An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. All the original characters below belong to me, though.

Genre: General (advent calendar)

Rating: varies from chapter to chapter. This particular chapter is rated G.

Series: “Sons of Gondor”, a series of individual stories. A side product to “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

Timeframe: September 8-15 2998, Third Age. Takes place during Chapter 7 of “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

Summary: The Wandering Elves, led by Gildor Inglorion, visit the annual autumn fair in Halabor.

Archiving: My own website and Edhellond. Everyone else – please, ask first.

Author’s note: In the beliefs of the Old Folk, Nurria is the local equivalent of Yavanna. The Old Folk is the people who lived in Gondor before the arrival of the Númenóreans – and that most likely made up the major part of the local population. I made them related to the people of Bree (from afar), which is why they use the Bree-calendar and the same names for the months or the days of the week.

Beta read by Nerwen Calaelen, thanks!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Prologue

[Halabor, the days 8-15 of Halimath⁽¹⁾, in the year 2998, Third Age]

The second one of the great annual fairs in Halabor – a small, ancient fishing town at the Great River, opposite of the island of Cair Andros – came after several days of clear skies and sunshine, leading in another week of bright, warm autumn weather, to everyone’s great relief. So far, the harvest had been good. The early apples had already been plucked in the orchards, the newly-milled floor had been carted to the cellars (or attics, or barns, or wherever people kept it), and a great deal of autumn herbs had been cut and were drying in bouquets, hanging from the horizontal beams of the kitchens.

The Autumn Fair traditionally began on the eight of Halimath, for this was the day on which the Old Folk celebrated the birth of Nurria, the Lady of the fields and pastures – a feast that had once lasted seven days. Some of the ancient customs had been banned after the arrival of the Dúnadan overlords (although they might still exist secretly), but the celebration had gone on, unbroken, thorough the centuries. After all, Halabor had been there long before the Númenóreans had crossed the Sea, and what would be more worthy to celebrate the autumn harvest than a fair?

What was more, the town had extraordinary visitors that year. After more than a generation of absence, the Wandering Elves had chosen to visit the Autumn Fair once again. Not even the oldest men or women in town could remember to have seen an Elf before, although it was a known fact that the Wandering Companies had used to come to Halabor in the past on their mysterious journeys from the North to the South or back. Thus everyone was properly excited by the possibility of meeting them.

Granted, their arrival had been under a dark omen. They had found Telent, the wandering cutler and his wife, Ingern, murdered by Easterlings, just beyond the fertile lands mended by the local farmers. Only the cutler’s fifteen-year-old daughter had survived the raid… barely. The Elves had brought her to the Infirmary, violated and severely injured, and Mistress Angharad, the healer of the town, was still unsure whether the girl would live yet or not.

But the Elves had done more than that. Their Lord had taken selected warriors with him and followed the raiding band through the Wetwang, slaying the murderers to the last man. Not a single one of those heavy-set, bearded brutes would return to Rhûn, where their people dwelt in caves like wild animals – or so tales told – to stuff the mouths of their young with the meagre earnings of a poor, hard-working man.

Telent, the cutler, had been well-known and well-liked, not in town alone, but also in the farmsteads scattered all around Halabor. His terrible fate had made people sad and angry. The news that he had been avenged and his murderers slain spread deep satisfaction among the people.

However, not even these horrible events could dampen the excitement about the beginning of the Autumn Fair and the presence of Elves, after such a long time. Preparations were being made upon the grassy field that stretched from Nurria’s Gate, where the highroad to Rohan ended, to Rollo’s Gate, from which the road to Minas Tirith led to south-east. The two annual fairs were not only the greatest events in the townspeople’s lives; they also meant good business and good coin, both of which the craftspeople needed desperately in these hard times.

Vuron, the master-carpenter, was busy working on the booths for the foreign merchants – or for some of the local ones brave enough to bring their wares outside the town walls – with the help of his son Thei, who was also his only journeyman. The Trade Hall, a long, low-roofed timber building opposite Rollo’s Gate had to be repaired on some places, after the damage of the last winter, but Madren, the roofer, was certain he would be done ere the first wool-traders from Dunland arrived.

For that was the sole purpose of the Trade Hall: to offer a place, well-protected from the moods of the weather, where the Dunlendings could store their fleeces and offer them for sale. The fairs were the only times of the year when Dunlendings were welcome in Halabor. The only time of the year when they came in peace, on a long and arduous journey that led them north the Fangorn Forest  and along the Limklar and the Great River and the west slopes of Emyn Arnen. For as little as their lands were suited for growing crop or fruit or vegetables, that well the rocky, often stony hills were suited for pasture. No-where else in Middle-earth did the sheep grow such thick, rich, excellent fleece. No-where else could goats be held in such numbers, providing not only excellent hides and fine hair for vellum and clothes, but also milk, of which various sorts of spicy cheese were made.

So aye, the tradesmen of Dunland were as welcome to the Autumn Fair as their cheese-makers (usually women) were to the Spring Fair, and the Trade Hall was exclusively theirs. No other merchant was allowed to use it.

“Well, they do pay a reasonable fee to keep it for themselves,” mentioned Wella, Lord Orchald’s tax collector. He was a short, wiry and balding man, who, albeit he belonged to the Old Folk, behaved and clad himself like some minor noble, but given his important position, people granted him that small delight. ‘Twas bad enough for him to have a weak chest that threatened to kill him every winter, just like it had killed his father.

“Besides, keeping them apart makes it possible to keep up some semblance of order during the fair,” replied Odhrain, the head clerk of the Merchants’ Guild and thus the one responsible for the smooth running of the trade business during the week of the fair. “Here we can assign places to them and be sure where they are all the time.”

He was a tall man, clearly of Dúnadan origins, with a hawkish face and dark locks shorn just over his shoulders, with a neatly trimmed, short beard and sharp, sea-grey eyes. He, too, tended to clad himself above his true status, in black velvet and a fine, woollen surcoat, and even wore fine leather boots. Unlike in Wella’s case, though, people tended to mock him behind his back for it, as his haughtiness made him less than well-liked in town.

“Making our work a lot easier at the same time,” added Henderch, the Chief Warden of the town – a former soldier of Gondor’s army, who still made an imposing sight in the dark blue gambeson worn by all Wardens, and the steel gorget covering his neck and the top of his chest. He was armed with a longsword and a short dagger and knew all too well how to use them. “Keeping them and the horse-traders from Rohan apart will be hard enough. More so after both sides have consumed enough ale.”

“I am certain that Master Folcwalda and his kin would be helpful, whenever you have to deal with their people,” said the tax-collector, shrugging his thin shoulders. “And you have your very own Dunlending among the Wardens.”

“For which I thank Rollo every time I have dealing with his kind,” said Henderch with a grim smile. “Yet he is but one man; and who knows what his people – or the Rohirrim, for that matter – have had to suffer during the recent spring and summer from each other’s hands? If the Khimmer raiders have grown bold enough to cross the Wetwang and come within earshot of a walled town…” he shook his head in distress. “I just hope the bailiff will manage to keep the roads safe, or else we can forget our fair in the near future.”

“Well-to-do merchants are used to travelling under the guard of their own men-at-arms in these days,” said Odhrain with a shrug. “And the Guild has decided to employ watchmen for the duration of the fair. I am also sure that Lord Orchald will send men-at-arms to guard the fairground. This has been custom for many years by now.”

“Of course he will; the taxes and fees from the fair make up a good part of his income,” said the tax-collector.

“He would do it anyway, even if he had no interest in the outcome of the fair,” said Henderch mildly. “Has he not always been like a father to his subjects?”

“He has,” admitted the tax collector, “yet ‘tis also true that foreign merchants are more willing to come to the fair if they know that the Lord of the fair-place can guarantee their safety – and that of their wares.”

“Do we expect many foreigners to come this year?” asked the Chief Warden. “Aside from the Rohirrim and the Dunlendings, that is.”

Odhrain studied his lists for a moment.

“Well, wine-sellers from as far as Esgaroth have sent word that they would come,” he said, “and we can expect wool-merchants from the cloth-country of Lebennin, like each year. Master Suanach has also requested booths for his business partners from Pelargir – that means exotic fruits and spices from the South or even from Harad. This is going to be a good fair, or so the Guild hopes.”

“So we all hope,” said the tax collector. “For we all truly need the incomes the fair could bring. Even if it means a week’s hard work for you and your men, Master Warden.”

“We shall manage,” replied Henderch with a shrug and a smile. “With the help of Lord Orchald’s men-at-arms and the Guild’s watchmen, it should be possible. And not many of them would come within the town walls in any case. Not any further than the Riverside Inn, that is.”

“Are the Elves staying in the Inn as well?” asked the tax collector.

Henderch shook his head.

“Nay, they are sleeping in the gardens of the Infirmary,” he said. “They prefer keeping their own company… and the gardens are quiet and peaceful.”

“Do you think they will come to the fair indeed?” asked Wella.

“Mistress Dorlas says that is why they have come in the first place,” replied the Chief Warden. “This will be a fair we shall not easily forget.”

~TBC~

  1) Halimath is the equivalent of our September

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note: More about medieval (actually, Saxon) pottery can be found on the Regia Anglorum website. The items displayed in Euney’s booth are similar to the 10^th-11^th century Winchester wares. I find them pretty.

Old Craban is a recurring character of my Halabor stories. The tale of his life is told in detail in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 01 – The Potter

Four days before the Autumn Fair, Euney, the Master Potter of Halabor, stood up very early. He had already made a good stock of cooking pots, jars, pitchers, bowls and other kitchen utensils for the fair to sell, but there was still more work for him to finish. Mistress Pharin had ordered half a dozen tall cooking pots, the same amount of squat cooking pots, half a dozen pitchers and two dozen bowls, all decorated with the specific pattern Euney was known for in the entire neighbourhood. And while it was true that he did not need to finish them before the fair, he wanted to. He wanted to be free of work during the fair. To be able to sit in his booth peacefully, watch the activity all around him, have a word or two with fellow craftsmen or potential customers… and a keg of good ale, once or twice a day.

A short, wiry man just two years short of forty, Euney was currently the only potter in town. The only son of a landless serf, he had come to town to learn his craft from Old Craban, together with Rurio, another farm lad who had wanted to become a respected craftsman and whose sister he later married. From the two of them, Rurio had been foreseen to take over the pottery from Old Craban, as he had been married to their master’s daughter. But then Rurio had been slain in one of the countless raids, fourteen summers ago, and Old Craban had turned his back on his craft and become a fisherman, to everyone’s surprise.

Thus the pottery had gone to Euney, and he had brought his widowed mother to live with them and help Hedra with the children, only two of which had survived birth. Alas, both of them were girls, thus Euney could not hope to teach them his craft. There were simply no female potters in the Old Folk; ‘twas considered a craft for men, and rightly so, for preparing the clay was backbreaking work few women would have the strength to do.

For his part, Euney was glad that he had no longer the need to do it himself. To make clay good enough for a pot, the potter had to unearth a large amount of clay, steep it in water and then beat it with a large wooden spatula – or tread it with his bare feet – until it was well mixed. Then any large stones and gravel had to be removed from the clay, before carefully mixing sand, crushed shell, grass, or even crushed pottery from broken fired pots in with it to help bind it together. Afterwards, the clay needed to be kneaded like dough (the potters called this waging), to ensure that it was thoroughly mixed. All this required a great deal of strength, and Euney thanked the Old Gods each day for his journeyman who did all this for him.

Said gift of the Old Gods was Gothian, a spare, vigorous lad of twenty-seven summers. He was the second son of a tenant in the service of the Lord’s bailiff, from near Emerië Manor, and had half a dozen or so younger siblings. He could not hope for aught from home, thus he came to town to learn a craft that would feed him and his family, should he ever have one. He might not be the brightest, but he was a skilled, good-natured, hard-working young man, and everyone in Euney’s family liked him just fine, from old Mistress Melyar, the Master Potter’s widowed mother, to his six-year-old daughter, Nynia.

In fact, they all liked him so much that Euney and Hedra were seriously considering marrying off their older chick to him. Innsa had just turned thirteen, so they might need to wait another year or so ere she would be ripe for married life. But she was lettered and numbered – not having a son of his own, Euney had seen to it that his daughter got all the skills she might need later – and quick-witted, too. She would be more than capable to run the potter business in her husband’s name. The craft would remain in the family, and people would have no reason to waggle their tongues about a girl doing a man’s work. It was a good match.

Just like her husband, Mistress Hedra was an early riser. When Euney came to the kitchen, she was already busy making porridge and drawing a cup of weak ale for him. Gothian was already sitting at the kitchen table, eating with the vigour of a man coming from a large family where food had not been abundant. Seeing his master, he stopped for a moment, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of a large, sinewy hand as a sign of respect before speaking.

“I have seen to the clay, Master Euney,” he said. “I do believe it to be a tad too dry. But you might want to see it for yourself.”

Euney nodded. “’Tis still better than having it too wet,” he replied around his own mouthful of porridge. “We can always add some water to make it pliant enough.”

That would mean the necessity of Gothian waging it again, but the young man was used to that and did not mind doing it. He was young and strong and loved his craft.

Thus Euney went to the clay-grub after having broken his fast and agreed with Gothian’s judgement. They added some more water to the clay, Gothian waged it again, and then they made half a dozen balls of the right size and consistency for the tall cooking pots they were to make first, as those needed the longest time to dry before being fired. Then they took the clay balls to the workshop.

Like in all craftsmen’s houses, the potter’s workshop took in the entire ground floor of the house. The front room was the actual shop, with a large, shuttered window; when open, the upper shutters served as an awning, the lower ones as a display counter for the finished wares. Through the window, the craftsmen could be seen working by their potential customers.

Close to the shop window stood the most important tools of the potter: the wheels. The small, turn-table wheels, also called slow-wheels, were used to throw small items, like soup bowls or drinking cups. ‘Twas the large fast-wheels (or kick-wheels) that Euney and his journeyman were about to use now, for the shaping of the large cooking pots. He had two of these in the workshop. One of them was a common cartwheel, mounted horizontally on a pivot, the wheel being rotated by hand, while the pot itself was thrown upon a small platform fixed to the nave of the wheel. The other one consisted of a lower wheel turned with the foot and an upper wheel head for throwing he pot, the two wheels being connected by a series of struts.

Most potters – including Euney himself – preferred the first kind, as it made possible for them to work out small details carefully. But if someone was sharp-eyed and sure-handed like Gothian, the second type had many advantages. First of them being that it worked a lot faster. Euney gladly let his journeyman work with the tricky new tool – it had been invented somewhere in the North and brought to town by some merchant of Dale, a few years earlier – and stuck to that which he knew best.

Making large cooking pots was one of the easiest tasks. One only needed a steady hand and a good eye, and they were formed within a short time. They then were left to dry gently, ‘til they dried to what was called a ‘leather’ hardness, in which state the handles – made by rolling out, pulling and twisting a piece of clay – were added by smoothing onto the outside of the pot. At this stage the bottom of the pot was trimmed with a knife to give it the shape known as a saggy bottom.

“Why does father do that?” asked little Nynia from her big sister, who had come to finish the pots before the firing – glazing and similar tasks were her responsibility. And she was to show Nynia, too, how it was done.

“A saggy bottom is better for cooking,” Innsa, a good little housekeeper at the age of thirteen already, explained to her baby sister. “You see, the cooking fire is not always of the same strength; differences in the heat could easily crack a pot with a flat bottom. And if that happened often, people would say that father makes bad pots and would buy them elsewhere.”

While she spoke, Gothian was working over the pots with wet hands to bring the finest clay particles to the surface, giving it a smooth finish. He also burnished the inside of the pot with a smooth bone, to smear the clay particles over each other and thus produce a more water-tight vessel. In the meantime, Innsa had stirred the liquid glaze – a greenish-yellow colour with some copper to add speckles of red-brown to it – which she now began to apply to the leather hard pot with a broad brush. As these were simple cooking pots, there was no need for more decoration, and they were left to dry again, before being fired to make them hard.

Content with one morning’s work, Euney went out to the back yard to check on his kiln. ‘Twas usual for the simple folk that a village potter would dig his kiln himself, as well as he could – and some of them could do a really good job of it, after enough experience. However, Halabor was fortunate to have its own oven-builder in the person of Uthno, the Master Smith’s son-in-law, who worked for the smiths as well as for the potters, the bakers, the glass-workers and just about any-one who might require his services.

Thus the kiln of Euney was a masterpiece. A very elaborate oven, with a raised central floor, on which more pots were stacked, allowing thus the hot air to circulate around the pots better. It had served him for four years already, and he could hope that it would last for just as many more before he would need a new one made.

While the Master Potter was building the fire in the shallow pit in front of the small flue opening of the kiln, Gothian began to load the kiln itself, loading the pots from the previous day, upside-down, as tightly as possible, even putting smaller ones inside the bigger ones. When finished, he sealed the kiln with wet clay, leaving just the opening between it and the fire-pit.

Euney kept adding fuel slowly all morning, ‘til the heat was great enough to fire the pots. This he could decide by gauging the degree of glow the items being fired showed. ‘Twas a delicate matter that needed a great deal of experience. One mistake could ruin the entire stock.

“That is enough now,” the Master Potter judged, about an hour after midday. “We can let the kiln cool down.”

That usually took a whole day or  more, but he did not truly mind. He had more than enough time to finish Mistress Pharin’s order and be still free for the fair. Unless, of course, too many items from the stack currently being fired would crack, due to a flawed mix of clay and sand or shell… but he did not really expect that. Gothian knew his trade too well already to make such mistakes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

His trust in his journeyman’s skills proved justified during the following days, when stack after stack of hard, well-fired wares came out of the kiln. The best pieces, the ones he intended to bring to the fair, had a glaze that varied in colour, from yellowish red to green, or a dark olive green mottled with gold. Those were also richly decorated items, with applied notched strips, applied strips with circle and cross stamps, incised triangular zones, stamps and rouletting.

He had prepared spouted pitchers of various sizes, cups, bowls, globular bottles that imitated leather originals, small pots and sprinklers, handled jars, tall, narrow jugs and tripod pitches. Usually, he did not offer such a wide variety, but during the annual fairs people from all Anórien and even from other provinces came to Halabor, and as a rule, he made enough coin to go on for moons, for the traditional patterns handed down to him by Old Craban were much sought after.

Due to his well-respected status, he got one of the best places, near Rollo’s Gate. He could have stayed in his own workshop, of course. There was no need to bring his wares outside the town walls. The customers usually strolled through the entire town, visiting the craftsmen’s houses in order to watch them during work, and then choose from the finished wares. But Euney enjoyed the industrious buzzing of the fair greatly. He loved to watch the booths of the foreign merchants, the coming and going, the noise of bargaining, the smell of roasting meat and the scent of spices; the vivid colours and the laughter. Even if there always was a slight risk that some blundering idiot might ruin his somewhat delicate wares. But that was what watchmen were there for, including his own journeyman.

He had spent the whole morning of the first day of the fair in his booth, without a chance to get over to the alewife’s tent for a well-earned drink. He had made a decent amount of coin, selling smaller pitchers and bowls mostly. That was to be expected. People, even those from the farmsteads scattered around Halabor, usually came to his workshop and ordered the exact number of larger cooking pots and storage jars in advance.

Thus it was already beyond midday when he finally managed to get away for a meat-filled pasty or two at the pastry-cooks’ tent and for a tankard of good ale. He felt content. For the beginning of the fair, the day was not half bad already. Touching his belt pouch to reassure himself that the coin was safely tucked away, he strolled back to his own booth leisurely… and all but froze, still a few steps away.

Right before his booth, critically eyeing the items upon the display counter, an Elf was standing. It could be naught else but an Elf – a male one, Euney decided after a second sight. He was tall, though not overly so – certainly not any taller than the average Dúnadan overlord – lithe and long-limbed and fair of face, yet not the least feminine. His rich, auburn hair was braided away from his lightly tanned face, revealing leaf-shaped, elegantly pointed ears; his eyes were slightly slanted, very bright and greenish-brown, like ripe, polished chestnuts. He wore the usual green and brown garb of the woodland folk, but also a healer’s scrip slung over his shoulder.

As if feeling the eyes upon himself, the Elf turned around and apparently recognized Euney as the owner of the potter’ booth. Not that that would have required arcane Elven wisdom. After so many years in his trade, Euney’s hands had taken on the colour of the clay that was now layered under his fingernails and in the wrinkles of his fingers, irremovable by any amount of washing.

“Master Potter,” said the Elf pleasantly, “’tis good that I have found you. As you may guess, I m a healer, and I happen to be in need of small clay pots in which I could stir medicine over a small flame. The herb-mistress of your Infirmary told me that you might be able to provide them.”

“That is right,” answered Euney, recovering from his mild shock. “I make those for old Mistress Crodergh all the time. Do come in, Master Elf, and see what I have to offer.”

The Elf, whose name was Tinthellon, as he readily revealed, accepted the invitation. The next hour was spent with the careful surveying of the various small pots and bowls that Euney had in reserve. As they often got dropped or suffered other accidents, he always made sure he had a good stock, and now this came handy indeed. Besides, they did not take up much space.

Finally, the Elf selected two dozen of them, in four different sizes – half a dozen each – and Euney sent his older chick running home for a light box made of tree-bark, in which they could be transported safely, if wrapped in old rags. The Elf seemed eminently satisfied with his acquirements.

“’Tis a delight to make business with you, Master Potter,” he declared. “Now, if you only had somewhat smaller bottles for tinctures! These here, well-made and pleasing for the eye as they may be, are a bit too big and heavy for my purposes.”

“You should try your luck with the glass-blowers,” suggested Euney. “They make all sorts of flasks, in various shapes, sizes and colours.”

“Do they now?” asked the Elf in pleasant surprise. “Can you, perchance, tell me where to look for their booth?”

“They do not bring their wares outside the walls,” said Euney, “as the risk for such delicate items would be even greater than it is for my pots. But you can easily find their workshop in the Street of Gardens. ‘Tis not far from here; you cannot miss it.”

“I hope not,” replied the Elf with a smile. “My thanks to you, Master Potter, for your generous help. Now, what do I owe you for your excellent dishes?”

Euney named a price slightly above his usual fare, expecting to have it haggled down to the average height. To his surprise, however, the Elf paid it to the last copper piece, without as much as a word of protest. At first, this made the potter a bit uncomfortable, but then he shrugged off his guilty feelings. The Elf obviously thought that his wares were worth the higher price, so who was he to protest?

Besides, it was the Autumn Fair, and the Elves had not visited it for a very long time. So, if they were a bit faster to loosen the strings of their purse, once in a hundred or so years, the craftsmen of Halabor might as well make use of their willingness.

Euney carefully pocketed the coin and sat down in his comfortable armchair behind the display counter with a broad grin. He had just made business with an Elf – and what was more, he cut into the Elven purse nicely. Oh, this was a tale to be told in their family for generations!

He could hear Innsa giggle with her friend, the water-carrier’s daughter. He could not blame the girl. She had just seen an Elf, talked to him… she will nurture this unique memory for long, hard, work-filled years to come.

Mayhap the return of Elves was the sign of better years coming to Halabor. Euney certainly hoped so. But even if not, it was a bright flame of hope in these darkening days.

TBC

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Parda is the Haradric equivalent of a harem. Balg is a German word for a bastard child.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 02 – The Clothiers

Leaving the potter’s booth, the Elf-healer sought out his wife in the crowd; a woodland Elf just like himself, and she happened to share his trade, too.

“I have got the clay dishes we need,” he told her in their own tongue, “but we well need to go to the glass-blowers for the flasks.”

“You go,” replied his wife laughing. “I am going to the clothiers’ with Eilinel here. She wants to buy some of the good woollen cloth made here, for it is much sought after among the Eredrim⁽¹⁾. Besides, we need a great deal of linen stripes for new bandages. Our reserves are nearly depleted again.”

Eilinel was Erinti’s best friend, had been for an Age or so. She was a tall, willowy Noldo with raven hair and grey eyes; and also the best weaver among the women of the Wandering Elves, always eager to see new things and learn new techniques. Unlike many other Elves, she saw no shame in learning from mortals, either.

Tinthellon accepted the fact that he would not see his wife for the rest of the afternoon, but that did not bother him too much. They would meet in the Infirmary later, as they needed to check on the injured girl anyway.

“Have fun, the two of you,” he said to the women. “I will look for the flasks, after I have brought these back to the Infirmary. We shall meet after evening meal, then.”

Erinti nodded in agreement, and while her husband turned back to the Infirmary to store his newly acquired clay pots safely, she an Eilinel headed to the clothier’s business. They needed no-one to show them the way. Most craftsmen of Halabor had not changed their dwellings for generations, and the Elves had been there before.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The house of the clothier family occupied a prominent place at the head of the street that came up from the New Port to the Castle. ‘Twas a right-angled house, built in the traditional Halabor style: the ground floor of stone, the upper one of timber. It had a wide shop-front on the street, and the long stem of the hall and chambers running well back behind, with a spacious yard and the stables for the mules and pack horses. Master Erwan sometimes whined about the lack of riding horses – he had tended to live beyond his resources in his youth – but Mistress Betha, the true head of family and business, was not willing to waste coin upon things that were not truly needed. And since both house and business came with her into the marriage, she could afford to run things to her own liking.

There was room enough in the elongated back building, not only for the chambers of the family, but also to house ample stores in a good, dry undercroft, and provide space for all the girls – hired mostly from the New Port – who carded and combed the newly dyed wool. Not to mention the horizontal looms that were set up in an outbuilding of their own; and there was also plenty of room in the long hall for half a dozen spinsters at once. Others worked in their own homes, and so did several other weavers about the town. Mistress Betha’s was the biggest and best-known clothier business not in Halabor only but in the whole country this side of Minas Tirith.

‘Twas still early afternoon on the first day of the Autumn Fair when Mistress Betha left the shop front, which also served as the tailor workshop of her husband, and went back to the spinning room to give the hired girls a watchful eye. As the eldest surviving daughter of her father, she had become heiress of the clothier business, for want of a brother, at a fairly young age. By that time, though, she had already learned all the skills involved, from teasing and carding to the loom and the final cutting of garments, albeit she could mostly ignore the latter, as she had married a tailor. Erwan might have his faults (delusions of grandeur being one of them) but he knew his trade well enough.

That was the only responsibility she had stepped back from, though. All other things she still kept in her own hand tightly, and from the foreman of the weavers to the lowest carding girl everyone quieted at once and turned to their work dutifully when her short, erect figure appeared in any of the workrooms.

For short she was, even for a woman of the Old Folk, and though still a year short of forty, she looked older than her age and worn with worries and weariness. She had been carrying the burden of this business for too long already, besides bearing and rising six children, only two of which had lived beyond the age of four moons. The thought to leave it to anyone else never occurred to her; but it had taken its toll on her, and it showed.

In her simple, homespun brown dress – she was not fond of flashy clothes, unlike her husband – her thinning brown hair hidden under a spotless, crisp white wimple, she entered the long hall briskly. Her deep-set, dark eyes swept over the row of distaffs, and, reaching over a spinstress’ shoulder, she rubbed a strand of wool from it between chapped forefinger and thumb with approval. The fleeces were unexpectedly good this year; this would make fine cloth, finer than a year before.

The sheaf of carded wool on which the thin, slightly bent woman – another hireling from the New Port – was working, was of a pleasant shade of blue. The dye-stuffs came seasonally, and as they were still well-stacked with last summer’s crop of woad, they could do more of the blue cloth that was prized in the provinces south from the Ered Nimrais. The Prince of Dol Amroth in particular, always ordered great amounts of it for the uniforms of his Swan Knights; a fact that, Betha suspected, had more to do with the Ages-old friendship of the Princes to the Lords of Halabor than with the otherwise excellent quality of her wares. In any case, ‘twas always good for the business to have regular and large orders from some great lord.

The dyeing of fleeces and fulling of the cloth had been in the experienced hands of Wynwoluy, the fuller, who had his dye-house and fulling-works and tenterground just down-river, under the walls of the Castle, for longer than Betha herself had been alive. He knew his craft, which had made him one of the wealthiest craftsmen in town, and he and Mistress Betha could work together very well.

So well, indeed, that Betha sometimes asked herself whether she would have done better marrying Wynwoluy instead of Erwan. The two were just a few years apart of age, and the fuller had been interested. ‘Twould have been a good move to unite the two closely related business branches, too, and unlike Erwan, Wynwoluy had a good, solid sense for business and was a hard worker. But she had let herself be blinded by Erwan’s comely face and breezy attitude and left the chance slip through her fingers. Mayhap that had been a mistake; but now, with both of them married to others, it was too late to ponder over that.

She turned her attention back to the already dyed wool on the distaff. It had a clear, bight colour, and would become even more so when the length of cloth made of it would go back to Wynwoluy for fulling. Once again, this would fetch a good price. Once they had finished the Prince of Dol Amroth’s order, mayhap she should think about selling some of it to the merchants of Lebennin. Even though Lebennin was the true cloth-country of Gondor, people did not know the secret of this particular hue of blue down there. There might still be an opportunity to carefully sneak into that market. She would have to speak to the cloth merchant of the town.

Mistress Betha mostly worked with wool. Linen demanded more work than she could have got done within her own business, thus she only kept a limited amount of linen cloth in store, mostly for the bath-house and the Infirmary. And weaving silk would have been beyond her skills anyway, not to mention the special looms she would need for it.

Wool, however, she can get easily here, so near Dunland; with the help of Eudo, the wool-merchant, as the Dunlendings would never accept a woman as the head of her own business, as the Old Folk did. But Eudo was an honest man, and he could get her any fleece she wanted, from silky-fine to thick and coarse. And there had never been a shortage in penniless girls – or even older women – from the New Port, who would gladly do the washing and carding of the fleeces for a few copper pieces.

Carding was particularly hard on the worker’s back. One had to comb the freshly washed fleeces with a large, comb-like iron tool, to free the hairs and give them direction, so that they could be rolled into sausage-like lengths. Some of the women got a rash from handling the new fleeces, breaking out in small pustules that then had to be treated with a vile salve, made of hog’s fat. ‘Twas still better than selling themselves to the boatmen of the Port or the soldiers coming over from Cair Andros, though, so the poor, hard-working wretches never complained. Besides, Mistress Betha often laid hand on the distaff herself, when the work became too much. Her hands were just as rough as everyone else’s.

Today was not one of those days, though, when Mistress Betha would help out her workers. Today was the beginning of the Autumn Fair, and she needed to oversee every phase of the work, so that important customers would find the whole business in impressive order and busy like a beehive, should they want to take a look. Cloth-merchants from Lebennin often did, and Mistress Betha wanted to make a good impression.

Thus she walked over to the weavers’ room to see how they were doing. There she had less to worry, as one of said weavers was her own seventeen-year-old daughter, Morweth, who – even though she could not handle the two-beam loom right now, being with child and expecting to give birth in a moon or two – kept a steady eye on the other weavers. Most of all on Edred, the new foreman: a comely young man a little over twenty, who apparently thought to be Nurria’s gift to the womenfolk. He was a good, hard worker and no mistake – he just needed someone to keep his mind on his work. The other weavers were older, skilled and experienced women who tolerated Edred’s outbursts of gallantry with a patience born of frequent dealings with the brash youth.

Though not a woman to dwell upon her feelings overlong (few women of the Old Folk ever were), Betha could not quite suppress a genuinely fond smile at the sight of her daughter. In her looks (though, thankfully, not in personality) Morweth came after her father, displaying faint Dúnadan traits as dark hair, a slender frame and grey eyes. She was pretty, too, with a pearly white skin – small wonder that Selevan, the young mercer, had taken a liking to her.

Betha could have laughed, remembering the outcry within the Craftsmen’s Guild when it had become known that she would marry off her daughter to Master Suanach’s son. Part of it had been simple jealousy, of course. After all, getting related to the head of the Merchants’ Guild, who also happened to be wealthier than Lord Orchald himself, was no small treat.

Others, however, had been – in fact, still were – genuinely concerned about what kind of life would await Morweth in Selevan’s home.

“After all, does he not have Haradric blood in his veins?” they asked. “We all know how those treat their women: keeping the poor wretches shut away in those parda things and having a new one at every whim? Does he not have a balg with the bather’s sister already?”

For it was widely known – even though no-one had ever found any proof for it – that Selevan was the sire of little Zhori, the bastard child of the quiet and lovely Hunalami, the bather’s sister, whom no-one had ever seen unveiled. But Morweth would not reconsider, and after a while, Mistress Betha gave her consent. The existence of little Zhori bothered her not. The Old Folk might see a bastard child as an equal to the legitimate ones – Dúnadan law did not. And in the end, that was the only thing that truly counted. Zhori was a by-blow. Morweth’s children would be heirs.

Morweth looked up and greeted her mother with a smile. As she could not handle the large looms in her current state, a smaller, warp weighted loom had been leant against the wall for her use. The warp threads hung down, and were pulled tight by rows of clay loom weights. The two layers of warp threads were held apart by means of a so-called heddle – a shaft, which could be easily moved to and fro, thus creating a shed through which the weft cold be passed. In fact, she used several such heddles, which method made it possible the creation of truly complicated patterns. In this particular case, she was working on a wall-hanging, which depicted a hunting scene, with a waterfall in the background.

