Chapter 33. Hangings

Next morning all were up early, pavilions taken down, horses harnessed to coaches, and coaches filling with passengers. No leisurely amble this day, it seemed. Perversely Ulrich sighed for the slow, dragging walk surrounded by the green of the fields with the Sun smiling down upon him.

 ‘Come along, you,’ his guard said as half a dozen guardsmen gathered round him. It took two of them to yank loose the stake, and then they escorted him to one of the coaches. It seemed the Queen and her children would ride horses this day...

Ulrich was helped into the coach. A guardsman sat on either side of him, and Bergil and two others sat in the facing seats. ‘Riding in style,’ he remarked. ‘Queen’s coach, no less.’

 ‘They thought more of speed than your comfort,’ Bergil returned grimly.

Ulrich stiffened. ‘They found the missing guardsman?’ he said.

The younger guardsman beside Bergil swallowed hard and looked away, the older guardsman on Bergil’s other side sat stony-faced. Bergil himself only nodded, sharply, a single jerk of his chin.

 ‘I swear, if I thought he was working with you...’ the Man to Ulrich’s right hissed, only to be quelled by a look from Bergil.

Some part of Ulrich wanted to know more, while the rest of him turned the thought away. It was better not to know. Something was out there, some dark force that burned inns over the heads of innocent little folk—he thought of Lassie and Lapis and his heart gave a lurch—and horribly murdered sturdy guardsmen. Was it following him? He gave a superstitious shudder. Had the spirit of Saruman somehow returned?

The landscape passed swiftly this day, familiar landscape, for as councillor he’d made the two-day journey to Minas Tirith many times, often bringing his family if the occasion were festive, or if his wife wanted to shop at the larger market in the great city. Ulrich spent the time looking out the window. His escort did not speak again.

The coach slowed, wakening him from a doze. He jerked his head upright, seeing the fields of the Pelennor outside the window. Trumpets sounded, and the coach rolled to a stop. Bergil jumped out, leaving the rest to wait in silence, listening to the cheers of a welcoming crowd.

He was back in a few moments, gesturing to the guards to either side of Ulrich. They rose, taking Ulrich between them though the coach was cramped for such tall Men to be standing at once, and shoved him towards the door. Two guards outside the coach received Ulrich, helping him down the steps. Kind of them, not to let him fall flat on his face, Ulrich thought wryly.

He caught his breath as the White City loomed before him. Always before it had shone in beauty and promise, but now it looked cold and remote to his eye, tomblike, and he shivered as a chill went down his spine.

People lined the walls, cheering for the royal family, cheering for the hobbits as they alighted, shouting and singing welcome. The noise died down as Ulrich’s guard pushed him towards the Gate. The people, seeing a shackled Man, quieted, and their noise changed from joyous welcome to murmuring, and then something unpleasant.

Ulrich had seen such a procession on one of his visits to Minas Tirith. Some heinous criminal had been paraded in through the great Gate and along the streets of the city, through the seven levels to the Citadel, while the people watched in silence or jeered or hissed, according to their nature. Now he was the heinous criminal.

He doubted that any would recognise him, rumpled and dirty as he was, his hair unkempt. He trudged slowly, surrounded by guardsmen, trying not to think of anything more than putting one foot in front of the other. Indeed, it was heavy going, dragging his chains up the long incline, and the imprecations heaped upon his head by the pressing crowds made the task all the more arduous.

He’d gone through the second gate when there was a stir in the guardsmen surrounding him, and then a small figure pushed its way through: a booted hobbit.

 ‘A lonely business,’ Ferdi said, falling in beside Ulrich.

 ‘How could one be lonely, surrounded by so many fellow creatures?’ Ulrich said.

 ‘I thought I would not wish to be alone, were I in your boots,’ Ferdi said. Looking down at his feet, he added, ‘These boots of mine are uncomfortable enough!’

Of a wonder, Ulrich found a chuckle deep within himself. Better still, the crowd, seeing a Halfling plodding by his side, had quieted to confused murmurs.

