Chapter 15.

It had taken nearly a month to set up and assemble the Tribunal. A board of six nobles had been selected and from their number Lord Beranin of Dol Amroth had been elected as the chairman. He was a distinguished Commander of the Swan Knights who, following his retirement from active service had become one of Prince Imrahil’s most trusted Envoy’s. The King was also on the panel and it would be his task to pass judgement when the process was completed.

The intervening period had been busy for both the King and the Steward. It had been the King’s decision not to reinstate the Council until the tribunal was completed. This created a huge burden of administration to be shared between the two of them. They worked out a system that allowed them to keep pace with the workload.

Faramir rose at dawn and, at the King’s and Éowyn’s insistence, spent an hour in the Warden’s care receiving treatment for his arm and shoulder, this was followed by a working breakfast in the Royal Apartments discussing  the agenda for the day. An hour or two each morning was allocated for audiences with the King;  Faramir in attendance to offer information or advice as required and to look out for the King’s signal that he had had enough and he needed a break. After the noon-tide meal Faramir would return to his own chambers and set to work administering the decisions agreed during the morning and attending to his own duties. At dusk Faramir and Éowyn would join the King and Queen for dinner, sometimes alone and sometimes with other members of the inner circle of close friends.

These informal, evening gatherings provided a relaxed atmosphere in which to share thoughts and ideas, Arwen and Éowyn able to offer their own unique insights into issues thrown up during the day’s business and, although their suggestions weren’t always taken up or acted upon, they proved to be a useful sounding board.  Arwen and Éowyn had, by circumstance, been thrown together and this gave them the opportunity to deepen the friendship established during Arwen’s stay in Edoras. They worked together in the houses of Healing, Arwen sharing her knowledge of herb and plant lore gained at her Father’s elbow. Arwen also agreed to assist Éowyn in refurbishing the now empty Steward’s quarters, a task that Faramir had not found the time to accomplish.

With the cancellation of all of the contracts and edicts of the now discredited Council, it fell to Faramir to correct the damage done. His first task was to draw up a new statute reinstating the veteran’s and widow’s pensions and confirming their right to free housing. This, along with the announcement of open access to the Houses of Healing was posted at the gate to each circle of the City and announced by Criers in every market and meeting place.

The contracts for providing services and goods all had to be renegotiated and awarded. At the King’s insistence, each new contract contained a clause holding the signatory responsible for not only their own actions but those of all their employees and retainers. This seemed to concentrate their minds wonderfully; the punishments for transgressions were designed to be humiliating rather than to fill the cells; sweeping the streets, mucking out the stables or working as lowly, unpaid hands in the bakeries or foundries of the city; the more prosperous the transgressor the more lowly the punishment. Word soon got round that the Steward was relentless in his pursuit of justice and after the first few weeks few thought to tempt fate.

As Captain General of the King’s forces, Faramir bent his attention to re-equipping and reorganising the Troops.  One of his goals was to establish a military academy to educate and prepare young lads who would later go on to serve in the King’s Armies. Many battalions still lacked sufficient troops to provide the level of protection needed to hold the Realm secure but it would take months or years to fill the vacancies, too many of Gondor’s young men had been crushed beneath the relentless machine of the conflict. Neither the King nor the Steward doubted that it would be long before hostile neighbours to the south and east would cast their greedy eyes on the lands of Gondor and they were determined to be ready to face the threat. With the larders and storehouses of the garrison now adequately stocked, a new tough regime of training and preparation was instigated and the once demoralised troops began to once again take pride in their position.

Faramir took a report from the duty Officer each day, keen to keep abreast of all significant developments. It was the main garrison that was tasked with providing the guard for the ex-councillors, ensuring that they complied with the terms set for their house arrest. When the tribunal finally got underway they would also escort the councillors from their homes to the Citadel where the Tower Guard would then assume responsibility for their security.

Tamir continued to provide Faramir with an un-official line of communication to the activities and gossip of the barracks, and it was through his reports that the Steward was alerted to worrying rumours of ill discipline amongst some sections of the troops. It was concerning enough that Faramir made a spot inspection, observing the practice yard and the parade ground and watching the troops put through their paces by the master-at-arms. He saw nothing to confirm the rumours and was in fact pleased to see how the men performed. A glance at the discipline log did show that there had been an upsurge of disorderly conduct and drunkenness. Faramir made it clear to the Garrison Commander that such behaviour was not acceptable and would not be tolerated.

