CHAPTER 27

Freddy poked his head into the tent. Bergil lay there with his hands locked behind his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. He turned and saw Freddy.

“Mr. Freddy? Are you coming to see me, or were you looking for one of the captains?”

“I thought I’d come sit with you a bit, if you don’t mind my company.” Freddy had been surprised that Bergil had been left alone, but apparently, among Men, once someone was on the mend, it was not customary to have someone attend the sickbed all the time. Freddy thought that seemed awfully lonesome, but then he had begun to realize that in some things Hobbits were very different.

“Mr. Freddy?” Bergil asked shyly, “Are you sure that you want to give me your friend’s flute? I know that you had it to remember him by.”

Freddy smiled at the boy, so earnest and concerned. “Bergil, I do not need the flute to remember my best friend. Folco will always be with me, no matter what. And remembering how generous he was, I cannot imagine that he would not give it to you, knowing that you could actually use and play it and make music with it, whereas for me--well, I can make no use of it at all.”

“Then I thank you. And I will try my best to learn to play as well as possible, to be worthy of such a wonderful gift.”

“Even if you never play any better than you did the first day I heard you, Bergil, you would be worthy. But I know that you have a lot of talent, and I am confident that you will do justice to this gift. And I think that it would please Frodo as well.”

“The Ringbearer?”

“Why yes, for it was he who gave it to Folco in the first place. It was his once as a child, though he says he never learned to play it.”

Bergil held the flute up and looked at it in awe, and then held it to his lips and played a few hesitant notes.

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Adrahil and Danulf dismounted.

“Our captains sent us out as scouts to see if we could find a place to buy some food. We have coin to pay,” said Adrahil.

They looked at the four Men who stood there. Beorhthelm nodded at each as he introduced the others. “This,” he said, “is my brother, Aednoth, and his older son Aedwine, and this is my son, Beorhtstan. If you are from the Kings in the South, then what is your mission here?”

Danulf answered. “We were part of an embassy, emissaries to the land of the Shire. We carried the edicts of the High King there, as well as gifs. We return now, escorting a number of the Shirelings, who are now sending their own embassy, first to Edoras, and then to the court of the High King in Mundburg.”

Beorhthelm’s eyes grew round with astonishment. “The little holbyltla? Holdwine, who with the White Lady, slew the foul sorcerer? His kin, who felled the Dark Lord themselves?”

“Nay, they remain in their own land for now; yet these are for the most part, their close kin and friends. Three of them are cousins of our Holdwine, and of the Ringbearer, and one is brother-in-law to the Ringbearer’s Companion. There are four others as well, two of them are females, a healer and her apprentice, who wish to learn the healing arts of Gondor.”

“And also,” said Adrahil, “are four who are prisoners, traitors to their own people, who are being sent to the King for judgment.”

Beorhthelm studied the two before him for a long moment, before he spoke. “I can see there are many tales here, yet as astonishing as is your news, I fain you tell the truth. Come with me, up to our home, that we may talk more fully, and see how we may be of aid.” He sheathed his sword, and gestured to his son to do the same, and turned to walk up the path.

The two soldiers nodded at one another, and followed.

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Cado was worried. He was certain that Clovis and Dago were going to try something foolish. He hoped that Clovis would not try to browbeat their father and himself into joining them in their mad venture, for he was certain that any attempt to escape would be fruitless. While it was true that the Men were somewhat short-handed right now, Cado felt no confidence in the Bracegirdle’s ability to get away, and Clovis was bound to disaster whatever he did.

For his part, he wanted nothing to do with it, but he hoped that their father would feel the same way. He would not report them--he had said he wouldn’t, and he didn’t feel his place was to warn the Men, but he was not going to help either.

He glanced over at the two of them, taking the opportunity of being unobserved to whisper together. The four of them had been deposited in the shade of a tree, and only Artamir to watch over them at the moment. The Man stood, looking vigilant, not at the hobbits, but at their surroundings, thinking more apparently of threats from without, than of anything the hobbits might try.