Such fanciful weaving was not usually done in Mistress Betha’s business, which was specialized on the producing of basic cloth. But being a wealthy merchant’s wife now, Morweth could afford to try out new, more time-consuming things. And since she had the necessary skills, the resulting products were nothing that she should have been ashamed of – on the contrary.

Mistress Betha gave the weavers a sharp look, seeking for mistakes in their work. Finding none (for the time being anyway), she then examined the work of her daughter.

“You are getting better and better at this,” she said contently. “We are fortunate that such things are not widely known here – people will be fighting over your hangings.”

“I hope they will bring in good coin,” answered Morweth with a slight frown. “Some of this silk thread is truly hard to work with; and it is not cheap, either. I am lucky that it is my own husband who trades with it, or else I could not afford it. But Lord Orchald seemed to be content enough with my work the other day.”

“Lord Orchald has already got the future wife of his son in mind,” said the small, wrinkled old woman who was working on a sprang frame on Morweth’s side. “I heard he is about to have the women’s wing renewed in the Castle.”

Betha shot the old woman a curious look. Gytha, the daughter of some local farmer, was older than the Great East Road; she had already been Betha’s nursemaid, and after her that of her children – a small, tough little body, used to hard work, and a never-ebbing source of gossip.

“I did not know that young Lord Herumor was thinking of getting himself a wife,” said Betha. The old crone gave her a toothless grin.

“Oh, not him,” she replied. “He gets all red-eared and uncomfortable by the mere idea of it, at least according to Mistress Gilmith. But the old lord wants to see his bloodline continued, and he will not leave his son alone ere he is wedded and bedded and had produced an heir.”

Which was understandable, of course. Lord Orchald’s family was older than Gondor itself; small wonder that he was concerned about its continuation. But it was no wonder, either, that young Lord Herumor, still barely twenty, did not want to be steered into the safe harbour of matrimony just yet. It had been less than a year that he had finished his training in Dol Amroth, got knighted and returned home. He wanted to live a little first, and who could blame him for that?

In any case, there was no doubt about the truth of Gytha’s news. If the rumours came from Mistress Gilmith herself, the chatelaine of the Castle, they had to be true. Mistress Gilmith knew the lord’s family better than anyone else.

“He will not put his neck into the yoke easily, that one,” judged Morweth. “He is young and wilful, used to get his wish in everything. Lord Orchald may have a long fight before him ere he can hold his grandchildren upon his knees.”

“Fortunately, ‘tis his concern, not our own,” answered her mother, with a last, sweeping glance around. “I see everything is in order here. I shall go back to the shop front, then. Mayhap we will get some foreign customers today.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The shop front was a wide, well-lit room, with a large window to the street. The greatest part of it housed the tailor workshop of Erwan, Mistress Betha’s husband, who was working there busily with Cadan, the brother of his wife; the two, being from the same trade, wisely shared the tailor business, rather than fight for customers. They had only one apprentice currently, Erwan and Betha’s fourteen-year-old son, who had been learning the craft for years by now.

The other side of the shop was occupied by the seamstresses and embroiderers: Erwan’s sister Ethil and her daughter, Breyan. Conuall, Cadan and Ethil’s nine-year-old son, was sweeping together the fallen pieces of thread and cloth from under their feet.

All this was not a new sight for Mistress Betha. In truth, this was what she had expected to see: everyone going after their business meticulously. That there were customers in the shop did not surprise her, either. ‘Twas the time of the autumn fair, after all; she had hoped to find customers here.

But these customers were not cloth-merchants from Lebennin whom she had expected. The two people standing before her counter and examining the various bolts of cloth were Elves. There could be absolutely no doubt about that. They were tall, slender, they seemed to glow from within somehow, and they had elegantly pointed, leaf-shaped ears, only the tips of which peeked out from behind their silky tresses. One of them had rich auburn hair and was clad in  forest green, with a healer’s apron bound before her gown, the other one, taller and more regal-looking, was raven-haired and wore a gown of fine grey linen, girdled with gold.

Mistress Betha never paid her own looks much attention. Yet facing these two otherworldly beauties, for the first time in her life, she felt woefully plain and inadequate. Needless to say that the slack-jawed looks her husband and brother-in-law were giving the clearly oblivious Elves were not helping the way she suddenly felt about herself.

But business was business, and if these Elves had coin and were willing to spend it, Mistress Betha was determined to get her hands on said coin.

“How can I be of service, ladies?” she asked politely.

The Elves turned to her, not questioning her right to discuss business with them, unlike some Men would have done.

“Greetings, Mistress Clothier,” said the auburn-haired one. “I am a healer and in need of some fresh linen strips for bandages. Do you have them in store?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Mistress Betha, opening a chest and beginning to pile the neatly rolled strips onto the counter. “How many of them do you require?”

“Four dozens will suffice,” said the Elf, and Betha’s heart made a little jump of excitement. Fine linen strips were not cheap items, which was the reason why the healers re-used them ‘til the constant boiling would make them threadbare. The price of four dozen linen strips would enable her to buy the linen thread required for the next four moon’s linen work.

The Elven healer paid the price without haggling – which was perhaps the Elvish way of trading but foolish when making business with the Old Folk who expected their customers to haggle. Wisely keeping her opinion to herself, Betha ordered her clerk to make an entry into the books, and then she turned to the other Elf.

“And what would be your pleasure, lady?” she asked.

“I want a bolt of your famous blue cloth,” replied the raven-haired Elf, “and one of those.”

Those were Morweth’s wall hangings, depicting hunting scenes. There were two of them for sale, and one particularly lovely, made of silk and hair-thin silver thread. She had laboured over that one for moons.

“I think I shall take this one,” the Elf decided. “’Tis very fine work, and I know someone in whose home in Edhellond it will look lovely. Name the price, Mistress Clothier.”

Betha withstood the sudden surge of greed and named a price that was only slightly higher than the one she would have asked from a mortal customer. After a moment of hesitation, the Elf paid it. Betha packed the linen strips into a wicker basket, rolled the hanging into a protective sheet of fine wool and pushed it all into Conuall’s hands to carry it after the customers. ‘Twas the least she could do, after having earned such a handsome amount of coin off them.

The Elves thanked her and left, with Conuall in trail. Mistress Betha looked after them, supremely content. The fair had just begun, and she had already earned back half her recent expenses.

“This is going to be a very good fair,” she said to her sister-in-law, who nodded, grinning in satisfaction. “Mayhap the coming of Elves means a new flourishing for our crafts.”

“It would be mightily welcome,” replied Ethil, “and perchance, it will be so. They are said to bring a blessing to the places they visit – it seems this would be our chance now.”

~The End – for now~

1) The Eredrim are the indigenous people of Dor-en-Ernil, thus Imrahil’s subjects.

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Silvariel of Arnor is a hypothetical poetess created by Dwimordene and used with her generous consent. Gildor’s Librarian, Vorondis, is an hommage to the similarly-named author, a writer of excellent stories who has, sadly, ceased writing for the Ardaverse for quite some time. The character appears in “Seaside Conversations 2”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 03 – The Vellum Maker

Orgof, the senior minstrel of the Wandering Elves, left the book-seller’s shop in deep satisfaction. He had been looking for a copy of the poems of Silvariel of Arnor for at least two hundred years by now, and had almost given up hope that he would ever find one. Even less had he expected to find the poems of a highly gifted yet little-known Arnorian poetess in such a small town of Gondor. Sometimes strange things could happen indeed.

‘Twas a very fair copy, too: small and handy, in belt-book format, written in fine Tengwar and bound in soft, gilded leather. Perfect for a wandering minstrel to carry with him. Orgof was an ancient Elf who found artistic pleasure in the underlying melancholy of Silvariel’s poems, and was now glad that he could read them whenever he felt like it.

However, he judged that Lord Gildor’s library in Edhellond could do with a copy as well. Mistress Vorondis would no doubt appreciate such a rare addition. Of course, Orgof could have left the work to the scribes of the library, but from time to time, he felt like copying a short book himself. Partly to exercise his calligraphy skills and partly if he liked the book in question for some reason.

This was definitely one of those cases, and that meant he would need vellum on which to write. Fortunately for him, Halabor had its own vellum-maker… and a very good one at that. He was the younger brother of the wool-merchant, the elderly book-seller had explained; the two brothers had inherited the business from their father and divided the tasks between them. Eudo, the older, saw to the flocks and the sales and fetched the wool-clips from the local farmers, whom his father had already dealt for. Yehan, the younger, had learned the vellum-making from his maternal grandfather and had managed that side of the business, even in their father’s days.

Master Austol had also explained where the vellum-maker’s workshop could be found, as the man usually was there in the early hours of the day: well beyond the last houses of the New Port, alone near the bank of the Great River at the foot of a steep little meadow. Leaving the shallows of the harbour behind, the land here rose slightly, and the water ran deep and strong, even in summer, with a rapid and a forceful current.

Many an over-loaded merchant barge had gotten in trouble at that point of the River, had they accidentally steered too close to the river bank, but for the making of vellum, it was the perfect spot. The craft required an unfailing supply of water – and not just that, but running water – for the first couple of days of the process. Here the Anduin ran rapidly, thus providing the best anchorage for the open frames, covered with netting, in which the raw sheepskins were fastened, allowing the water to flow freely down the whole length of them, for several days, without interruption.

When they were ready, they were brought to the workshop and laid into tubs with a solution of lime and water. There they would rest for two weeks, after which the vellum-maker scraped them clean of all remaining hair. Afterwards, they continued the long bleaching for another two weeks, finally producing thin, white membranes, of which Yehan son of Warin was famed well beyond the borders of Halabor. His vellums were sought after in the entire Anórien, and he even got orders from Minas Tirith itself.

Orgof turned up his sensitive Elven nose as he went by the netted cages in the River. The faint drift of fleshy odour made his stomach turn; fortunately, the current was fast enough to disperse any stronger stench, and besides, the sharp smell of the lime tanks would have overlayered everything else.

The shutters of the workshop stood open, letting the light fall straight onto the large table, where the vellum-maker would clean, scrape and pumice his skins. Along the back wall stood the tanks of lime: one for the first soaking when the skins were brought back from the River, one for the second, after both sides of the skins had been scraped clean of hair and all traces of flesh. The final rinsing was done in the river again, ere the membranes would be stretched over a frame and dried in the sun.

When Orgof reached the workshop, the vellum-maker was just coming in with the frames in use on this day. The skins stretched over them seemed very smooth and had a creamy white colour. They were still not finished, though. It would require repeated and arduous cleaning with pumice and water before they would be ready for folding, trimming and cutting. Vellum-making was not an easy trade, no matter what people might think – and it was hard on the lungs, too.

The man carrying the wooden frames looked up in surprise when he spotted the Elf standing before his workshop. People rarely came here; the sharp smells alone would be enough to keep out everyone who had no urgent business to do with him.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, a bit awkwardly.

“If you are Yehan the vellum-maker, then yea, you can,” replied Orgof, giving the man who would do such unpleasant yet much-needed work a curious glance.

“In that case you are fortunate,” said the man, “for I am indeed the one you seem to be looking for. How can I be of service?”

He was a tall man for one of the Old Folk, narrow-shouldered and flat-chested, with a long, clean-shaven, scholarly face. There was nothing remarkable about him if not the small, dark eyes that showed a sharp wit and eager intelligence. This young man – for he could be barely older than thirty – was certainly no fool.

He looked over his visitor with interest; then his eyes brightened. He sat down his frames carefully and bowed.

“Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo,” he said slowly, with slight hesitation – and a thick accent. Yet it was still spoken in Quenya, and that was the last thing Orgof would have expected from a simple craftsman in such an insignificant little town.

Seeing his surprise, the vellum-maker gave him a small, almost embarrassed smile.

“I have not been taught aught but my craft as a boy,” he said, “but through my craft, I have been noticed by lettered men who bought from me: clerks and the scholars of our overlords, who have some learning. They saw my interest and were willing to teach me sometimes. But I am far from being fluent in the Grey Tongue and only know a few words in Quenya.”

He gestured to Orgof to enter the workshop while speaking, and the Elf followed the invitation, looking around with great interest. In all his long years, he had never been in such a workshop, as vellum-making required a settled life, and the Wandering Elves practically lived on the road. True, they did spend the winters in Mithlond, Rivendell, Lórien or Edhellond, but there always had been other things to do, other people to visit, other sights to see. To experience something new was actually pleasing for someone as old as Orgof was.

The workshop of the vellum-maker was kept in meticulous order. ‘Twas a good thing, considering how many items were stored there: tools needed for working with the skins, lime tanks, nets for the river cages, piles of sheepskins waiting to be brought down to the River, drying frames, whole racks of knives of different sizes and shapes, pumice, cloths for rubbing, and so on. There was also a little oil lamp, in case the vellum-maker needed to finish something after nightfall, and a tinderbox for kindling it. At the far end of the room, behind the lime tanks, stood a long shelf, piled with skins still at various stages of manufacturing.

“You have a difficult trade,” said Orgof, taking in everything in sight. The vellum-maker shrugged.

“It feeds me… even if my lungs do protest sometimes. But pray tell, Master Elf, what would you wish of me? ‘Tis rare that a customer would make all the way from town to find me.”

“I have purchased a very rare book at Master Austell’s shop and would like to copy it for my Lord’s library,” explained Orgof. “Thus I need little, narrow, sixteen-leaf folding; the sort the scribes use for small grammars or schooling texts. Could you provide them?”

“Oh, certainly, I have them aplenty,” replied the vellum-maker, happy to make business with Elves, who – as local gossip had already reported – did not have the custom to haggle. “Alas, I fear that you have made the long way from the Marketplace in vain. The finished leaves are all in my shop, in my brother’s house. But I shall gladly go back with you and show you everything I have to offer, if you do not mind the walk.”

“Not at all,” replied the Elf with a grin. “We are the Wandering Company, after all. As I am sure you have already heard, we live on the road.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The house of Eudo, the wool-merchant, like almost all of the wealthier homes, had been built in typical Halabor fashion: with a ground floor of stone and a storey of oak beams above. ‘Twas L-shaped, too, the short wing directly on the Street of the Port, and pierced by an arched doorway that led to the yard and garden behind. The street front, where the shop of the vellum-maker was situated, had no upper storey, and it was just large enough for him to store and sell here his finished leaves and gatherings of vellum, as well as the cured skins from which they were folded and cut to order.

The upright wing of the house turned its gable end to the street. It was but a low undercroft, with the living floor above, and a loft in the steep roof that provided additional sleeping quarters. The whole house was not large, all available space had to be used at its best, for not only had the wool-merchant three children of his own, he also housed his widowed mother, his unwed brother (the vellum-maker himself), their elderly clerk, and even the shepherd that worked with his flock, had the man come to town for some reason.

The small shop was kept in the same immaculate order as the workshop. The uncut skins were draped over racks, the trimmed leaves ranged on shelves that matched their various sizes, and the knives with which the vellum-maker cut and trimmed them were laid out in neat alignment in their tray, ready to their master’s hand. The shutters of the small shop were open to the street, letting in the warm autumn sun, and the spicy smell of finished leather filled it.

In the absence of the shop owner, his mother resided here, keeping an eye on everything, while stitching together the torn britches of one of her grandchildren. She had the same lean, somewhat elongated appearance as her son, and was clad in a modest, yet well-made homespun gown, her crisp white wimple shadowing her long, unhappy face. But her small, deep-set dark eyes, so much like those of her son’s, were glittering with curiosity, saw everything, and her active mind always made notice of all that she had seen – for future use.

Yet  not even Mistress Yehane’s eyes had seen an Elf before, and thus she was rendered completely speechless upon the appearance of Orgof – an occasion, as her son later mentioned in the wine-crier’s tavern with a forgiving smile, was every bit as rare as the coming of Elves to Halabor. All she could do was to gape like a fish when Orgof greeted her courteously and followed her son to the solid table in the middle of the shop, where Yehan usually folded his skins.

“Wait just a moment, Master Elf,” said the vellum-maker, “and I shall show you just the piece you might be looking for.”

He took one of the uncut skins from the rack and spread it carefully over the table, smoothing it out with a sweep of his long hand. The membrane had just the right size to be folded to the small sixteen-leaf format for the poetry book the minstrel intended to copy. It also had that creamy white colour that spoke of best quality and made Yehan’s work so valued, even in the lordly households.

“This is the size you will need,” he said.

Orgof ran his hand over the vellum to check its quality and nodded. ‘Twas very good indeed.

“I need two of them,” he said, “folded and trimmed and cut, so that all I will have to do would be to get it bound. Can you ready them for me ‘til the end of the fair? We shall leave town the day after.”

“Certainly,” answered Yehan. “I can do it for the day after tomorrow, if that pleases you, sir.”

“It does indeed,” grinned the Elf. “And if you come by when we perform on the last day of the fair, you shall have a free wish by me. I am the eldest minstrel of the Company, and there is barely a song or ballad ever composed by Elves that I could not sing for you off the top of my head.”

That pleased the vellum-maker so much that he named a price for his leaves that was not very much above what he usually got for such size and quality. Being lettered, he needed no help from their clerk to make an entry about order and payment in the books, and when Orgof left, there was a gleam in his eyes that had not been there before.

“You could have demanded more,” his mother commented, recovering from her awe and turning to the practical side of things, as always. “The Elf would have paid it.”

“Mayhap he would,” said Yehan slowly. “Yet he offered me more. I can always get a good price for my work. But having an Elven minstrel sing only for me happens once in a lifetime – if someone is very fortunate.”

~The End~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  This is the continuation – sort of – of the previous part, as the characters belong to the same family. Mogh the Dunlending first appeared in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”. Pensyow and Stennack are imaginary settlements in Lebennin (not conceived by the Professor).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 04 – The Wool Merchant

Eudo, the wool-merchant of Halabor, son of the late Warin (who had owned the business before him) and the very much alive and active Mistress Yehane, had barely managed to get back to town before the beginning of the Autumn Fair. He was not in a particularly good mood, either. While he had collected two new clients in the nearly two weeks of his most recent travels, with good clips to sell, he had to realize that some aggressive wool-merchants from Lebennin had invaded his usual territory in his absence; and, being the middle-men of great clothiers’ houses from the cloth country itself, they could afford to pay a higher price.

Eudo did  not blame the small sheep breeders for turning to those who could pay them more. They were hard-working, poor husbandmen, after all, mostly with large families to feed. Honest and loyal they might be, but they had to look for the best way to fill the bellies of their children. However, all understanding in the world would not change the fact that Eudo could not offer them the same price, and as a result, his meticulously-spun net that had been spread over a quarter of Anórien was about to be destroyed.

That would mean the ruin of their entire family. If he lost his steady clients, he could as well give up his trade entirely. Many merchants were struggling to expand their influence in this most northern of all Gondorian provinces, and new clients were near impossible to find. Even less so in these darkening times, when raids from Orcs, Easterlings and Hill-men were getting more and more frequent and small farmsteads were burned to the ground left and right. The Lord’s bailiff and his men did what they could, but they could not be everywhere; and the Wardens barely managed to keep the town itself safe.

For the first time in his life, Eudo was seriously worried about their future. He had responsibilities, after all. He had three young children to feed; and his daughter Elava had just been betrothed. She would need a dowry in a year or so. She was sixteen; ‘twas a fairly common age for the daughters of the Old Folk to start thinking about having their own family, but if her father could not give her a dowry, it could happen that the old clothes merchant, whose son she was about to marry, would change his mind. Within the Merchants’ Guild, marriages were an accepted and honourable way to increase one’s wealth; if Eudo lost his business, his daughter might never get married.

And what about his sons? True, they were still but young boys, nine and seven years old, but they would need a living eventually. ‘Twas fortunate that little Euan had showed some interest for his uncle’s business, and Yehan had promised to make him an apprentice as soon as he had grown enough to handle the tools, but the vellum-making could not feed the entire family. And there was still the older boy to consider. Febal had always been expected to continue his father’s trade – yet it seemed now that there might not be a trade to begin with, soon.

Eudo was in his late thirties, six years older than his scholarly brother, and in every possible way Yehan’s opposite, as he came after their late father. Half a head shorter he was, broad in the shoulder and thick in bone, barrel-chested and round-faced, with thorny russet hair and a short-trimmed beard. Thanks to spending a great deal of his time outdoors, he was in the best of health and spirits, his good humour seldom shaken, even by unexpected events – yet the potential ruin of his trade that had been done in the family for generations had frightened him badly.

“I truly know not what to do, my dove,” he said to his wife gloomily. “There is no way I can outbet these men from Lebennin; and if I lose my clients, what can I possibly do? There is simply no other market for wool clips; at least none that would not be covered already.”

Manissa brought him a mug of good, strong dark ale and sat down beside him at the kitchen table, considering without distress all that might be needful – or possible – to do. She was a neat, brown-haired, rotund woman, only three years his junior, used to hard work and even harder decisions. She had to run the whole household in his absence (a rather frequent occurrence), often in spite of the interventions of old Mistress Yehane who did not give up control easily; she was not one quick to panic. Her competent housekeeping reflected upon her strength of will and brightness; Eudo leaned on her a lot in household matters and valued her opinion highly.

“Is there truly no other way to get good wool clips?” she asked in a manner that hinted that she would have a suggestion but wanted him to come upon it himself.

“Not unless I would venture directly to Dunland,” replied Eudo with a sigh. “And I cannot believe you would ask me to do that.”

“Of course not,” agreed his wife. “But right now, the Dunlendings are here, in town. And there is also someone in town who could ease your way to them.”

“You mean the Warden?” asked Eudo slowly.

Manissa nodded. “The Warden, aye. He still has good ties to his people… and the two of you have always gotten along just fine.”

“We have,” admitted Eudo, even though that amiable relationship was based on their mutual interest in good ale. “You know, you might be onto something here, my dove.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As always during the annual fairs, Mogh the Dunlending was assigned to the Trade Hall, in order to overlook his landsmen’s bargaining and haggling with the local people. As Henderch had put it once, in the long run the only people who could deal with Dunlendings were – Dunlendings, and as the only representative of his people in town, it was up to Mogh to deal with them.

Not that he would mind, really. ‘Twas good to hear his mother tongue again. It might sound harsh and peculiar in the ears of other people. Yet for Mogh, ‘twas as sweet as Elven music. Being with his landsmen brought back half-forgotten memories of his youth, and while those had been hard times, not all memories were unpleasant. And he still had friends among them after almost a lifetime of absence. Dunlendings did not make friends easily but were doggedly faithful to those they had made.

Chief Trader Nogga was one of those friends, the oldest and hardiest of all the hardy men who still took the risk to bring their wares from Dunland to the fair of Halabor, despite the necessity to cross the territory of the Hill-men. They traded in the very fine wool-clip of their herds, mostly, and also in honey and mead and hides. They transported their wares on the back of stocky, heavily-muscled hill ponies, which they bought from the Dwarves, as they had surprisingly good relations to the bearded race, going back to the times when Thorin Oakenshield and his family had lived in exile in Dunland. With a caravan of pack ponies, they had travelled all the way on the Old North Road, along the southern border of Rohan – which was not a safe thing, either, given the old enmity between the two people – and came down to Halabor following the Mering-stream and finally the Entwash, where it joined the Great River.

Chief Trader Nogga had made that journey uncounted times in his life, as he was not one to be easily frightened. He was standing in the middle of the Trade Hall now, as solid as a rock, having secured the best place for himself, and was measuring his landsmen’s bales with shrewd, narrowed dark eyes, pricing and judging what he saw. By the looks of him, he could be just a few years past sixty, and in the prime of his strength. Not a tall man, not even by the measure of the Old Folk, but square-built and powerful, his broad, swarthy face nestled in a thick growth of thorny black hair and beard. His clothing, though plain and of the same cut as his men’s garb, was made of good, solid wool, and well-fitted.

The two nimble youngsters – beardless still and in threadbare clothes – who had come with him, went to work briskly, hefting the heavy bales of hides and the wool-sacks and barrels of honey or mead with practiced ease. Mogh watched them with a thoughtful half-smile. That was how he had eked out a meagre living in his younger years, too: as a helping hand of a trader. Among his people, a lad of fourteen summers was considered a man already, and expected to earn his own living… and take care of any possible family depending on him.

In Dunland, life was built along the line of family ties. Family and clan were the network within which a person lived. No orphan, widow or weakened elder needed to fear abandonment, hunger or cold. As long as the clan had anything, it was shared. There were no beggars, no lords and no dependents, and whenever a dispute came up, the locals could count on being favoured against strangers.

However, if one had no family, no clan to support him, he was lost. He had no status, no place among the people, no respect. Strangers were hardly ever accepted, and a lad without family ties could expect nothing better.

Mogh’s entire family had been wiped out due to a blood feud when he had seen but eleven summers. No-one from the other clan had survived, either. His clan had never been numerous, living in the southeast of Dunland, where they had no other kin, thus he could not hope to be taken in by anyone. Having been a strong lad – and already good with the axe – he had gotten hired by a wool trader to help him load his pack animals and protect his wares on long journeys. He had worked for a place to sleep and for two meagre meals a day only; but it had brought him luck, for so had he met the late Warin, the old wool-merchant of Halabor, the father of Eudo and Yehan.

He had followed the old merchant to Halabor, wanting to learn a craft that would feed him without being dependent on the support of a clan he did not have. But Dunlendings were not welcome in the town, save from the annual fairs, and the Master Smith had been the only craftsman willing to accept him as an apprentice. Mogh had never truly wanted to become a blacksmith, but beggars could not be choosers, and a honest craft was a honest craft. Thus he had learned the skills to be a good weaponsmith and worked for Master Ludgvan for quite a few years, to pay off his apprentice fee.

After a while, though, he had come to see that he was standing in the way of the smith’s own sons, and although the mild-mannered Kevern would never say a word, Mogh decided that it would have been ungrateful to stay and take much-needed work from the family members. More so as Kevern had a wife and children to feed. Thus the Dunlending had accepted Lord Orchald’s offer and became one of the Wardens – and he had not regretted that decision to the current day. The Wardens only cared for what he could do instead of where he had come from, and he was one of them, and a valued member at that.

That during the fairs he even got to keep up old contacts with his landsmen, was an additional benefit of his work. What was there not to like?

Nogga spotted him and – leaving the work to the haired help – walked over to talk to him. They greeted each other in the time-honoured manner, then Mogh asked about the possible outcome of the fair for the Dunlending traders.

“Afraid this won’t be as good as usual,” answered Nogga grimly. “You see those two over there, just entering the Hall through the other door?”

Mogh followed his landsman’s pointing finger and saw two merchants, wearing long gowns of fashionable cut, made of the finest wool, and elegant capuchons twisted up into elaborate hats. One of them was a big, portly, red-faced man, elderly but powerful, with a round, fleshy face that spoke of a foul temper, bluish jowls and bristly brows like furze. The other was meagre and greying, well beyond his middle years, and had a lean, fastidious, high-nosed face with a thin-lipped mouth and pale, almost colourless eyes. They were moving along the display tables with utter self-confidence, eyeing and judging the hides and wool clips offered to sell with an air about them that plainly showed that they considered themselves men of importance – and expected others to recognize them as such on sight.

“They are not from here,” Mogh realized.

“Nay,” Nogga agreed, “they’ve come from Lebennin. The portly one is Crico of Ponsyow, and the other one is Foich of Stennack. They represent two of the greatest merchant houses in the cloth country... some even say that they own them. Whether it’s true or not, I can’t tell, but they mean bad business for us... and for all the local merchants.”

“How’s that?” asked Mogh in surprise, falling back into the speech patterns of his own kin easily. He had always thought that to sell to the biggest houses directly would be good for his landsmen. They could dispatch the whole of their wares, without needing to pay any middle-men.

“They’ve bought up all the clips around town for a price much higher than Eudo could ever afford,” explained Nogga, “and now that he’s spent all the coin that he could, they’re offering a ridiculously low price for our clips.”

“Surely you aren’t selling to them under the proper price?” asked Mogh. “These are some of the finest clips I’ve seen in my days, and I know whereof I’m speaking.”

“I’d hate to,” admitted Nogga, “but I might be forced to do so, as no-one else seems to have the coin to pay us enough to at least come up for our expenses. We desperately need what little we might get for our wares – even if it’s way below theit true value.”

“And Eudo, who’s a good and honest man, will be broken in the process,” added Mogh grimly. “’Tis very bad business indeed.”

“I know,” replied the Chief Trader in frustration, “and I hate it, I truly do. But what can I do? We can’t keep our wares, and we can’t get more for them. This is going to be meagre earnings.”

“Mayhap; but mayhap not,” said Mogh. “I truly believe that you ought to talk to Eudo, face to face. Don’t sell aught to those vultures ere you’ve tried everything else.”

“They’re not going to make their final offer before the end of the fair anyway,” said Nogga. “They’d want us to realize first that we won’t have any other choice. But how am I supposed to talk to Eudo? No local merchant would ever allow a Dunlending to enter their house; you know that.”

“Not any Dunlending, ‘tis true,” Mogh agreed. “But I believe I might be able to mediate a little.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And so it came to the unbelievable: that in the very same evening, Nogga the Dunlending found himself sitting in the parlour of the town’s only wool-merchant like an honoured guest. The merchant’s wife was placing ale before him and offered good, home-made broth, with freshly baked bread, both of which Nogga thankfully accepted. It tasted strange, the folk of Gondor preferring different herbs in their food, but at least it was hot and had good meat in it – and it had been offered in honest hospitality.

At the far end of the table the merchant’s clerk was sitting, frowning over the books: a man past fifty, his hair generously splattered with grey and thinning at the crown. His long face was set into defensive lines of effort and anxiety. Nogga guessed that the man was probably not very good with his letters and had to work hard to keep his place in the wood-merchant’s household. His stooped back spoke of long hours spent over the books, and his dun-coloured clothes only added to the air of silent fear and hopelessness that seemed to cling to him.

Nonetheless, he had to be good with numbers, at the very least; mayhap as a gift of nature, for the merchant apparently valued his opinion.

“What do you think, Acco?” he asked. “Can we afford to pay the price Master Nogga would find reasonable?”

The clerk put the quill behind his ear again and gave his books a final glance.

“’Tis doable,” he judged, “but not without risk. You would need to ask the Guild for a loan, as you simply do not have the necessary coin. And it has to be a large sum, as you will need to transport the wares you intend to buy to Lamedon and Lossarnach and Minas Tirith on your own. That would cause additional costs. And if you cannot get the price to make up for your expenses and to pay back the loan, you will be broke.”

“If the merchants of Lebennin drive me out from the local wool market, I am broke in any case,” replied Eudo gloomily. “At least if Master Nogga is willing to sign a contract that he and his landsmen would employ me as their sole mediator, we might have a chance to get out of this unharmed… and in due time even earn some honest coin beyond our expenses.”

The clerk looked at the Dunlending for the first time.

“You can do that?” he asked doubtfully. Nogga shrugged.

“Me people’ve made me Chief Trader for they know I’d protect their interests,” he answered. “They trust me. I can do a great deal along clan lines.”

“There is still a risk,” warned the clerk. “The great cloth houses of Lebennin will fight us, nail and tooth. And their coin has great impact.”

“The first two or three years might be hard,” the Dunlending agreed. “But after that, they’ll run off them reserves and must come to us again. If Master Eudo moves his pieces on the board cleverly we’ll have built up a strong market in the other provinces by then and can demand any price we want.”

“An honest and reasonable price would do,” murmured Eudo. He was still uncomfortable with the thought of allying himself with the Dunlendings against his own people, but he had no other choice. Crico of Ponsyow and Foich of Stennack were like wolves. They would have no mercy with him, either. He had to defend himself and the very livelihood of his family.

“Very well,” he said, suppressing a sigh. “We should go to the Town House tomorrow and talk to Master Suanach. The head clerk of the Guild can then set up the contract right away.”

The two Dunlending thanked him and left. Eudo slumped into the big chair that had once been his father’s place and belonged to him now, as the current head of the family.

“Do you believe that we have done the right thing?” she asked his wife.

Manissa, about to collect the empty dishes, leaned over the table and kissed the top of his head.

“You have done the only thing that was still possible,” she said, “therefore it was right.”

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  The Hanse of Lebennin is a league of merchant cities in that particular province that has been trying to bring various branches of trade under its control in the whole Gondor. As the name shows, it was inspired by the historical Hanseatic League. There will be later an essay on this imaginary league.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 05 – The Mercer

Master Suanach, the head of the Merchants’ Guild in Halabor, read the Guild Book entries from the first day of the fair with mixed feelings. While the fair promised to be a good one as a whole, the presence of the two important cloth merchants from Lebennin worried him. He knew those old and powerful merchant houses; he had done business with them, long ago, when he had still resided in Pelargir. He had moved northwards partly so that he could operate from a town where the opponents were not so strong. That these opponents now seemed to follow him did not bode well with him at all.

While he dealt in silk (and silk thread) first and foremost, Master Suanach had considerable interest in the production and distribution of fine wool and linen cloth as well, and even in that of nettle hemp rope. He covered a good part of Anórien, and even parts of the Eastfold in Rohan. He was not willing to give up on those interests because of the greed of the Hanse of cloth towns in Lebennin.

Not without a fight, that is.