Two weeks into the tribunal, it was becoming clear that the process would be long and protracted. Lord Beranin kept a tight rein on the proceedings but with eight defendants and a mountain of paperwork to work through, progress was slow. With the King’s time taken up, the burden of administration fell more heavily on Faramir. He increased his staff by taking on an extra scribe and an additional assistant and, by necessity, delegated much of his workload.

Every evening at dusk, Éowyn would come and drag him away from his desk and they would take supper with Aragorn and Arwen. It was a matter of great relief to his friends that Faramir appeared to be thriving despite the demands made upon him by the sheer volume of work. Regular meals, adequate sleep and daily exercise had erased the lines and shadows from his face and he had gained some of the weight he had shed during his illness. With the resumption of daily therapy he was regaining some of the strength in his arm and shoulder; his hand still remained numb but the movement of his fingers improved even though they remained weak. Arwen had presented him with a fingerless glove, fashioned from supple black leather to protect his hand; the wounds in his palm had healed and because he was no longer subject to such extreme anxiety he was not prone to inflicting further damage on himself.

Once the Tribunal was in session, it met every afternoon for six days a week. Aragorn insisted that they all have a day of rest.  With the date set for the wedding less than two month away Faramir and Éowyn used these precious days off to spend time together, a rare and treasured respite from the cares of everyday duty. They would ride out with an escort and spend the day enjoying the freedom of the open air. Sometimes the others joined them and on one lovely summer’s day Faramir led them to his grove in the mountain. Aragorn had been there before; he had escorted Frodo back to the city after his sojourn in search of peace. In the protected environment of the glade they were all able to shed their cares and toils and relax amid the beauty and peace.

Another rest day was spent showing Éowyn and Arwen how work was progressing on the dwelling at Emyn Arnen. They left the city before dawn and rode hard, reaching their destination at midday. Leaving the guard detail to see to the horses, Faramir sought out the work’s master who proceeded to explain how building was progressing. The building was set on a hillside overlooking a small tributary of the River. The site was backed by woodland but the front faced open pastureland sweeping down to the water. Éowyn had only seen plans of the building and though only one wing of the building had been started she was able to see its potential. The building had been completed up to the first floor windows and the mellow sandstone used for its construction glowed in the early afternoon sunlight. The Builder explained that it would be two years before the construction was completed but promised that the first wing would be habitable within months, though facilities would be somewhat basic. Their stay was, by necessity, short and when they had eaten and the horses rested, they made their way back to the city; arriving as dusk fell.

One morning, three weeks into the Tribunal, the Duty Officer was late for his appointment with the Steward. Faramir was about to send a page to enquire about the delay when the Garrison Commander arrived. He gave his report with regards to the guard detail but it was clear from his countenance that something was amiss. Faramir invited him to sit and they faced each other across the table.

“Well, are you going to tell me what has happened?”

“There has been some trouble down in the City, Sir. Last night.”

“I take it this is not a security matter or I would have heard sooner.”

“No Sir. Security was not compromised; it is more of a disciplinary matter.”

“Go on.”

“There was a brawl in a tavern in the third circle. It got out of hand.”

“I see. Casualties? Damage?” The Captain General’s grim faced enquiries left no doubt in the Commander’s mind that he had the man’s full attention.

“Two troopers badly injured, one still unconscious. The tavern suffered a lot of damage…”

“And!”

“A civilian, the Landlord, suffered a knife injury; the Healer says he will likely die, Sir.” Faramir groaned.

“I made it clear weeks ago that this sort of behaviour would not be tolerated. Did that message get passed on?” he asked sharply.

“Yessir.”

“Do you know how it started,” he demanded.

“I have the four ringleaders locked up in the guardhouse, Sir. It seems that three of the older men were initiating a new recruit by doing a circuit of all the taverns in the lower circles. They got to one of the more salubrious ale-houses and were getting rowdy; when one of them insulted the landlord’s daughter, the landlord asked them to leave. They refused and started throwing their weight around and it ended up in a general brawl.”

“Sir. Do you want me to deal with this?” the Commander asked quietly, keen to get this uncomfortable interview over as quickly as possible.

“I think it’s gone past that point, don’t you?”

The commander nodded a reluctant agreement, embarrassed that his control of his command had been shown to be lacking. Faramir paced, deciding how best to tackle the problem.

“Are the men fit to face charges?”

“Yessir. They have sobered up and their injuries have been dealt with…mostly cuts and bruises, nothing serious.”

“Right. Keep them in the guardhouse. I want the whole battalion on parade; full uniforms, ready for inspection at the sixth bell. I will come and deal with this myself. You are dismissed.” The Commander saluted and beat a hasty retreat.

