You're not a cook, soldier! What is your name and rank?'
'It – It was burning,' the soldier stammered. Gaining more confidence, he retrieved the spoon and tossed it onto the counter. 'You cannot serve the King burnt soup.'
Summoned as if by the magic of the word 'burnt,' the master cook appeared. Even Sarnor stepped back; a friendship of forty years would not protect him if Nicolas thought he was interfering with his kitchens' duties. Like Sarnor, Nicolas' life was his work, and also like Sarnor, the master cook would allow nothing to stand in the way of his service to the Returned King.
'Burnt? Burnt? In my kitchen?'
'I stopped the soup from burning,' Ingold said loudly, straightening. He glanced quickly into the pot, but the last of the white powder had already dissolved into the simmering brown liquid.
'Dish it up, then,' the master cook ordered. 'This is all I had ingredients for. If it is ruined, I will have both of you whipped.'
The servant hurried to obey, carefully ladling the steaming soup into two bowls. One was of beaten silver, adorned around the edges with a pattern of White Trees. Ingold's stomach lurched as he recognized the insignia of the Steward. Almost he cried out, stopped the servant, but the white powder he had ingested bound his tongue. That tongue dried in his mouth as the servant then ladled the soup into the second bowl, of gold, bearing seven stars and a crown.
The master cook leaned over the bowls and peered at them, then sniffed them critically. 'It is not burned. Lucky for you, Harcord.' The servant nodded, his face relieved. 'Hurry, hurry. Put them on a serving tray. I will not have the King wait!'
'Hold!' Sarnor said sharply. 'Nothing goes to the King or Steward from this kitchen without passing my lips first. Nothing!'
'Of course, Master Sarnor. As the first course, this mushroom soup–'
'Mushroom soup, did you say?'
The master cook looked towards the door with a sinking heart. The pheriannath were always honoured guests in the kitchens, not a whit less so for their very frequent visits, but this course – this one course – he had been hoping to save for the King.
'Of course you mustn't send Aragorn anything less than perfection,' Frodo said sincerely, looking up at the towering Men with his most winning smile. 'Being a hobbit, I am obviously the most qualified to judge the quality of the soup. Hand over those bowls, lad.'
This last was directed towards Harcord, who automatically started to obey. Pausing with the tray in his hands, he looked at the master cook in appeal.
'Lord Frodo, Lord Samwise,' Nicolas began. 'Forgive me, my lords, but mushrooms are hard to come by in the City; the farmers just starting to bring in their carts from the farms. This is all there is, my lords. The King–'
'Isn't all that fond of mushrooms anyway,' Frodo interrupted, leaning forward to sniff the curling steam. 'Throw some caterpillars and beetles in a bowl; that will make him happy.'
Next to him, Sam snorted. Seeing the looks of horror on the Men's faces, he laughed. 'Inside joke, sirs,' he told them gravely, one side of his mouth turning up. 'What with the King being a Ranger and all. You don't want to get him started on `the high-quality protein sources all around us, if you know where to look'.'
'That was very good, Sam,' Frodo said admiringly.
'Mr. Pippin's been teaching me, sir. He does a wicked Aragorn. You should hear him do Gandalf … when the dear old wizard's not around, of course.'
'I shall remember to ask him. And I will give him the soup with the kitchens compliments, my good masters. My deepest thanks – as you might have heard, the lad hasn't been well lately, and this is just the thing to put the swagger back in his step.'
'Well, if it's for the Ernil i Pheriannath…' Nicolas said slowly.
'Excellent! Well, come along, Sam. We want to get this to Pip before it gets cold–'
'Lord Frodo!' Sarnor's protest halted the Ring-bearers just before the door. 'I must check the soup, my lord! As the King's Food-taster–'
'Oh.' Frodo's face fell. 'You must do your duty, of course.' Regretfully, he began to hand the tray to the old man. Sam sighed, brown eyes fastened on the bowls.
The master cook looked at the hobbits' crestfallen faces. 'Master Sarnor, the soup's not going to the King, is it? It's for the Ernil i Pheriannath.'
Frodo looked up, his eyes gleaming, his whole face lighting up. Samwise beamed at them. Handing the tray to his friend, Frodo stepped forward and bowed deeply, his hand over his heart. 'I am forever in your debt, good sirs. If you ever have need of anything within my power, you have only to call upon Frodo Baggins–'
'To empty my kitchen of anything remotely edible,' Nicolas replied, rolling his eyes. 'Oh, get on with you, my lord.' Around them, the kitchen staff grinned, then turned quickly back to their work when the master glared at them.
The hobbits were gone as quickly and silently as they came. 'Don't know how they do that,' Nicolas muttered to Sarnor. 'I think they have a watch posted on the kitchens. Fraternizing with the Guard, no doubt. Speaking of which–' he looked around, a frown crossing his features. 'Now where did that soldier get to? I never even got his name.'
****
'There's two bowls, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Pippin don't need them both. Not with his stomach being a mite delicate, yet. I'm just pointing that out.'
'Halvesies?'
'If you let me do the measuring.'
'You drive a hard bargain, Sam.'
'I just know you, Mr. Frodo.'
****
Far from the kitchens, far from any place he might meet his comrades, Ingold kicked aside a bucket and slammed shut the broom cupboard door, sagging against it. In the darkness, he could smell wet mop and soap and the wax used on the marble floors. It was dank and cool and so quiet his heart seemed to hammer in his ears.
The tiny amount of powder the two men had given him was already wearing off, and he needed more. Much more. Hands shaking, Ingold scrubbed at his face, fancying he could feel little feet scurrying on his skin under his uniform. Little things crawling on him. When the Ringbearer had mentioned insects, he could hardly refrain from scratching. It was then he knew that he had to get away, before they could question him, before they saw what he was.
And he had allowed the drugged soup to go with the Ringbearers. Like all of the soldiers of the White Tower, of the City of Gondor, of every citizen of his country, he revered the Ringbearer. He owed Lord Frodo, not only for his worthless life, but for the freedom of his City, and his country, and his world. He had heard how the pheriannath were mad for mushrooms, and had little doubt that at least one of those bowls would find its way into those two's bellies. Lord Frodo was not yet so strong, he knew; the White Wizard and the King were still deeply concerned about him. He, Ingold, had stood his watch in the Throne Room and seen the worry in the King's eyes when Elessar looked at Frodo, and heard his King and Mithrandir fret over the hobbit, about how he was not recovering from his ordeal as quickly or well as they had hoped.
And the Ernil i Pheriannath… Ingold knew Pippin, of course. Not well, but all of the White Tower knew him. The little soldier's joyous spirit had been more of a balm in the Houses of Healing than any of the healer's arts. Ingold did not know what a strong infusion of the drug would do to him. Having once been soiled by it, what damage would a strong, concentrated second dose inflict? Covering his face with his hands, Ingold dropped to his knees and wept.