On the other hand, he was old and experienced enough to know that this was not an easy fight to win. He might have had his strong ties in Pelargir – and even in Khand and Harad, to a certain extent – but the Hanse of Lebennin was a powerful opponent. At least ten towns (that he knew of) were part of this old and still growing trade alliance that had been trying to dominate the trade in wool, cloth, wax, amber, timber and hides in the entire Gondor for quite some time. Small merchants either gave up their business or became mere clerks of the Hanse (and at least survived financially) or refused and lost everything as a result, often even the very house their family had lived in for generations.

Mere wealth was not enough to keep the Hanse out of Anórien and away from the Merchant’s Guild’s interests. For that, they needed a definite advantage… and a fairly big one. They could not measure themselves to Pelargir, or Ethring in Lamedon, and even those big merchant towns only managed to resist the Hanse with the help of special taxes the lords of the town or province had raised in their protection. Lord Orchald did not have the means to do the same, as only the members of Gondor’s Council had that privilege.

When a messenger boy came running from the Town Hall and told him breathlessly that he was needed there, by head scribe Odhrain’s request, Master Suanach had no inkling that he was about to find the answer to his most recent prayers. In fact, he was rather annoyed. As a rule, Odhrain was competent enough not to bother him unnecessarily. So why would the head clerk ask for him now, when he should know that the time was not good?

“I shall go and see what he wants,” said the old mercer to his son and successor – a tall, spare, vigorous young man with bluish black hair that framed his thin face like the wings of a raven. “See to the shop in the meantime. With all those Elves in town, we can hopefully make a good sell this year. They are fond of silk, or so I am told.”

Selevan nodded in agreement and took his father’s place behind the long, low table where the bales of priceless silk were unfolded to the customer’s delight. They offered in their little shop the finest wools and linens, assorted silks as samite, sendal and damask, and even two sorts of camlet: the more ordinary kind woven from goat’s hair but also the true item made of camel’s hair and brought a long way from Khand or Harad. Those were very expensive wares that Master Suanach would never entrust to any hired help. But his son had practically grown up among them, knowing well what they were worth and how to handle them.

Thus the old mercer reluctantly left his shop to follow the messenger boy. At least it was a short way from the Street of the Jewellers to the Marketplace where the Town Hall stood.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He had not known what to expect, but he most certainly had not expected to find young Eudo, the wool-merchant, waiting for him in the company of two Dunlendings. He knew Mogh, the Warden, of course – everyone in Halabor knew Mogh – and only needed a moment or two to recognize Chief Trader Nogga, the very man who kept the whole wool trade of the swarthy barbarians in his hands.

Master Suanach had once been counted among the wealthiest and most respected merchants of Pelargir. Through his late wife, he was also related to one of the richest merchant houses in Bakshir, the most important of the Haradric realms. He was, without doubt, the wealthiest and most powerful burgher in Halabor. As a rule, he did not mingle with people below his own status. As a rule, he considered Dunlendings with deep suspicion and almost aristocratic dismay.

On the other hand, Master Suanach had always had a keen sense for opportunity. That sense was tingling strongly right now, seeing Eudo and the Dunlendings together. He knew that Eudo’s own business area had been invaded by the Hanse; he also knew that the young wool-merchant could never keep his business against such a powerful opponent.

Unless he met someone with a similar problem.

Someone who was, nonetheless, in the right position to secure him a mutual advantage. An advantage from which Master Suanach could hope to cut out his own winning.

Seeing the head of the Guild enter, Eudo rose from his seat.

“Master Suanach,” he said respectfully, “thank you for seeing us at such a short notice. I understand that you know Chief Trader Nogga from Lyswyn?”

Master Suanach had learned from his father-in-law that a good merchant always showed respect to a potential customer. Even if he did not feel the slightest respect for that customer as a person.

“We have met,” he sad with a polite nod. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve come to an agreement, the young one and me,” replied the Chief Trader. “A good agreement that could save us both from falling into the trap o’ those wolves from Lebennin.”

“I see,” Master Suanach showed naught but polite interest, but he was cheering in the inside. “Have you come to have a contract set up properly? Odhrain,” he said with a sidelong glance at the black-clad head scribe who looked more like a Dúnadan nobleman than he could ever hope himself, “can do that. You would not need me for it ‘til it has to be signed.”

“There’s a problem, though,” told him the Dunlending trader. “The young one doesn’t have the coin to pay us a proper price. Those wolves have depleted his purse. He’s willing to pay us right, though, and we are willing to sell to no-one but him if he does.”

“I need a loan from the Guild,” added Eudo, clearly ashamed and desperate. He pulled a folded leaf of vellum from his belt pouch and handed it to Master Suanach. “My clerk has already calculated the sum I would need and the rate of interest I could pay without ruining my business completely.”

Master Suanach did not like it when his business partners tried to set the rules. Even less so when said business partner was a truly small fry compared with him. But Eudo was offering an opportunity here that might make it possible to keep the Hanse out of their area of business, thus Master Suanach was willing to make allowances… within reasonable limits.

He carefully studied the calculations of Eudo’s clerk. ‘Twas a surprisingly good job from someone barely literate, but Acco had always been better with his numbers than with his letters. If the Guild indeed granted Eudo the loan, it would take them years to get their money back – and even longer to make any decent winnings. But in the long run, it meant that they would have the monopoly of Dunlending wool, which was the best quality in all the adjacent lands, not to mention the greatest amount anyone could produce. In the end, it would also mean that they would be able to sell the clips to the Hanse, with considerable profit, as the cloth manufactories of Lebennin were dependent on Dunlending wool. Their own province could produce but a fragment of what was needed in the cloth houses.

So aye, this was a clever and mutually beneficial agreement. Which did not mean, however, that Master Suanach would give in easily. Eudo had to realize what great favour he would be given by the loan from the Guild.

“It does sound reasonable,” admitted the old mercer, “but it will not yield any winnings in the first couple of years. I need to discuss this with the treasure master of the Guild.”

“Oh, please,” Eudo snorted. “As if old Muathlan would say nay, once you have given the nod to anything!”

“That may be true,” replied the old mercer, for it was only very true that the spice merchant would never cross him; they had too many shared interests. “Still, the rules must be followed.”

“Then I’d suggest that you talk to him quickly,” interrupted the Dunlending, “for our offer only stands for two days from now. After that, we’ll be forced to sell our wares to the merchants of Lebennin. We’d have no other choice.”

Master Suanach did not take it kindly when some barbarian gave him an ultimatum. Unfortunately, this time he had to humour the barbarian. There was too much at stake. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.

“I shall see what I can do,” he replied loftily; then, turning to Eudo, he added. “Have your contract set up by Odhrain. He can also write a preliminary agreement about the loan you have asked for. I shall speak with Master Muathlan, and if he agrees, you can sign the documents tomorrow. Would that suffice?”

Eudo nodded, relief clearly written in his open, youthful face. The visage of the Dunlending remained unreadable. The spoke their thanks and left, leaving a cautiously optimistic Master Suanach behind.

This single agreement would not solve all their problems with the Hanse, of course. But it was a definite advantage, one that they sorely needed. It would save Eudo, as the local husbandmen would return to selling him their clips, once he could afford to pay them a little more; and having the monopoly for Dunlending wool would enable the Guild to keep the wool trade in Anórien firmly in hand and hold back the intrusion of the Hanse, at least for the moment. It also gave Master Suanach the breathing time he needed to look for allies in Pelargir, Ethring and Minas Tirith itself. Those were financially strong cities, the interests of which had been threatened by the Hanse as well.

All in all, this was a promising start. And if Master Suanach had to swallow his pride to achieve it, it was not such a high price, after all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He gave Odhrain the necessary instructions – not that the head scribe would need them, the man was well-educated in his trade but needed to be reminded who was the one giving the orders from time to time – and returned to his shop in the Street of the Jewellers.

He found his son in deep discussion with a customer – and not just any customer; not one of the local noblewomen who usually kept the mercer business flourishing, but an Elf. Master Suanach had never seen an Elf before. They did not visit Pelargir or Minas Tirith in these days, and though they were known to appear in Dol Amroth sometimes, their Lord being an old friend of the Prince, even that was a rare occasion.

The lady standing before the presentation table, eyeing a bolt of fine yet very light camlet cloth, the kind that was made from camel hair and dyed in a vibrant blue only the desert realms of Harad knew the secret of, was tall and slender like a young tree, with skin as pale as mother-of-pearl and hair like molten gold, arranged in numerous, complicated braids that must have taken days to do to this perfection. She wore a simple, sea-grey gown and a cloak of royal blue, fastened with a silver broche on her throat. Her delicate face was beyond mortal beauty, with a pair of wide eyes, grey like a clear winter morning. There could be no doubt that she had to be a noble person, even as Elves go.

“The cloth is as thin as the finest silk,” was Selevan saying when his father re-entered the shop, “and I assure you, my lady, that it will be delightfully cool to wear, even in the height of the summer.”

“Then it might be just the thing I was looking for,” the Elf-lady replied in a low, musical voice. “Indeed, this would look gorgeous with both gold or silver and white embroidery… or with pearls and small gems.”

Master Suanach felt his heartbeat quickening. The cloth in question was the purest, finest camlet from the desert of Harad, rare and more precious than even Khandian silk. He had almost given up hope to sell it, for it was simply too expensive for the purse of the local nobility.

“’Tis an excellent choice, my lady,” he agreed, trying not to look too eager to sell, for that would have been a mistake. “The hue matches your own colouring most complementarily, I would say.”

The Elf-lady laughed. ‘Twas a light, pealing laughter, like a summer rain… or like pearls falling into a silver bowl.

“Flattery will not take you anywhere, good mercer,” she said. “But I shall buy the entire bolt off you, if your price is a reasonable one.”

Master Suanach hesitated for a moment, natural greed battling with the caution of a skilled trader – who wanted to sell first and foremost – in his heart. In the end, caution won out. He named a price that was high enough to compensate him for his expenses and even get him a decent winning, but was not unreasonable. A decent profit was still better then letting the priceless cloth lie on the shelf, gathering dust… or being ruined by moths.

The Elf-lady nodded.

“That is acceptable,” she said, opening her pearl-embroidered purse and counting the demanded gold pieces onto the table. “Can you have it brought to our temporary dwellings? We have taken up residence in the Infirmary gardens for the time of the fair.”

“Why, certainly, my lady,” the old mercer replied. “We have errand boys for that sort of thing. To whom shall I send it?”

“To the Lady Aquiel,” answered the Elf. “Should I not be there, the aide of my uncle Gildor will take it from your boy. Have a good day, good master.”

With that, she left, leaving a thunderstruck Master Suanach behind. The old mercer might never have seen an Elf before, but everyone who had lived in the south of Gondor had heard of Gildor Inglorion, of course. The Lord of Edhellond, close friend of the Princes of Dol Amroth since the founding of the realm, was a legend. But none of the tales had ever mentioned that he would have a family.

While shutting his newly-earned gold pieces safely away in his strongbox, Master Suanach wondered briefly whether that knowledge would ever prove useful.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  It is a recorded historical fact that tailors who lived from making new clothes were not allowed to repair old ones.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 06 – The Old Clothes Merchant

Every town, and be it so small as Halabor was, had a particular area where those who had been less fortunate in life found shelter. For some, it was only for a short time, ‘til they found a better place to live. For others, it was the last station of a long way full of poverty and bitter need; a place where they were stranded without hope to ever get away.

In Halabor, the New Port was the last refuge of the less fortunate ones washed ashore by the Great River. Homeless and penniless folk lurked in the long-abandoned, half-ruined houses of the harbour, trying to eke out a meagre living. Some of them were strangers who had come to town in the hope for a better life. Some of them had been farmers and husbandmen who had to flee with their families when their farmsteads and livestock had been raided by Orcs, Easterlings, Hill-men or rogue Dunlendings. Others were the descendants of boatmen and boatmakers that had once lived there in great numbers, many, many years earlier, when Halabor still had been a frequented place at the crossing of trade routes.

Life in the New Port was not an easy one. Some men had been fortunate enough to be hired by the Merchant’s Guild as packers for the Warehouse. Others found work on one of the barges, for those could still moor easier in the New Port, even though only the local merchants used it in the time between the fairs. That was hard work, and the pay was small, but at least their families did not have to hunger, most of the time. But only a small number of men could find such work as would feed them all year long, even though meagerly. The others – unless the wood- or hay-merchant hired them for the short times when more hands were needed than usual – were forced to wander around for work all day. With little hope to find aught that lasted longer than just a day. More often than not, they had to beg or to steal, in order to have something to eat.

The women had it even worse. A few lucky ones got hired by Mistress Betha for the washing and carding of the fleeces, or as spinstresses or weavers. The coin they earned with that hard work was little enough, but at the very least it provided them with a steady income. The others offered their services as laundresses in the wealthy burgher houses, or as maidservants; or they collected nettle for the rope-makers and the net-makers. For a few days in every three moons, Lord Orchald even allowed the women of the New Port to go into his woods and collect berries and mushrooms and acorns, and to snare small animals like hares, so that they cold put meat on the table sometimes. Some of the younger and prettier ones opened their house to the soldiers from the garrison of Cair Andros when these got a day of leave to come to town. ‘Twas not something they would be proud of, but in the times of desperate need one could not be choosy.

Few people lived willingly in the New Port. Even the merchants, who had interests in the harbour and the Warehouse, had moved within the town walls decades ago, leaving their storehouses under the guard of hired watchmen, and only returning to their shops in daytime.

Mullion, the old clothes merchant was the only one who actually still lived there… mostly because he was more or less a stranger himself. His father had been the one who had asked for residence in Halabor, after many long years of wandering from farmstead to farmstead, buying and selling used but still good clothes. Finally becoming settled had given Mullion the chance to learn how to repair clothes – for the rules of the Guild forbade the tailors to do so – and he was able to set up his modest business in the New Port, where the poor would buy any piece of clothing for a few copper pieces, no matter how worn or threadbare it was. The Guild had accepted him, for he offered a service that had been needed for quite some time, and with buying, selling and repairing old clothes, he earned a modest living for himself and his family.

He married late for a man of the Old Folk, wedding the orphaned daughter of a poor farmer and taking her mother in his house as well. There had been no other family left, the rest of them having slain during a raid of Hill-men. But at least both Reingild and her mother had turned out to be skilled with the needle. Within the year, they had taken over the repairing of clothes, thus setting Mullion free to go about, tending to his business in the neighbourhood of the town.

All things considered, Mullion was content with his life. He had a trade with no business opponents, had four healthy children between the age of twenty-two and fourteen, all of them able and willing to help out wherever they were needed, and when his firstborn, Madduin, married the wool-merchant’s daughter in the next spring, with her dowry they might even be able to buy a house within the town walls. A very small one, true, but Mullion had wanted to do so ever since coming to town.

He wished he could give his only daughter some dowry, too. Malride was nearly twenty; she should have married years ago. But the old clothes business, unchallenged as it might be, was not a very profitable one, and bringing the whole family into the safety of the town walls was simply more important. Once they did not live in the New Port, their reputation might go up little, and mayhap even Malride would find a suitable husband easier. She certainly deserved it. She was a good, hard-working girl. Even pretty, in her own way. Not the beauty her mother had been in her youth, but not entirely plain, either.

Mullion shook his head in regret and sat down to see through his books. ‘Twas fortunate that he was lettered and numbered, having gone to the school for the children of small merchants in the Town Hall for three years, for he could not afford to employ a clerk. Not even such a cheap one as the wool-merchant’s Acco. He was reasonably good at it, and he did not expect to have any customers during the fair. Even the poor wanted to go down to the booths and see what was being offered, though they had no chance to buy those things. Thus Mullion could use the time to bring his somewhat neglected books into proper order.

He was so immersed in his battle with the numbers that he did not even hear the door opening. So he had quite a fright when a shadow was cast on his counter. But as he looked up, he broke into a broad smile at once.

“Mistress Angharad!” he cried in delight. “How can I be of your service?”

Aside from the Castle people, Mistress Angharad was his best customer. There were always old people dying in the Infirmary, and most of them had no close kin that would demand their clothes. Mistress Angharad always brought those spare pieces to Mullion, without asking for any coin for them. Properly laundered and stitched, the clothes then quickly found a new owner among the poor. Mullion got them for free and sold them cheaply, so everyone was content.

Mistress Angharad placed a bundle of neatly folded clothes onto the counter.

“We had a case of death again,” she said. “Not in the Infirmary; I was called to a cottage in the Lord’s woods. The cottager’s wife had died in childbirth, and as they have only boy-children, the husband did not want to keep her clothes. I am certain that you can find the right owner for them.”

Mullion unfolded the clothes and examined them carefully. They were worn, ‘twas true, but made of good, homespun wool, and there was no tear or other such thing in the fabric anywhere.

“My thanks, Mistress Angharad,” he said. “I can think of at least two widows here in the New Port who might be interested. They would even be able to pay a nearly proper price for them. During the fair, even the people here can find more paid work than usual.”

“Then I am well content,” replied Mistress Angharad with a smile. “This time, though, I have also come to buy something. You have heard of the girl the Elves have found, I deem? Poor Telent’s daughter?”

Mullion nodded. “Who has not? ‘Tis terrible business; and the Easterlings coming across the Wetwang unchallenged does not bode well for us. What about the girl, though? Will she live?”

“She is with us in the Infirmary, and it seems that she will live indeed,” replied Angharad. “But as you can imagine, she has no clothes left. These here would be way too big for her, so I thought mayhap you would have something more fitting.”

“I might,” said Mullion, “but would she not have a proper guardian appointed to her? ‘Tis not your duty to see that she is clothed, you know.”

Angharad laughed. “Oh, I doubt not that between them, Mistress Dorlas and the provost will take good care of her,” she said. “I just want something that she could put on right away, ‘til further arrangements will be made.”

“Master Smith Ludgvan has taken her as his ward?” asked Mullion in surprise. “But he can barely fit his own children and grandchildren into that house of his!”

“Well, the girl is the daughter of a wandering cutler and ironsmith, and thus the responsibility of their guild,” replied Angharad with a shrug. “You know what custom demands in such cases. Still, I do believe that the provost was relieved when Mistress Dorlas offered to take the girl in; and ‘tis better for the girl, too. She will have more peace in the Square House than she could find under Master Ludgvan’s roof. Mistress Dorlas already has a young girl in her charge; taking in an older fosterling would be no great hardship for her.”

“How old may that poor girl be?” asked Mullion, listing all available clothes that might fit in his head already.

“Fourteen, mayhap, or not much older,” replied Angharad. “Rather smallish, too.”

“Would these be the right size?” Mullion spread a gown of simple, homespun cotton, dyed in the customary reddish brown colour, and an undyed, sleeveless undershift on the counter. “They are patched in a few places, but the cloth is good; they will serve for years to come yet.”

Angharad examined the set of clothing every bit as carefully as Mullion had examined the ones she had brought.

“They will do,” she finally declared. “Name the price, Master Mullion.”

“Twould be immodest to accept payment from you, after you have just brought me a whole bundle of clothes,” protested the merchant. He might need the coin, but he was a decent man.

“Nonsense,” said Angharad. “The two have naught to do with each other. And I can afford to pay. So, name your price.”

Mullion named the price that was only a little higher than what he would have demanded from someone of the New Port. For while Angharad indeed could afford such small generosities, she, too, had to work had for her coin, and he knew that.

“That poor girl,” he said, putting the copper pieces into the strongbox and folding the clothes again for Angharad. “What will become of her, I wonder, ever if she does live, marked as she is for life by those beasts?”

“That I cannot tell,” said Angharad thoughtfully, “but she was saved by Elves, and they say that those touched by Elves often have strange fates. Mayhap she will find happiness, after all. She is still so very young.”

“She has been fortunate that she became the Master Smith’s ward,” agreed Mullion. “Master Ludgvan will see that she be taken care of properly. And Mistress Dorlas, too, has a generous heart. Many here in the New Port would give a limb to have their future secured like that.”

He did not mention his own daughter, but Angharad understood his meaning perfectly well. She was beyond wedding age herself, but she had her own trade and could take care of herself. Not to mention that her grandmother owned The Drunken Boat, the best-favoured tavern in town. She needed not to worry about her future. But what could a girl like Malride hope for? Without dowry, without a trade and with a father who could just barely keep the family business above the water?

Angharad felt for the old clothes merchant and his daughter, but there was naught she could do to help them; naught else but bring the occasional bundle of clothes to them. So she thanked Mullion and left his shop, the neatly folded gown and undershift on her arm. The gown was a really nice one, she found, with pretty, carved wooden buttons on the front that went down to the waistline and thus made it easy to put on. It might be a little too wide for Telent’s girl, but it was one that matched her status – that of the penniless ward of a respected craftsman.

She would be given more later, of that Angharad had no doubt. Both the midwife and the provost were generous people who took their responsibilities seriously. But Angharad found it better that the girl had at least a set of clothes she could call her own before leaving the Infirmary. ‘Twas never good to go to one’s benefactors with one’s hands empty.

Angharad lengthened her strides and passed the Warehouse to take the shortcut through the Castle’s training grounds back to the Infirmary. Now that the issue with the girl’s clothing had been settled, she needed to turn her attention to other pressing tasks. During the fair, there was always much to do for the healers. The abundance of wine, beer, ale and fine spirits often led to brawls. In the last two days, the Infirmary had to patch up as many as eight injured men. And the fair had just truly begun.

Men, she thought with a tolerant shake of her head. Some of them could just never grow up. She was glad to have Meurig in the Infirmary, now that she had to deal with so many drunkards. A bit dim-witted Meurig might be, but strong and mild-mannered he was, like an ox. There would be no fights among the waiting drunkards this year. Not in Meurig’s warning presence.

A healer had to count her blessings, small though those might be.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  More about Kevern and the ironsmith’s family is told in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”. Mistress Pharin is based on my late grandmother, who, at the age of 95, was still capable of running the household, despite having lost ninety-two per cent of her eyesight almost twenty years earlier.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 07 – The Cutler

It was in the early morning, on the fourth day of the Autumn Fair, when Kevern, the eldest son of Master Smith Ludgvan, left his father’s house in the southwestern part of the town, near Nurria’s Gate, to open up his booth on the fairground. This was only the third day since he had been appointed as the new Master Cutler by the Craftsmen’s Guild, taking over from the late Telent, who had been slain with his entire family by raiding Easterlings… with the exception of their young daughter who was now lying in the Infirmary, grievously injured. The Easterlings had violated her and left her for dead; and she would have died indeed, had the Wandering Elves not found her and brought her to Halabor.

Kevern could not help but feel guilty, as the horrible death of the girl’s family gave him the chance to finally start his own business. He was an excellent ironsmith, yet with a deep reluctance to make weapons – and as one could not make a plough or a cauldron as a masterpiece, he had remained a journeyman way beyond his time. His mother had, in the end, forced him to make a battle-axe as his masterpiece, but Kevern still refused to work as a weaponsmith afterwards. He had needed a different trade, and now he had one.

“I would prefer to work in Father’s smithy, if only poor Telent and his family could be alive and well,” he said to his wife who had seen him to the front gate. Sabra smiled up to him.

“You are a good, decent man, and I love you for that,” she replied and kissed him on the cheek, “but you fret for no reason. Someone has to take over Telent’s work; ‘tis better if you do it than some stranger, and the townsfolk sees it the same way. Now, be gone! Mistress Pharin wants to have her kitchen knives sharpened ere the Drunken Boat opens for the day. ‘Twould not be courteous to let her wait.

Kevern kissed his wife and left obediently. Just beyond thirty, he was on his way to become a younger version of his father: stocky, bearded and bear-like, with a round, ruddy face and gentle brown eyes. He was used to do what the women in his family told him to do; first his mother and older sister, and now his spirited young wife, heavy with their third child. He was content with his work, content with his family and only concerned about them having as good a life as possible. He had no other ambitions, which seemed to frustrate them sometimes. But he was what he was, and he had no true wish to be different.

The sun had just begun to rise when he reached the fairground, where the foreign traders were clambering out of their cloaks, stretching and yawning, setting out their wares onto the display counters (or simply onto blankets spread on the ground), readying the goods for the day’s business. Kevern exchanged greetings with a middle-aged armourer from Lamedon, who had his booth on the left side, and began to open the sealed hatches, in order to unfold the wooden walls of his booth, allowing potential customers a good view at what he had to offer.

As he refused to make weapons, his goods were mostly items for everyday use: knives, locks, simple tools and axes, made for the use of woodworkers. There were wooden boxes, filled with nails of various sizes; then cooking utensils, like pans and cauldrons and flesh forks for boiled haunches and so on.

The cauldrons were his most decorative pieces, gilded with an amalgam of mercury and gold. This particular task was not entirely without danger, for to get the gold to bind to the iron, it had to be heated to vaporise the mercury, and if one breathed in those vapours in the process, it could affect the lungs and eventually kill a person. Fortunately, Kevern knew his craft well enough, and he was careful around his products.

He ordered his wares on the display counter, and eyed fondly his only luxury item to offer: a folding stool, made entirely of iron and expensive, gilded leather, worthy to stand in the field tent of a great warlord or a king. He had heard about such rare pieces of furniture from wandering traders of the South, and could not resist the challenge to try his hand on the making of one. He would probably never be able to sell that stool, thus his wife’s anger about the coin paid for the leather had likely been justified, but he could it not bring over his heart to regret having spent it. The stool was perfect. Simply perfect. Even if he would have to push it from one corner to another for the rest of his life, he could not regret having made at least one piece of beauty, just because he could. Because he truly had the skills to do so.

Mayhap he was more ambitious than he had thought himself, after all.

The pleasant sound of female laughter woke him from the contemplation of his own handiwork. Looking up, he spotted the proudly erect figure of Mistress Pharin, the owner of the Drunken Boat coming his way. Two of her little serving maids followed her, carrying the knives of the tavern in a wicker basket. Kevern nodded to himself, appreciating the care; those were no harmless eating utensils – everyone had their own knife to eat with – but large, vicious-looking tools that could have killed a man just as easily as one could carve roast meat with them. But, of course, Mistress Pharin had never done anything careless or foolish in her long life.

People often praised the fresh beauty of young girls and could see no beauty in the wisdom and harmony of mature age. Those who were less blind, could not have found a more worthy subject for their admiration as the matron who was just approaching Kevern’s booth. Mistress Pharin, the daughter of a simple shoemaker and a widow for many years, had the pride and the dignity of a queen – only that queens would not likely have the strength to labour in a hot kitchen from sunrise to sunset, and that at the age of seventy-seven summers.

Once she had been a stunning beauty, or so people who were old enough to remember told, and traces of that beauty could still be found on her smooth, rosy face. Only in the corners of her cornflower-blue eyes could a few wrinkles be found; eyes that were bright and curious and full of life, despite the sad fact that she had lost her only daughter just a few moons ago. She might be grieving, but she certainly was not a broken old woman.

She swept up to Kevern’s booth in her bountiful skirts rustling – not simple homespun, as one would expect from a woman of her status, but good, solid cotton wool, from the more expensive stock of Mistress Betha’s clothier shop – her wimple snow white, like a barge with full sails. Her keybound and purse were softly clinking to the rhythm of her steps as they hung from her girdle, emphasizing the importance of her person.

“Kevern, my lad!” she exclaimed heartily, giving the young man one of her famous, dimpled smiles that made her seem half her age. ‘Tis good to see you having your own trade, at least!”

“I would be glad, too, had my good fortune not cost poor Telent and his wife their lives,” replied Kevern grimly. The matron shot him a sharp look.

“Have you been the one who murdered them?” she asked bluntly. Kevern stared at her in shock.

“Of course not, Mistress Pharin, how can you ask me such a horrible thing?”

But Mistress Pharin was not brought off her chosen path so easily.

“Have you led the Easterlings on their track?” she asked.

“You know I have not,” answered Kevern, still not understanding why she would even ask.

“Then stop talking such nonsense,” said Mistress Pharin sternly. “You have not caused their deaths in any way. Brooding over their fate will not make them alive again. Honour Telent by doing his work as well as he had done, and be in peace. We all must die, sooner or later. ‘Tis sad if someone has to go before their time,” her voice broke for a moment with remembered loss, “yet life must go on. No matter what, life must go on.”

‘Twas hard to argue with a matron who had seen nigh eighty summers already, had lived through joys and sorrows, gains and losses, births and deaths, fortune and misfortune. Wisely, Kevern did not even try. Besides, he had other business to do with Mistress Pharin; business that would earn him some honest coin that he desperately needed. Starting a new business was no easy task, not even with his father’s help.

He invited Mistress Pharin further into the booth, where the large grinding wheel stood. Not having the time to have poor Telent’s utensils repaired by the leatherers, he had to drag out of his father’s barn the wheel on which the newly made swords were getting sharpened and polished. ‘Twas about two feet in diameter and a good eight inches across the grinding surface: way too big for simple eating utensils, but passable enough for the large kitchen knives used in the Drunken Boat. It had lames of mûmak hide as flaps sitting tightly arranged radially between two wooden shields. The leather flaps were secured by dovetails locking in grooves on the insides of those wooded shields. ‘Twas an excellently made old tool that had served the family for generations already and was likely to serve another two, at the very least. Mûmak hide was tough.

Getting the grinding wheel to work required two people: one to turn the wheel with the help of an iron handle and another one to press the blade tightly against the turning wheel. Kevern usually worked in pair with his youngest brother, but Mellof was needed somewhere else today, thus Mistress Pharin took over the turning of the wheel herself, rolling up her sleeves and revealing strong arms that would put a smaller man to shame. She had a sure grip on the handle, and turned it in a steady rhythm, while Kevern was leaning with his whole weight against the knife that was being sharpened, to hold it in the right position.

It took them about an hour ‘til the work was done. Mistress Pharin paid Kevern the usual fee – one brass piece for each knife that had been sharpened – and left contently. She could have haggled with the young cutler, considering the fact that she had helped him with the wheel. But she was a generous person by nature and paid the full sum without protest. Kevern put the coin away, calculating his recent expenses and how long it would take ‘til he could pay back the coin he had borrowed from his father. Not to mention that he needed to get a grinding wheel of his own, soon, if he wanted to keep the cutler business. And that would cost quite the sum again.

He stretched his aching back – bending over the grinding wheel had not been very comfortable – and began to rearrange his wares on the display counter. That kept him occupied, which made a good impression on potential customers, and drew attention to the things he had to offer.

He had several more customers before noon. The roofer and the stone-mason came to have their tools mended, and he sold a few cauldrons to the local farmers’ wives who had large families and needed really big cooking pots. Around noon, Sabra came and brought him something to eat, and after that, business flagged a little, as expected, as everyone sought out a place to eat and drink. Kevern had a keg of ale with the armourer from Lamedon at the ale-wife’s tent, talked with several foreign merchants, and was moderately content with his daily business so far.

He recognized his younger brothers, Kenver and Kenwyn, from afar, upon returning to his booth. The two were members of Lord Orchald’s Castle Guard and thus lived in the Castle with the other men-at-arms and their families. ‘Twas not so surprising that they would pay their brother’s booth a visit – but they were wearing the gambesons of the Guard, with the silver dragon on black upon their chests. Which could only mean one thing: they were on duty, most likely escorting Lord Orchald himself, who usually took a stroll across the fair every day.

Kevern lengthened his strides. He could not imagine what Lord Orchald might want from him – his wares, while pretty enough, were not worthy a lordly household – but it would not do to make the Lord of Halabor wait. Even less so as the old lord was known to be a generous customer if served well.

“My Lord,” Kevern all but stumbled into his booth, “forgive me for making you wait. I had no idea…”

He trailed off, absolutely stunned. For on the side of Lord Orchald, who was wearing his usual sombre attire, stood the most extraordinary being one could imagine. Nay, Kevern corrected himself, this was beyond that. No-one, not even Rhisiart the minstrel could have dreamed up a creature of such exquisite power and beauty.

Lord Orchald’s companion was undoubtedly an Elf, clad in grey silks and soft grey leathers, with a royal blue mantle thrown casually round his surprisingly broad shoulders. His long hair, shining like molten gold, was bound into some sort of club with thin leather strips, thicker than a man’s arms, and nearly reached his knees. His high-cheekboned face was pale and incredibly beautiful, with a faint golden shimmer about it, his wide-set eyes a stormy grey-blue. He had a great sword on his back, in a beautifully made scabbard. He was the first Elf Kevern had ever seen, but there could be no doubt that he was a great lord among Elves.

Lord Orchald had mercy with the stunned young smith, though.

“You need not to worry, Kevern,” he said in his customary fatherly manner that made him so well-loved among his subjects. “We are just looking for a suitable present for Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Lord Gildor here is heading homeward to Edhellond and does not want to visit the Prince with his hands empty.”

“I think I have already found something,” the royal-looking Elf, whose name was apparently Gildor, said. He had a deep, melodious voice, but with a well-recognizable hardness in it.

Lord Orchald, walked over to him, and Kevern’s heart began to pound loudly, for they were both eyeing his pride and joy, the folding stool.

“As much as Imrahil has to go to war for the Steward, or just to protect the Bay of Belfalas from the Corsairs of Umbar, he could put something like this to good use,” explained Gildor.

“Mayhap so,” allowed Lord Orchald, “but would it not be too much trouble to carry? You have a long way before you yet.”

“Nay; for when folded, it could be easily fastened onto the back of a pack-horse,” replied the Elf. He ran a long, elegant hand over the leather parts. “’Tis excellent handiwork, too. Your own, Master Cutler?”