Faramir left a message for the King explaining what had happened, to be delivered after the end of the day’s session of the Tribunal. He called for Ferris who helped him to change into his dress uniform and sent his apologies to Éowyn and to Arwen explaining that he would be delayed.

Before heading down to the parade ground he called in to the Houses of Healing to consult with the Warden. The innkeeper was in a small side room, his wife and daughter at his bedside. Faramir offered them what comfort he could but in their distress they barely heard him.

“What are his chances?” Faramir asked the Warden when they had moved beyond earshot.

“Hard to say, he lost a lot of blood and the injury to his abdomen was severe. We can only hope that it did not penetrate his guts; if it did he is done for.”

“I see. And the two troopers?”

“One is still unconscious with a bad concussion, the other has been patched up and should be on his feet in a few days; their injuries are not life-threatening.”

Faramir made his way down to the parade ground; the battalion were formed up in ranks, breastplates glinting in the late afternoon sun. He took their salute and proceeded to the guard room. Inside the Commander and the duty Officer were awaiting him. At his signal the four prisoners were marched in.

They were in full uniform but without armour or weapons and they all bore the signs of the brawl; black eyes, bruised faces and split knuckles. The charges against them were read out. None disputed the facts as presented or claimed any mitigating circumstances. The young recruit, who looked barely old enough to shave, could not disguise his fear, his voice barely above a whisper. The oldest, a grizzled faced veteran, admitted drawing the knife and injuring the innkeeper, absolving his colleagues of complicity in the act.

Faramir listened in grim-faced silence. When the testimonies and facts were established and confirmed to his satisfaction, he got to his feet. He never once raised his voice but the Captain-General’s words carried more weight because of it.

“You have brought dishonour and disgrace to yourselves, to your colleagues and to the service you pledged your duty to. You can be in no doubt as to the severity of these crimes or doubt that such transgressions would be dealt with severely. The punishments handed down today are for the injury, damage and disorder that occurred last night.” Addressing the oldest prisoner he continued, “If the innkeeper dies as a result of his injuries, you will be facing a murder charge and only the King’s clemency will save you from the noose.” The man paled.

“I will now pass judgement. The whole battalion will have all leave cancelled for a month as a reminder to all that you are a unit, a team responsible to and for each other. You will each forfeit two months pay; the money to go in recompense to the innkeeper’s family. You will  be taken in disgrace before your comrades and you will be flogged, twenty strokes each for disorderly conduct, and you,” he addressed the knife wielder, “a further twenty strokes for drawing a weapon and endangering life.”

The four men were silent, only the young lad’s hitched breathing betrayed his distress.

“Do you wish to say anything before the sentence is carried out?” One of the younger men looked up seeking permission to speak.

“Sir, I accept the justice of the punishments but if I forfeit pay my mother will be thrown onto the mercy of the city, Sir. She is elderly and has no other means of support. Punish me, Sir, but I beg you, do not punish her.” Faramir looked to the duty officer and accepted his nod of confirmation.

“Very well, I would not see another innocent suffer for your transgressions. You will receive an additional ten strokes in lieu of forfeiting your pay.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Faramir moved to stand before the young lad. He put his hand to his chin and tilted his face up until their eyes met. Gravely but not without compassion he spoke to him.

“What is your name, soldier.”

“Darin, Sir,” the boy whispered.

“Darin, this is a poor start to your military career. Bear your punishment bravely and then put this behind you. The next time I see your name I want it to be on the commendation roll; show me what you are made of and make me proud.” The boy swallowed hard and nodded.

As they were marched out to the parade ground to receive their punishment, Faramir spoke to the Commander.

“See that the boy goes first; the waiting will be hardest for him.”

A trumpet announced that preparations were complete. Faramir took his place and the duty officer read out the charges and the punishments.

The four prisoners were lined up to the side of a heavy wagon, all four stripped to the waist. The master-at-arms stepped forward and led the lad to the rear of the wagon. Wide leather straps were slipped over each wrist and hooked over pegs on the back-board of the wagon, exposing the plain of his back. In the wagon were two troopers, each took one of the lad’s hands in a firm grasp, one slipped a folded cloth between his teeth and nodded that they were ready. The switch was a bundle of a dozen flexible birch twigs, two feet long and lashed together at one end; designed to inflict pain rather than serious injury. With one practice swish through the air to get the feel of the instrument, the master-at-arms indicated he was ready to proceed.

