Chapter 25. Reminders and Remembrances

There was a banquet in the Town Hall that evening for the notables of the town and the travellers. The Mayor sat at the head table with Merewyn, his delicate wife, talking quietly with the councillors. Several times he was interrupted, introduced to various of the guests, who thanked him for his hospitality and the warm welcome his town had offered. The Councillors were especially charmed by the group of Halflings who came up together to bow as one to their host and thank him for the meal.

At last nearly all the places were filled, save a few left vacant at the head table.

 ‘Do you suppose the King will attend?’ old Councillor Heledir said.

 ‘Prince Faramir is here,’ Ulrich replied, ‘and Queen Arwen, and quite a few of the travellers.’

 ‘Yes, but the King...’ Councillor Arasfaron said from the other side of the table. ‘The word is that he tends the fallen perian.’

Ulrich shook his head. ‘A sad business,’ he said. ‘For the Halflings to meet after long parting, and then lose one of their kindred in the same day.’ He squeezed his wife’s hand as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

 ‘Very sad,’ she whispered.

 ‘Ah, but one of the King’s escort comes,’ Arasfaron said. ‘Perhaps he brings news.’

 ‘It seems he brings a Halfling,’ Heledir observed.

Ulrich rose to greet the arrivals: Beregond and Bergil, escorting an unsteady hobbit between them.

 ‘Here we are, sir,’ Beregond said gravely as they reached the head table.

 ‘About time!’ the Halfling said querulously. ‘A body might starve to death in the time it takes to walk the length of this great hall!’

 ‘Come sir,’ Bergil coaxed. ‘Your seat is prepared for you. Let us assist you, if we may?’

 The two guardsmen, Captain of the White Company and his son, piled cushions upon the chair and lifted Pippin into the seat.

 ‘You have travelled far from the North, Master Perian,’ Ulrich said with a bow. ‘You are one of the King’s company, are you not?’

 ‘Know you not this doughty warrior?’ Beregond said, shocked. ‘This is the Ernil i Pheriannath! You’ve seen him many a time before!’

 ‘Of course, of course!’ Ulrich said promptly. ‘Forgive an old Man, sir, for not recognising you. Why, I still remember seeing you at the coronation of the King, in your fine guardsman’s garb, with your kinsmen. What a sight it was!’

 ‘You were of Minas Tirith?’ Pippin said. ‘You came from the White City to...’ he turned to Beregond, ‘...what is this place?’

 ‘Dindale, sir,’ Beregond said quietly. A plate was set before Pippin, but he paid little heed. Beregond reached over and cut the slices of succulent roast into small pieces, then pushed the plate a bit closer to the hobbit. ‘Eat now, sir,’ he urged.

 ‘Eat?’ Pippin said in confusion. He looked down at his plate. ‘Is it time to eat?’

Sitting so close, the Mayor and his Councillors could see now the healing wound. Heledir shook his head sadly, remembering the bright young hobbit who’d set an entire public house to laughter with his stories, after the coronation had concluded and the celebration was well under way.

 ‘Yes sir,’ Bergil said from Pippin’s other side. ‘Eat now.’

Pippin speared a few pieces of meat and ate, chewing appreciatively, then saying plaintively, ‘I thirst.’

Beregond put a goblet into his hand. ‘Your cup, sir,’ he said deferentially.

Pippin drank, set the goblet down too close to the edge of the table, but Bergil deftly caught it as from long practice.

The Ernil i Pheriannath fixed Ulrich with his wavering gaze. ‘You’re from the White City?’ he said again. ‘You saw the coronation?’

 ‘I did,’ Ulrich said proudly. ‘What an occasion!’

 ‘A far cry from the scene before the Black Gate, eh Ulrich?’ Heledir said.

 ‘You were at the Black Gate?’ Pippin quavered.

 ‘Indeed he was!’ Arasfaron said. ‘Why, the townspeople are proud to call a hero of the last battle their Mayor!’

Ulrich tried to dampen his councillors’ ardour, but Pippin piped up once again. ‘You saw the battle?’ he said. ‘You saw the trolls march forth?’

 ‘I was not in the front rank,’ Ulrich said. ‘I was only a callow youth, and not one of the picked men of the City. I stood a little ways back, higher on the hill than you, Master Perian. I saw you ride back from your parley, and stand with the Men of Dol Amroth. But I was upon the right-hand hill, sure enough.’

 ‘The trolls strode forth, the orcs behind them pouring their arrows into the defending ranks,’ Pippin murmured, lost in memory.

 ‘Nay, Master Perian,’ Ulrich said, ‘but the orcs poured forth first, only to be hindered by the mires; it was then the trolls behind caught them up and passed them.’ He was sure of his facts; he had recited this story so often by request that it was burned into his memory.

 ‘O aye,’ the hobbit said vaguely. He gestured to the healing wound on his head. ‘The King bored a hole in my skull, you see, and half my memories have leaked out, it seems. I cannot keep a thought in my head.’

Ulrich smiled reassuringly. ‘It was a long time ago in truth,’ he said, taking another draught of mead.

 ‘Let me see your hands,’ Pippin said suddenly, turning from his plate as if he’d forgotten all hunger. He held his palms out, and Ulrich, with a humorous look at his wife, placed his large hands upon them.

Pippin ran his fingers over Ulrich’s hands, nodding. ‘The hands of a warrior,’ he said. ‘You have known the sword, but there are also calluses here that tell of the pen.’

He looked over to Beregond. ‘But Ulrich’s least finger on the sword hand was missing the last joint, do you not remember?’

 ‘It wasn’t,’ Ulrich said in astonishment. ‘His hand was as whole as...’

The hobbit’s unfocused gaze suddenly became sharp and piercing. ‘His hand,’ he said softly. ‘Well now...’

 ‘I mean...’ Ulrich said, back-paddling, while his wife looked from hobbit to husband in surprise.

 ‘Yes,’ Beregond said, standing to his feet, his hand on his sword. ‘Tell us what you mean, Mayor Ulrich. Or would that be Reinadan, scribe at the Lockholes, while Sharkey ruled the Shire?’

The Mayor lost all colour as he gasped, ‘I don’t know what you mean...’

 ‘I think you do,’ Pippin said. ‘You were never at the Black Gate, were you? At the time the Men of the City were fighting and dying, you were terrorising little folk who never offered you harm or offence, and some months after you were laughing and tormenting helpless prisoners in the Northlands.’

 ‘No,’ Ulrich whispered. ‘Not possible...’

 ‘My husband is a good Man!’ Merewyn protested. ‘You have mistaken him for someone else!’

 ‘I have not mistaken him,’ Pippin said slowly. ‘Nor have three survivors of the Lockholes, who recognised his voice and and his smile, even though so many years have passed.’ He looked with real pity at the Mayor’s wife. ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he said, ‘but your husband is a ruffian, and his past has caught him at last.’