Kevern nodded. “I have wanted to make something like this for years. Sometimes a craftsman needs to make something just because it would be beautiful.”

He blushed, realizing that not only had he given away something profoundly important from his very soul, but also had he bothered these great lords with things that they most likely had no interest for. To his surprise, though, the Elf nodded in understanding.

“True,” he said. “And it seems to me, Master Cutler, that you have not hesitated to make sacrifices, just to follow the call of your artisan’s heart. Alone the leather work must have cost you good coin.”

“’Twas not cheap,” admitted Kevern, “even though the goldsmith and the leatherers had offered me a friendly price. All in all, it went up as high as four gold pieces, and that without the ore and my own work that has gone into it. My wife was not pleased; not that I would blame her, what with her awaiting our third babe any moment now, and me not having my own business ‘til a few days ago.”

“I recommend you for following the calling of your heart nonetheless,” said the Elf-lord, unhooking the soft leather purse from his belt. “And to reconcile you with your wife, who is also right from where she sees things, I shall buy this stool from you. What do you demand for it?”

“Six gold pieces would make up for all my expenses and another one for my own work, my Lord,” replied Kevern modestly. He would be content to get back the coin spent on the making of the stool and some for the long hours of work. The piece had already fulfilled its main purpose: the joy of making something upon which he could use all his skills and produce a thing of beauty.

“Now I see why your wife would be displeased with you, Master Cutler,” said the Elf with a slight smile. “You are too modest for your own good. This stool is easily worth twice the price you have named; and that is what I shall pay you for it, adding three more pieces to honour your modesty. ‘Tis not a trait I find often when bargaining with mortals.”

With that, he counted seventeen gold pieces into the young smith’s trembling hand, asking him to have the precious stool folded, safely wrapped in linen and sack and sent to the Infirmary for him. Kevern nodded mutely, too shocked by the small fortune in his cupped hands to give an answer. Seventeen gold pieces meant that he could pay his debts back and acquire a brand new grinding wheel from the stone-mason; a small, portable one, with which he could move around to the scattered farmsteads as poor Telent had done. Or he could have Telent’s wheel repaired and buy a mule or a strong pony to transport it. In either case, this single sell had given his fledgling business a good start; and he would still have some coin left to save for other urgent purposes.

“I am honoured, my lords,” he whispered, barely daring to believe his good fortune.

Lord Orchald patted his arm reassuringly. “They say that doing business with Elves can be profitable at times,” he said. “And there are times when even modesty pays off, it seems. I shall leave one of your brothers here to bring your earnings to Master Ludgven’s house. ‘Twould not do to be robbed when you are finally having a good day.”

The two lords, old and mortal with ageless and deathless, left then, sending in Kenwyn, who took Kevern’s strongbox to get all that Elven gold safely home. Master Ludgvan had an iron cabinet bound to the stone wall in his cellar, with a lock so complicated that it would challenge the skills of a Dwarf to pick, where they kept the wealth of the entire family. There Kevern’s newly acquired fortune would be safe until he needed it.

His wife would be content. His mother would be content. And when the women of the family were content, Kevern was content, too.

Thanks to this one fortunate sell, he would be left alone to do his work in peace as he pleased. And perchance, one day he would create another item of beauty.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  My grandmother came from a family of shoemakers. However, Erchin’s family has very few similarities with her own.

The marriage customs of the Rohirrim are based on “The Purchase of a Bride: Bargain, Gift, Hamingja” by Winifred Hodge Rose.

Mistress Crewyn first appeared in “The Last Yule in Halabor”. Her handiwork played an important role in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”, by revealing a murderer.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 08 – The Buckle-Maker

The guild of the leather-workers was the biggest and most numerous in Halabor. It included six shoemakers, four furriers, a saddler, a harness-maker, a scabbard-maker (although both of the latter were still apprentices, working towards becoming masters of their craft), a tanner, a belt-maker, a purse-maker and a glove-maker.

Erchin, the belt-maker (or buckle-maker, as the townsfolk called him, for he was already well-known for the elaborate belt buckles he knotted of thin leather tongs to complete his belts) had learned his craft from his late grandfather, who had died less than a year ago. His father, one of the shoemakers of the town, did not thought much about making belts and other such fancy items, but as he had handed over the shoemaking business to Budic, his eldest, Erchin, the youngest of five siblings, had been chosen to learn the art of buckle-knotting, as he had the nimblest fingers of all.

Now, with his oldest brother running the family business and the two middle ones serving in the garrison of Cair Andros, Erchin found that he liked having his own trade. That he actually enjoyed the tasks that were required for his work only made things even better.

He did not mind leaving the shoemaking to his eldest brother at all. He found more pleasure in the making of belts and straps and knife scabbards, the binding of books, the tooling and painting and dyeing and gilding of leather for the carpenters who then used it for the making of more expensive pieces of furniture, like stuffed armchairs, for wealthy families. The more delicate the task at hand was, the more did he enjoy it. In the heart of his hearts, he considered himself an artisan, rather than a mere craftsman.

As they did fairly similar work, he shared a workshop with Master Folcwalda, the saddler, and they were now displaying their wares in the same large booth during the Fair. Erchin considered himself fortunate because of this, as the Rohirrim, while generally fond of their ale and their bizarre board games, were a friendly and easy-going lot, and  no matter how much they had drunk, they rarely got inebriated. Unlike his own father, whom he had never seen sober, or his eldest brother, who had already drunk one wife into an early grave and was about to do the same with a second unfortunate wench.

It had not been without reason that Corb and Coplait had chosen to become soldiers rather than work in their father’s workshop. Sometimes Erchin truly felt pity for his mother. As the daughter of a well-to-do furrier, she had been the one to bring the necessary coin into the marriage that had enabled Jory to open a shop of his own, and what had she gotten in exchange? A miserable life with a hopeless drunkard as a husband, who treated her like a servant, and another hopeless drunkard as a son. There could be little doubt that they would lose their clients to Anta or Gawen, in the long run.

Nay, Erchin was glad to live and work with the Rohirrim. He had learned a few new things from Master Folcwalda, he had become friends with the saddler’s sons, one of whom wanted to become a master scabbard-maker and had thus been apprenticed to him, and secretly, he had his eye on little Mistress Crewyn, the saddler’s daughter. She was pretty, she had a trade of her own – she was the town’s only purse-maker – and though she was near ten years his junior, in another year or two she would be old enough to get wedded.

Erchin had already spoken to Master Folcwalda about this, and the saddler was agreeable. After all, it made sense to unite two such closely related trades, instead of creating a conflict of interests between them. Of course, the final word was Mistress Crewyn’s, as the Rohirrim did not force their children to marry against their will (as it happened among the Old Folk), but Erchin was cautiously hopeful that he would succeed in wooing her.

In any case, he would have to save some serious coin first, for the Rohirrim understood marriage as a bargain for the exchange of values, and thus the courting included the exchange of mutual gifts, from the bridegroom to the bride’s family as well as from the father of the bride to the family of the groom. Those gifts served to compensate the bride’s family for losing not only her contribution to the daily work, but also the mundr she represented for her family: her share of the respect and honour, which her future husband needed to acquire, in order to be able to keep and sustain his wife. Without achieving those spiritual values, the marriage would have been doomed to fail.

On the other hand, though, Mistress Crewyn could easily earn her own dowry (not that her father would refuse to give her one), for she was truly skilled, despite her tender age, and her handiwork much sought-after.  At the end, things would even out nicely by the time she would be ripe for marriage, but at first, Erchin needed to build his way steadily towards that goal.

The young buckle-maker smiled contently, arranging the thin straps of leather on the small table before him. During the Fair, he did not do work that required special tools – like the stamping and applying and other such tasks. He preferred doing delicate work alone and undisturbed, so that the pattern would not be damaged. But knotting the decorative leather buckles was something he could do in his sleep, and it usually attracted onlookers. People were fascinated by the skill and speed with which his fingers moved, forming the delicate and complicated knots that resulted in the shape of flowers or butterflies or bugs or a dozen other things. And onlookers often made customers, even if they had not originally intended to buy anything.

Colours added another decorative aspect, and he always planned well in advance when dyeing his leathers, so that he would have enough straps of the right colour all the time. Leather dyeing was another ting he liked to do, for it was a true challenge sometimes to get the exact hue that he wanted.

Most people found the smell in a tannery offensive, including the tanner’s own young daughter. Well, Erchin did not like the smell itself, either. Still he did like to visit Germoc’s tannery, as the dyeing process had to be done in concert with the tannage or tawning. Also, it made things much easier to have whole hides or skins dyed, and then cut them to the straps or pieces that were needed, than trying to colour each individual part separately.

There were not many colours leather could be dyed to: mostly to green, red, blue, black or brown. Only the Elves knew the secret of making silvery grey leather. For the dyeing itself, often the same plants were used as for the dyeing of wool or linen cloth, and Erchin spent a good part of his time with collecting the ingredients and preparing the right dyes.

To dye skins blue, one needed walwort and elderberries. For getting a rich red colour, chickweed was used, with crabble shells from the River burned into ashes and baye salt. Elderberries, walwort and sap green – made of buckthorn berries – were needed to colour the hides green; that or ireos flowers. Preparing those dyes was certainly a lot of work, and one had to be very thorough, as not well-made berry dyes tended to fade in bright sunlight.

Erchin selected a handful of blue straps and a few black and undyed creamy white ones for his next piece, and was just about to start a new buckle when someone entered the booth. He looked up from his table, recognizing Kevern, the blacksmith’s eldest son, who had been for a few days the new cutler of the town. The two of them had known each other since childhood, and had even worked together lately, as Erchin had done the leather work on Kevern’s fancy folding stool – the one that, according to gossip, the lord of the Wandering Elves had bought off him just the previous day. It must have earned Kevern good coin, and so Erchin hoped that the cutler would have an order for him, sharing some of his good fortune with a fellow craftsman.

“Greetings, Kevern,” he said, raising from his table. “What can I do for you? Or are you looking for Master Folcwalda? He has gone for his second tankard of ale, but that would not take long.”

“Nay, I have come to see you,” replied Kevern. “You have heard of poor Telent’s fate, I deem?”

Erchin nodded. Of course he had. People had been talking of naught else but the horrible fate of the wandering cutler and his family.

“I also heard that the Guild has accepted you as the new Master Cutler,” he said. “’Tis a good thing, even though the occasion is a sad one.”

Kevern shrugged. “As my wife says, someone had to take over the work. So I have decided to buy Telent’s wheel from his daughter; ‘tis in a good shape, and I am sure the stonewright can repair the small notches easily. But the leather flaps had burned beyond help. Could you make some new ones for me?”

Erchin scratched his head. “Sure I can, that is not the problem. What we need to find, however, is some tough enough hide that would hold a long time. Wild boar, mayhap, or ox hide... for I very much doubt that we could get our hands on any dead mûmakil soon enough.”

They both laughed, and then Kevern gave the buckle-maker the needed measures for the flaps. They haggled about the price for a while, not that they would not know what the whole thing truly was worth, just because it was a time-honoured custom among the Old Folk. After reaching the expected agreement, Kevern left contently, leaving an equally content Erchin behind.

Erchin stretched and sat back to his little table, starting to knot the colourful straps, just to make time pass faster. This time, he was about to make a butterfly, with blue wings, pretty enough to adorn the belt of a young lady.

He was half-done, when the next customers arrived. This time, the customers were Elves: two tall, willowy, raven-haired males, clad in the usual green and brown garb of the woodland folk, and a female, just as tall as the other two, but somewhat wider of build and ash blonde of hair and wearing the same garb, just all in shadowy grey. She was the one who approached the young craftsman, asking for the saddler.

“He went to the ale-wife’s tent,” replied Erchin. “Do you want me to send one of the errand boys to fetch him?” For everyone knew by now that making business with Elves was a profitable one, and he did not want Master Folcwalda to miss the opportunity.

“Nay,” said the Elf with a wry grin. “Far it be from me to stand between a Horse-lord and his ale. I shall wait for him to return, and watch these younglings here to buy whatever they have come for. That will pass the time nicely.”

Erchin gave the younglings a wary look. They did seem ageless with their smooth, beautiful faces, but somehow he would not have been surprised, had they turned out to be hundreds of years old… or even more. One could never be certain with Elves, or so the old tales said.

“What would be your pleasure, my lords?” he asked politely, just in case.

The two dark-haired Elves looked at each other and burst out in laughter.

“You are being most courteous, good master,” one of them said, “but I assure you that we are no lords, just two wandering minstrels. My name is Falathar, from the kindred of the Noldor, and this lanky fellow here is my dear friend, Melthinorn, whose name means ‘tree-of-gold’. Oh, and Mistress Isfin, our horse-lady, is from the Nandor tribe.”

“I am called thusly for I am in charge of our horses,” the female Elf added, seeing Erchin’s blank face. “And now show us what you have to offer, young one!”

Erchin eagerly put out onto the display counter some of his best wares: belts of various sizes and width, decorated with bronze or bone application, with stamping, with cutting, with incising, with carving, with punched holes, with scraping or with embroidery. There even was a particularly pretty one, imbedded with gold leaf. The minstrel Melthinorn seemed fairly taken with that one.

“I have been looking for a festive belt for quite some time,” he said, draping the belt around his slender waist, “and these leaf patterns are lovely. What say you, Falathar?”

The other minstrel walked around him, looked at him from every angle, then nodded.

“It looks good on you,” he judged. “You should take it; ‘tis an excellent piece of workmanship, one you would not expect to find in the shop of some small craftsman.”

Erchin was uncertain whether he should feel flattered or insulted, but being a wise young man, he kept his mouth firmly shut. Getting into a fight with customers would not be good for the business, he reminded himself.

“What about you?” asked Melthinorn his friend. “You could use a new one, too, could you not?”

Falathar, though, shook his head. “Nay, I shall pick up something back home. But I wish to buy a gift for my sister. Something with butterflies. Vorondis is very fond of butterflies.”

“What about this?” asked Erchin, showing them the half-done belt buckle, knotted in just the shape they had required. “I can finish it for you in no time, if you wish me to do so.”

The Elven minstrel nodded. “That would be most kind of you, good master. I like the pattern very much, and so would my sister.”

“Your sister… she does not wander with you?” asked Erchin, while knotting the unfinished leather threads without looking at his own fingers very much. This was a pattern he had done often enough.

“Nay,” laughed Falathar. “She prefers a settled life. She is the librarian of our Lord Gildor, back in Edhellond.”

“Edhellond?” the name said Erchin very little. “Is that a town? Where is it? I have never heard the name before.”

“’Tis a small Elven haven in Belfalas, near Dol Amroth,” explained the minstrel.

“And you are going all the way on foot?” wondered Erchin with a slight frown on his young face. “That is a very long journey, even for Elves.”

The minstrel laughed again. “Nay, not for us. We are the Wandering Elves; going from one place to another is our way of life. We have lived that way for three Ages – and we shall go on ‘til the end of Arda… or beyond.”

Erchin shook his head. “I could not live like that… without roots, without a place to call home.”

“We do have a home,” laughed the Elf. “Nay, not only one home; we have many homes, along our established routes. The whole of Arda is our home.”

That sounded a little too lofty for Erchin, and he knew not what to answer. Instead, he offered the now finished belt buckle – in the perfect shape of a blue butterfly – to the minstrel.

“Done, Master Elf,” he announced. “And it will only cost you twelve copper pieces.” Which was twice as much as he would have demanded from a mortal customer, but if the Elves chose not to bargain, whose fault was that?

Falathar took it from him and admired it from all sides.

“Amazingly accurate,” he said, “and surely worth every single copper penny that you have asked for. Melthinorn, my dear friend, do pay for our acquirements, and then let us go to the tavern. I feel like singing Lindir’s ballad of the ‘Birth of Blue Butterflies’, all of the sudden.”

The other minstrel grinned, paid for both the belt and the butterfly-shaped buckle without haggling, and the two of them left, arm in arm, singing something in their own language. The female Elf, whom they had called the horse-lady, looked after them with mild disapproval.

“For some people,” she declared in a strangely maternal manner, “not even thousands of years are enough to grow up.”

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  The particulars about Clan Éowain are from the – now sadly gone – Rohan RPG.

The details about the saddle-making are absolutely authentic. Hungarian saddle-makers had done their work this way from the 9^th century up to the 1930s. That was the last time someone interviewed a traditionally working saddler, and all the details are from that interview.

Master Folcwalda first appeared in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”. The mistrust of the Rohirrim towards Elves is established in LOTR.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 09 – The Saddler

For a town of such a modest size, Halabor certainly had a surprising number of strangers within its walls… a reminder of better times, when it was still an important waystation at the crossing of preferred trade routes. And even though the town had long lost its former importance, it was still a so-called charter town: tenants and small craftsmen, if mistreated by their overlords (which could happen, even in Gondor) could flee there, and if they had lived a year and a day within the town walls, they would become free of their former obligations. Assumed that they had found a craftsman who would accept them as a help. Otherwise, they ended up in the New Port, leading a life even less pleasant than it previously had been.

‘Twas, however, a rare occasion in these days. Most strangers came to town on their own volition: looking for a trade they could learn, for a market for their wares, or simply wanting to live in a place different from their homes. Some of them were lonely wolves, like Mogh the Dunlending, the only one of his kind in town. Others had come together, in a large group, like all the Haradric expatriates that had moved northwards with Master Suanach’s household, their families having served that of the old mercer faithfully in Pelargir for generations.

The most numerous group was that of the Rohirrim, who came from time to time across the border of the Riddermark, one family at a time, to trade in horses or to work with horses or in any other craft related to horses. Everything the Rohirrim did was related to horses, and for them, coming down the old North Road to Anórien, especially for those dwelling in the Eastfold and the East Emnet, was but a short journey. Many of them had taken a liking to the little town and the surrounding lands during the long years of shared history between Rohan and Gondor, and their progeny could be found in great numbers along the border.

Master Folcwalda, the saddler, was one of the relatively new arrivals. He was a man of common birth and belonged to Clan Éowain, the members of which kept many of the nomadic traditions that went back to the days of the Éothéod in the North. The Éowain usually travelled with their herds that consisted mostly of horses but also other livestock in search of good grazing lands from the edge of East Emnet east to the swampy area around the Entwash and north from the Great West Road and Ered Nimrais to the Wold and the southern fringes of Fangorn Forest.

Folcwalda’s father, Feoca (after whom he had named his firstborn son) hailed from Stjernholm, a small settlement near the Great West Road – not that it counted much, as the Éowain only returned to these villages in the depths of winter. They valued their freedom as much as they valued their horses, coming and going throughout the Eastfold controlled only by the availability of suitable grazing sites.

Of common stock Feoca the Older might be, yet he was a well-respected person within the Clan: one of the Éomaegisters (which, in the tongue of the Mark, meant horse-master). He had gained the title through his excellent skills as a horse healer. His three older sons had followed his path, each one becoming an Éoscealc (which meant horse servant) of his own, breeding and healing and training the fast and agile steeds bred in the East-Mark, and his daughters had married men of similar rank and trades within the Clan. But Folcwalda, fourth son and sixth child of the respected Éomaegister, was more interested in trade and leather-working, and thus his father had allowed him to learn the craft of saddle- and harness-making, in which he had already exceeded as a young apprentice.

He had achieved his master’s title when he could barely count twenty summers, and come to Halabor the year after, for there his work had been needed, for the garrison of Cair Andros as well as for all the local merchants. A fellow clansman of his, by the name of Hrotgar, who had already been working with Lord Orchald’s horses, had laid in a good word for him and ever since, Folcwalda had been working for the Castle Guard and the men-at-arms in the Lord’s service as well as for the mounted troops of the Lord’s bailiff, too.

‘Twas a good life. More settled than he had been used to from home, but a good one. He had married Ceithlenn, the shoemaker Anta’s daughter, with a nice enough dowry to bring into the family business, and they had three strong, handsome children, who stood out from the darker, stockier locals like signal beacons, all coming after him, with their flaxen hair, white skin and piercing blue eyes.

His firstborn, Feoca the Younger, was already a skilled harness-maker, albeit still three years short of twenty. Erney, barely fifteen, was learning the making of scabbards from young Erchin, and showed considerable skill at it. And little Crewyn, his pride and joy, who had learned the art of purse-making in Minas Tirith, could have made up her own workshop if she wanted, so skilled she was. Another year or two, and she would be ready to wed.

Erchin had asked for her hand already, and Master Folcwalda was willing to give his blessing. He knew that Crewyn had her eyes every bit as much on Erchin as Erchin had his eyes on her. But Crewyn also wanted to return to Minas Tirith, for at least another year or so, for she had met an old purse-maker there, a bent and battered widow, who could still teach her a great many things, and she wanted to learn everything she could about her chosen craft.

Nevertheless, the two would make a good match, and Crewyn was still young. Master Folcwalda hoped that Erchin would be willing to wait, for it would have been of mutual advantage to run the leather-working business as one. But if Erchin grew too impatient, there were enough other suitable candidates among the Rohirrim living in Halabor – or even back in the Mark. During their last visit at home, they had got several very good offers. Would Crewyn wish to move back with her father’s clan, she would not lack acceptable suitors.

There was still time enough for that, though, Folcwalda decided. Crewyn was fourteen, hardly more than a child. There was no need to hurry; the daughters of the Mark did not wed at such a young age as those of the Old Folk anyway.

Emptying his tankard, the saddler gave it back to the pot boy, together with the brass pieces he ought to pay for his drink, and set off for the booth he shared with Erchin for the duration of the Fair. ‘Twas time to return to business. Erchin was a good, honest young man, but he had little to no understanding about saddles and their value. With the saddler’s wife and sons at home in the workshop to finish some specially embroidered horse gear for a local nobleman, Folcwalda could not afford to leave his booth to Erchin for too long.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

At first he was delighted to see a potential customer standing before the booth. But his broad grin turned into a displeased frown, seeing that the person he had mistaken for one of his own kind was, in fact, an Elf. Like most Rohirrim, Master Folcwalda had a deep-rooted mistrust for the Elder Race. The fear of the sorceress of Dwimordene had followed the otherwise brave horse-lords ever since they had set foot in the Mark for the first time.

But a customer was a customer, and the saddler had already heard ample gossip about how loose the Elven purse could be. He saw no reason not to take advantage of the aloof Elves, should the chance offer itself.

He entered his booth, ready to face the fears of his ancestors – and was greatly surprised. He had expected some fragile, sprite-like creature, but this Elf – and a female one at that! – was as tall as he was (and him being a large, powerful man, even by the measure of the Mark) and perchance every bit as strong. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak, but the Elf seemed not to notice… or she did not care.

“Mae govannen,” she said in her own tongue, in a voice that was surprisingly deep for a woman, yet melodious. “I am Isfin, horse-master of the Wandering Company. Are you Master Folcwalda, the saddle-maker?”

“That I am indeed,” the saddler finally found his voice. With a fellow horse-master, even an immortal one, he could deal. “How can I be of service?”

The way the Elf looked at him somehow told him without words what a foolish question that had been.

“I wish to buy a saddle,” she said simply, using a tone one would use with a particularly slow-witted child.

Folcwalda knocked a flaxen eyebrow. “I thought Elves had no need for a saddle,” he said, for indeed, that was what all the old tales told.

The Elf actually snorted! ‘Twas a fairly undignified sound, coming from such an elated being.

“Only the Silvan folk feels the urge to show off their skills by riding bareback,” she replied. “We, more practical folk, prefer the good leverage and the comfort a well-made saddle can offer. Now, I wish one that would be worthy the Lady Aquiel, our Lord Gildor’s niece, and I have heard that the saddlers of Rohan make saddles entirely of wood and leather. I would like to see one of those.”

“Why, certainly,” replied the saddler in delight. Whatever he might think of the Elves, the thought that rumours of the skills of Rohirric saddlers had reached even them made him very proud.

He showed the Elf two of his best pieces, made specifically for the Fair as display objects. They were made of two sorts of wood: the saddle board that would actually connect with the back of the horse, was carved of poplar, as it was a softer kind of wood, while the saddle-bow of harder, more resistant ash-wood. The individual parts had been fastened together with wet leather straps (hidden in shallow-cut conduits in the wood, so that they would not rub the horse’s back) and gluey wooden nails. The leather-covering, too, had been nailed to the wooden parts while still wet, and sown with wet leather thread. During the drying process, both leather covering and thread shrunk and pressed the wooden parts together, harder than aught else could have done. A saddle prepared this way could break anywhere but in the places where it had been strapped and sewn.

The leather Folcwalda had used for his saddles was tough ox hide, ensuring that the saddle would keep a long time. The saddle-bows were adorned with applied bone-carvings and small silver or bronze applications, depicting flowers of the Mark and running horses. Making a good saddle required a great deal of knowledge and several artistic skills, not to mention a lot of time. Alone the forked tree parts used for the saddle-bow needed to dry at least two years ere one could begin to work on them.

The Elf inspected the saddles carefully. Folcwalda could see that she had much experience with such things, but he did not worry. He knew that his work was good. Finally, the Elf chose the one with the silver applications.

“This one will suit the Lady Aquiel well,” she declared. “I will take  it. What will it cost me?”

The price Folcwalda  named was high, but so had been the expenses gone into the saddle, not to mention the long hours of patient and loving work. True, it was somewhat higher than he would demand from a mortal customer – well, considerably higher – but all things considered, still not unreasonably so. It was one of his best pieces, after all, and he had to sell it to an Elf!

Said Elf must have agreed with him, for she paid the price without any objections. Master Folcwalda wrapped the saddle into a protective piece of cotton cloth and called one of the errand boys lazing around among the booths to carry it after the Elf.

When they were gone, Erchin looked up from the trefoil-shaped green buckle he was busily knotting.

“You have taken some risk by demanding such a high price, you know that,” he said. “Unlike some of her fellow Elves, this one was no fool.”

Folcwalda nodded. “I know. But she seemed to know that my saddle was worth the price… even if not exactly cheap. She would have spotted, had I tried to cheat her.”

“Mayhap,” said Erchin thoughtfully. “Yet I also think that she might know that no mortal customer would have paid the same price… and still, she did not haggle. I wonder why.”

The saddler shrugged. “They are Elves. Who can tell why they do or do not whatever they do? In any case, I made a good bargain. Even if I do not sell aught else – which I doubt, given the presence of several local noblemen – the Fair had already been a good one for me. What about you?”

“I cannot complain,” replied Erchin with a smirk. “I have just cut into the purses of two Elven minstrels nicely, too. They paid twelve copper pieces for a single buckle! Do they have any idea what things are truly worth?”

“Some of them surely have,” said the saddler. “And if they allow the others to learn from their own mistakes, all the better for us.”

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Medieval wine-criers were actually hired by a particular tavern to give out free samples from wooden buckets – a kind of advertising. Other sources mention that they also investigated taverns on behalf of the magistrate or the market wardens. I chose to go with the second version here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 10 – The Wine-Crier

The Barn, the small tavern of Clemow, the wine-crier, was perched like some bird’s nest in a narrow, secluded close-off the upper end of the western ramparts. It was sited about midway between Nurria’s Gate and the Warehouse, and the small lanes leading to it were shut between the cottages of the New Port and the town wall. It was mostly visited by the poor, penniless folk of the New Port, or the workers of the Warehouse, for Clemow sold naught but young wine that was usually of poor quality. So poor indeed, that even the penniless or the small-purse customers could afford it from time to time.

For that, there was a very good reason. As the wine-crier of the town – meaning, the very person who regularly visited other taverns and even vineyards on behalf of the Merchant’s Guild – Clemow was entitled to confiscate all the wine that did  not match the high demands of the Guild. He was also allowed to keep the confiscated beverage (after having paid a small fee to the original owners) and sell it in his own small tavern. That way, the noble lords and wealthy burghers could be certain that only good wine would be set onto their tables, and the poor folk also got the odd chance to drown their sorrow into something else than weak ale.

It was a reasonable and practical arrangement. One that Clemow hated passionately.

Once, in better times, his family had consisted of respectable wine merchants; in times when the town was large enough, the townsfolk numerous enough to feed two such families. Ever since times had become more meagre, though, due to the trade routes turning to other directions, the two merchant houses had been struggling with each other for the shrinking market. And finally, in the lifetime of Clemow’s grandfather, his family had lost the struggle against the larger, much wealthier, more influential one of Sulain’s.

They had lost everything: their tavern, their small barge, their wares, their pack animals, even the house in which the family had lived for generations. The Barn, back then, had truly been just that: a barn, where the pack mules had once been kept, and Clemow, barely five when they had been hit by bad luck, had grown up there, for this was the only place the family had been able to keep. His grandfather could not live with the utter ruin and had killed himself into the River, and for a few years, they had believed that they would end in the New Port, starving to the death, like many unfortunate ones stranded there.

Fortunately for them, though, the wine-crier of the Guild had been beaten to death by some enraged wine-sellers from Rohan, and the Guild offered the vacated office to Cluim, Clemow’s father, who had been reasonable enough to accept. The pay had been miserable – in truth, it still was – and becoming a mere clerk after having run an independent family business more than humiliating, but at least there had been the chance to trade in the cheap confiscated wine, and slowly, step by step, they had begun to climb out of the hole in which they had fallen.

When Clemow had come of age, they had already had a house – a small, modest and not very pretty one – within the town walls again. Just on the other side of the ramparts, in a cheap and rough neighbourhood, but at least in town. Cluim had already planned to turn the barn into a cheap tavern for the poor, but there had been no way they could afford it. They had barely managed on his pay and small side earnings to begin with.

At that point, the Guild had intervened again. Not out of the goodness of their hearts, of course, just because they wanted to have the entire wine-selling business under tight control, even the small part going on in the New Port. For that reason, the leaders of the Guild had… persuaded Master Lucco, Sulain’s father, to marry of his daughter, Ladoca, to Clemow, thus uniting the formerly rival houses. It had taken some serious persuasion, but in the end, Lucco could do naught else but give in. Nobody said nay to Master Suanach when he made a suggestion.

From the generous dowry of his bride, Clemow had succeeded to have the barn rebuilt as a modest little tavern. He gave it the name The Barn, out of stubborn pride, and between the two of them, he and his father had managed to bring the family through from year to year, without asking the rich (and much-hated) family of his wife for support.

Watching his wife in the taproom always made him more than just a little sad. He had been short and wiry all his life, having grown strong from a harsh life that had killed all his siblings, and he could go on on very little doing the work for two, if he had to. But Ladoca had grown up in the abundance of a rich merchant house, and it was painfully obvious how unhappy she was in their simple home.

There she was, sitting behind a counter, a tall and erect shape, thin and proud like her Dúnadan ancestors, dark-clothed and bitter, the hearth-fire shining in copper highlights upon her shadowed face. ‘Twas hard to believe that she would be eleven years his junior, still two summers short of thirty. By her looks she could have been forty or fifty. The heavy raven braids circling both sides of her head were already touched with grey, though the fine bones of her face still kept their noble elegance. Yet her cheeks had shrunk in the recent years, and even her body had grown angular and lean, as if all the juices of youth had already dried up. Her hands, too, showed swollen knuckles and seamed veins, a clear proof of long years spent with hard work that she had not been used in her youth.

Could he truly blame her for being unhappy? She had been sold into a marriage way below her former status, due to the pressure the Guild had put upon her father. And now, at an age when other women would reach their full, ripe glow, her once great beauty had long fallen to ashes, and all she could call hers was an unworthy husband and day after day filled with hard labour.

And their children, of course, Clemow reminded himself, even though he wondered sometimes whether Ladoca had any true fondness for their offspring at all. Both seven-year old Lowenna (whom he had named ‘joy’, as she had been their first chick after long barren years) and Conall came after their mother, being dark-haired, grey-eyed and pretty, but their  mother seemed to find no joy in them, no joy at all. And after Conall had been born five summers ago, there had been no other babes. It looked as if they would only ever have these two chicks, and though Clemow loved them dearly, it pained him very much that there would be no more.

‘Twas not for the lack of trying on his part; Ladoca just could not catch any more, as if she had indeed dried up completely in the inside, both in body and soul. Clemow knew what people were whispering all over the town: that his wife had gotten some secret draught from old Mistress Crodergh, so that she would not get with child. He knew not whether it was true or not, and he chose not to look into the matter too closely. For should it prove true, it would make him resent his wife, and he felt that he had no right to resent her. After all, was he not the very reason of her unhappiness?

He sighed and walked up to the counter. He wished from his very heart that he could make Ladoca, if not happy, than at least a little more content, but there was truly little hope for that.

“Go and have some rest,” he told her. “I shall take over from here.”

For it was still early afternoon, and the tavern surprisingly full, as it had been during the entire Fair so far. One would have expected it to be deserted on feast days, when the whole town was abroad, seeking out entertainment, gossip and good bargains, but it was not so. During fairs, even the poor of the New Port could find small jobs easier and were more willing to give up on a few brass pieces for a cup of sour wine. Clemow counted on reasonably good income in these days.

But the eyes of his wife were hollow, and she did not stir.

“Sulain has just been here,” she said, in a voice that was completely bereft of any feelings.

Clemow sighed again. Sulain had made it to his custom to visit The Barn at irregular times, to taunt his unfortunate sister with his own wealth and success. Whatever he might have come for, it had most likely been not good. It never was.