The lash sang through the air and landed across bare shoulders; Faramir saw the lad flinch and arch away from the pain. He noticed one of the soldiers muttering reassurance to him. Someone was counting the strokes out loud, the voice punching through the stillness of the arena; the only sound, beside the swish of the lash and the smack of the fronds on bare flesh. By the fifth blow the lad was keening, unable hold back his cries. Faramir steeled himself to stay in place, his eyes fixed on the lad’s shoulders. With the final stroke administered, the boy’s hands were released and he was carried away as the next prisoner was readied for his punishment.

With all of the punishments completed the grim faced troops were dismissed and Faramir stood in the empty parade ground, numb and sickened; his final instruction to the duty officer to make sure the prisoners received treatment for their injuries.

Faramir, without conscious thought, made his way to the empty practice grounds. He stripped off surcoat and tunic and chose a lightweight practice sword from the rack. It felt uncomfortable in his left hand. He threw aside his sling and moved through the practice drills he had learned as a cadet. Without his right arm  to provide balance he moved awkwardly but he kept doggedly to his task; he wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, pushing himself until his muscles burned and his breathing  tore at his chest. He attacked the wood and straw dummy as if it were a deadly foe.

“Enough, Sir!”

Faramir ignored the familiar voice and continued his attack.

“I said ENOUGH, Sir.” The blade was knocked from his grip and he staggered forward to lean against the dummy, gasping for breath.

“In this place my word is law,  Sir!”

The master-at-arms  picked up the sword and replaced it in the rack. He fetched a dipper full of water and handed it to Faramir. They sat on a bench in silence as Faramir recovered his breath.

“You did what had to be done, Sir, and none will hold it against you. They deserved to be punished and you have sent a loud message that none are likely to forget in a hurry.”

“It’s one thing to inflict death or injury in war but I’ve never had to do that before…With the Rangers it was never necessary; we were too dependent upon each other. If someone didn’t fit with the group and couldn’t be dealt with with a verbal reprimand, they were shipped back to the main garrison…and that lad was so young!”

“Older than you when you felt the switch, Captain!”

Faramir looked up at that, remembering that it was this man who, as his cadet sergeant, had administered the punishment for some long forgotten transgression.

“He will survive and will be a better soldier for it. And as a Commander you will get used to it.” The old soldier clapped him on the shoulder.

“Now get off back home Sir, and stop abusing my equipment.”

By the time Faramir had bathed and changed out of his uniform it was late. He contemplated going straight to bed but he knew it would only worry Éowyn if he failed to appear.

When the page announced him, he found the King alone.

“Ah, Faramir,” the King said, acknowledging his salute. “Come in, we were wondering where you were hiding. Have you eaten?” Without waiting for a reply, Aragorn sent the page off to the kitchens.

“Where are the ladies?” Faramir enquired.

“Oh, they are taking a stroll in the gardens.”

“In the dark!”

“Yes. They were discussing the stars earlier and decided to take advantage of the clear skies.”

A servant entered carrying a tray of fruit, cheeses and fresh bread and a steaming mug of tea. Aragorn went back to his pile of documents while Faramir toyed with his supper.

“Are you going to tell me about it,” Aragorn asked. “Or are you going to reduce that whole loaf to bird food.”

Faramir pushed the plate away and took a sip of his tea.

“I had four men flogged today…and it sickened me.” He looked up and saw a flash of understanding cross Aragorn’s face.

“Tell me.”

The words started pouring out, torrents that became jumbled in his effort to put his thoughts and his anguish into words. Aragorn listened, not wanting to interrupt the cathartic outpouring. When he eventually lapsed into silence he dropped his head into his hand, massaging his temples to erase the sight and sound of the punishments.

“And now you doubt you are  fit to hold office?” Aragorn’s question and the evidence of his insight caused Faramir to look up.

“Did they deserve to be punished?”

“Yes.”

“Did the punishment fit the crime? Was it excessive?”

“Harsh but not unmerited.” Faramir answered.

“Was the lesson learned?”

“I believe so, though only time will tell,”

“Faramir, you did your duty, unpleasant though it may have been. It does not make you weak to find that you are distressed by having to inflict punishment. I would be more worried if you were overly enthusiastic in your administration of discipline. Your way is more effective because the men know that your punishments are always warranted. Some men command by fear but you command respect; your men will work harder and more diligently to earn your respect. That is a great asset in a Commander.” Faramir relaxed back into his chair and grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of cold tea.

“Thank you, Aragorn.”

“My pleasure. And just remember, if the landlord dies, I will be the one handing down the justice and it won’t be just a flogging!”

TBC