CHAPTER 8

The following day was fairly miserable. For the first time since leaving the Shire, the hobbits were having experience of a “cold camp”--no fire, as it was still pouring down rain steadily, and nothing to eat except the trail rations: journeybread--although very *good* journeybread--purchased in Bree, along with rather leathery dried meat, and the last of the fresh fruit purchased by Mistress Poppy. There was nothing to drink but water or watered down ale, for there was no fire to brew tea.

They spent the day huddled in their respective tents, and if there was a bit of grumbling and some short tempers, it was only to be expected.

Freddy remembered something he had often heard old Bilbo say: “Adventures are not always pony-rides in May-sunshine, my lad.”* He had suspected for some time now that this was true, but this was the first time that *this* adventure was proving so miserable.

By late afternoon, however, the deluge finally began to slacken, and then to stop. That evening, they were able, after much effort with the dampened fuel to get a fire started, and Rolly and Denny put together a rather hasty meal, consisting of soup and griddlebread. But finally being able to have tea made the world of difference to the hobbits, and the group sat around the fire for quite a while, singing and telling tales. None of them were that eager to go to the tents in which they had been cooped up all day.

The prisoners, however, once the meal had finished, were once more cooped up. They had all been placed for the time being into the Gondorian tent, so that only one guard would be needed, and Artamir stood outside the opening.

For the first time in many days, the prisoners were able to converse with one another.

“This is just miserable,” complained Clovis. “They are out there with the fire, and we are stuck shivering in here.”

Cado glared at his brother. “What did you expect? That they’d invite *us* to their little songfest?”

Clodio made a half-hearted protest. “Don’t quarrel. We’ll have that Man in here.”

Dago nodded. “At least we have a few moments privacy.” He pursed his lips. “I noticed that one Man--Borondir--he has a tattoo.”

The other three gaped at him. “What do you mean?” said Clovis. “I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s on his upper arm, near his shoulder--it’s a rendering of that tree they all wear. It’s been covered by his tunic and his armor all this time.”

“So, he’s a criminal!” said Clovis with a sneer.

Cado shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he were marked for a crime it’d be somewhere it would show.” He gave a grimace of distaste at the tattoo disfiguring the back of his own hand. Traitor. He’d never be rid of that word.

Clovis turned his sneer on Dago. “So what do you think it means?”

Dago shrugged. “It could mean anything or nothing. But I find it very interesting, that’s all.”

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Around the campfire, the group listened to Éothain as he told the long and heroic story of Eorl the Young and how he had led his people to a new land.

None of the hobbits, not even Freddy, had heard any of the tale before--

how originally the word of Gondor’s plight had come to the Men of the North, and they had ridden to the rescue of the hard-pressed Gondorians on the Field of Celebrant, all unlooked for; how in gratitude for their succor, the Steward of those days had granted the Men of Eorl those lands as their own--and they hung on every word, learning of the mighty deeds that had led to the beginnings of Rohan and the kings of the Horse-lords. To the court of his descendants they were first bound, and they felt very small indeed as they thought of all those doughty warriors.

“And sometimes I think on our ride to the Pelennor, and our charge upon the enemy there, and remember that first time the Rohirrim had done such. I wonder then, at how some things seem fated to happen again,”

Éothain said pensively.

Targon smiled at him. “I do not know about ‘fated’, my friend, but Cirion was wise, if not foresighted, in granting those lands to your people. We have ever been friends and allies, and I am glad that the enemy failed in sundering our alliance.”

Éothain nodded. Through Saruman, the enemy had very nearly succeeded in doing just that, yet thanks to Gandalf and two hobbits, he had failed miserably. He looked at the little people who sat before him, once creatures of legend, and thought how many alliances might seem unlikely, yet prove to be the strongest. He hoped that would be true of the alliance with the Shire.

There was no sign that night of moon or stars to be seen, as the clouds still hung in the air, but it was late, very late, when all finally sought their beds.

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The next morning dawned bright and clear. Still, it was going to take longer than usual to break camp, with the tents all so wet. Mistress Poppy and Viola took on the meals for the day, and soon served up the ubiquitous porridge, but made hobbit-style: sweetened with some honey purchased in Bree, and filled with chunks of dried fruit and nuts. In addition, they made some griddlecakes and spitted some sausages over the fire.

