CHAPTER 2

Just outside the gates of Bree, Mosco Burrows, Jolly Cotton and Denny and Rolly Banks assisted the Men in setting up an encampment. Tonight it would not just be bedrolls around a campfire. They would set up the tents as well, for they planned to remain here for three days.

Targon wanted to replenish supplies. True, they had not used that much in the short journey from the Shire to Bree, but he wanted to start the journey south completely supplied. And Éothain wanted the mounts, both horses and ponies, checked by a farrier, to make sure that all were well shod. Smithys would be scarce in the lands they proposed to travel through.

Mistress Poppy and her apprentice had decided to take on the cooking for the day. The hobbits had agreed among themselves that they were better cooks than the Men, and had informed Targon that the Little Folk would now be taking it in turns to do all the camp cooking. Éothain was slightly taken aback, but Targon, remembering the King’s tales of how Samwise Gamgee had taken over the camp cooking for the Fellowship, was not surprised.

Denny and Rolly had taken it on themselves to fetch the firewood. As they returned from a small wooded copse, arms laden with kindling, they passed by the prisoners.

Clovis Banks voice came after them. “No one is ever going to mistake you for gentlehobbits as long as you are willing to fetch and carry!”

Rolly stiffened slightly, but otherwise the brothers took no outward notice.

Clovis sniggered. His brother Cado gave him a slight kick on the shin, and gestured with his chin. Clovis looked to where Cado had indicated, and blanched.

Gimli, the Dwarf, was watching them speculatively, as he fingered the blade of his axe. And the Elf, Legolas was staring at them with those cool Elven eyes that seemed to see right through to the other side.

Clovis squirmed. Cado flushed and averted his eyes.

Clodio Banks watched his sons with dull and apathetic eyes. When they had finally left the Shire, he had grown quieter and quieter. His fear had begun to give way to a numb despair as he realized his life was gone forever. His sons were young, and perhaps thought to find something to hope for. But he knew they would never be able to return to the Shire, never see their home again, never again hold the position of status and respect that had been so important to him. Beryl, his wife, had not disavowed him--though she had been given the opportunity. But she had refused to accompany them into exile, and had not so much as come to bid her husband and sons good-bye. He was only just now beginning to realize that he missed her. She had always been such a shadowy presence, with no more than a wisp of her own personality, but she had, nevertheless always been there. It had never occurred to him that she would *not* be there. That she had chosen not only to stay, but to make her home with his sister Eglantine--how that rankled. He looked down at his hand, at the tattoo that proclaimed him “traitor”. How could he be a traitor? He was only trying to advance his family in the world, after all, wasn’t he? And now it was all for nothing. The Bankses had come down to this: that the head of the family was a *bridgetender*!

He sighed, and his mind drifted away again.

Dago Bracegirdle watched his former partner. Clodio had no stamina, that’s what. Dago had lately come to realize that both of them had never understood what was really at stake. They had made the mistake of thinking that the Shire was all there was, and the wide world did not matter. They had made the mistake of believing Lotho, with his grandiose plans for wealth and power--that they would supplant the Tooks and the Brandybucks as the premier families of the Shire. And they had helped Lotho bring the wide world into the Shire. Dago realized now what a mistake it all had been, but the profits to be made had blinded him at the time. Now they were in the wide world themselves, no chance of a life in the Shire ever again. Somehow, thought Dago, he had to find a way to survive in this world. One way or another.

“Here is the water, Mistress Poppy.”

“Thank you, Bergil.” She allowed him to place the bucket on the ground next to the cooking pot, so that she could ladle out what she needed. Using the tools and cooking gear sized for Big Folk was a bit awkward. Bergil helped to steady the pot for her. Viola brought over the dried vegetables they had prepared.

“Tomorrow we shall go into the town and purchase some fresh fruits and vegetables to use while we are here. They will not only be more tasty, but more healthful as well.”

Viola’s eyes grew wide. She looked over at the wall of the town with, as it seemed to hobbit eyes, its very imposing gate. “We will go into the town?” she asked.

“Yes, lass, we will. I am quite certain that one of the lads, and perhaps even one of the Men will accompany us. But this is Bree--there are hobbits here as well as Big Folk. It should not prove too dreadful.”

“It’s all right, Miss Viola,” said Bergil. “I will go with you, anyway, whether anyone else does or not.”

The apprentice smiled at the child. He seemed so serious and grown up. It was hard to realize he was only eleven years old, though she reminded herself that eleven was older for his kind than for hobbits. “We‘ll be glad of your company, Bergil.”

He nodded, and moved on to find out what other task needed doing. He knew that probably the hobbits thought of him as a very young child, but he was going to do his best to help take care of them. They were the friends and kin of his beloved Sir Pippin, after all.

He saw Borondir and Adrahil putting up the captains’ tent, and hurried over to help with the stakes.