And why should he? Realistically, what would Bracegirdle and Clovis accomplish if they ran off? Even assuming they were not caught immediately and brought back, and even assuming that Bracegirdle’s plan of disguising their tattoos and taking advantage of being Pippin’s cousin worked, it could not last long. Sooner or later they would be caught, and it would go that much harder on them when they did get punished. And Cado had been observing and thinking. He did not believe that they would be punished as severely as Men would for the same crime. He had noticed the way these Men treated hobbits in general, and even through the obvious contempt they had for those whom they considered traitors, they had taken good care of them. Since there was no future in the Shire, it was as well to be as cooperative as possible. Maybe their lives would not be so dreadful, if never as good as it could have been at home.

He felt a wave of homesickness for the Shire. For the first time he began to wonder--had his father actually been a traitor? And not just out to do some profitable business? Did his father know what Lotho would get up to? He glanced over at Clovis once more with resentment. Every bit of bad luck he’d ever had could be laid at his older brother’s foot.

He gave a frustrated sigh. Life was not good, and was not going to be good for the foreseeable future.

But it could be worse.

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They approached the farmstead, consisting of a large and well-built stable, a couple of smaller outbuildings, and a large and sturdy house, built in the Rohirric fashion, long and low, with a high-pitched roof. Beorhthelm called out as they approached, letting those within know that all was well, and the door was opened by a fair-haired woman, with a boy, equally fair-haired, who seemed to be just entering his teens standing behind her.

“This is my wife, Derehild, and my brother‘s younger son, Aedberht,” said Beorhthelm.

He introduced the two soldiers, and her eyes went wide. “Welcome,” she said carefully, her Westron even more heavily accented than her husband’s. She held the door widely open, and stood back for them to enter.

They entered, and Danulf felt for a moment that he had returned to the home of his father. Inside, they saw there a long table, at which sat an elderly woman holding a drop spindle, her silver hair in a long braid over her shoulder. A younger woman, very fair, but with long dark hair, was bending over a cradle, and on a stool next to the fire-pit sat a younger man, also dark-haired. He was honing a long knife. Danulf and Adrahil noted with sympathy that he had but one leg--his left leg was missing from the knee down, and a crutch lay next to him. His eyes flicked to the uniform that Adrahil wore, and he straightened up, sitting rather proudly.

Beorhthelm introduced the others. “This is she who is my mother, Bertrade widow of Beorhtnoth.” He spoke to the old woman softly in Rohirric, and she gave a nod to the strangers. Beorhthelm looked up. “She does not speak the Western tongue.”

Danulf gave her a small bow, and spoke briefly in Rohirric to her. She looked up at him, and her old blue eyes crinkled. She said something back to him and laughed softly.

Beorhtstan had gone over to the young woman’s side, and bending to the cradle took forth a sturdy baby of about six months of age.

Beorhthelm turned to them. “She who is wife to my son, Merewen, daughter of Menethor.”

She blushed prettily, and leaning slightly into her husband’s side, said “I am most pleased to meet you.” She spoke so softly and shyly that she could scarce be heard. Her husband smiled down at her, and placed the arm not holding the child about her waist.

“And the babe is my grandson, Elfstan.” said Beorhthelm proudly.

Danulf’s eyebrows climbed. “They named the babe for the High King?”

“Aye,” said the grandfather, “for my son and I were both at Helm’s Deep, and also at the Pelennor.”

Adrahil looked puzzled. Danulf glanced at him, amused, “ ‘Elfstan’ in Rohirric signifies ‘Elf-stone’.”

“Ah. I see.”

The dark-haired young Man had picked up the crutch and struggled to stand upright. Beorhthelm turned to him. “This is Mardil, brother to Merewen. He also fought at the great battle before Mundberg.”

Both Danulf and Adrahil inclined their heads to him respectfully, and they did not ask how he had lost his leg.

But Mardil replied as though they had. “I took a poisoned Orcish arrow in the calf. It was the only way to keep the poison from spreading.”

“Many there were,” said Adrahil, “who suffered such a fate. And some took the poisoned arrows where there was no remedy.”

“You have a thriving household, Beorhthelm,” said Danulf to their host, “yet I find I am surprised to see a Man of the Westfold here.” For traveling south of the Greyflood had brought them into Dunland.

“There are few enough Dunlendings about,” he replied, “and these empty lands are now open to be settled. Please, be seated at my table, and I shall tell you of our story.”
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