It was just before what would have been second breakfast if they had been home, when the group finally mounted up and began to ride for the day.

The day proved to be an uncomfortable one. Because of the rain, the road was muddy and mucky, and the heat was oppressive with all the water still in the air. Their progress was slow, and Targon began to think they would need to add a day or so to their estimate of how long it would take to reach Tharbad.

Freddy and Berilac rode alongside Legolas and Gimli. Gimli was full of humorous stories of things that the hobbits, Merry and Pippin in particular, had done while away on their travels. This was no surprise to their cousins, who had their own store of anecdotes to contribute. Legolas mostly listened in amusement, but did not have much to say.

It was after Fredegar had told of a particularly outrageous prank the two had pulled at the wedding of Pippin’s sister Pearl, that Legolas asked something he had been curious about since their visit to the Shire.

“Freddy, I know when we planned our gifts to Sam and Rose, that Frodo most particularly told us we *must* give them before the wedding. This is quite contrary to the customs of my own people, as well, I believe of those of Men. I was wondering what was behind it?”

Freddy thought for a moment. The gift-giving customs of hobbits were intricate and bound up in tradition, but they were also taken more or less for granted in the Shire, where there was no notion things would ever be done any differently.

“I’m not certain, exactly. It is thought of as being in terribly poor taste and bad manners to do so, just as displaying the gifts is also thought of in that way. Among many of my people it is also thought of as being dreadfully bad luck to have a gift given at the wedding. Yet a hobbit cannot refuse a gift without giving mortal offense to the giver. So if someone *does* show up with one, then there is no choice but to receive the gift, and the bad luck, if such exists, along with it. The truth is, though, that I have never seen it happen. If a friend or family member somehow misses taking the gift to the couple ahead of time, they simply wait a week or so *after* the wedding.”

Berilac nodded. “I can tell you though, it’s well known in Buckland of one occasion when a gift was deliberately given at a wedding; an obvious attempt to ill-wish the couple.”

Freddy stared. “You’re not serious! Who would do such a thing?”

“Why, Lobelia of course. I often heard my Grandmother Menegilda rave on the subject of how Lobelia brought a gift to the wedding of Primula Brandybuck and Drogo Baggins. My grandmother maintained to her dying day that it was Lobelia’s fault that Primula and Drogo eventually drowned, and no one was ever able to convince her differently. She felt it was entirely the fault of that absolutely hideous lamp…

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“Oh, Primula!” Her friend stood back, hold her at arm’s length by the shoulders. “You are such a beautiful bride!”

Primula Brandybuck grinned, bringing out her dimples. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Primrose Took!” Both girls laughed and embraced.

Menegilda Brandybuck smiled fondly at the scene before her: the “two Primmies” as they were called, inseparable friends since they were faunts, along with Primrose’s younger sister Peridot. The three went everywhere and did everything together. But Primula was leading the way, this time, the first of them to wed. Menegilda, like all the Brandybucks, was very fond of her young sister-in-law, the adored baby of the family. Primula was always lovely, but today, on her wedding day, she was breathtaking.

Her raven locks, something which cropped up from time to time among the Tooks, though not as commonly as the coppery chestnut curls like Primrose’s, had been brushed to glossy perfection, the curls cascading down her shoulders. Her face and form were quite Tookish--she definitely was Mirabella’s daughter, but her eyes--well the Brandybucks tended to blue or grey eyes, but seldom even among them were seen eyes so blue as to put the very sky to shame. And the ice-blue gown she was wearing, embroidered in the bodice and on the hem with her namesake flowers, made those eyes seem bluer yet. In Primula, the very best traits of both Took and Brandybuck had come together to make near perfection. Yet she took little notice of her own beauty, and in spite of the attention she had always been given was not in the least spoiled.

Primula had been the center of a swarm of suitors from the time she entered her tweens, dashing and handsome young hobbits, vying for her time, her attention, and possibly her hand. Yet none of them had ever stood a chance, for she had set her mind on one particular hobbit when she was just a young lass of twenty, and Drogo Baggins had paid his first visit to Brandy Hall.

He seemed such an unlikely hobbit for her to love. He was much older than she--he had already come of age when first she met him, and he was not especially handsome, though his looks were striking. He was portly, even for a Baggins, and he was quiet and unassuming--a far cry, for example, from Primula’s dashing brothers. But he had a keen intelligence and a kind heart that had quickly endeared him to the young lass. He himself had said nothing of his own love to her, however, until she began to get close to coming of age.