Even though it was broad daylight, Artamir and Anwynd were on watch. As long as they were in close proximity to the town, their captains had called for a doubled watch both day and night. Though it might seem rather pointless in such a place as Bree, they had learned their lesson on complacency in the heart of the Shire, when Clovis and Cado had vandalized their camp and driven off the horses, in the vain hope that it would prevent the ratification of the King’s edict, and the investigation into their father’s activities during the Occupation of the Shire.

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Haldad stood, as the four approached. The Gondorian spoke first.

“King’s Messenger?”

Haldad nodded, and introduced himself.

“I am Targon, son of Cirion; this is Éothain, Éodred’s son, of Rohan. Master Fredegar Bolger, and Master Berilac Brandybuck, of the Shire, envoys of the hobbits to the King.”

“You came upon me timely, Captain Targon,” said the messenger. “I had planned to leave Bree right after I had finished my meal.”

“I am glad then, that we got here as quickly as we could.” The four were seated at the table with Haldad, and Butterbur bustled over to take their orders, soon returning with tankards of beer for them all.

Targon passed over the diplomatic pouch, containing the official reports for the King of all that had passed in the Shire. Éothain gave him also a sealed document for the King of Rohan, and Freddy had a less official report as well as personal letters for King Elessar from Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin.

There was a verbal report from Targon as well.

“Please let them know that our party is of necessity, a very large one, and our travel is bound to be slow. We do not expect to be in Edoras sooner than two months from now. There is, of necessity some business to be conducted there as well, before we go on to the White City.”

Haldad nodded. “You are going down the Greenway, then, to the Gap of Rohan?”

They nodded, so he continued. “That’s the route I take myself, though I will be going as swiftly as I can. I anticipate getting a fresh mount at Tharbad.”

They spoke for a while about the road conditions and the weather for travelling, and then Haldad said “Well, I shall take my leave of you now. The sooner I get on my way, the better, and it is as well these messages arrive in advance of your party.”

After Haldad left, Freddy and Beri persuaded Targon and Éothain that it was not too late to order luncheon.

Freddy found himself looking about the place with curiosity. So, this was The Prancing Pony, where Frodo had sung upon a table, and where his friends had their first encounter with the future King, all unknowing. Berilac caught his eye and grinned. “It could have been this very table, couldn’t it?”

Mr. Butterbur brought their meal at that moment. “No, sir, little master, it were that one right over there--” he pointed a thumb toward a slightly larger table nearer the center of the room. “I must say, it flummoxed a lot of folk that night. But what happened later” the old innkeeper gave a shudder, “it more or less made that seem mild, if you know what I mean.”

Freddy nodded somberly. He did, indeed, know. Butterbur was talking about the later raid of the Black Riders.

After the innkeeper left, he saw Targon and É othain looking at them with inquisitive expressions. “This is a portion of the tale with which I am not familiar,” said Targon.

So between them, Freddy and Beri filled Targon and Éothain in on the story of what had happened when Frodo had come to The Prancing Pony. The two Men were both shocked and amused at the tale. Targon found himself wondering what could have happened had not “Strider” been there. All would have been lost before the Quest had ever properly started!

Before the four prepared to return to the encampment, Freddy and Beri had letters for their families to entrust to Butterbur.

“And you’ve no need to fear me forgetting them, little masters! I put them in a special box, and whenever young Mr. Took and Mr. Brandybuck come over to meet the King’s Messengers, they know to ask me if I’ve got aught to send to the Shire! For some reason, they think I might not remember!”

“That’s very good to know, Mr. Butterbur!” laughed Freddy, as they took their leave.

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They soon were back in camp.

“Is everything going all right, Mosco?” asked Freddy, for he had put Mosco in charge while both he and Beri were gone. He and Berilac had discussed it, and decided that they would rotate the position of “third” in line of authority among the remaining hobbits, and Mosco had received the honor of the first turn.

“Not really any problems,” said Mosco, giving a look toward the prisoners. “But they are still trying to get under Denny’s and Rolly’s skins. The *one*--” he used the particularly nasty tone of voice that indicated Clovis, “--is just determined to get some kind of notice from them.”

Freddy sighed. He had not realized before they started how difficult it was going to be for the Buckland Bankses to be forced to travel with the Underhill Bankses. “I will have a word with Captain Targon about it. But we’ve got *months* of travel ahead. This situation cannot be allowed to get out of hand.”

“As long as we are here at Bree, I will confine the prisoners to one of the tents. But, as you say, we’ve months of travel ahead.” He shook his head. This was not a situation he could have envisioned in his wildest dreams when he had left Gondor.

Éothain shook his head. He had been listening to the conversation. “You are making this far too complicated. Each time he opens his mouth to speak to one of them, use the solution the Shirriffs used the day Samwise was wed: gag him, for an hour to start. Then the next time, for two hours. For every offense, add an extra hour to the punishment. He’ll soon learn to keep his mouth shut if he does not want us to shut it for him.”

Targon stared. Such an idea would never have occurred to him. But the Rohirrim were a far more direct people.

“That could work.”

“I know it could,” grinned the young horse-lord. “You Gondorians always want to make things so complicated.”

The three laughed, and Freddy went his way rather relishing the idea of seeing Clovis’ mouth stopped.