“What did he have this time?” he asked with resignation.

“He brought news,” replied Ladoca in the same flat voice. “There was a meeting of the Guild leaders. They have decided to sell the Old Sailor to Gennys, the innkeeper’s brother.”

Clemow froze. He needed no time to realize the devastating nature of this news. The Old Sailor, the ale-house of the New Port, had been abandoned for decades; there were simply not enough people in the Port left to fill it every day. That was why he had been able to gather enough regular patrons for The Barn to earn a somewhat better living than he would be able to manage on the miserable pay he got from the Guild. But if the ale-house opened its doors again, it would draw in the same customers. There was a strong chance that he would lose everything. Again.

He slumped onto a battered stool. ‘Twas not fair! They had been working so hard, had given up so much, and for what? To end up outside the walls, in the New Port again? He wondered, not for the first time, what might he have angered the Old Gods with so much that they would punish him so harshly.

Had Sulain not been such a selfish bastard, had the merging of the two rival families truly led to shared business and the exclusion of any possible competition, he would not need to worry. But Sulain was a cruel and selfish man, unlike the innkeeper, who would, no doubt, support his youngest brother, and thus Clemow had no-one to turn to for help.

“’Tis a good thing, then, that Cinni is still looking for someone to help out with the water-carrying business,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “Mayhap the Guild would allow me to work with him, if I asked nicely.”

“That might not be necessary,” answered his wife, contempt clearly written in her embittered face. “Sulain had extracted a concession from the Guild: Gennys will not be allowed to sell wine. Only ale and beer and mead.”

“Which is all about what most people drink, at least the ones with more than just a few brass pieces in their purse,” reminded her Clemow. “The concession might help Sulain, so that he can keep delivering wine to the Riverside Inn and the Drunken Boat, which was, no doubt, his main concern. The reopening of the ale-house will still ruin us. And there is naught I could do against it.”

“Will we have to close The Barn again?” asked Ladoca with a frown. The little tavern had swallowed her entire dowry at the beginning and was still barely keeping them above the water. Losing it would be the end of them.

“It might come to that,” admitted Clemow, trying to fight off the cloud of black despair that was descending upon him. “If only we could offer better wine, mayhap wealthier customers would find their way here. We are the only tavern in this part of the town, after all. But we cannot; and if we lose our small-purse patrons to the ale-house, then I truly see dark for us.”

For a while, Ladoca remained silent, watching the ragged patrons slurping the cheap, sour wine in the taproom. She hated The Barn, se truly did, as she hated about everything in her marriage, but she wanted to become one of the stranded people of the New Port even less.

“I shall speak to my brother,” she finally declared.

Clemow shook his head. “That will do us no good. You know what he is like. You would only lower yourself by begging and to no end.”

“I do not intend to beg,” she replied coldly. “I happen to know a few things about my dear brother that he would hate to become widely known in town… or within the Guild, for that matter. I will remind him of that… and how he sold Mother’s jewellery that she had willed to me, without my consent and knowledge, to make a good deal somewhere in Pelargir. I will demand what I am owned… or a proper reparation.”

“You will make him our mortal enemy,” warned Clemow. “There has never been any love lost between our families, but as long as I was no threat for him, at least he left us alone… well, most of the time. That will change if you corner him.”

“And we shall lose everything if I do not,” riposted Ladoca sharply. “I shall not end like some starving harbour rat, just because my husband,” she nearly spat the word, “is unable to feed his family properly.”

That stung; more so as it was all too true. Clemow opened his mouth to strike back – with sharp words only, as he would never raise his hand against his family – then reconsidered. For the first time in years, Ladoca’s eyes were not empty; they were filled with fire and fight.

And if she wanted to fight to keep their home, no matter how much she despised it, who was he to hold her back? She had not looked so… alive for a very long time. She almost looked young again, the embers of passion burning under the ashes of her former self once more.

He had never seen her more beautiful.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

 For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

 Author’s note:  In the Middle Ages, water was provided to individual households by carriers, whose business it was to deliver water from the river or conduits to customers. Some water-carriers went about the streets carrying a large tankard on their shoulders, others would carry two 3-gallon wooden tubs hanging from a shoulder yoke. Professional water-carriers also often used carts or packhorses to deliver the water to their customers.

 Halabor’s water conduit system was based on that of 13^th -century London.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 11 – The Water-Carrier

‘Twas barely an hour left ‘til sunset when Cinni, the water-carrier, turned into The Barn, the wine-crier’s modest little tavern in the New Port, placing his yoke with the still half full barrels into an empty corner. He felt tired beyond measure. Every single bone in his body hurt separately. But again, the time of the fairs was always a demanding one.

On regular days, he would pull his barrels (four or five of them at once) on a small, two-wheeled cart, putting the harness on his own body, as he could never allow a pony or even a scrawny little ass⁽¹⁾. But during the Fair, there were so many people abroad everywhere in town, the booths so close to each other on the fairground, that even his little cart would not pass through between them, Thus he had to return to the methods of his youth, and – as so often in the recent years – he had to admit that he could no longer bear the same burdens as he used to.

If only he had sons who could help him! But Nurria, the Lady of the fields of pastures, in her unfathomable wisdom, had chosen to give him daughters only: four daughters; small-boned, bird-like girls, who could never lift a yoke with two barrels. Sure, they helped him pumping the barrels full, but they had not the strength to do the work of boys of their age. And Cinni’s wife had been ailing for a long time, unable to help him in anything.

A little man of slender bones and lean but wiry flesh the water-carrier was, just this side of fifty, with a thin, deeply lined, beardless face. He had grown up in the New Port, having lost his parents to the plague at the age of ten and being raised by the late Arbell, the father of his wife, from the age of twelve. He had known a great deal of hunger and pain in the two years in-between, and even in the following years, food had always been sparse, and it still showed on him. But small and simple though he might be, he had a quiet dignity about him and was as durable as a tree.

His customers came from the circle of the moderately well-to-do craftsmen and the not entirely poor workers and small traders. For the Castle had its own well and cistern, deep and clear of water, thanks to the spring under the very rock upon which it had been built; and the bath-house, too was well-provided by its hot spring. Some wealthier families either had a well, too, or had obtained permission to bring a quill from the main conduit pipe to their homes. The more modest households, though, were dependant on Cinni’s services – save from the very poor who simply drank the water of the River. Which was a perilous practice, as the water was soiled from the accumulation of dung on the river bank, and from the discharges of the fullery and the tannery that went directly into the River. Even if boiled, it could cause severe illnesses.

‘Twas safer to use the water provided by the Great Conduit House, which stood in the middle of the Marketplace, at the end of a conduit, the head of which had been placed near a natural spring, just outside the town. The water of said spring was used to fill an underground cistern. From that cistern, the water flowed through wooden pipes – made of the hollowed trunks of great elm trees – to the middle of the town, where it was stored in another, even larger cistern, right under the Conduit House. From there, it had to be pumped up into a copper tank equipped with a tap for dispersing the water.

The system was not perfect, for the wooden pipes rot easily, or broke, despite the applied iron collars to strengthen the joints, and thus had to be replaced often. But it worked well enough. To protect the clean water (and such the water-carrier’s meagre livelihood), the Town Council appointed water wardens to the Conduit House, and water theft was severely punished. Thus Cinni could be reasonably sure that he would not run out of work for the conceivable future.

‘Twas the possibility that he would run out of strength to do his work, sooner or later, what concerned him more.

He had reached the end of that strength for one day. But he felt not like returning to his little cottage in the New Port yet. Home had lost its attraction, had become affiliated with feelings of loss and sorrow for years.  Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see in his mind was the frighteningly thin frame of his wife, sitting at her distaff and twisting the wool with a hand that was frail like a withered leaf.

The debiliating illness that had befallen her more than five years ago had aged Avota into a greyness well beyond her less than forty years, making her look like a wraith. Her eyes, dark blue and still shrewdly observant, had grown huge and hollow in her shrunken face, with half-lowered lids that were marble-white and veined like harebells. No-one could tell what truly ailed her, and none of Mistress Crodergh’s medicines could help her. She had endured the constant pain with admirable patience – ‘twas Cinni who often fled their home, unable to watch her moving around slowly and with infinite care.

She had no longer the strength to run the household, and Cinaed, their eldest chick had stepped into the vacated spot of her mother at the age of eight already, doing everything that needed to be done, with the help of her sisters; even though the youngest, who had just turned three, was more a burden than any help. Cinni sometimes worried that little Briocca, being born after her mother had already been hit by the illness, might have inherited it; yet there was no way to tell.

Aye, there were many reasons for Cinni to be worried, but for just a little while, he wanted to forget about it all. True, the wine Clemow offered was often a bit muddy and more than just a little sour, but after a long, hard day of work, a man wanted something stronger than weak, home-made ale… and the company coming with it was more than welcome.

He lowered himself to the table of the old clothes merchant, who also often took his evening cup of wine in The Barn. Seeing him, Clemow came forth from behind he counter himself to bring the wine flask.

“This one is a little better than my usual fare,” he said, pouring the water-carrier a cup, “and will cost you just a brass piece more. I got it from a small trader of Rohan who did not want to bring his remaining wares back home and sold it to me for a price that I could afford. Try it; it tastes fairly good.”

Indeed, the wine was not half bad, and it had quite a kick, warming Cinni’s stiff limbs nicely. Mullion was of the same opinion.

“Pour us another cup, Clemow,” he said. “I have made some modest coin in the last few days; I can afford to buy a friend a drink.”

Cinni nodded his thanks and enjoyed his second cup of wine. It tasted even better than the first one. He felt his strength return… as much as it was possible, for someone as overworked as he was.

Clemow sat down to their table and poured a cup of wine for himself, too.

“Had a hard day?” he asked the water-carrier.

Cinni shrugged. “Fair days always are. I am not twenty any longer, and the yoke seems to get heavier every time I lift it to my shoulders. But what other choice do I have? Avota can barely do any more spinning, and my poor chicks already work hard enough to keep the household running.”

“I heard you wanted to apprentice Cyneswith to Master Folcwalda,” said the old clothes merchant. “Is it true?”

Cinni nodded. “Not for the saddle-making, though; just to learn how to work with leather. She is ten; if she wants to learn a craft of her own, she must begin now.”

“And you can come up with the apprentice fee?” asked Clemow doubtfully. If possible, Cinni was even shorter of coin than he was.

“Not likely,” replied Cinni with a sad smile. “But we have made an agreement, the saddler and I. For being taught leather-working, my little chick will help out in the household as a maid and a laundress.”

Clemow winced. “That will be a lot of hard labour; and all that on top of learning the craft itself!”

“I know,” said Cinni, “but what else can we do? At least one of our chicks needs to learn a trade that will feed her later. That way, she can hope to find a suitable husband one day. A trade of her own is as good as a dowry… which I cannot give her. Or any of them.”

The other two nodded in understanding. They had both daughters of their own. They knew all about the difficulties of getting a dowryless daughter wedded.

“At least the two of you have sons who might marry a lass with a suitable dowry one day,” added Cinni gloomily. Then he turned to the old clothes merchant. “Have you come to an agreement with Eudo, after all?”

Mullion nodded. “He was in a bit of a tight spot, because of all those Hanse merchants from Lebennin,” he answered, “but he managed to make a profitable deal with the Dunlendings in the end and seems to be on his way back up.”

“With the Dunlendings?” repeated Clemow in disgust. When still an independent wine merchant, his grandfather had often told horrid tales about the swarthy barbarians. How they attacked and robbed travelling merchants. How they raided small villages, slaughtering men and old people and dragging away younger women and children, burning everything to the ground. How they were bothering farmsteads along the border of both Gondor and Rohan.

Mullion shrugged. “If a bargain with them saves Eudo’s business and my son’s marriage, who am I to wrinkle my nose about them? This might help me to finally get my family within the town walls, and for that, I can only be grateful.”

“There is some truth in that,” admitted Clemow. “I wish I could make a bargain like that with some foreign traders. That might save my business, too.”

The old clothes merchant nodded. As the only representative of his trade in town, he always got word about the things that happened in the meetings of the Guild leaders.

“I heard about the Old Sailor,” he said. “I wish no ill for Gennys, he is a good, honest lad, but this will be hard on you, I fear.”

“That,” said the wine-seller sourly, “is the understatement of the Age. It could ruin me… it might, too.” He gave Cinni a wry grin. “Mayhap I will carry a shoulder yoke alongside you, and soon.”

“I hope not,” replied Cinni gravely. “Nothing against you, but with work like mine you would never be able to keep your house and feed your family. Besides, I know not how long I will be able to carry those heavy barrels myself.”

“It seems that we in the New Port are the only ones who will not benefit from the visit of those Elves,” commented Mullion. “Alas, they have no need for used clothes.”

“Neither have they any interest in sour wine,” countered Clemow with a mirthless grin.

“That may be so,” said Cinni, the only one who was sitting with his face to the front door, his small, dark, bird-like eyes widening in awe. “Yet there must be something of interest for them, or else they would not be here.”

“What?” Clemow knotted his brows in confusion. “Who? Where?”

“See for yourself,” replied the water-carrier, amused, and nodded towards the front door.

The other two turned around, their mouths literally hanging open. For in the open door, two tall, willowy, raven-haired fellows were standing, clad in the usual green and brown garb of the woodland folk.

They were Elves, without any doubt. Their fair faces, shimmering pale skin, elegantly curved, leaf-shaped ears revealed them as such at first sight. One of them carried a small, hand-held harp, the other one wore a new belt, inlaid with gold leaf, that was, without a question, young Erchin’s handiwork.

They were also very, very drunk.

That surprised Clemow, for all the old tales said that only very strong wine could make Elves tipsy. But who knew what these two might have ingested ere coming there?

The one with the harp looked around with very bright, sea grey eyes and grinned like a loon.

“It seems to me, Melthinorn my friend, that we have found the place we have been looking for,” he declared. “Now the fun can begin.”

He stepped away from the door, and before Clemow’s widening eyes, a whole crowd of different sorts of people filled the little room. There were Rohirrim among them, lots of townsfolk, including Rhisiart, the wandering minstrel, and even two or three other Elves, one of them obviously a female one.

“Master Clemow,” said the other Elf, the one with the new belt, “we require your help. See, we have made a bet with these good people here that the song of an Elven minstrel would sweeten even the sourest of wines. And as they all stated as one that your tavern offers the best test objects to that theory, we want your worse for everyone. They will pay for it the same price they would have to pay in The Cellar – and we will sing, ‘til these people admit that our singing makes your wine taste sweet like nectar.”

~The End – for now~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

1) Meaning a donkey – before anyone gets the false idea!

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  The ballad of Princess Mee is actually a Tolkien poem. You can read the full version in “The Adventures of Tom Bombadil”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 12 – The Minstrels

After leaving the leather-workers’ booth, Falathar and Melthinorn, the two Elven minstrels, went indeed to the first tavern they had come across. That happened to be The Cellar, the wine-merchant Sulain’s large and well-favoured establishment, where the best wines of the neighbouring vineyards were offered, as well as some imported goods, from as far as Dorwinion in the North and Harad in the South.

The wine-merchant, a long, lean, fastidious man, wearing a long gown of fashionable cut and an air of impatient self-importance, came hurriedly to greet the rare guests in his own austere person. Even his wife, the Dame Adelais came forth from the private rooms to see the once-in-a-life event: Elves visiting their tavern. As The Cellar only sold beverages and no food, there was no need for her to labour over the hearth, with or without help.

Not that she would do so in any case. Dame they called her, albeit not entirely deserved, as she came of common stock, just like her husband. But she was a great beauty and a stranger to the town, hailing from Pelargir. She had to be one of the younger daughters of some rich merchant in that old city of wealth and wickedness, for why else would her father marry her off to a merchant in a far-away little town?

She bore her fate with dignity, though, moving around among the Old Folk with the regal distance of an exiled queen. She was of pure Dúnadan blood, and it showed. But seeing the two Elves entering the tavern, even she lost a little of her aloofness. After all, Elves were something different from the usual crowd filling the taproom, and Elven minstrels were a breed unto themselves. Who would willingly miss the chance to see them in the flesh?

Falathar and Melthinorn gave the local wine a try, but after the first cup, they declared it not their liking. That worried Sulain greatly, for had the news spread that the Elves had not been satisfied with his offer, it could have ruined his reputation as a wine-seller in the eyes of the local noblemen. Particularly in the eyes of Lord Ulmondil, one of the younger vassals of Lord Orchald’s, who fancied himself a ‘true’ Númenórean (whatever that was supposed to mean) and an Elf-friend – not that he had ever seen one.

Thus Sulain took great effort to satisfy his immortal customers, and he ordered his seventeen-year-old son, who worked as the potman of The Cellar, to bring up the last small barrel of Dorwinion red they still had in store. He secretly hoped to cut out a good price of the Elves who, as every soul in town had heard by now, did not haggle over the prices asked of them.

Falathar and Melthinorn recognized the ‘noble droplet’⁽¹⁾, as the Rohirrim would say, of course, and appreciated the wine-merchant’s effort very much. Unfortunately for Sulain, though, they were also familiar with the worth of Dorwinion red on all markets between Dale and Pelargir, and were not ready to be cheated. True, they did not bargain – they simply told the wine-seller the price they were willing to pay. If Sulain took it, that was fine with them. If not, he could take his barrel back to store.

‘Twas a great humiliation for the haughty wine-merchant, of course, but in the end he gave in, as no-one else would have been able to buy a barrel of Dorwinion from him. Well, save Master Suanach perhaps, but the old mercer preferred Haradric wine anyway.

This being settled, the two minstrels made themselves comfortable at one of the smaller tables to enjoy their wine. The other patrons – mainly well-to-do merchants who had come in to wet their throats after all that haggling and bargaining – eyed them with respect. No-one could remember Sulain having been put to his place so thoroughly before.

A tall, bearded fellow at one of the side tables raised his wine cup into the Elves’ direction.

“My compliments, good sirs,” he said. “’Tis rare to see Sulain being beaten in his own game. Well done indeed! ‘Tis a tale that will be told in town many times ‘til Yuletide… or beyond.”

“And who, pray tell, would you be, good sir?” asked Falathar with interest. For at the man’s feet, carefully wrapped in linen cloth, a familiarly-shaped item stood on the floor. The minstrel could have sworn that it was a small, hand-held harp. The Man grinned and stood.

“Ai, forgive my manners, or rather the lack thereof,” he said, bowing with flourish. “Rhisiart, the minstrel at your service. Although I suspect that compared with Elves, I could hardly call myself one. But I do have some small talent

with the harp, and my name is known in the manors of Anórien, and even beyond the border of the Mark.”

“And a good name it is for which I can bear witness,” said a flaxen-haired trader from Rohan. “I have heard him and I will tell you: not many scoops are half as good in their trade.”

Delighted to find someone of their own vocation, the Elven minstrels invited their mortal colleague to their table and offered him some of the noble Dorwinion red. Soon enough, they were heavily involved in a discussion concerning melodies and verse and musical instruments used among Elves and Men, respectively, improvising merry little songs to emphasize their point. After a while, the other minstrels of the Wandering Company appeared as well: a tall, auburn-haired fellow by the name of Orgof and his wife, Nuinor. The wine flowed freely, spirits were high, and the other patrons found the whole thing very entertaining.

Now, it must be said that while the old tales were right about only very strong wine making Elves drowsy, as they could hold their wine better than any other creature that walked Middle-earth, it was not impossible to make them drunk. And Dorwinion red could knock even Silvan Elves out cold, who were the hardiest of all Elven kindreds – at least when it came to archery or drinking.

So aye, the small barrel was still half full when the Elves – and Rhisiart the minstrel, not to mention the trader of Rohan who also turned out to be a songwright of some sort among his own people – became very, very drunk. However, it did not make them sleepy. On the contrary, the Elves turned rather merry in their intoxication, and were now singing the ballad of Princess Mee⁽²⁾, which, as they stated, they had learned from an old halfling in the land of the halflings quite some time ago. ‘Twas a rather… questionable ballad, at least the way they sung it, in perfect harmony in four voices, although the old halfling probably would have difficulties to recognize the words that got somewhat… reimagined by the drunk Elves, at least after the first verse.

Little Princess Mee
Lovely was she
As in Elven-song is told:
She had pearls in hair
All threaded fair;
Of gossamer shot with gold
Was her kerchief made,
And a silver braid
Of stars above her throat.
Of moth-web light
All moonlit-white
She wore a woven coat,
And round her kirtle
Was bound a girdle
Sewn with diamond dew.

“Aaah,” sighed the trader from Rohan heavily; even he was severely inebriated by now, although the Men of the Mark were said to be almost as steadfast drinkers as Elves. They were more used to strong ale and beer, though, and anyway, Dorwinion red had the kick of a mule. “Aaah,” he sighed again, melancholy clouding his board face. “Sweet is the music of Elves…”

“It can cure a rainy day and make dried grass green again,” assured him Nuinor, the female minstrel.

If anyone, she should know. She was an ancient Teleri Elf, despite looking like a young maiden – if one did not see the Ages-old wisdom in her clear (well, not that clear at the moment) grey eyes. She was one of those few still in Middle-earth who had seen Lúthien Tinúviel in the flesh and heard Daeron sing. She knew what Elven song could do.

“It can sweeten sour wine,” added Falathar, giggling ‘til his tears began to flow, and raised his wine cup for a refill. Orgof, somewhat less drunk than the rest of them and thus steadier of hand, poured him more wine.

“Now that,” said one of the equally drunk patrons, “I cannot believe.”

Several others needed gravely in agreement, but Falathar was not an Elf to leave a challenge unanswered. Especially not when he was very drunk. Which, admittedly, happened once in a century, but when it happened, then was no way to stop him.

“You doubt my words, good sirs?” he asked, clearly affronted. “Very well; I shall prove you that I am right.”

“Falathar,” his friend and fellow minstrel tried to soothe him, “leave it be.”

But Falathar shook his head stubbornly. ”Nay, friend Melthinorn, this I cannot let lie. ‘Tis a matter of honour, after all. These people want proof? I shall give them proof. Where can we get the worst, sourest wine in the entire town?”

“That would be The Barn in the New Port,” supplied Sulain with a falsely benevolent smile, “run by the husband of my poor sister.”

“All the better,” declared Falathar. “There we shall go, then – all of us. You, good sirs, will buy and drink the worst that tavern can offer – and we shall sing. We will see who turns out to be right in the end.”

“Now, this I have to see,” said Crico of Pensyow, the wool-merchant from Lebennin and stood, throwing the price of the wine he had consumed onto the table. His business partner, sour-faced Foich, nodded sagely and followed suit. The other patrons found this a very good idea, and soon, the tavern was as good as empty, a small crowd following the drunken Elves out to the street.

Sulain paled in anger and disappointment. This was not what he had intended when bringing up the miserable little tavern of his brother-in-law, but he could do naught to change things in hindsight. Orgof, the senior Elven minstrel, shook his head in mild exasperation.

“Noldor and their foolish pride,” he said.

But Nuinor just laughed, throwing her glossy black hair that had come free, back with a quick, elegant sweep of her head.

“They are young,” she said, “so let them play. Will you not come with us? This should be fun.”

“Mayhap,” replied Orgof, hefting the half-emptied barrel of Dorwinion under his arm, for it would have been a criminal waste to leave it behind, after the two younger minstrels had already paid good coin for it. “I wonder, though, who will be laughing in the end.”

But he followed his wife out of the tavern nonetheless, leaving a fuming Sulain behind.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And so it came that The Barn got filled with immortal Elves and wealthy traders from all over Gondor in that evening, and these fine people kept drinking Clemow’s worst wine ‘til deep into the night, while the Elves were singing, first in Common, then in their own tongue, and they seemed never to tire.

Sweet Elven song and sour wine battled each other well beyond curfew, which, fortunately, had been lifted for the duration of the Fair. Neither the Elves, nor any of the audience wanted to give in, and more coin was added to the small wooden bowl on the counter after each new song. Mostly copper and bronze pieces, but there was the odd silver as well. The small mound of coin could already have fed a family for weeks, and the bet was still going on.

The patrons kept drinking, driven by the stubborn urge to prove the Elves wrong, and coin was clinking in Clemow’s eager hands after each round. He could barely keep up with the calculations in his head, but one thing was certain: this was going his best winning in the entire Fair.

Around midnight, everyone in the taproom was drunk beyond measure. Foich of Stennack had long fallen asleep and was now snoring on the table. The other Men, while still awake, were lolling incoherent things, while the Elves kept singing, switching from Sindarin to Quenya, the mother of all tongues. It sounded incredibly beautiful, as if the Valar themselves had descended onto Middle-earth to make the simple folk happy, for this one time.

There were tears in the listening Men’s eyes, and the noise quieted down almost on its own.

“I must say, friend Foich,“ stuttered Crico of Pensyow, staring into his wine cup with the honest surprise of the very drunk (and completely oblivious of the fact that his friend was dead to the world like a log), “’tis not that bad, after all. In truth, it almost tastes sweet.

That declaration decided the bet on behalf of the Elves, of course, much to the dismay of the others. There could be no doubt that Crico of Pensyow would hear a few unfriendly words when everyone had sobered up on the next day, Clemow thought, as some of the patrons had opened their purses wider than they had perhaps originally intended. Not that any-one would feel pity for him.

Falathar took from the betting bowl four silver pieces, one for each Elf present. Then he pushed the rest, still generously sparkled with silver, before the tavern owned.

“For your hospitality, good sir, and for the working hours you have put out to help us bring our little bet to its pleasant end,” he said. Then he turned to his companion. “Melthinorn, my friend, I believe we ought to leave now, if we wish to greet the sunrise in the morning.”

The other minstrel nodded and rose, standing on somewhat shaky legs, and turned to the disappointed patrons with a grand gesture that nearly made him lose his balance and fall over.

“We thank you, good sirs, for the entertaining evening,” he said. “Should we ever get the chance to visit this lovely town again, we shall most certainly seek out your company.” He hiccupped and grabbed his friend’s shoulder for leverage. “Lead on, fair Falathar!”

Supporting each other with surprisingly good effect, the two sauntered towards the door. Orgof and Nuinor followed them arm in arm, with identical grins upon their faces. But Clemow stopped them mid-track.

“Wait, Master Elf!” he said. “You have left half a barrel Dorwinion behind!”

Orgof looked at the barrel, contemplated the task of carrying it back to the Infirmary gardens… then he waved the tavern owner’s concern off.

“Keep it,” he said. “I believe you can sell it for a good price… and those two had more than enough of it already.”

“But they have paid good coin for it,” pointed out Clemow.

Orgof shrugged. “So they have. That will teach them to be more careful with their acquisitions. If any-one tries to give you grief about that wine, tell them that Orgof the minstrel has entrusted it to you.”

With that, they went on their way, he and his lovely wife, leaving Clemow with half a barrel Dorwinion red and a bowl full of coin behind. The tired little man sat down behind the counter and stared at his small, unexpected fortune in disbelief.

Nay, it would not save The Barn from the ruin, should the ale-house open its doors again. But it was a beginning. And if his wife, too, succeeded to get from her brother the coin she was owed, then perchance they would not lose their modest livelihood, after all.

“Leave your water barrels here,” he said to Cinni, infected a little by all that Elven generosity. “I will buy what still is there in them. You deserve to earn some easy coin, too, and we will need the water in any case… to brew my grandmother’s famous hangover cure for all these fine people here.”

~The End – for now~

Note: 'a noble droplet' is the literal translation of the German expression "ein edles Tröpfchen", meaning really good beverage.

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Old Dungarth’s accident was mentioned in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 16 – The Glass-Workers

The glass and amber workers of Halabor not only belonged to the same extended family, every single one of them, they also shared the same workshop. One in the Street of the Gardens, which, together with the Street of the Infirmary and the Marketplace, was considered one of the best, most sought-after places in town, where only the wealthiest, most respected merchants and craftsmen could afford to have a house. For though glass beads were jestingly called the poor man’s gemstones, they were by no means cheap, and the making of them required great skill and a lot of hard work – more so, in fact, than the cutting of specious stones or crystal, both of which had been done in Halabor for a very long time.

The long, low-ceiling front shop housed both workshops… well, part of them, actually, as the glass-melting furnace was sited further back, in the yard behind the house. The front shop had a long, low table right below the large shop window, where the more delicate work was done. The masters of the family shared that table the same way they shared the workshop and the house.

At one end of the table sat Master Cutter Massen: a grave, comely young man just past thirty, but already a father of four. He worked mostly with amber, taking a block of this precious material, cutting it roughly the right shape for beads and drilling a hole through them. To perfect the final shape of beads, he turned them on a bow lathe before polishing them with coarse sand first and then with fine powder. He also made wedge shaped beads, combining them with round ones on a necklace, often with a wedge shaped pendant as the centrepiece.

Amber was a rare and expensive raw material, something that could not be found anywhere near Halabor. It had to be imported from the far North, where it could be gathered along the coasts of the western Sea, and was brought south by Dwarven traders or by merchants from Dale and Esgaroth. A smaller amount was washed loose onto the beaches of Belfalas by sea currents, causing it to float to the surface, especially during the violent storms that tended to hit the Bay out of the blue from time to time. But these southern pieces were of a pale colour like translucent straw, and most rich customers preferred the northern ones that were a dark, reddish brown, like dying fire caught in a glass bottle. Pieces with a frozen insect or an encapsulated leaf or flower within counted as particularly precious and valuable. A good gem-cutter could make a small fortune out of a single one of them, if properly polished and cut into the right shape for a pendant or a broche, cast in gold or silver.

Master Cutter Massen had only one of those rare pieces in his possession. ‘Twas a tear-shaped one, about the size of a dove egg, and had a fully open flower enclosed within. It looked a little like the iaros flowers the leatherers used for dyeing, but this one was smaller, and pure white, and had a more fragile blossom. It had been sheer luck that he had found it, in the middle of a rather unremarkable lump of southern amber, and he had finished the polishing of the pendant but a moon ago. On a delicate silver chain, made by the local silversmith, it would be worthy to adorn the slender throat of an Elven princess. Massen had high hopes to sell it during the stay of the Wandering Elves – after all, they had come to see the Fair in the first place.

The Master Cutter had no journeyman, for amber-working was a craft with high expenses, and only someone of an already wealthy family could afford to learn it. But he was not entirely without help. His two oldest sons, twelve-year-old Allun and nine-year-old Cleder, were already learning the noble craft at his knees, and his father, Maylwen, although past seventy and of weakening eyes, also worked with him still.

At the other end of the table, Massen’s uncle, old Dungarth was working on his glass beads. The old glass-worker was nearing eighty already, but he would not cease working as long as his hands and eyes served him. Not even his latest accident, in which he had burned his hands and forearms badly, could keep him out of the workshop, no matter how much his sons, Morag and Feoch, both fully accepted glass-makers of their own, begged him to save his strength. He was an artisan at heart, and his wrinkled old hands could not lie still on his lap.

‘Twas fortunate for him that both his sons had chosen to follow his lead, for glass-making was hard work, and some of the tasks required strength and a steady hand. There were two ways to do it: either from raw materials or by melting down broken glass (that was called cullet) and re-using it. Although re-using glass would have been much easier, chances to get enough of it at the right time were slim, thus Dungarth and his sons usually made their glass themselves.

For that, they had taken clean, stone-free sand from the riverbed and sieved it several times, with increasingly finer sieves. When they were certain that no unwanted particles remained in the sand, they mixed it with natron (a costly item, imported from Pelargir or Harad) or potash (which they also made themselves, by passing water through burnt wood). This mixture was then heated in an oven for several days, while constantly raked and stirred, to allow waste gasses to escape – a procedure that could be perilous for the eyebrows if one leaned in too close, and harmful for the lungs. When it was ready, the glass workers broke it up and put it into a crucible, often with cullet added, and melted it in the furnace that stood in the back yard.

If all went well, glass was formed. However, ‘twas a difficult task that required great skill and knowledge. A small mistake was enough to result in large lumps of partly formed waste glass that was not good for aught but being melted again. At first, most glass workers produced a lot of this useless substance, as one only could learn the finer tricks by much experience.

The results also depended on the furnace, of course. Dungarth and his sons had been fortunate that they could employ the services of Uthno, the town’s oven-builder, who was renown for his skills well beyond the borders of Halabor. Their kiln was made of the usual mix of sticks and twigs encased in well grogged clay, with a lot of straw bound into it. It might look like a crude chimney, but it could easily provide the great amount of heat needed for the process, and it had been serving them well for years.

When made of raw materials entirely, glass was clear or had a slight green tingle. To colour it, various minerals had to be added. ‘Twas widely known that copper was needed for red, blue or green, iron for black and tin for yellow, yet the right amount and mixture of the minerals was a jealously kept secret, handed down from father to son in each generation. Old Dungarth cold make glass in a surprisingly wide spread of colours: from pale blue to dark blue, from blue-green through emerald green to olive green, from amber to yellow-brown, red and black. Even among skilled glass-workers, this was an impressive variety, which had made his name well-known, especially in Rohan, as the Rohirrim were very fond of glass beads. They used them as clasps or ornaments on their own clothing and braided them into the mane of their horses.