Now she had been of age for a year, and they had been betrothed for the better part of a year.

Menegilda was so pleased that this patient wait had paid off for him. He would be a steadying influence on the impulsive Primula, and her gay spirit would spark his own.

The door opened and Peridot Took stuck her head in. “Primula, are you nearly ready?”

The bride turned to her other dearest friend. “Very nearly. Gilda, are you finished yet?”

Menegilda looked up from the floral wreath for the bride’s head, baby’s breath and ivy, entwined with her namesake flowers, with silk ribbons of all the colors of the rainbow hanging down the back. She added one last ribbon, of pale lavender, securing it swiftly with a quick knot. “Yes, your bridal wreath is finished, sister. Let us see how it looks.” She rose and went across the room, to place the garland carefully upon her sister-in-law’s head. “There, dear, how does that look?”

“Oh, it’s perfect, Gilda!” she exclaimed, impulsively embracing her oldest brother’s wife.

“Primula?” called a voice from the hallway.

“I am ready, Mother,” she called. She turned, and gripped Primrose’s hand hard, and the two lasses went out into the passage, and began to make their way through Brandy Hall to the front garden, where Primula’s father Gorbadoc, the Master of Buckland, waited to officiate at her wedding.

Her heart shone out from her blue eyes, as she beheld her groom, standing so straight, next to her father, his brother Dudo next to him.

They stood beneath a small open pavilion, a table next to Gorbadoc, holding the marriage contract, weighted down with the bottle of red ink.

The guests stood all about, but the crowd parted to make way for the bride and her friend. There were gasps of appreciation for her beauty, and not a few sentimental sniffs.

Menegilda stepped back herself into the ranks of guests, and found herself standing near the Sackville-Bagginses. Otho’s expression was neutral, but Lobelia had a very nasty look on her face indeed. Menegilda imagined this was not a pleasant occasion for the former Bracegirdle--by all accounts she had once set her cap for Drogo herself, even though he was younger than she. It seemed that she had merely settled for Otho.

Gilda moved away a bit. The Sackville-Bagginses were not her favorite people. She turned her attention to the wedding, as Gorbadoc began the ritual:

“I have before me two hobbits who have come with a petition of marriage. Who will vouch for them?”

Drogo’s brother Dudo, who was standing for him, stepped forward and spoke the answer “I am Dudo Baggins, a hobbit of Hobbiton. I present Drogo Baggins a hobbit of Hobbiton, known to me as a hobbit of good character, who is of age, with no reasons why he should not be wed.” He gave a glance at his brother, and then stepped back again.

Now it was Primrose’s turn. “I am Primrose Took, a hobbitess of Whitwell. I present Primula Brandybuck, a hobbitess of Buckland, known to me as a hobbitess of good character, who is of age, with no reasons why she should not be wed.” She grinned out at the crowd cheekily, as if daring someone to contradict her, and then stepped back.

“Drogo Baggins, is it your intent to wed Primula Brandybuck, of your own free will?”

Drogo looked at his bride, tears in his eyes. He had waited for so long for this moment. “Yes, it is my intent,” he said firmly and clearly.

Primula Brandybuck, is it your intent to wed Drogo Baggins, of your own free will?”

With a radiant smile, she answered “Yes, it is!”

“Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck, you have declared before witnesses your intent to wed. The duties of marriage are to honor and support one another; the blessings of marriage are to love and respect one another. These duties and these blessings are meant to last for a lifetime. Are you prepared to take on these tasks, through such joys and sorrows as may in time come to you?”

“Yes, we are!” they said together.

Gorbadoc turned to the crowd.

“This is the third time and the last, that I have married off a daughter. No father ever thinks a hobbit is good enough for his lass, but I will say this: I do not think any other hobbit than stands before you now comes even close. Drogo is steadfast and true, and I am glad to welcome my new son into this family.

Primula and Drogo, you are beginning a new life together, and starting a new family in the Shire. But as long as the road ahead may be, it will be a good one as you travel it together. May your joys be many, may your sorrows be few.”

