Chapter 34. Food for Thought

Ferdi had slept for more than two days, and Woodruff was worrying. ‘How ever do they manage in the Southlands?’ she whispered to Buttercup, the assistant who’d taken Fennel’s place this day.

While the hobbit’s sleep was peaceful, his lips were dry and he was showing signs of dehydration. The healer pinched the skin on the back of one of Ferdi’s hands and frowned at the result.

 ‘He’s breathing better,’ Pimpernel said, looking from one healer to the other. Whispers were worrisome. She must have been borrowing trouble, however, for the faces the healers turned towards her were bland and unremarkable.

 ‘He is at that, my dear,’ Woodruff said, pinning on a smile. ‘His lungs are clearing nicely.’ She smoothed the back of Ferdi’s hand while she thought furiously. ‘Nell,’ she said at last. ‘He’s doing so much better, and yet it seems as if he’ll sleep some days more. I want you to go and bathe yourself, change into fresh, clean clothes, and share a meal with your children. They’ve not seen more than a few glimpses of you for three days now.’

When Pimpernel hesitated, she added firmly, ‘Ferdi’s doing ever better, and we must take care that none of the children falls into sorrow, from what they fear. If you take a meal with them, encourage them, describe Ferdi’s improvement...’

Pimpernel squeezed Ferdi’s hand and laid a kiss on his cheek. ‘Woodruff has the right of it, my love,’ she said softly. ‘The children need me more than you do, at this point... I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep so peacefully before, and the dreams must be good ones for your smile never falters.’

 ‘Very well, Nell,’ Woodruff said with a cheer she did not feel. ‘You have a soaking bath and a good meal with the children; stay the day, tuck them up and sing them into sweet dreams of their own. We’ll watch with Ferdibrand and call you if he shows signs of wakening.’

***

It was not a hardship, waiting in the pleasant spring weather. The day after the King’s departure, Bergil sat himself down by the Baranduin—Brandywine, he reminded himself—with a hook and line.

He felt the thrill of a taut line, the flexible stick bent, and he skilfully brought the fat fish in, with a practiced flip of his wrist landing the flopping fish on the grassy bank. ‘Got the fire going yet, Denny?’ he shouted. ‘Supper’s on!’

He heard the other guardsman laugh in answer, and he smiled as he selected another worm from the clump of rich black earth in his upturned helm.

 ‘How long, do you think?’ Denethor said, settling beside him. The guardsman, but a small boy when his namesake died wreathed in flame, was as cheerful as the lord steward of Gondor had been grim. Pippin had dubbed him “Denny” and the name stuck.

 ‘Not long at all, considering how the first fellow leapt for my line,’ Bergil said, impaling the worm and casting the line out into the River once more.

 ‘No, I mean, how long do we wait here?’ Denethor said. ‘The fire’s burning to coals; the fry pan is greased and ready, and there’s seasoned finely ground meal to roll the fish in ere they fry.’

 ‘You’ll make a proper hobbit yet,’ Bergil said. ‘You’ve a hobbity name, and your cookery is coming right along...’

 ‘How long?’ Denethor persisted.

 ‘...and you are as good as Pippin at asking the same question over again,’ Bergil finished, gently moving the worm through the water with a series of practiced tugs.

 ‘How long?’ Denethor repeated. His eyes widened as a fish jumped far out in the River. ‘Look at the size of that one!’

 ‘Four days,’ Bergil said.

 ‘Eh?’ Denethor grunted. He was removing his boots and the stockings underneath, just as Bergil had before commencing his fishing, and he thrust his feet into the River with a shiver, wiggling his toes pleasurably in the muddy bottom.

 ‘Two days for Hildibold to ride to the Great Smials,’ Bergil explained, watching his line closely, ‘and two days to ride back to the Bridge with his wife... and add to that the time it takes her to pack—if you’d heard Pippin go on...’

 ‘I heard!’ Denethor said with a laugh. ‘We might be here a month!’

There was the sound of throat-clearing behind them. ‘Beg pardon, sirs.’

Bergil half-turned and scrambled to his knees with a bow for the Shirriff that stood behind them. ‘Bergil, son of Beregond, at your service,’ he said formally, and with a nudge Denethor followed suit.

 ‘Hob Hayward at yours,’ the Shirriff said with a bow of his own. ‘I saw you fishing, and...’

 ‘Have we trespassed?’ Bergil said. ‘Forgive me; we don’t know the local customs. If we were to get permission beforehand...?’

 ‘Get permission?’ Hob said, dumbfounded. ‘Of whom? The River? I think it’s already given you leave to take a fish or three.’ He nodded towards the large, fat fish lying in the grass, gills still feebly moving.

 ‘Ah,’ Bergil said, reassured.

 ‘The wife thought you were like to starve to death, now the King’s gone with all his courtiers and cooks and all,’ Hob said. ‘You cannot reason with wives, you know—they think anybody’s about to starve as has no one to cook for them. She was beside herself when I told her about the travel bread and dried meat and such... feared you’d fall down dead long ere you came to the Lake.’

 ‘I do believe the fish will stave off starvation,’ Denethor said gravely, though there was a twinkle in his eye.

 ‘Be that as it may,’ Hob said, and cleared his throat again. ‘I brought you a basket of provisions, enough for a day I hope, and on the morrow someone’ll bring you fresh and fetch the empty basket back.’

 ‘There’s no need...’ Bergil said hastily, but the Shirriff held up a stern hand.

 ‘The Thain’ll be put out if we let any friends of his go hungry, waiting on his escort,’ Hob said. With another bow, he said, ‘Until the morrow, then.’

 ‘My thanks,’ Bergil said, and Denethor echoed him.

 ‘Don’t mention it,’ Hob said, and marched away to start his duties for the day.

Bergil had missed the fish that nibbled at his bait while they talked with the Shirriff, but no matter. There were plenty more fish in the River, and when he and Denethor investigated the basket, they found enough food to feed twice their number.

 ‘They’re going to bring us more tomorrow?’ Denethor said incredulously.

 ‘I believe that’s what the hobbit said,’ Bergil replied, staring at loaves and crocks of butter and preserves and pickles and cold roasted chicken and hard-cooked eggs and fruit pockets and vegetables cut into pleasing shapes and cake and biscuits sweet and savoury and more.

 ‘And we have to eat it... all?’ Denethor gulped.

 ‘Pippin said it would be an insult to refuse food freely given,’ Bergil said slowly.

 ‘I only hope that escort of his hurries his wife,’ Denethor said, ‘or we’ll look more like stuffed sausages than guardsmen, rolling our way to the Lake.’

 ‘You can say that again,’ Bergil observed, and so Denethor, never one to be suppressed, did so.

***

By the time nearly a week had passed, even Bergil was wondering if they'd last out the month.