Dungarth had already sold everything but his display pieces in the first couple of days – in this year, many traders had come from the Mark, more than usual – and was now about to make a new collection. He had a crucible of molten glass on the table before him, to which he had already added some lead to give the beads extra sparkle. Today, he was making blue beads, using a so-called pontil rod to pick a blob of molten glass from the crucible and then form it to a slightly elongated oval bead. That he did by rolling it on a smooth marble plate while it was still soft, and decorated it with trails of yellow and darker blue glass, leaving the yellow trails raised and pressing the dark blue ones in.

To obtain the individual patterns for his beads, he fused coloured glass rods in varying combinations. The rods themselves were the work of his younger son, Feoch, who formed them by bunching and folding them over each other, and then drawing out the hot glass into narrow rods. This work was done in the background of the workshop, where the finished pieces were left to cool slowly on warmed marble plates, so that they would not split.

At the moment, however, Feoch was doing enamel work, placing coloured glass, ground up into fine powder, on a bronze cloak clasp and heating up the piece, so that the glass would melt and fill the selected area, colouring it and fusing it to the background. Dungarth, needing a break to stretch his back, walked over to him and took a look at the finished pieces. There were already half a dozen of them, every single one decorated with a different pattern, on the cooling plate.

“They look good,” he judged. “Master Ludan will be content with your work.” They were doing these enamelled clasps for the Master Bronzesmith, who had first wrought the basic parts.

“I hope so,” replied Feoch, sliding the finished clasp carefully onto the cooling plate. “How is Morag doing with those drinking glasses the Elf-lord ordered on the first day of the Fair?”

Glass blowing was a skill in which the older brother exceeded, but rarely did they get such a tall order. The leader of the Wandering Elves, whose name was apparently Gildor Inglorion (which, as he had readily explained, meant simply ‘son of Inglor’), had given order for a dozen tall drinking glasses and a dozen beakers, both from blue-green glass, decorated with molten golden trails on the outside. ‘Twas a difficult task, even more so given the short time Morag had to his disposal, but Dungarth was certain that his firstborn would finish the work in time.

“He is doing well enough,” said the old master. “Just the final polishing has yet to be done.”

“I wonder, though, how do those Elves intend to carry all that glass down the long way to the Bay of Belfalas,” commented his son thoughtfully. “’Tis a very long journey, and glass is a delicate thing to transport.”

Dungarth shook his had. “They are not taking it with them. ‘Tis a gift for young Lord Herumor, I heard. The Elf-lord apparently said he might not return to Halabor ere the young lord finds a suitable wife, so he wanted to give him his wedding gift in advance. Elves see time differently than we do.”

“I sense a conspiration,” grinned Feoch. “Lord Orchald must be truly desperate for grandchildren if he employs the help of Elves to get his son wedded.”

“He is not the only one,” replied his father pointedly. For it was true that Feoch had married but a year ago himself, just before turning thirty, and his marriage with the bone-carver’s daughter had yet to be blessed with children.

The young man rolled his eyes. “Ai, Father, I beg you! Morag has already given you grandchildren, and in proper time Inganiad and myself will no doubt manage to do the same.”

“I might not have the time,” his father reminded him. “I am old, my son. I cannot wait forever to see your children. And I wish to leave house and business behind in the certainty that there will be heirs from my line to continue my work after I have gone.

Feoch truly disliked what his brother and himself called their father’s graveyard talk, but there was not much that he could have answered. ‘Twas truly frustrating sometimes. As if he and his wife would have chosen to remain childless. As if Inganiad had not tried every single thing Mistress Angharad, Mistress Dorlas and old Mistress Crodergh had come up with between the three of them. ‘Twas not fair that his father kept blaming him for the lack of results.

The opening of the shop door saved him from the necessity to give an answer. He had expected to see one of the Elves; they had been coming and going in and out of the shop, ever since their healer had bought two dozen small flasks for medicine on the first day of the Fair. But he was mistaken. The tall, slender young man entering the shop was no Elf but young Lord Herumor in person.

Which was even better, for as much as the glass workers liked to make business with Elves (as it was very profitable), they dearly loved their lord’s only son, just like everyone in town. Young Lord Herumor was a very personable man, despite his noble birth, ancient line and the fact that he was a Swan Knight – the noblest status any young man in Gondor could ever hope to achieve.

At home he was not wearing the blue of his Dol Amroth overlord, however, but the silver and sable of his own ancient House, with the rampant dragon and the three white gladden flowers embroidered upon his chest. And everyone’s hearts swelled with pride and joy and love upon the seeing of him, for he was the symbol of survival and future. For his old father, for his ancient line… and for the ancient little town itself that he was never ashamed to call his home.

Right now, though, he seemed just a little skittish… almost embarrassed, which was a rare thing to see on him.

“Master Massen,” he said to the amber cutter, after a nervous clearing of his throat, “I understand that you have a very precious amber pendant to sell? With an iaros flower or something like that in the middle of it?”

The Master Cutter rose from his stool eagerly. “Aye, my Lord, that I do indeed. Would you care to take a look at it?”

And while Massen hurried off to fetch the rarity in question, Dungarth and his son exchanged a long look, full of curiosity. One would not make such a gift casually. Could young Lord Herumor have already given his heart to someone, without the knowledge – and the blessing – of his father?

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Carved bone planes set into bronze frameworks were used to make reliquary caskets. As Middle-earth did not have that sort of religious custom, I simply used the idea for a book casket.

Sennen, the wandering bone-carver being treated in the Infirmary has been mentioned in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 14 – The Bone-Carvers

The house of Enoder, the Master Carver of Halabor, stood right next to that of the glass and amber workers’ in the Street of the Gardens. ‘Twas a somewhat smaller house, built in the customary style, half of stone and half of oak beams, and it had the usual front shop on its ground floor, looking directly to the street. He worked there with his wife, Trevenna, and his wife’s brother, Ingonger, both of whom had learned the same craft, and with their children.

Enoder had no siblings of his own, thus he had taken in his wife’s kin gladly. He had taught his craft both his grown daughters, as Nurria had denied him a son so far, including the birth of little Tuiren five years ago, and having help in the workshop was a welcome thing, as work was always aplenty. Even after marrying the glass-worker’s sons, his daughters came over to work with him and their cousins whenever they could. They loved their craft as much as they loved their family, and Enoder could always use another pair of hands.

As many people liked to carve little things from wood or bone as a pastime, they also often thought that Enoder’s work would be a cheap and easy one. Thus it happened sometimes that a customer would show up with a heap of randomly collected bones and ask for an item to be made from them, hoping that he would get it for nigh to nothing, as he had brought the material himself. Such people were then unpleasantly surprised when Enoder turned them down, explaining that bone is not like bone, that different items needed different source material, and that he would not use anything that had not been prepared by his very own hands – or by someone’s from his family.

Not every bone was suited for the carving of items. The most useful ones were the lower jaw, the shoulder blades, the ribs, the leg- and hipbones. This was true from pig to ox and all other animals of roughly the same size. To clean the bones, one could cook them, or bury them in a shallow pit for a while, or place them into a nest of wood ants. Enoder used all those methods, reserving the ant nests for the finer bones – like those from goose or swan wings, which were used for the making of whistles.

Horn was another material Enoder worked with. It was usually collected after an animal had been slaughtered. It was not so hard or so enduring as bone or antler, but artfully carved drinking horns always brought in good coin from the Rohirrim who preferred them to any other drinking vessel. Horn was also made into vessels containing oil or fat (which was used for the bows or leather armours), or even salt, with both ends properly sealed.

Antler, a harder and more endurable substance, came from the red deer that lived in the woods between the White Mountains and the Great River. People of common stock were not allowed to hunt, of course, but Lord Orchald, just as his forefathers before him, had granted the bone-workers the privilege to collect the antlers after the deer had shed them naturally in Solmath⁽¹⁾ and Rethe⁽²⁾.

The bone-carvers made a wide variety of household items from bone and antlers. Combs, sword mounts, bracelets, pottery stamps, pins and needles belonged to their repertoire as much as dice, gaming pieces, spoons, weaving battens, boxes, pendants, weaving tablets, beads, needle cases, spindle whorls, seals, whistles, musical pipes, knife handles, buckles, strap ends, turning pegs – or even moulds for pewter castings or hammers and clamps for the jewellers. But not all bone work was done for simple everyday use. Enoder’s masterpiece, for example, had been a book casket, made of exquisitely carved bone panels set into a bronze framework. This was the first and so far only time that he had worked with mûmak ivory. He had spent long, joyful hours carving the surfaces with strange beasts, known only from old legends.

He had sold that casket to Lord Orchald himself, barely two years after having finished it. Servants of the Castle told that it was still in the chambers of young Lord Herumor, who collected little girdle books of poetry in it. They also said, the young lord had discovered his fondness for music and poetry in Dol Amroth, for Lord Orchald himself had more… dour tastes that reached from ancient lore to hunting. He was a grave person, despite his almost fatherly love for his subjects – grave enough to have even the Steward’s ear on occasion, albeit his lands were now too modest to allow him a seat in the Council.

Like the rest of the townsfolk, Enoder understood very little about the affairs of the Realm or the internal politics of their Dúnadan overlords, but even a small craftsman could recognise greatness if he saw it. Everyone in town loved and respected Lord Orchald, and they generally agreed that no-one could wish for a better, wiser lord. Or a more generous one, despite the fact that his wealth was nothing compared to that of other great lords of Gondor.

Enoder hummed under his breath and stroked lovingly the large, flat surface carved from the bone of a great sturgeon, which had been caught by the fishermen a few weeks earlier. Such large, hard pieces of bone were hard to get hold of, for the great sturgeons had become rare in the River in the recent years. But if one found its way into the fishermen’s nets, they could be certain to make a good bargain out of it. For the plaques made of the bone of these huge fish, if well prepared, could be used with glass smoothers to smooth, crease or even polish linen, and thus were much sought after by the clothiers and tailors. Mistress Betha had long ago given order for such a plaque, but the work had to wait ‘til the fishermen could find a large enough fish.

Now, however, the work was nearly finished. Enoder had adorned the plaque with meandering leaves carved onto the rim and polished the surface repeatedly, ‘til it was smooth as marble. He had been fortunate to have enough help in the last weeks, including his wife’s youngest brother, who followed his father’s path as a wandering bone-carver and had come to town shortly before the Fair, in a rather bad shape. Mistress Angharad had patched him up nicely, and Sennen had actually taken on the offer of hospitality of Enoder’s house, working for his keeping without being asked to do so.

Enoder would not mind to keep him in the house for good. Sennen was not a bad sort of man, just cursed with a strange inner unrest like his father had been before him. But wandering around looking for work had become more and more dangerous in the recent years, as poor Telent’s fate had shown, and turning forty next spring, Sennen truly needed to slow down and be with the only people who cared for him. He had no family of his own, after all. Not that Enoder – or anyone else from his family – knew of it in, any case. And if no-one else, Trevenna would know. She and her youngest brother had always been close.

Enoder examined the bone plaque for one final time. Then he wrapped it in a cloth and gave it his nephew to bring it to Mistress Betha’s house. Little Jowan was already an apprentice, but also served as the workshop’s errand boy; and a very reliable one he was. As much as he loved his daughters, Enoder sometimes wished he had a son like him.

As the boy went out of the door, in came, at the same time, Enoder’s daughters, to do some work in the few hours left to sunset. The Master Carver liked these hours, when his wife and her brothers were off to the Fair, haggling with customers in their booth, allowing him a little shared time with his daughters. They had always gone along splendidly, he and his ‘girls’, as he kept calling them, despite the fact that they were both married women now, and Onuava a twice-over mother already. They could work together in amiable silence, except when the girls had some gossip to share, or chose to hum some old tune under their breath. They both had fair enough voices and liked to sing – ‘twas very peaceful when there were only the three of them.

Today, it seemed, was gossip day, though, if the sparkling of their eyes could be a hint. Small wonder; fair time always provided the town with gossip for the next season, at the very least. But before the gossip, there was work to do. Enoder wanted to make the antler combs ordered by Cinni, the water-carrier, for his daughters as a Yule gift. ‘Twas a little early for that, true, but Cinni was not a wealthy man, and Enoder had agreed to accept the payment in rates, as long as he got the whole (rather modest) sum of copper pieces ‘til Yuletide. This agreement had the side benefit that they could do the work well in advance, when  his girls could help him, instead right before Yule when they would be busy with household tasks.

Cinni had scavenged the antler from the forest floor himself, thus it was clean and ready to be cut. Had the deer been hunted, the tissue inside the antler would bleed and get very sticky. For this reason, Enoder only ever used the ones the deer had shed naturally. He had already cut off the tines and the burr⁽³⁾, leaving just the beam from which the combs could be formed, and he had sewn it in the middle along its length, removing the soft and spongy inner parts that could not be used for this particular purpose.

As these combs were meant for young girls with small hands, they did not need to be any longer than five inches, each. Thus the pair of antlers Cinni had brought would be enough for all four to be made, reducing so the costs for the poor man. He earned his coin hard enough as it was.

Enoder now cut some short, wide, rectangular plates from the remaining outside of the antler, to form the teeth plates, and four pairs of long, narrow pieces to join the teeth plates together. His girls sanded the plates to shape and smooth them, for the tooth plates and the side plates needed to shape into half-moon formed sections. To all pieces to come together as they were intended to, the work needed to be very precise.

They decorated the side plates, cutting little stars into the surface, matching for a Yule gift. The tooth plates then got riveted between the side plates, and Enoder finished the combs by cutting their teeth with a saw. As it was his wont, he made wide-set teeth on one end of the comb and much closer set, fine teeth at the other. Young girls had much finer hair than men and needed to get the tangles out of it without breaking a fine-toothed comb. The final task, the sanding of the teeth, was assigned to Inganiad, who had the nimblest fingers.

“I would like to make a case to protect these teeth,” she said, polishing the finished combs with a deerskin rug. “Can we do it, without people thinking that we would do unpaid work for everyone from now on?”

Her older sister finished four copper pieces from the soft doeskin purse hanging on her belt.

“I shall pay for your work,” she answered. “Cinni’s wife had helped me so much ere she fell ill, when we were both with child. Those poor girls would not get any more gifts for a while; let us make sure that at least these would last.”

“Is Cinni doing worse?” asked Enoder with a frown, while Inganiad already began with the sanding of more narrow side plates for the case. He barely knew the water-carrier – providing the household with water was the women’s task – but even he knew that Cinni’s services were needed.

Onuava shrugged. “He is not getting any younger… or the barrels any lighter. Soon, he will have to turn twice for each delivery, and that would not make him earn more. Unless he manages to get hold of a pack pony or a little ass… which is rather unlikely, poor as he is. Mayhap you should say a word about a loan in the Guild, Father. The merchants would not move a finger to help him, but we need Cinni to be able to do his work. We have no wells of our own in the back yard.”

“You should talk to your husband’s father,” replied Enoder. “His word has considerable more weight in the Guild than mine.”

“I will,” said Onuava, “and to Master Massen as well. All I need of you is to support the idea.”

“That I can do,” agreed her father. “’Tis still generous of you to pay for a gift for Cinni’s daughters, though.”

“Those poor girls deserve a little joy,” said Onuava, “and I can afford it. Morag has all but finished the Elf-lord’s orders. We will do well on that Elven gold for a while.”

“You are not the only ones,” added Inganiad. “Young Lord Herumor has just brought that amber pendant from Master Massen. The one with the iaros flower in it. Feoch was there and had seen it all.”

“What?” cried Enoder in surprise. “I never knew the young lord to carry so much coin on his person – or to spend any of it on aught else but on books or weapons. He is a real modest one as young noblemen go.”

“He is a young man,” replied Onuava, barely older than the young lord herself, in the maternal manner of someone who already had two chicks of her own, “and young men can be foolish when the fancy for a girl hits them sometimes.”

“’Tis strange, though,” continued Inganiad, every bit as well-versed in local gossip as her sister. “He has shown little interest for the noble maidens so far, no matter how persistently Lord Orchald has been trying to make him interested in matrimony.”

“Not even Lord Orchald can know everything,” said Onuava wisely. “If the young lord has bought such a gift, there must be someone that gift was meant for. Not necessarily someone Lord Orchald would find a suitable match, though.”

The two sisters exchanged looks full of excitement and understanding. Nay, they would not discuss the possibilities within the earshot of their father – men could be so unreasonable sometimes. But this piece of news would entertain the whole town for a long time. ‘Til another exciting piece of gossip came along.

~The End – for now~

End notes:

(1) Solmath is the rough equivalent of our February. It’s not an exact match, as the Shire calendar (and the Bree calendar which I use for the Old Folk) has months that have generally 30 days, but this is the closest thing I could find to count time for Halabor.

(2) Rethe is about the same as our March. See above.

(3) The burr is the swelling where the antler joined the skull of the deer.

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  I’ve seen the term “whitesmith” in one of Isabeau’s stories first. I still do not know whether it is a genuine one or made up, but I find it a very good one, used summarily for metalsmiths working with gold, silver, bronze, copper or brass, so I decided to use it.

The goldsmith of Halabor has first appeared in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”, where he gave important testimony before the Lord’s bailiff in a murder case.

The Mírdain were a guild of Elven jewel-smiths, led by Celebrimbor, who lived and worked in Eregion (Hollin). Their little realm was destroyed by Sauron in the Second Age. This was the place where all the Great Rings had been forged, by the way.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 15 – The Whitesmiths

As in all other towns in Gondor, or indeed, in the whole of Middle-earth, smiths had a well-respected status in Halabor, with the matching privileges to go with that status. ‘Twas not by accident that Master Ludgvan, the ironsmith, had been chosen for the office of the provost, the head of the Town Council, which consisted of the leaders of various merchant and craftsmen guilds. The ironsmith was the single most important craftsman in these perilous times, as weapons and all means of protecting the town and one’s own family and belongings came from under his hands, just as a great many of the household items and the tools used by other craftsmen.

Yet while the ironsmith was undoubtedly the most important one of his trade, the other smiths, those working with other sorts of metal – and widely called whitesmiths as opposed to the ironsmith whose source material was black – had their own importance all the same. Aside from iron, pewter, tin, brass, lead, copper, mercury and bronze were widely used for a variety of purposes, and even gold and silver, though only the wealthy could afford that.

Bronze was the commonest metal right after iron, and thus it was not surprising that the guild of the whitesmiths majorly consisted of bronzesmiths. The Master Bronzesmith, Ludwan – the brother of the provost, by the way – ran his flourishing business with the help of his youngest brother (whose name was Ludan), that of his firstborn, Mybard, and Ludan’s son-in-law, Ernew, as their journeyman and Ludan’s thirteen-year-old son, Mawgan, as their apprentice.

Neoth, however, the second son of the Master Bronzesmith, had found his liking in even finer work, and gone to Dol Amroth to learn how to do silver work. He had returned with young Lord Herumor but a year ago, wedded his childhood sweetheart and set up his small workshop, together with Glywayath, the ring-maker (as goldsmiths were called in these lands), the husband of his sister Menfreda. The two of them went along well, even worked together on many a delicate item ordered by local noblemen or noblewomen, and between the two of them they had earned good coin so far. Sometimes even Derbrenn, Neoth’s mother worked with them, as she was the daughter of old Dungarth, the glass-worker, and knew a great deal about cutting and polishing and framing of semi-precious stones; a knowledge that came handy in the whitesmiths’ business.

On this beautiful day, however, Neoth was alone in the workshop, as his mother and Glywayath were in their booth on the fairground. He did not mind it too much. As he had only small corrections to finish on a silver broche set with opals for the Lord Azrubel’s wife, he could have his wife in the workshop with him. Maer, barely seventeen and eight months pregnant, liked to do her needlework in a comfortable armchair, keeping him company.

She was not a beautiful woman to anyone but Neoth, with her slight frame – now swollen with their first child – her pointed little face that seemed too small, framed by thick coils of light brown hair and dominated by a wide brow and deep blue eyes. Nor was Neoth remarkable in any way. He was of middle height, even for someone from the Old Folk, looked older than his twenty-six summers, had a wide-boned face under a thick thatch of brown hair, thick brown brows and wide-set eyes of a deep, sunny hazel. They were both very ordinary people, yet very much in love and very happy with each other.

Many a more handsome, wealthier couple would have envied them for that.

Neoth had not expected any customers in the workshop. His best pieces were displayed in the booth, under his mother’s sharp-eyed surveillance, and he was sure that Derbrenn would get the best possible price for them. Thus he was whistling cheerfully while giving the broche the final polish and did not even hear the door opening. Only his wife’s sharp intake of breath alerted him. He glanced up – and set his work aside, raising from his workbench respectfully.

For the customer who entered his shop was no lesser person than young Lord Herumor himself. And he was accompanied by Elves. By two male Elves, to be more precise, both tall, slender and raven-haired, with identical pairs of clear grey eyes.

“Your servant, my lord,” stottered Neoth, staring at the mythical creatures in awe. Young Lord Herumor was a head taller than his subjects already, due to his Dúnadan blood, but those Elves towered even over him. And they were slim, elegant and fair beyond measure... intimidatingly so. Fortunately, Lord Herumor was an easy-going person and much concerned about making his subjects feel comfortable in his lordly presence.

“None of that, Master Neoth,” he said heartily. “We do require your services indeed, but for honest coin, just like any other customer. For Master Egnor here,” he gestured towards one of the Elves, “is of the same trade as you are, and his friend, Master Findobar, is a jewel-smith. The two of them happen to have a bit of disagreement about something I have recently purchased, and we would like to hear your expert opinion about the matter.”

With that, the young lord unwrapped a small item that he had had in his belt pouch and placed it carefully onto Neoth’s workbench. ‘Twas a tear-shaped pendant of clear, translucent, straw-coloured amber, about the size of a dove egg, with a tiny blossom like an iaros flower encapsulated in its middle. Neoth had heard of it, of course, but he had never seen it. ‘Twas truly a thing of beauty.

“Well, ‘tis a beautiful piece and no mistake, my lord,” he said, “but I cannot see what you hope to hear from me. My mother would be of more use; I know very little about amber and crystal and stones.”

“There is no need for that,” replied Lord Herumor. “You see, these two here cannot come to an agreement whether I should have it made into a broche to adorn the throat of a fine lady, or have it fastened on a chain for her to wear it close to her heart.”

“I very much doubt that I would be fit to tell what would be more proper for an Elven lady, my lord,” said poor Neoth defensively. Why did the young lord demand such an impossible thing of him?

Herumor grinned rakishly. “Oh, but this is not meant for an Elf! And I hoped that you as a married man could provide me with counsel about what a woman of our own kind would find more… appealing.”

“In that case, I think my wife would be a more adept counsellor,” said Neoth, looking at her in askance. “What say you, my flower? Broche or pendant?”

Maer came closer, albeit a little reluctantly, to take a look at the item in question. The presence of such noble lords frightened her, but if her husband needed her help, she would provide it, no matter what.

“It depends on the woman ‘tis meant for,” she said after a while. “If she is likely to show off your affection, my lord, then have made her a broche. If she would prefer to keep it close to her heart, then have the pendant fastened on a chain, so that she can wear it hidden under her clothes and only share its beauty – and meaning – with a chosen few.”

Herumor and the two Elves exchanged surprised looks upon the wisdom of such a simple woman. Then the one called Findobar, the jewel-smith, gave an exaggerated sigh.

“You have won,” he told his friend, the silversmith named Egnor. “A silver chain it be; and I will pay. Master Neoth, do you happen to have one ready – or one you could finish before the end of the Fair?”

“I do have something you might find acceptable, Master Elf,” replied Neoth, thinking quickly. “’Tis rather old; my father bought it from some foreign trader from the North, for very little coin, for it was broken in several places. I have always planned to repair it, as the silver seems to be of excellent purity, but there was always other work to be done first. Would you like to take a look at it?”

“By all means,” said the Elf, and Neoth brought the silver chain – or rather four dissected portions of a silver chain – forth and draped them around the amber pendant.

He was surprised when both Elves took a sharp breath of surprise upon seeing it.

“Master Neoth,” said the one who was a jewel-smith, “do you even have an inkling what you have here? ‘Tis not silver, ‘tis mithril… and of very good quality at that.”

“Mithril?” repeated Neoth, his mouth hanging open. He had heard of the legendary metal of Dwarves, of course – who had not? But the thought that he had such precious thing in his possession, without even knowing it, baffled him to no end.

“’Tis way too valuable for such a little craftsman like me,” he finally said. “I would never be able to sell it properly… and it would be a shame, should it come into the possession of some greedy merchant in any case. If you want it, Master Elf, I will sell it to you. Pay whatever you think proper, and it is yours, with my thanks for taking it off my hands.”

The Elf grinned. “I have not nearly enough coin to pay for it properly,” he said, “but my Lord Gildor might be interested. I will ask him. In the meantime, however, I have lost a bet, and I always pay my debts,” he reached under his tunic and unclasped the silver chain worn around his neck. “Here you are, Egnor, my friend. As this is your own handiwork, you would surely be pleased to have it back.”

The other Elf laughed. “Only to give it away, as promised,” he turned to Neoth. “Master Neoth, can you make a small hook for the pendant, so that it could be worn on this chain?”

Secretly glad for the opportunity to examine Elven silverwork closely, Neoth declared that he could indeed do that. Thus Lord Herumor and the Elves left both pendant and chain in his keeping ‘til the work would be done.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When they came back for the finished necklace, they brought Gildor Inglorion with them. The Lord of the Wandering Company examined the parts of the mithril chain carefully, and his coldly beautiful face clouded over with sorrow.

“It surprises me that you did not recognize it at first sight, Findobar,” he said to the Elf who was a jewel-smith. “This was made in Eregion, a long time ago; the clasp, albeit damaged somewhat, still bears the holly leaf that was stamped into each item coming out from Celebrimbor’s own workshop.”

“I was not one of the Mírdain,” replied Findobar, “not even one of the apprentices. I was just helping out with small tasks in my father’s workshop, being hardly more than a child.”

“You still should have known the symbol of your old home,” said Lord Gildor sternly. “If we forget about our roots, what is to become of us?” He then turned to the stunned  Man who could barely believe what was happening in his modest little shop. “I wish to purchase this chain from you, Master Silversmith. What do you demand for it?”

“To be honest, my lord, I know naught about things this precious,” admitted Neoth humbly. “’Tis not something I am familiar with, and I cannot as much as guess its true value. So I leave it to you to pay me as you find  proper.”

The Elf-lord raised an ironic eyebrow. “You have said something like that to Findobar already. Do you truly trust us so much? What have we done to deserve it?”

“Nothing, my lord,” replied Neoth boldly. “’Tis not you whom I trust, ‘tis young Lord Herumor. His forefathers have led and protected us for as long as Gondor has stood; I trust him that he would not allow me to be cheated of my due.”

Gildor shot the young knight an amused glance, but Herumor nodded in agreement.

“I might not have my father’s wisdom,” he said, “and I surely have to learn a great deal yet about what it means to be a leader of Men. But my father has taught me what we owe to the people who look up to us for protection and guidance, and I do not intend to disappoint him… or them.”

Gildor Inglorion’s expression softened a bit upon hearing those words.

“You are a true son of Gondor, Herumor,” he said, “one who will, no doubt, bring honour to his name and the name of his House. One day, if the Valar allow, you shall become a great leader of Men indeed. The Prince of Dol Amroth will be proud to hear that you honour the white belt of the Swan Knights this much. May Elbereth protect you on all your journeys!”

With that, he turned back to Neoth and counted onto his workbench more golden pieces than the young silversmith had ever seen in one pile. Then he looked into the young man’s eyes long and deep, as if searching for something.

“I see very little of your future, Master Silversmith,” he finally said, “and what little I can see, I think it better to keep to myself. Yet this much I can and will tell you: keep the gold that I have just paid you for the refound piece of my youth set aside. For the son whom your wife’s womb is hiding now will have need of it one day.”

More he would not say, no matter how much Neoth and Maer begged, and he left them, torn between the joy about a son to be born and the worry about what Elven foresight might have revealed to him.

Remaining alone in their little shop, Neoth and Maer exchanged confused looks. ‘Twas Maer, in the end, who spoke first.

“Well,” she said in wry amusement, “there is a reason why they say Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.”

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Rhisiart, the minstrel first appeared in “The Last Yule of Halabor”. The Lord’s huntsman had an appearance in “A Brotherly Gift”.

Being born under a lucky star is a Hungarian expression. I do not know if it has an equivalent in English or not.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 14 – The Bow-Maker

Cadwallon, the bow-maker, was content with the modest earnings the Fair had brought him so far. He had not counted on more than doing a few small repairs for the visiting men-at-arms or selling a few dozen arrows. Any bigger work had to be ordered in advance, for making a bow required time and patience. Thus he actually welcomed the low traffic in his workshop, as it left him free to finish the longbow he had been working on for a while. The one ordered by Alston, Lord Orchald’s huntsman, who, as it was proper for a lordly household, also happened to be a knight, and as such he went to battle with his lord whenever the need arose.

To make a bow, finding the right sort of wood was the first task to master. Gondorian longbows were, as a rule, as long as their wielders were tall, or a fraction longer, for their range depended on the length of the archer’s arm. The Lord’s huntsman was of Dúnadan blood: a tall, vigorous man of six feet two, thus Cadwallon had to find a yew-tree of suitable size, for yew had been used to build bows in Gondor since the foundation of the kingdom – or before – as its sapwood possessed a high degree of elasticity and its heartwood could be compressed without too much trouble.

Longbows were made of one piece of wood, as a rule, thus he needed a bough that was at least twice as long as the bow would be, and at least three inches thick. Fortunately for him, he had Lord Orchald’s leave to search the lord’s woods, and thus he had managed to find one. After sawing it off, he brought it home, removed the bark and sealed both ends with teer, so that it would not get wet in the inside.

Due to a warm, dry summer in that year, the future bow needed but a few weeks to dry properly. Barely a week before the beginning of the Fair, Cadwallon could already begin with the actual work. Gondorian longbows traditionally had a thicker section in the middle, in order to give the archer a more secure grip; Cadwallon marked this five-inch-section first, ere he would cut back the ends with an axe and then with the large working knife, and reduced the thickness of the bow, so that it would bend everywhere but in the midsection where the archer would hold it.

During work, one had to keep testing the bow, of course, as it was crucial that it had no ‘blind spots’ – places where it would be too stiff to bend properly. Blind spots ‘broke’ the tension of a bow and lessened the range of the weapon, which could prove fatal for the archer. Cadwallon himself had little interest in – and even less skill at – actually using a bow. Making them satisfied him completely. Luckily for him, though, his wife, Endelliont, felt differently. As the eldest of three children of a woodworker, she had been raised as a boy… well, almost… and learned to shoot while barely old enough to lift a bow. She was good with the axe and the carving knife as well, and even walked around in men’s clothes whenever on a journey: in breeches and a tunic and a leather jerkin, cloaked and hooded, and a leather cap hiding her tightly braided hair.

Many of the townsfolk took offence at a woman behaving thusly, but Cadwallon was not one of those. To begin with, Endelliont had no great beauty that could have been ruined by the lack of proper female clothing. She was a strong, plain-faced woman of middle height and middle brown colouring, who could easily masquerade as a man if she wanted. And besides, her knowledge and skills as an archer and woodworker provided great help for Cadwallon; which had been part of the reason why he had married her in the first place, some twelve years earlier.

Beyond that, she was a good housekeeper and a good mother to their two children, a son of ten and a daughter who had just turned seven. She had even willingly taken in little Rannilt, the daughter of Cadwallon’s brother, when the girl’s mother had died in childbirth. Rannilt was of the same age as their son Ruith, and the three children grew up as siblings rather than cousins, under the surveillance of Cadwallon’s widowed mother.

Cadwallon himself was a rather personable young man just beyond thirty: tall and well-shaped and well aware of his good looks, with curling corn-yellow hair as an inheritance of some Rohirric ancestor somewhere up his family tree, and dancing pebble-brown eyes that always glinted with good humour. He was generally content with his life, his work and his family, and looked into the future with a sunny disposition that would put many of the wealthier people in town to shame. He was born under a lucky star, as people said, meaning that whatever he would begin, it usually turned out good.

Right now, all he wanted was to finish Alston’s bow, and he hoped that it would turn out good as well. For no matter how skilled an archer his wife was, the bow had been made with a tall, strong man in mind, and it had a drow weight of ninety pounds. Despite all her skills, Endelliont simply had not the strength to bend it properly, and Cadwallon did not like to deliver a weapon that had not been tested to its limits.

“You seem to be in a rare brooding mood today, little brother,” said a deep, rich voice in an amused tone, and looking up in surprise, he saw his brother, Rhisiart the minstrel, entering the workshop. And he came not alone. The Elf accompanying him was tall, had the leaf-shaped ears of his kind, smooth ash-blond hair, keen blue eyes and the heavy-set shoulders of an archer who, perchance, had already had millennia to perfect his skills.

Rhisiart was six years his brother’s elder; a comely man with a full head of russet hair that barely covered his ears and a short-clipped beard of the same colouring. He had originally learned the craft of the carpenters, and beyond that, the art of making and repairing musical instruments, by an old master in Linhir, whose daughter he eventually married.

His marriage had been a short one, though, and after his wife’s untimely death, he gave in to the wanderlust that had been burning in his blood for years by then. Leaving his newborn daughter in the care of Endelliont, he took his harp and rebec, both made by his own hands, and began his wanderings from manor to manor, from town to town, from farmstead to farmstead.