“And now, if the designated witnesses will come forward: Rorimac Brandybuck; Saradas Brandybuck; Adalgrim Took; Bilbo Baggins; Fosco Baggins; Rufus Burrows; Fredegund Bolger.”

The seven came forward to the table where the contract lay, Bilbo supporting old Fosco. Drogo’s father had never been in good health since the death of his wife Ruby. One at a time, they placed their signatures on the document. Then Drogo signed, and Primula, and finally Gorbadoc himself.

Turning once more to the assembled guests, he said “On my authority as Master of Buckland, and as the head of the Brandybucks, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Drogo Baggins.”

The couple exchanged their first kiss as a married couple, to the loud cheers of the guests.

While they waited for the wedding luncheon to be announced, the two stood with close family nearby, to receive the well-wishes of their guests.

Gilda slipped her hand into Rory’s. Her young sons Saradoc and Merimac had also come to stand nearby, and Drogo’s sister Dora was also there.

The line of well-wishers passed by, and then there were the Sackville-Bagginses, Otho and Lobelia.

Lobelia had a package!

Menegilda felt a wave of fury, as she realized what was about to happen, but her start was checked by her husband’s squeezing of her hand. There would be enough of a scene without her making it worse.

Lobelia stood before the couple and held the package out. There was a stunned silence as those assembled realized what was happening.

“Primula, my dear,” Lobelia said in a voice dripping with honey and venom in equal amounts, “we had no opportunity to bring our gift before the wedding.” She pressed the package into reluctant arms. Primula was as pale as snow, but Drogo’s face was red with fury.

“Th-thank you,” whispered Primula forlornly. She could do no other. Hobbits were not allowed to refuse gifts. With trembling hands, she peeled away the paper, revealing a stunningly ugly lamp, painted bright red and covered with gilt flowers.

Gorbadoc stepped forward, his own face white except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. His grey eyes were fairly blazing. “How dare you?” he said.

Lobelia gave a horsy laugh. “Oh, come now! I should not have thought even you Bucklanders would be so superstitious! It’s just a little token of esteem.”

Mirabella snatched the lamp from her daughter’s unresisting hands. “I think you know very well what you have done. Perhaps you should leave now.”

“Leave? Before the wedding feast?” Lobelia sounded offended, but the expression on her face showed that this was exactly what she hoped would have happened. “I think now I know what they mean about the wild and uncouth ways of Brandybucks! Come, Otho, we are no longer welcome! But you may keep the gift all the same!” She snapped her fingers, and sailed off, Otho following, but not before he gave his own triumphant grin to Drogo. There was no love lost there either.

Mirabella turned to Menegilda, and handed her the lamp. “Dispose of this rubbish, please.”

Gilda took it away, and found great pleasure in smashing it to bits before summoning a servant to tip its remains into a rubbish pile.

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Berilac shook his head as the tale came to an end. “My grandmother laid every bit of bad fortune Frodo’s parents had after that to Lobelia’s doorstep. Primula had two miscarriages before she bore Frodo, and grandmother always thought it was Lobelia’s fault. And when the two of them drowned, she said ever after that Lobelia had murdered them. However poisonous the gossip Lobelia started about that in Hobbiton, in Buckland, no one dared to say that it was a mere accident. They always felt it was because of that cursed gift. And forever after that, my grandmother refused to go anywhere she might have chance to encounter Lobelia. Grandfather Rory always felt that might be for the best, as he was not certain what might have happened in such a case.”

Freddy shook his head. Lobelia had tried to make up for things at the end, but a few weeks of remorse could not undo years of malice.

“You surprise me, Berilac,” said Legolas, “I had not thought to hear of such goings on in the peaceful Shire.”

“Well, it’s only to be expected when there were Sackville-Bagginses involved. And it just goes to show that in Lotho’s case the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

“From what I have heard,” said the Elf, “this Lotho was pretty bad.”

Berilac nodded.

Freddy thought of Lotho’s malice. It was just as well things had turned out as they did. Frodo had wished to forgive Lotho, but Freddy was not sure that was possible for the Hobbits who had suffered under his regime to do so. If Wormtongue had not already slain him, Freddy wondered if the Shire might have seen its first execution.

And if Lotho had lived until Freddy had regained his health, he might have continued to seek vengeance for Folco. Perhaps it was just as well he had not.

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* Taken from The Hobbit, Chapter II, "Roast Mutton"