 ‘You would be seen with a ruffian?’ Ulrich said.

 ‘I have decided you are not a ruffian, just as you said,’ Ferdi replied. ‘I do not quite understand it. If it is truly a case of mistaken identity, why would you have confessed?’

 ‘It is not a case of mistaken identity,’ Ulrich said.

Ferdi shook his head, puzzled. ‘Then you really did those horrid things my cousin spoke of,’ he said.

 ‘Your cousin?’ Ulrich asked.

 ‘Freddy,’ Ferdi said. ‘You knew him as Fatty Bolger.’

Ulrich shook his head. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘He must have gone by some other name.’

 ‘Try “Number Seventy-Four”,’ Ferdi suggested, in a less pleasant tone.

Ulrich caught his breath, and then his shoulders sagged. ‘I remember your cousin,’ he said low. A groan escaped him and he buried his face in his shackled arms.

 ‘Here, you!’ a guardsman barked, prodding at Ulrich. ‘Keep going!’

The prisoner stumbled into motion again, whispering, ‘I only wish I were going to my hanging now, get it over with...’

 ‘Where are we going, then?’ Ferdi said, and the Man realised that the hobbit was keeping him company on this long, dreadful walk, thinking to ease the loneliness of his anticipated death.

 ‘I will be lodged by the generosity of the King,’ Ulrich said wryly, ‘in a dungeon, a cell under the ground, where never the Sun shows her face, until they can arrange the trial. When all the evidence has been heard and written down for the record, they’ll haul me to the Gate of the City and hang me.’

 ‘A cell under the ground,’ Ferdi mused. ‘A sort of Lockholes. Fitting, somehow.’

 ‘Very fitting,’ Ulrich said, smiling grimly. ‘Let the punishment fit the crime.’

 ‘But you hanged no hobbits that I know of,’ Ferdi said.

 ‘No,’ Ulrich said. ‘At least I am free of that stain.’

***

 ‘Yuletide is upon us,’ Goldi said.

 ‘Not for another week,’ Farry replied.

 ‘I know!’ Goldi said, snuggling against him. ‘Let us start Yuletide a week early this year! That would give us an extra week of celebration!’

 ‘Goldi,’ Farry said firmly. ‘That is not what my father had in mind when he left me in charge. We will wait until the first of the month, as is tradition, before we order the preparations to begin.’

 ‘But couldn’t we ask the cooks to stir up a batch of spice cakes for tea today?’ Goldi wheedled, nearly bouncing in her eagerness. ‘And we could hang bright ribbons, and...’

 ‘No hanging anything,’ Farry said, breaking into the rush of words, but looking at his wife’s eager face he relented enough to conceded, ‘...but I do believe we will order spiced cakes for tea today, a taste of good things to come.’

 ‘Mmmmm,’ Goldi said, bestowing a kiss. ‘I love you!’

 ‘You taste almost as good as spiced cake,’ Farry teased.

Goldi kissed him again. ‘Almost?’ she said, laughing up at him.

 ‘I don’t know,’ Farry said, tilting his head with a thoughtful look.

 ‘You don’t know?’ Goldi said.

 ‘I’d have to have another taste, just to make sure,’ Farry said, pursing his lips.

Goldi obliged, and said, ‘Well?’

Farry gave a satisfied nod. ‘Spiced cakes for tea,’ he said. ‘A taste of good things to come.’

 ‘Indeed!’ Goldi said, and laughed again. ‘New year...’

 ‘New life...’ Farry added, pulling her close.

She snuggled under his arm. ‘Just a few bright ribbons?’ she wheedled.

 ‘No hanging anything until Yuletide,’ Farry said firmly.

 ‘I love it when you use that no-nonsense tone,’ Goldi said.

 ‘You do?’ Farry said in surprise.

 ‘Yes,’ Goldi said, looking up at him with a mischievous gleam in her eye. ‘It presents such a lovely challenge...’