He had a good voice and a skilled hand with his instruments, albeit little talent for the making of songs. Yet even with those that he had learned elsewhere, he was a welcome guest in the manors of lesser noblemen in Anórien or on the fairs of every town, including the one in which he had been born. Coming back to Halabor from time to time had the additional benefit that here he had no need to look for a lodging, as Cadwallon and Endelliont kept a small room for him in the loft. ‘Twas a bleak little chamber, where they stored firewood to dry over the summer, but it still left room enough for him to have there a bed and a table where he could keep his instruments and other belongings.

Cadwallon begrudged him the chance to follow his heart’s true calling not; and they were happy to keep little Rannilt with them as she was a sweet, shy child and brought much joy to their lives. Besides, Rhisiart paid for the girl’s keeping; not much, that was true, but he did pay, saying that it was his responsibility as a father – even if he shied away from any other paternal duties. He loved his little girl but he knew not what to do with her.

The Elf who had come with him looked from one brother at the other with interest. Cadwallon did not blame him. Between the two of them was very little family resemblance, though they both had their mother’s eyes.

“You have brought guests?” asked the bow-maker, ignoring his brother’s jest about his ‘brooding”. He did not brood, and they both knew that.

“Oh, aye,” answered Rhisiart. “I have been amiss with the introductions indeed. Brother, this is Durithel, the chief tracker of the Wandering Elves.”

“And an archer if I have ever seen one,” added Cadwallon, grinning. “’Tis my pleasure, Master Elf. I am called Cadwallon, and I am the bow-maker here.”

“I can see that,” the Elf reached out for the finished bow but stopped his hand in the last moment. “Would you terribly mind if I…?”

Cadwallon waved generously. “Not at all. Be my guest.”

In fact, having his handiwork examined by an Elven archer was most exciting. Elves, especially those of the woodland folk, counted as the best archers in the whole Middle-earth, and they knew more about bows than any Man could ever hope to learn in a lifetime.

The Elf named Durithel lifted the bow and stroked along its arch with a loving hand, as one would pet a beloved steed.

“The wood is excellent,” he judged, “and so seems the workmanship. Have you worked in your trade for long, Master Cadwallon?”

The bow-maker shrugged. “I have begun to learn it as a small boy already, at my father’s knees,” he replied.

“And it shows,” said the Elf. “A classic Gondorian longbow, if there ever was one – though fairly large for a Man, I would say.”

“It has been made for a fairly tall man, too,” answered Cadwallon. “I just wish we could test it properly. But I have no such skills, and my wife, who has them, lacks the proper strength to bend it.”

“I would be glad to be of assistance,” offered the Elf. “I am tall enough and strong enough to bend it… and I know enough about bows to give you an honest opinion.”

Cadwallon accepted the offer gleefully. Having his bow tested by an Elven archer was the dream of every bow-maker between the Mountains and the Sea.

“I have a shooting range behind the house,” he said. “You can give it a try there.”

The Elf found that a good idea, and so out they went to the back yard, where several targets had been placed for Mistress Endelliont’s practice. The newly-made bow should have had a range of three hundred yards, assumed the archer had the strength to bend it to its full capacity and to pull the bow-string behind his ear. Cadwallon was sure that the Elf would be able to do just that, and even a mere Man should manage to reach a useful range of two hundred and fifty yards.

‘”Tis very good work indeed,” judged the Elf, hitting the centre of each target several times unerringly with the three-feet-long arrows, “and the bow-string is supremely strong. What do you use for strings, Master Cadwallon?”

“Horse-hair, in Rohirric fashion,” replied the bow-maker. “’Tis hard on the fingers, true, but most archers wear gloves anyway, and horse-hair is very endurable. What kind of hair do Elves use to make bow-strings?”

“Our own,” said Durithel with a faint smile.

That made sense, Cadwallon thought, eyeing the long, ash-blond locks that cascaded down to the archer’s waist, even tied back as they were at the moment, so that they would not get caught in the bow-string. He wondered what it would be like to work with that. But ere he could have found a way to ask for a lock of Elven hair, gurgling laughter could be heard, and the children of the house came running and tumbling over each other.

Two of them were his own chicks, Ruith and Richild, the third one was sweet little Rannilt, who had missed her father for too long this year, and the fourth one was Oswin, Rhisiart’s… well, fosterling, for the lack of a better word.

The minstrel had found the now seven or eight year old, fair-haired boy somewhere along the border of Rohan, two years earlier. He had practically bought the little waif with no name to call his own and with huge, trusting cornflower-blue eyes from a band of tricksters and mummers… although thieves and cut-throats might have been a better name for them. He had named the boy Oswin and taken him along on his journeys, for Oswin had already been taught by his former… owners how to spin painted wooden balls and rings in the air, had a sweet little voice, and could twist his small, way too thin body into knots that would make a snake envious.

Oswin liked to travel with the minstrel, who, at least, treated him well and gave him enough to eat. But his happiest times were when they came back to Halabor and visited Cadwallon’s family. For the children were friendly to him and treated him as if he had been one of their cousins, and Mistress Endelliont was kind and a very good cook.

And if they came during one of the annual fairs, it was even more fun, of course. While he had to work with Rhisiart to earn them some coin, he also got to go with the other children to visit the booths, and sometimes even came back with a little treat.

“Father,” begged little Rannilt, tugging her father’s hand persistently. “Can we go to the booth of the pastry cooks? And to that of the honey-makers, for sweetmeats? And they say that Master Breach has made new toys for the Fair… can we go and see them?”

The minstrel looked at his brother helplessly. The bow-maker grinned at him with just a touch of schadenfreude. “To become a father is easy, brother mine,” he quoted the old saying. “To be a father, though, can be a heavy burden sometimes⁽¹⁾. Go, be a father… and took Oswin with you as well. The boy deserves to have a little fun.”

Still a bit reluctantly, the minstrel left  with all four children, hearing with one ear as his brother turned to the Elven archer with an eager question.

“Master Elf, I have heard that the bows of Númenor of old were made of hollowed metal. Can you tell me whether that rumour is true or not?”

“I fear I cannot be of any help in this matter,” laughed the Elf. “My tribe has never had much business with the Men of Westernesse. We have always minded our own affairs and stayed out of those of the mortals. But I can introduce you to some of my Noldor friends, if you wish. They are a meddlesome lot… and some of them are even old enough to give you an answer.”

~The End – for now~

(1) German saying. The original text is: “Vater werden ist nicht schwer, Vater sein dagegen sehr.“ I am afraid it loses a lot in the translation.

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note: According to my sources, butchers and chicken-butchers were really two different branch of the same business. Go figure. The romance between the Chief Warden and the midwife started in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 17 – The Butcher

The shop and slaughterhouse of Goran Flesher, the only butcher of Halabor, stood in the Street of the Bakers and hailed from the better days of the town, when butchers had their own guild. The shop had a wild boar’s head above its front door, so it would have been hard to miss it – not that the mouth-watering scent of a pig being roast on a spit would not have revealed its location to anyone with a nose.

‘Twas a rare event that Goran would offer his customers roast pork, as pigs were common household livestock and thus not in great demand. The rules of the Merchants’ Guild required butchers to supply beef, before any other type of meat, although Goran also sold mutton and veal. He bought the animals from his wife’s family, who were all tenants on the one or other farmstead, and thus supplied him well all the time.

It did help his business, of course, that there were no other butchers in town; had not been for a very long time. Roughly a thousand people lived within the town walls, and nearly as many again it the scattered farmsteads, cottages and manors in the immediate neighbourhood; too few to feed more than one butcher. Which was the very reason why Goran’s own son, Goron, had to work as a chicken-butcher, ‘til his father felt the time come to retire and hand him over the flesher business.

That, however, was a long time to come yet. Goran was still some years short of sixty, with a heavy-set, powerful body, a grizzled head, and arms like great tree-boughs. Despite being a four times over grandfather already, he showed no sign of weakness and no indication to give up his work just yet.

His wife, Aith, was eleven years his junior, used to working hard from sunrise to sunset like any proper farmer’s daughter, and she was a great maker of bacon and sausages and various sorts of pickled and smoked and salt meat. And her spit-roast pigs were so tender that their meat fell from the bone on its own to the mere touch. Whenever there was a fair or some other festival in town, Goran got the Guild’s leave to sell those spit-roast pigs.

This, if one took the letter of the law seriously, was a slighting of the tavern owner’s privileges. But Mistress Pharin, practical woman as she was, simply ordered two or three whole pigs from Goran every time, ready to be carved and sold, thus saving herself the effort and even making some solid winnings over the price.

During a fair, the strict regulations always got loosened a little, but it also made the victuallers⁽¹⁾ work even more closely together. For example, to make the traditional pasties that were much sought after on the fairground, Wethinoc, the pastry-cook, needed minced beef and pork from the butcher, and a great amount of chopped onions, taters⁽²⁾ and turnip that was prepared for him in the Drunken Boat. Only the pastry itself and the sauce, made after an old family recipe that he guarded jealously, came from his own kitchen. He put everything together in Mistress Eseld’s bakery, baked them in the oven and sent the still hot pastries in great wicker baskets to the Drunken Boat and to his own tent on the fairground, where they were sold to the last piece, within the hour.

Goran always made good business on the Fair, too. While he sold roast meat of pig, beef or mutton in his shop, his wife had a tent on the fairground, to sell fresh and smoked or dried sausages, bacon, filled pig’s stomachs, liver pastetes and other such delicacies. Sure, they did not offer food for the refined tongue of lords, but the simple townsfolk loved his treats and could not get enough of them. The bakers provided him with the right sort of bread – usually brown or black, as his regular customers could not afford the fine white cocket or domain bread; and the horse, as the extremely coarse bread, made from the lowest quality flour and usually bought by the near-penniless folk of the New Port, was called, would be below his level to keep in the shop.

Calculating that day’s potential winnings in his head – they had been good enough already, as visiting the Fair usually made people hungry as well as thirsty – the Master Flesher went to the hearth with his slow, rolling gait, to check on the mutton hunches roasting in a huge iron pan there. The small-purse visitors of the Fair, who could not – or would not – spend their hard-earned coin in one of the taverns, always found their way to the butcher’s shop, and they preferred mutton, as it was much cheaper than beef or veal. Goran sold it with bastard wastel, as brown bread was called in these lands, and a tasty pepper sauce, made by his wife from red wine, spices and egg yolks. He usually took a thick slice of brown bread, laid a thick slice of roast mutton on it and covered the meat with a large spoonful of sauce. People were content with it and readily paid the demanded brass pieces for such a meal.

He turned back to the counter – and grinned broadly, seeing Chief Warden Henderch enter his shop. He liked Henderch, just like about everyone in town. The presence of the Wardens gave the townsfolk a sense of safety they had not known before. And, unlike many of his fellow Wardens, Henderch was a son of Halabor, born and grown up in the Old Port. He was one of them.

What was more, this time Henderch came in the company of Mistress Dorlas, the midwife, Old Craban’s daughter. The rumour mill had been running about the two of them for a year or so already. Being a widow with a good trade of her own, Mistress Dorlas had many suitors who did not mind that she was barren. Mostly widowers with children of their own, perchance grown ones, who had no need for more heirs but a keen interest in her sturdy house in the Old Port and in the coin that she would be able to earn.

That she would choose Henderch the Brave instead, a good, decent man, albeit still suffering from the results of a crippling injury that had forced him to leave Gondor’s army and return home, surprised no-one. What did make people wonder, though, was why the two would not wed properly. For though Henderch spent much time in her house, seemingly to visit little Godith, the orphan of a fallen Warden whom he had given into Mistress Dorlas’ care, he always returned to the House of the Wardens, where he lived with those who had no families. Late in the evening or only in the morn, but he always returned.

People’s tongues waggled a lot about the midwife and the Chief Warden, yet neither of them seemed to care. And for his part, Goran cared not the least, either. He valued Henderch and his fellow Wardens greatly, and he respected Mistress Dorlas, whose skills had helped him to four strong, healthy grandchildren already. And should any-one speak badly about either of these two, Goran would show them why he had no need for any help with slaying an ox with an axe. He was as peaceful a man as any, but malevolent gossip could bring out a side of him that was not pleasant to watch, as people who had spoken ill of his wife right before their wedding had learned on the hard way. It had been well worth the fee he had to pay the bailiff, and he would do it again.

Thus he grinned at Henderch and Mistress Dorlas, who had even brought little Godith with them, in a friendly manner. The three seemed well content with each other, and ‘twas no-one else’s business what they did and why.

“Well met and welcome, Chief Warden, Mistress,” he said. “Would you care for something to eat? The pig is done already, and I have some fine mutton here, too.”

Henderch looked at Mistress Dorlas in askance, who shrugged.

“We can have a bite,” she said, “but I was looking for Chrochnuit, in truth. She was not in your son’s tent, and I am still worried a bit about her.”

“She has taken the tallow to the chandler,” explained Goran. Cador, the chandler, had married his daughter near fourteen years ago, and for just that long had Goran been freed from making tallow candles. ‘Twas a task he had always hated to do, and Cador paid an honest price for the collected tallow, thus he found it better to focus his strength on his actual trade.

Not to mention that being related to the chandler could earn one some respect. Cador worked for wealthy and noble families well beyond the town walls and earned good coin. A son-in-law like that reflected well on the whole family.

“Chrochnuit should not lift heavy burdens,” said Mistress Dorlas disapprovingly. “While ‘tis true that her child is almost a year old, she is still strangely weakened. I shall have Mistress Angharad take a look at her.”

Goran pulled a face. He had had his only son married to a farmer’s daughter, just as he had married one himself, for in a slaughterhouse, there was much hard work, which a wilting flower could never manage to do. And yet the young wife of his son had turned out to be just that: a wilting flower, who could not regain her former strength after giving birth. Goran considered her condition a personal effort. Aith had born seven children – alas that only two of them had survived! – but had been back on her feet in mere days each time.

Master Goran despised weakness. He was like an ox himself, her wife like a sturdy oak, and his son a young bull of twenty-four. Even his daughter, the chandler’s wife, was large and wholesome, a mother of three sturdy children. Simpering and ailing was something he had little patience for.

“Pampering will not help to get her strength back,” he said, meaning his daughter-in-law. “Other women have children by the dozens and do not whine about each birth for years.”

“Other women did not nearly die in childbirth at the age of sixteen,” riposted Mistress Dorlas sharply. “She lost more blood on that day that I would ever believe possible for any woman and still survive. She should not even think of getting with child again for at least two years to come, if she wants to live beyond twenty.” She shook herself in anger and disgust. “Let us leave this place, Henderch. All of a sudden, I seem to have lost my appetite.”

The Chief Warden gave the butcher an apologetic shrug but followed her out in loving obedience nonetheless. Goran stared after them, more than a little insulted. He liked Mistress Dorlas, he truly did, but she could be so… unreasonable sometimes. Why could she not see that pampering Chrochnuit would do no good? That girl had come to his house like a spoiled princess already, and had not gotten any better ever since. And that foolish son of Goran’s had been at her beck and call all the time, just because he thought that he loved her!

The Master Flesher shook his massive head in disapproval. Love was something for the minstrels and fine lordlings. Men of the common folk wed to achieve more wealth, to have someone to run their household and to bear them children. ‘Twas that simple. Picking up lordly ideas was not good for simple folk – it could only lead them to ruin.

He sighed, pulled the large pan from the hearth and lifted one of the mutton haunches with the iron fork over to the chopping board. A few hirelings from the New Port were coming up the Street of the Bakers, having packed the wares on the fairground all morning. They would have earned good coin; foreign merchants could be generous, more so if they had made good deals. The workers would be hungry.

Master Goran grabbed his huge butcher’s knife and began to slice up the roast mutton haunch. He only wished his problems could be dealt with the same easy way.

~The End – for now~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(1) People who sold and prepared food – any kind of food – in the Middle Ages. The victualling industry included bakers, brewers, butchers, fishmongers, innkeepers, millers, regraters, tapsters, taverners, vintners and many other obscure specialities.

(2) Hobbits tend to call potatoes taters in LOTR. Since I assume that the Old Folk is related to the people of Bree, who use a similar version of Westron as Hobbits do, I thought I would use this particular term, too. It simply sounds too funny to ignore.

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  The millers and bakers first appeared in “The Last Yule of Halabor”. The meat pasties mentioned here (and in the previous chapter) are something akin to Cornish Pasties. Since I have chosen Cornish names for the Old Folk, to have some sort of continuity in the world-building process, I thought it reasonable to have them had Cornish food, too.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 18 – The Pastry-Cooks

Barely two hours were left ‘til the closing of the Fair on that day when Ulogen and Wethinoc, the pastry-cooks of Halabor, took the last tins out of the oven. The time of the annual fairs was always a good one for them, as people liked to eat a bite while strolling among the booths, and pasties were small treats that could be easily eaten. One did not make oneself messy, not even if eating and strolling around at the same time.

Unless one was an urchin of the Old Port, delighting in getting as messy as humanly possible, to the great displeasure of one’s parents, of course.

Ulogen and Wethinoc were brothers, both around forty, with only three years between them. They learned the basic tasks of their craft from their father, the late Uepogen, who had been the only pastry-cook in town, but Wethinoc had also spent a few years in Minas Tirith, by a renowned master, to learn the finer tasks and the little secrets that made his pasties and sweetmeats so excellent and so much sought-after. Why, he even got called to the Castle before the great feasts, to enrich the table of Lord Orchald himself with his delicious creations.

In Minas Tirith, he had married his master’s daughter and even arranged for his wife’s sister to be wedded to his own brother. The two sisters had brought but very little dowry into the marriage, and the bakery went to their brother after Master Ciah’s death, which was the reason why Ulogen and Wethinoc still worked in Mistress Eseld’s bakery, instead of having their own oven and workshop. Their father’s bakery had been destroyed by fire while Wethinoc had learned his craft in Minas Tirith, the oven ruined beyond repair, and they just did not have the coin to have a new one built. ‘Twas cheaper to use Mistress Eseld’s, even though they had to pay rent for the use of both bakery and oven.

Besides, working with Mistress Eseld did have its benefits. She knew her craft like few others did, and she readily gave advice, whether asked for or not. She always gave good advice, though, so one would have been a fool not to follow it, even though she could be a bit… bossy sometimes. Not to mention that working with her meant that her husband, the miller, would make the pastry-cooks a better price, seeing them as kin already.

Which they were, all things considered. Wethinoc’s only daughter, Sinna, had married the miller’s firstborn and already born him a son. And the second son of the miller, who was a baker’s journeyman by his mother, had already asked for the hand of Ulogen’s daughter, Unna. The parents on both sides had for some time been discussing the matters of a small dowry Ulogen might be able to give his daughter – ‘twas truly not much – and where the young couple would live, and when the wedding would take place, and other such things.

So, things were going reasonably well for the pastry-cooks. Wethinoc’s only regret was that he had no sons to carry on the craft after him. Ceinwen had nearly died when giving birth to Sinna, and she could never carry another child to term after that. Thus the house, the craft and everything else would go to Ulogen’s sons – now ten and five years old – once they had grown enough to take over.

If he was being honest to himself, Wethinoc had to admit that he was more than a little jealous. He loved his only child, who was a sweet girl and a beauty, just like her mother had been at the same age, and the thought to accuse his wife for her inability to give him at least one son never occurred to him. But the thought to hand over his craft to others, even if those were his nephews, his own flesh and blood, did not bode well with him.

He was the one who had brought home new knowledge and finer skills from Minas Tirith. The whole business was still based on his skills and ambitions, on his willingness to work all night and to come up with new things that might catch the customers’ eyes. Ulogen was a decent enough pastry-cook, where the basic skills were asked for, but he lacked the will to experiment, to perfect his abilities. He had no imagination whatsoever, no ambitions to become better in his craft.

And yet it would be Ulogen’s sons to inherit everything one day. Wethinoc only hoped that they would find in themselves more honest interest for the craft they were about to learn. Otherwise, he saw dark times coming for their small family business.

Wethinoc tipped one corner of the baking tin, so that the piping hot, crisp and golden brown meat pasties could slide gently into the wicker basket on their own, without being touched unnecessarily and without getting in danger to break. He then wrapped the basket in a thick cloth of linen to keep the pastries warm and lifted it onto his shoulder.

“I shall take these down to the fairground,” he said. “See that the workshop is cleaned up after us, brother. Mistress Eseld will need room to make the new bread in the morn.”

As he was the ranking one in their business, ‘twas within his rights to order his brother around, and sometimes he could not resist the urge to leave the mundane tasks to Ulogen. ‘Twas foolish and childish, he knew, but there were days when he just had to do it. It somehow compensated him for having to leave everything to his brother’s sons one day.

Not that Ulogen would mind it. His brother accepted the tasks assigned to him with the same lack of true interest that he had shown for their craft, the local gossip, the news coming from Minas Tirith or Rohan… for just about everything. Sometimes Wethinoc truly wondered if his brother cared for aught else but his daily meals and regular tankards of weak ale. The man completely lacked that inventive spirit that made any good craftsman. A cooked fish would show more interest for its surroundings.

And that was supposed to run the family business one day? Wethinoc did not think so. He did not intend to let any-one take over, as long as he could move a hand to fill a pasty or to glaze a seed cake with honey. His nephews could work for him, had they grown enough to do so, but as long as he still had breath in his breast, he would keep the strings in hand.

Somewhat consoled by this decision (one that he renewed every single day), Wethinoc left the bakery to cross the town, leading to the fairground.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Leaving town through Rollo’s Gate, he was stopped at once by Mogh the Dunlending. The Warden asked him to bring his basket directly to the Trade Hall, where the wool-traders from Dunland were apparently starving and in dire need of a good meal.

“But see that you do not charge them more than twice of what you would charge the townsfolk,” added the Warden with an amused twinkle in his small, button-like dark eyes.

Wethinoc grinned. ‘Twas rare that Mogh would unbend enough to show some of the dry with that he had in him, but the two of them had known each other for a long time, and Mogh, very fond of their meat-and-tater pasties, was one of his best regular customers.

“I promise not to demand more than one silver piece for each pasty,” he said gravely, and they both laughed. But three brass pieces for a pasty (only one more than he would demand from the townsfolk) was a reasonable price, and even the Dunlendings knew that.

The people in the Trade Hall welcomed Wethinoc (and his wonderfully smelling basket) with joyous cries. It seemed that Mogh had not been exaggerating when he said that his landsmen were starving.

“We’ve made good deals,” explained Chief Trader Nogga, another long-time acquaintance, who always made Wethinoc think of a hedgehog, with his thorny black hair and beard. “We’ve earned good coin. So we’re having a feast, with your fine pasties and good mead. You’ll stay and feast with us, yes?”

‘Twas an invitation that Wethinoc could not refuse; not without insulting the well-meaning, generous barbarians, which would have been very unwise. Not that Wethinoc intended to do so. Why should he? The day was winding down to an end, and the Chief Trader had just announced to buy the entire basket of meat pasties off him – for a better price than he could hope to get if he sold them in his tent – and the mead of the Dunlendings had a certain wild, spicy quality to it that not even Mistress Lavercham, the best ale-wife of the whole province, could produce. Perchance it was made of wild honey, from flowers that would grow only in the desolate, windswept hills of Dunland.

Thus Wethinoc accepted the invitation readily, and the Dunlendings cleared one of the long tables to set if for the evening meal. Drinking cups were brought forth – large, heavy ones, made in Rhûn by the Easterling bronzesmiths yet not without a certain rough beauty – and several small barrels of mead were opened. Every one, even the hallow-eyed, lean, beardless young workers, were treated to at least two still hot pasties, and soon enough, booming laughter, loud banter and foreign songs filled the Trade Hall. Someone even brought forth a bagpipe, and a few of the younger men began to dance, hopping and turning wildly in the middle of the Hall.

Chief Warden Henderch showed up shortly after the dancing had started, to see what was going on. When he spotted Mogh among his landsmen, though, he simply nodded and left again, knowing that things were well under control. No matter how much Mogh had drunk, no-one had ever seen him inebriated. Wethinoc could not be sure, but it seemed to him as if Mistress Dorlas had been waiting for Henderch at the other door of the Hall, which explained the Chief Warden’s hurried retreat.

Well, ‘twas not so that people would not know about them. They truly should master their fears, whatever those might be, and get wedded, thought Wethinoc, clinking his cup with that of Chief Trader Nogga and drinking to the health of the old hedgehog.

Whatever the future might have in store for them all, at least for now, life was good.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  The barrel-maker is related to the honey-makers from “The Last Yule in  Halabor”, through his wife. More about Gennys and his ale-house can be found in Chapter 12 of “The Last Yule in Halabor”. Vuron himself (and his son Thei) briefly appeared in “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 19 – The Carpenter

Vuron, the carpenter, had his home and workshop in the Old Port, next to those of the barrel-maker and the boat-makers, which made sense. After all, they worked with wood, too. He ran his business with the help of his sons, twenty-two-year-old Thei and fifteen-year-old Usnach. His wife, Lia, helped him with the books, while his daughter, Hunydd, was married to Cimarus, the barrel-maker’s lame brother, and had already three chicks of her own, the littlest one barely two summers old.

Despite being a grandfather already, the Master Carpenter was still a comely man: large and strong as an ox, just three years short sixty, with a neatly-trimmed beard and small, keen brown eyes that missed little of that which was going on around him. Fortunately for those whom he always so closely observed, he was also blessed with a friendly, easy-going nature, and would never use anything that he had seen to cause an honest man (or woman) any harm.

In this morn, which was the beginning of the fourth day of the autumn fair, Vuron was standing in the barn that served as his workshop, overseeing the creation of some new furniture for Lord Orchald’s house. The old lord had given order for a new set of small tables and matching chairs a few weeks earlier. They were meant for the women’s wing in the Castle, in case that young Lord Herumor would eventually make up his mind and choose one of the available noble maidens as his future wife, thus giving Halabor a new Lady, which the town had lacked since the untimely death of his mother.

Even though Lord Herumor was still fairly young and, to be honest, showed no great eagerness to be wedded any time soon, in the tradition of Dol Amroth – where he had spent the defining years of his youth – Lord Orchald wanted the new furniture to have a certain Elvish flair. For a simple craftsman of the Old Folk like Vuron, this would have been too high a demand… usually. In this particular case, however, they had the good fortune to employ the help of a true, honest-to-earth Elf: a tall, willowy, raven-haired fellow from the Wandering Company by the name of Gelmir.

Vuron was still awed a little how willing the Elf had been when he had approached him at the beginning of the fair. As a rule, master craftsmen were not eager to give away their secrets; though mayhap it was different with Elves. They had eternity to learn new things, after all… or so it was said.

In any case, the very same Elf was now sitting in Vuron’s barn, a carved-out tabletop in front of him, and he showed Cimarus patiently how to inlay the finished piece with small slivers and pieces of differently coloured wood, creating thus an amazingly accurate picture of Lord Orchald’s castle, with the waves of the River at its feet.

Cimarus had been born with a lame leg that had ceased to grow after his tenth year. Thus he could not take over his father’s barrel-making business, despite being the eldest son. But he was a very good wood-carver and would help out in the carpenter’s workshop as well, his craft feeding him and his family modestly but safely. He also had a great love for his work and was a quick study, following Gelmir’s instructions with a steady hand. ‘Twas a strange sight indeed, the tall, elegant Elf and the sturdy Man with the crippled leg working together, but they seemed to get along fabulously, and things of astonishing beauty were taking shape under their hands.

Hunydd, Cimarus’ wife, was sitting near them, working on a basket. Wicker work was her special skill, and she usually did it in her father’s workshop, rather than at home, where the smaller children could have easily injured themselves with their uncle’s tools. Besides, here she could leave five-year-old Fintain and two-year-old Cyrnan in the care of her grandmother, while Lorcain, just turned eight, was already helping her weaving the rushes.

Vuron always felt some kind of proprietary pride when looking at his only daughter. Hunydd was nothing like the daughters of the Old Folk usually were. She was small, but slender and small-boned, with a pale face framed by a crown of black, braided hair, and with eyes wide and dark and very bright. She was beautiful where other girls of her age and status were simply pretty, and she was wild and wilful and always did what she wanted, no matter what other people said.

Why she had wanted to become the wife of the lame Cimarus who was ten years her elder and not even a master craftsman of his own right was a question much-discussed in town. It had been a mystery for Vuron as well, although he could not deny that – aside from that crippled leg – Cimarus was not a bad-looking man. The wide expanse of his strong upper body more than made up for the lack of height (also partly due to his leg), and he had a long, austere face of an ageless comeliness, barely lined with the suffering his leg had caused him from childhood on, a full head of thick russet hair and a pair of small, deeply blue eyes that seemed to take in everyone and everything with quiet understanding. His neatly trimmed beard gave him a look of noble serenity.

Aye, he was a handsome one, with a good craft at his skilled hands, and their children were happy and healthy. Mayhap Hunydd had displayed more wisdom at the age of seventeen than all the nay-sayers… one of which Vuron had been himself. He gladly admitted having been wrong.

In the other corner of the barn Thei, Vuron’s eldest was working on the table legs. A big, comely, fair-skinned young fellow, he was sitting at the pole lathe, holding the lathe against a sizeable piece of wood. He pressed the treadle that was attached to the lathe by a rope, and the lathe turned on the chunk of wood. Thei then released the treadle, and the bendy pole, which was wedged firmly into the ground and attached to the lathe from the other side, straightened, turning the lathe back, so that the young man could press the treadle once more. Repeating these moves with great skill in smooth succession, he soon had a table leg appear out of the piece of wood. His little brother, Usnach, carried the finished leg to the pile where it would slowly dry for a few weeks, ere actually becoming part of a table.

Vuron himself had no plans to work today. He had promised to help Credus, the barrel-maker, to get his newly made barrels to the New Port, where they were needed in the Warehouse. Afterwards, he intended to visit the fair with his wife, as Lia wanted to buy some fleeces from the Dunlending wool-merchants. She was a good spinstress and did not want to waste her coin on already spun wool. Thei’s young wife was expecting her first child within the month, and Lia intended to weave warm blankets for both the mother and the baby.

The weeks before the fair had been hard on them. Repairing the booths – or building new ones – in time, with just his sons helping him, had been more work than he had expected, and his joints were still aching from the long hours of labour, often deep into the night. The order from Lord Orchald had given them a much-needed break, allowing them to work indoors and without rush, while still being paid. That most of the work was being done by Cimarus and his own sons did not bother Vuron too much. He was the Master Carpenter, after all. He could afford to go easy for a day or two… though not longer.

The arrival of the barrel-maker interrupted his thoughts. Credus war four years Cimarus’ junior and as exuberant as his brother was quiet, although otherwise they were a lot alike: honest, hard-working and good-natured men, devoted to their work and their families.

“Ready to go?” he asked. “I have pulled out the cart and harnessed the mules; all we need to do is to load the barrels.”

“You need to get yourself an apprentice,” growled Vuron. “I am getting too old for this kind of work.”

“’Tis not my fault that all I have are daughters,” replied Credus good-naturedly. “Or that the young lads all want to become soldiers or fishermen in these days. Which reminds me,” he added as they were walking out of the barn, “have you heard that Gennys is planning to buy the Old Sailor?”

“Gennys?” Vuron frowned. “You mean the innkeeper’s youngest brother?”

“The very same,” replied Credus. Vuron shook his head in disbelief.

“He is a third son,” he said. “He has no inheritance whatsoever. Where is he going to find the coin to buy an ale-house? Granted it is in a sorry shape, but I have little doubt that the Merchants’ Guild would demand an outrageous price for it. They can be worse than wolves when it comes to business.”

“They say Sydnius is willing to loan his brother the coin he  needs,” said Credus. “And if Sydnius is involved, the Merchants’ Guild will think twice ere asking for an unreasonable price. Being the reeve of the Old Port does have its advantages.”

“That poor sod Gennys would still be paying off his debt for many years to come, though,” said Vuron. Credus shrugged.

“True, but at least he will be his own master and run his own business,” he said. “Not many third sons can say that about themselves.”

“Nor will Gennys, not for a while yet,” said Vuron. “ The Old Sailor has been abandoned and locked for a long time. Who knows in which shape the rooms are? That will be a lot of work and cost a fair amount of coin, ere the ale-house can be reopened.”

But there was a speculative gleam in his eyes while he was saying that. Bringing back in shape a house that had been abandoned for so long meant work for the stone-mason, the carpenter and the roofer, at the very least. And the furniture of the common room had been good woodwork, he remembered. Mayhap it was still salvageable – which would mean that Thei could finally make his masterpiece and earn his title as a master-carpenter, making him able to take over his father’s business one day.

Aye, this did have its possibilities.

“I think,” he said, “that I shall have a word with Gennys on the fair today.”

Credus grinned. “I thought you might. He will likely be around the tent of his bride’s mother, the ale-wife.”

~The End~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Whatever is mentioned about medieval ale-brewing below, is the result of extensive research. I might have messed up the amounts and proportions or the required time for brewing, although I did my best not to. So, should there be mistakes, I humbly ask for your forgiveness.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 20 – The Ale-Wife

Lavercham and her family came well-prepared to the Autumn Fair. For an entire week, they had brewed about eight quarters of barley and dredge each day, each quarter yielding about sixty gallons of ale. They had also brewed half that amount of beer, using a method learned from the Rohirrim, and as much mead as beer, with the help of Keir, the honey-maker. The entire family had been working on preparing the necessary amounts of beverages to be sold during the fair: Lavercham herself, her husband Cathan, a local farmer, their ten children, between the ages of eleven and twenty-five, the husbands of their married daughters, and Gennys, the innkeeper’s youngest brother, who had been apprenticed to them two years earlier.

Although most of the larger families brewed ale for their own need, there were great differences between that homemade beverage and really good ale. Some homemade brews were so horrible they could have poisoned Orcs, while a good ale-wife could produce various sorts, one better than the other.

And Lavercham, wife of Cathan, mother of fourteen children, ten of whom were still alive, was the best ale-wife from the border of Rohan to Minas Tirith. Everyone knew that.

To brew really tasty ale one needed three things: a good recipe, good grain and someone who knew all the necessary tasks. Lavercham was in possession of all these things. She had the recipes: one for week ale and one for strong ale, passed down to her by her own mother and grandmother; the recipes for beer and mead came from Rohan, through one of her mother’s ancestors and were a family secret. She had the grain: her own husband grew it on the few hides of land where they all lived. And she had the skills, having taken part in the brewing process from childhood on.

Just two years past fifty, Lavercham was a large woman for someone from the Old Folk, and still well-shaped like a loaf, despite having given birth so many times. Her plump but spotless brown homespun gown and white apron only increased the general largeness about her, that was already emphasized by a round face and thick arms. She was used to work hard, both on the fields and at the brewing tanks, and she enjoyed her work, as her small, twinkling brown eyes revealed. Not being one of the respectable burghesses, she was not allowed to wear a headdress, but the light brown cloth that she had draped over her crisp white wimple made her appear just as imposing.

Her tent was a large one, and it stood in the middle of the fairground. Her twin sons, Labran and Lethan, had built it up in time and had hammered the legs of the long tables surrounding it firmly into the ground, so that drunken customers would not be able to overthrow them easily.  In times like this, when ale, beer and mead were flowing easily, one could not be careful enough. Lavercham had arranged with the carter that fresh barrels would be brought from her husband’s farmstead every morning, and while the oldest boys (the same twins that had built up the tent) went with the cart to pack and protect the barrels, and eighteen-year-old Baculo stayed with her to help her and protect her from the drunkards, the youngest ones, Lonio and Cathal, served as pot-boys. Her four daughters, down to little Lifaech, were busily keeping the tent clean and washing the tankards in a large wooden trog in the back of the tent.

They had all been a little surprised when Sydnius, the reeve of the Old Port, had approached them two years earlier and asked to take his youngest brother as their apprentice in the ale-brewing business. To be honest, they had not believed that the brother of the wealthy innkeeper would ever get used to the hard work on the fields; for a good ale-brewer needed to learn all the skills, from the growing of the right sorts of crop through the fermentation process ‘til the last little touches that made Lavercham’s ale so much better than anything else one could get this side of Minas Tirith.

But the innkeeper had offered the full apprentice fee for his brother, and the family needed the coin, so they had agreed, in the end. Fortunately, young Gennys turned out a very personable young man – unlike his middle brother, the carter, with whom Lavercham often had the questionable pleasure to deal with. Gennys came more after Sydnius himself: he was friendly, hard-working and willing to learn.

Not that he would have any other choice, of course. With Sydnius inheriting the Riverside Inn from their father and Merryn inheriting the carter business from their grandfather, Gennys truly needed to find his own place and make his own fortune. A third son could only count on himself. In a way, Gennys had been fortunate that Sydnius was willing to supply his apprentice fee. As much as the families of the Old Folk stuck together, many firstborns would have been less generous. Wealthy ones even more so than poor ones, as with wealth usually came greed, even towards one’s own flesh and blood.

But Sydnius was different than most. As the patriarch of their family (despite his relative youth), he felt responsible for his brother, and was willing to support Gennys, as long as Gennys was willing to work hard on his own future. He had even agreed that Gennys should marry sweet little Cardith, even though Lavercham and Cathan could give their daughter no dowry at all. But Gennys wanted to re-open the ale-house in the New Port, the Old Sailor, and a respectable man with an ale-house needed a wife. Preferably one who understood a lot about ale and beer and could cook well.

Lavercham gave her young daughter a fond glance. ‘Twas true, Cardith was a mere fourteen, barely old enough to get married, according to the customs of the Old Folk. But she was strong and healthy, and pretty enough, too, to become a member of the reeve’s well-respected family. Besides, Lavercham was not willing to let her go ‘til the Old Sailor was ready to open its doors for the customers again, and that could take moons yet, mayhap even as long as a year.

The girl was a feast for sore eyes, for sure, Lavercham thought contently. Not tall, but softly rounded, and she seemed to shine with an inner brightness as if she would always smile; not only her rose petal lips and wide-set and wide open eyes, but her entire body, from the thick coils of her soft brown hair to her small, tireless feet. Her round face mirrored simple joy in life, despite its occasional hardness.

She would shoulder the burden of a family in a year or two. Of that Lavercham was sure. And the thought filled her heart with pride.

She had married off her older daughters years ago, to decent, hard-working tenants. They had become good wives and mothers; respectable young women who ran their households competently. But Cardith would marry the owner of an ale-house; she would become what her sisters could not: a respected burghess. Aye, work would be aplenty, but Cardith would rise in status nonetheless – and her status would reflect back well to the whole family.

Taking in Gennys as an apprentice had been a good decision indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The object of his musings – namely Gennys himself – had just entered the tent, rolling a heavy barrel before him. He was a big, lusty fellow of twenty-seven, with russet hair and brawny arms, and an easy smile upon his broad, open face. He might be nearly twice Cardith’s age, but that difference would seem less as the years would go by, and he was a good, decent, reliable man. He would treat his wife well, like his older brother, the innkeeper, not like the middle one, the carter.

“The fresh barrels have come in, Mistress Lavercham,” he said, a bit unnecessarily, and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “When they are all brought in, I would like to leave for a while, though – that is, if you do not mind. I need to meet with the stone-wright, the roofer and the carpenter, to take a look at the Old Sailor, now that it is mine.”

Lavercham raised an eyebrow. “Has that been decided and written down already?” Promises were one thing. Having a written contract was an entirely different one.

Gennys nodded. “The Guild leaders had their council on the fifth day of the fair – yestereve, that is. My brother has vouched for me and promised to pay the price in my stead. I shall have to pay it back, of course, but at the very least, I can stand on my own feet – and feed my family, hopefully soon.”

“You should be careful how to bargain with the builders,” warned Lavercham. “You cannot afford to heap more debt onto your head… and we cannot help you with aught else but the labour of our hands.”

“I know that, Mistress Lavercham,” replied Gennys with a small smile. “I am hopeful, though, that we shall manage somehow. Everyone must begin somewhere, and this will be as good a beginning as any. I shall see that Cardith has a good life with me. I promise.”

“I shall take you on your word,” said Lavercham. “I have grown fond of you and no mistake; you have become as a son to me in these last years. But if you make my little bird miserable, I will find you, and you will have to answer to me. You would not wish that to happen.”

“Most certainly not,” laughed Gennys. “I have a healthy respect for you, Mistress Lavercham, and would not dream of raising your ire.”

“That,” declared the ale-wife, “is a very wise decision. Now, off with you. You have important people to meet. Letting them wait would not bode well.”

“But the barrels…” began Gennys.

Lavercham slapped him on the back… not too gently.

“Baculo and the others will manage without you,” she said. “They have to learn it anyway. Go and do something for your future!”

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  Want to know what has become of the ale-house? You can read it in “The Last Yule in Halabor”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 21 – The Builders

Due to the local custom of building the ground floor of even the modestly wealthy houses of stone, Dochou, the stone-mason – or as the townsfolk liked to call him, the stone-wright – was one of the most important craftsmen in Halabor. His skills were much sought after, from the mundane task to cut various sizes of grinding wheels to the repairing of the ramparts and the town walls and thus ensuring everyone’s safety within the town walls.

Because of the small size of the town and the small numbers of its inhabitants, it could not have provided work for more than one family of builders, though. Thus it was not surprising that Dochou was related to just about everyone in the builder business, either by blood or by marriage. He had married the daughter of a local farmer, a plain, hard-working girl more than thirteen years his junior, and they had four children already. But his brother, the plasterer, was wedded to the roofer’s sister, thus ensuring that every building that had to be built or repaired in Halabor would be done by their hands and included him in some way.

On this morn, Dochou and his brother Tehta were to meet Madern, the roofer, and Vuron, the Master Carpenter, to take a look at the Old Sailor and see what could – and should – be done about it, so that it could open its doors again. Generally, most people in town thought that it would be a very good thing to have an ale-house in the New Port again; more so as it would sell Mistress Lavercham’s excellent ale. As with all things, though, there had been voices against it in the Town Council, too.

“Sulain was protesting rather heavily,” said Vuron, who represented the wood-workers in the Council, with a broad grin. “Perchance he fears that the ale-house would lure away the patrons from that fancy tavern of his, The Cellar.” Needless to say that the Master Carpenter preferred Mistress Pharin’s tavern, the Drunken Boat, and had little love for the haughty wine-seller.

But Dochou shook his head. “’Tis Clemow who has reason to worry,” he said. “Sulain’s patrons are not likely to leave his tavern for an ale-house; not in the long run anyway. But The Barn will, no doubt, lose quite a few customers.”

His brother, the plasterer, shrugged. “So it will. But there is little that could be done about it. I do feel sorry for Clemow, his life is hard enough as it is, but work is work, and we can use the coin.”

“Besides, Gennys deserves to build a life for himself, too,” added the roofer. “He is a good, decent lad, and not shy of work, I have heard. What other choice would a third son have?”

“True enough,” allowed Dochou. “Let us go then and see that house. I am certain that it will provide us with work for a while.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The three of them met Gennys in the New Port, near the Warehouse, where the Old Sailor, a small, two-storey building stood, now abandoned and empty. With its front door nailed closed with wooden planks, it was tucked against a few gnarled trees. It was a dingy, weatherworn house, and possibly in need of a new roof. The outer walls looked old and have not been re-stained for decades, turning mottled brown and grey from years in weather wear, but the shutters were still intact. One of them was banging softly against a window in the light breeze.

“Well, it could be worse,” judged the plasterer. “It would need an overall clean-up and a good staining, but my guess is that it would not take more than a few days. We can do it as long as the weather is warm, so that it would dry properly.”

Gennys nodded. “To be honest, I am more concerned about what we might find in the inside,” he said.

“We should go in and take a look, then,” replied the carpenter, using his axe to remove the nailed-on planks and let the warm autumn sun into the common room.

The inside of the house was not much better for than the outside. To the right, in the common room, once sturdy but now severely banged tables were stuffed in to fit as many as possible. A huge stone fireplace, large enough to crouch in, dominated the end of the room beyond the tables; once, no doubt, offering warmth and welcome, now dark and cold and empty.

The counter on the left was long and made of stout oak. The respectable craftsmen examining it could still remember that in their young years it had used to be turned dark and shiny from years of polishing and the grease of patrons' hands as they had leaned their way through the evenings. Behind its far end was a doorway that led to the household kitchen and stockroom, its curtain hanging in rugs and covered with dust and dirt. Beside it a stairway led up to the second floor where once the tavern owner and his family had lived.

“The heart is sound and looks strong,” judged Dochou. “There shan’t be much work to do.”

Gennys seemed particularly taken by the counter. He slid a loving hand along the once shiny surface.

“I fear ‘tis beyond help,” he said regretfully. “A shame, it truly is. It must have been a beautiful piece of furniture once.”

“Aye, that it was,” agreed Vuron. “I can recall my father working on it for weeks upon weeks. He practically lived over here, ‘til it was finished. Perchance ‘tis still not beyond help, though. Not entirely. Let me talk to my son. He needs to make his masterpiece, sooner or later – and recreating this would count as much, or more, as making a new one from the scratch. We have my father’s drawings still, so he will be able to take it apart and build it anew with little difficulties.”

Gennys laughed. “Oy, Master Vuron, how could I afford such a thing? I shall be paying off my debts for years to come as it is.”

The carpenter shrugged. “So you will be paying them off a little longer. But you cannot expect your patrons to become regulars in an ale-house where the furniture is falling apart.”

Gennys looked at him in surprise. “You would let me pay you in rates?”

“Why not?” asked the carpenter. “’Tis better to have work paid for a little in each moon than no work at all. Besides, the order we have just received from Lord Orchald allows us a slower pace. I can spare Thei most of the time to work here, not on the counter alone but also on the tables and chairs – they will need a lot of repair, too.”

“I know,” sighed Gennys, “and I do not even dare to guess what awaits us upstairs.”

“Then let us better look at it, too, so that we can calculate the amount of work and the costs,” suggested Vuron, and they took the little stairway beside the kitchen to get to the upper floor.

‘Twas as poor in state as the lower. The top of the stars leads directly into the middle of a short, narrow hallway. At the left end of the hall was a large bedroom, somewhere above the common room downstairs – it must have once belonged to the tavern owner. There was another room, right in the middle of the hall, just across the stairs, and a third, small room at the right end. The last one had most likely been used for storage or other purposes. There was a sagging bed tucked into the corner, two mouldering pillows at its head, and a little mat on the floor – obviously, this was where the servants had stayed.

There was nothing to look at in the middle room, except the bed and an open-shuttered window in the far wall that looked out toward the port, its view slightly obscured by the branches of a nearby tree.

The large bedroom of the tavern owner, however, had once been fully furnished and had all the comforts of home. In the corner stood a bed for two, with a palin-posted canopy of added curtains. It had probably been dyed in deep sea green when new; now, however, it was grey and had an unpleasant stench.

“The bedlinens must have gotten wet,” said the plasterer, pulling a face. “I do not think that you could use them. No amount of washing will help this… this stink.”

“That would be the least of my problems,” replied Gennys. “Cardith might not have a dowry, but her mother will not send her into marriage without a proper sortiment of household linens, be it for bed or table. The bed itself worries me more… and the rest of the furniture.”

“At least you will be warm and cozy here,” said the stone-mason. “It seems that the heat from the kitchen fire travels up the stone chimney in the corner and warms the room, though it will take some time 'til the wood floor loses its chill.”

Gennys nodded. “Aye, that is good, at the very least. But what of the rest?” For there was a wardrobe of dark wood, standing against the wall across from the bed, and small table in front of the window, with one chair.

“They are not as battered as they may seem to you,” said Vuron. “I remember this wardrobe; I used to work on it as a young apprentice of my father. ‘Tis good, strong wood; I am certain that I can get it in good shape again.”

“That would be good, as it is a beautiful piece of work,” replied Gennys. “But I must be honest to you, Master Vuron: I know not how long it may take me to pay you off completely.”

“As long as you keep paying, it matters little,” answered the carpenter. “And I shall make you a good price, worry not. We have worked very hard before the fair and earned well. It would do us good to slow down for a while… and my pleasure to save my father’s excellent handiwork. Thei can bring his tools over here and work on the counter ‘til winter turns too cold for that, and we can take the tables and chairs to my barn to repair them during winter, alongside of our other work. It can be done without overmuch effort.”

“I am grateful, Master Vuron,” said Gennys in relief. “I wish to open the Old Sailor as soon as possible; perchance before the next Autumn Fair. Mistress Lavercham will not let her daughter get married sooner than that, for she is still very young. But I would like to begin married life in my own.”

The older men nodded in understanding. They all knew Gennys’ future mother-in-law, the ale-wife. She had a heart of pure gold, but she was also a very… resolute person. While her help was, no doubt, much appreciated, ‘twould surely be better if the young couple could make their first tentative steps towards running their own household without her eyes on them all the time.

”We will do our best,” promised the stonewright in the names of all of them. “The repairs on the hearth will not take long, and we shall leave the place to Thei, so that he can work undisturbed, in a week or so. What about the roof?” he looked at his brother-in-law.

Madern shrugged. “The house could use a new roof and no mistake. But,” he raised a broad hand, seeing that Gennys was about to protest, “it is not strictly necessary. My father had done a good job on that roof, forty or so years ago. If we flick it in a few places, it will hold for another ten years, at the very least.” He gave the young man an understanding grin. “Unless we will have heavy snowfalls in the next few winters, that is.”

Gennys blew out a relieved breath. “You ease my heart, Master Madern. I cannot afford a new roof; certainly not now, and perchance not for quite a few years yet.”

“Very well, then,” said Vuron; as the one with the biggest order of all the builders, the deciding voice was his. “After the Fair, we shall go to the Town Hall and have Odhrain set up our contracts. You will see, my lad – all will be good, in the end.”

Dochou nodded in agreement. He would not have much work with the hearth himself, but Tehta would earn some modest coin with the staining of the outer walls – and what his brother earned, helped the whole family. Between the two of them, they had seven children to feed, none of which could be of considerable help yet. All tasks of the building business required more strength than even Kitto, Dochou’s eleven-year-old firstborn could show.

But the stone-wright had no worries about the near future. He was strong and hale, in his best years, barely beyond forty, and his brother six years younger. They would manage on their own for a few years yet. After that, when their sons had grown strong enough, things would become easier.

“If that is all, I would go now,” he said. “This will keep ‘til after the Fair. But I have to find a boat to bring me over to Cair Andros. The captain of the garrison wants his walls to be checked.”

The others nodded in understanding. The repairs on the great stone hearth of the Old Sailor would earn the stone-wright some coin. But the walls of Cair Andros were important – and Minas Tirith paid well for the repairs on the defences. One could say many things about Steward Denethor, save one: that he would not take the defending of the realm seriously.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  No, really. Dentists of the medieval era, called dentatores, were so expensive that only the very rich could afford their services. They removed decay, which was believed to be caused by worms, and filled the teeth with ground bone. Gold was used for filling cavities by the fifteenth century. They repaired loose teeth with metal bindings and made dentures from ox and other animal bones. The rest of the population simply went to the barber-surgeon and had the tooth in question pulled.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 22 – The Barber-Surgeon

As the sixth day of the Autumn Fair was winding down, Mylor, the barber-surgeon of Halabor, made himself ready to return home. As always during the fairs, he had had a great deal to do in the recent days. People drank a lot on the fairground, which often led to brawls, which, again, often led to knife wounds, loosened or broken teeth, broken or dislocated limbs and other such unpleasant consequences. Only in this morn, he had to right a broken arm, sew four wounds and pull two teeth that had been broken as a result of a drunken fistfight and the chunks needed to be removed. He had heard that there were excellent healers in Minas Tirith who could repair loosened teeth with metal bindings, but such things were far beyond his modest skills – and besides, none of his patients could have paid the price of such a procedure.

Mylor had his barber shop in the New Port, for the poor who dwelt there needed his services as a surgeon, as they could not have paid a proper healer. Not even Mistress Angharad, who truly did not charge much. But every other day, he went up to the Castle to do all the shaving and haircutting that had to be done. Even in such a relatively small household as Lord Orchald’s, the work of a barber was never done.

He was glad that his only son had grown old and skilled enough to help him by now. With his twenty-one years, Melor was already capable of doing the daily tasks of haircutting, shaving, sewing small wounds and the likes alone. Thus Mylor had sent him to the Infirmary in the morn, where they were also regularly hired, to make male patients look acceptable, and called for his sister to help him in the barber shop.

He would have preferred to have his wife with him – he dearly loved the sight of her, and the sound of her voice could calm down the most agitated patients – but once again, Breage was ailing and had gone to the Infirmary with her son to ask Mistress Angharad for something against her weakness and upset stomach. ‘Twas saddening that she would be ill so often, but Mylor guessed that having grown up as an orphan in the New Port had something to do with her poor health.

When he had married Breage, she had been barely sixteen; a fragile little waif, all huge eyes and frightened smiles. People – including his own mother and sister – had strongly disapproved this match, warning him not to wed a starving harbour rat with unknown origins. In his prime, at thirty-two, and with a respectable craft, he could have got the daughter of any well-to-do craftsman in town, with a handsome dowry, or even that of a modestly wealthy merchant. Being a comely enough man, he could have even caught the eye of some rich widow, too.

And yet he had chosen Breage, a penniless girl with naught but the clothes she had on her; even those had been worn and threadbare, having served several other owners before her. No-one could understand his choice. Sometimes not even himself. But when he looked in those large, clear grey eyes, he knew he would marry Breage again. There was something in her, something he could not quite grasp. Something that would never let him go.

Besides, despite the nay-sayers – of whom his mother and sister had been the loudest – they managed just fine. After the first childless years (admittedly, there had been quite a few of those, and even the one or other babe born untimely and living only a few days, if even so long), Breage had finally born first Melor, then their daughter Beara, both of whom came after their father’s family, growing up to be strong and healthy and bright-spirited.

Mylor was glad to have a son who would continue the family business one day, and he had no objections when Beara asked to be apprenticed to the healers in the Infirmary. He could not give the girl a dowry, having to feed not only his own family but also his widowed mother and sister, so a trade of her own would be just as good for Beara. The apprentice fee would not be all too high, and she would work there with other young girls; ‘twas a good solution.

Although, if Mylor was being honest, he had to admit that his sister more than earned her keeping, too. Loarne helped to run the household whenever Breage felt too weak to do it herself. Loarne also cared for their mother, who had fallen off the ladder last spring and whose old bones had never healed properly.

Loarne also came to help him in the barber shop whenever the need arose. She was quite competent when it came to sewing wounds and righting broken bones. And she was lettered and numbered, which was perhaps the greatest help of all, as Mylor could never afford a clerk, and thus could entrust the books to her.

The barber-surgeon watched his sister fondly as she was cleaning the surgical instruments, so that the blood would not destroy the iron they had been made of. She was not very young anymore (though much younger than him), just a year short forty, but handsome and erect of carriage, and moved with a grace rarely seen among women of common stock. She wore a dark gown, matronly and sober, with the long apron of a healer bound before it, and her hair was drawn back  and hidden under a crisp white wimple. By the looks of her she could have been a decent burgher’s wife, or a noblewoman’s attendant.

Either of which she could have become, thought Mylor ruefully, had their parents not been so eager to hand her over to the first man who had been willing to take her without a dowry. And while Dogfael had been a good man and a good husband, he had also been a soldier, and soldiers often had short lives. Widowed when barely twenty and nothing but a handful of coin left from her late husband, Loarne had no other choice than to return to her parents' house and make herself useful as well as she could. The chances to find a new husband were slim. Men only married wealthy widows.

Men always thought that for a woman to be happy, there had to be a husband and a flock of chicks. For most women, she admitted, that was perchance even true. But she was not like most women. She was fairly content with her fate. ‘Twas true, her ailing mother could be quite a burden sometimes, and the majority of household tasks lay upon her shoulders, most of the time. But those shoulders were strong enough to carry that burden, and being needed gave her a purpose.

Then there was the barber shop. She had naught to do with the shaving and haircutting – people would not accept that from a woman – but at the small surgical tasks she was actually a lot better than her brother or nephew. Her fingers were nimbler, after all, and as a woman, she was used to needlework.

And she was lettered where her brother was not, which gave her status within the family business even more weight. She had taught her niece the letters and was glad that little Beara had chosen to become a healer. Through the work she was doing for her brother, Loarne had long ago become well-acquaintanted with both Mistress Angharad and old Mistress Crodergh, and she knew that Beara would be in good hands with them. She only wished she could have had the same chance when she had been at Beara’s age.

Yet when all was said and done, she was content. She had a purpose and much hard work, but at least she had the freedom to handle that work however she wanted. Mylor let her do things at her own leisure, and her mother, albeit cantankerous most of the time, had no longer the means to interfere.

She was a fortunate woman indeed. Few could said to have the same freedom.

Finishing the cleaning of the instruments, she closed and locked the wooden chest that was their place and turned to her brother again.

“Must you go up the Castle tonight?” she asked, for this was one of those days when Mylor was needed there, as a rule.

But Mylor shook his head. “Nay, for today Lord Orchald is having guests for evening meal. The leader of those Elves and his lady niece, I was told. I shall go up first thing in the morn, though.”

“You are coming home then?” asked Loarne in mild surprise. Mylor rarely turned in this early.

Her brother shook his head again. “Nay, I must go to Emerie Manor first. It seems the old lady is in need of some bloodletting again. Lord Peredur has sent a page with a mule for me.”

They grinned at each other. The Lord’s bailiff was a generous man, just like his overlord, and his lady mother suffering from countless illnesses that only existed in her vivid imagination. ‘Twas better for the family’s peace when her demands were fulfilled at once. Small wonder that Lord Peredur had, indeed, sent a mule to get the barber-surgeon and his leeches to the manor at the first possible time. ‘Twas a luxury Mylor rarely had the chance to enjoy.

It seemed that the fair would have a profitable end for them, after all.

~The End – for now~

An Autumn Fair in Halabor

by Soledad

For disclaimer, etc., see the Prologue.

Author’s note:  If you want to know about the individual fates of the townsfolk, come to the edhellondawards LJ community and ask. I will be happy to share all my little secrets with you. :))

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Epilogue

In the early morning, after this year’s Autumn Fair had ended, the Elves of the Wandering Company gathered in the Infirmary garden to set off on their never-ending journey again. Their packhorses had been laden already, and they only tarried to speak their farewells in the proper manner.

Tinthellon and Erinti, the two healers, paid poor Delbaeth a last visit, and while her husband was going through the instructions with Mistress Angharad, Erinti took the girl’s hand in her own and looked into her eyes, long and deep.

“People will say that you are damaged,” she said, “But know that you are not. We healed your body. ‘Tis up to you to allow your heart to heal, too. I can see that there is enough strength in you to be hale and happy – even though it may take a long time. Promise me, that you shall not give up on yourself? That you will seize happiness when it comes your way, no matter what people might say?”

None of the Eldar would speak thusly to a wounded who had just come back from the brink of death and was still severely traumatized, But Erinti, wise-woman of the Silvan folk, was a Wood-Elf, full of strong will and wild magic. And for the first time, the girl came forth from the shell she had retreated when the unspeakable happened to her, blinked, and gave the Elf a weak smile.

“I… promise…” she whispered in a voice so breathless only an Elf could hear.

“And never forget about your promise,” warned Erinti, kissing her brow. “May the blessings of the forest and the running and falling waters and the soaring winds be with you, child. Be brave and be strong, whatever fate may throw at you. For you have it in you to beat fate.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The news that the Elves were leaving spread across town like fire. People who had made business with them came to Nurria’s Gate to say farewell… and to take one last glimpse at them. For no-one truly believed that they would get another chance to see Elves in their lifetime.

“One can rarely foretell what the future might bring,” said Gildor Inglorion to Lord Orchald who had come in his august person to see him off. “Yet I do not believe that we would return to this place any time soon, lovely as it might be. Our way leads to the South, to Dol Amroth, where my ship lays in the harbour, to sail into Edhellond across the Bay of Belfalas. We have been away from home for many years. ‘Tis time for us to return and rest for a while.”

“And what after then?” asked Lord Orchald. "Will you set sail to the West, like so many of your kind have done? Edhellond has always been the Elf-haven of the South, from where the grey ships left for Elvenhome, has it  not?”

Gildor Inglorion shook his golden head. “It has, yet I cannot leave these shores yet. I have sworn a solemn oath to stay here ‘til Sauron is defeated. To aid Men in their long twilight struggle against the falling darkness. To fight alongside them – and to die alongside them if I have to.”

Lord Orchald shuddered. The Men of Gondor never spoke out loud the name of their chief Enemy, for they believed that there was power in one’s name, and unleashing the black power of the Dark Lord by simple invocation would have been a grievous mistake. It seemed that one had to be an Elf-lord to allow oneself such a careless manner of speech.

“Have you fought against him before?” asked the old lord.

Gildor gave him a grim smile. “I know you are well-versed in lore, my lord, so let me tell you this much: I have fought in the War of the Elves and Sauron that raged all over Eriador in the Second Age. I reached Eregion too late, when that fair city was already in charred ruins, and its lord, the fiery smith, murdered. I fought on the battle plane of Dagorlad and saw our pointless victory, when Sauron was defeated – for ever, as we believed then; for a while, as we know now. I shall stay in Middle-earth ‘til I can witness his final defeat… or die trying.”

Lord Orchald remained silent for a while. The ever-present threat from Mordor had hovered upon their horizon as long as Men could remember. They were well used to it. But the Elf-lord’s cold hatred was something different. Something personal.

“’Tis a very long war you are fighting, Lord Gildor,” he finally said.

The Elf-lord nodded. “Six thousand years… give or take a century,” he replied with a mirthless grin. “But I have time… and naught else to do.”

“And a bleak existence it is,” riposted Lord Orchald, “if all one can see forward to is vengeance.”

The Elf-lord shrugged. “I had the bad fortune to be born when Elves no longer had realms to rule,” he said, “thus being of royal blood is of little importance. There is not much for us to build anymore. The only Elven kingdom that still exists is Northern Mirkwood, and honestly, can you imagine me living in the trees?”

Lord Orchald gave that a thought – and shook his head, laughing. “Nay, I think not. I could rather imagine you as the Elven counterpart of Prince Adrahil – an independent monarch, sworn fealty to his king, yet his own master in all that matters.”

“Which is perchance the reason why we have got along so well in all these years, the Princes of Dol Amroth and I,” replied Gildor, his smile this time genuine. “And with your own ancestors as well, my lord. Small your lands might be, but you have always been remarkably independent in spirit – all of you.”

“’Tis strange to imagine that you have seen the founder of our House leave Anárion’s ship – and known every single one of his descendants, down to my own son,” said Lord Orchald thoughtfully.

“Not each and every one,” corrected Gildor. “Although the blood of Westernesse runs deeper and truer in your family than in most other noble Houses in Gondor, your people tended to die rather frequently, and I did not visit this place often enough to meet all of them. But yea, yours is a noble and ancient and honourable House, and I enjoyed the time I have spent in your town… and in your company… something I rarely do with mortal Men.”

“Will we ever meet again, do you think?” asked the old lord.

Gildor shrugged. “That I cannot tell.”

“Cannot or will not?” insisted Lord Orchald.

“I truly cannot,” said Gildor. “Foresight comes to me in short, unexpected glimpses, like the one concerning the silversmith’s son. I cannot steer it. And Irmo, Lord of Dreams, has not shown me aught about your future – or that of your House.”

“Would you tell us if you had foresight about our fate?” asked Herumor.

Gildor considered that for a moment – then he shook his head.

“Nay, I would not. I do not believe that it would be good for mortal Men to know their future, unless the Valar decide to give them foresight of their own. And even that is a much too harsh trial on mortal flesh. But all this matters not anyway, as I have no insight at all when I look at you – and perchance ‘tis better so.”

“Perchance it is,” agreed Lord Orchald. “I for my part have no wish to see the future, as there is little I could do to change it, should I find it not to my liking. Well, my lord Gildor, I wish you a safe journey. Give my regards to the Prince of Dol Amroth when you see him. I wish I could meet him again, but Adrahil rarely comes to Minas Tirith in these days, and I cannot afford to leave my town unprotected for such a long journey. My son is dedicated to his duties, but he is still too young to fill my place.”

“He will have to learn fast, I fear, as times are darkening already and will become even darker,” said Gildor. “May Elbereth protect you and your House and town, my lord. Let us hope that when my path turns this way again, I shall find one of your descendants leading and protecting this place, as you have done all your life.”

With that, he took his leave and led the Wandering Company out through Nurria’s Gate. They all sang as they left town, and the townsfolk had never heard anything quite that beautiful before – or ever afterwards. And the visit of the Wandering Elves became a tale frequently told in Halabor for the next ten years or so.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

But the Elves never returned to the little town. For ten years later, a great army of Orcs crossed Anduin on rafts, and the town was besieged. Lord Orchald held it for several days, hoping against hope that help he had asked for would arrive in time, and the townsfolk fought the beasts of Mordor ‘til the last man or woman who could wield a kitchen knife or a hay fork.

Yet it was all in vain. For the Orcs attacked in unexpected numbers and threw the fire of Minas Morgul over the walls, so that the wooden upper stores of the houses went up in flame. They hoped that seizing the town would give them a foothold from where to lead a deadly strike against the garrison of Cair Andros and get into the back of Minas Tirith itself. So they would not turn back, regardless of the heavy losses that they had suffered from the hands of the brave Wardens, the Castle Guard and all the craftsmen of the town.

When the troops from Osgiliath finally arrived, led by Boromir, the Steward’s son himself, all they found were charred ruins, dead bodies and pillaging Orcs. Lord Orchald had fallen by then, slain on the crumbled walls of his Castle, and with him most of the people who had lived in the oldest town of Gondor. Boromir’s troops slew the surviving Orcs to the last one, but for the town, there was no help.

The handful of survivors, mostly elderly people and small children who had found refuge in the stone cellar under the Infirmary, were sent to Lossarnach to live under the protection of Lord Forlong. Boromir ordered the bodies to be poured over with oil and be burned, friend and foe alike, to prevent a plague to break out and sweep over Anórien. There was naught else for him to do. Halabor was no more, his people dead, and never again would any-one live among its fallen walls.

And yet, as little would have thought, in that last, terrible night of the dying town, a new hope and a great gift for Gondor was called into life, even though it would take a decade – or more – for it to be revealed.

~The End – this time really~