CHAPTER 28

Beneath the tree, Dago and Clovis laid their plans in furtive whispers. “If I pick an argument with your father, they are likely to separate us for tonight, and put you in with me. We’ll wait until everyone’s asleep, and slip under the back of the tent. They aren’t expecting the scouts back before noon tomorrow, and they won’t be able to spare more than one or two of the Men to search for us. We’ll be quiet and lay low--these Men are noisy enough, and not as canny as those Rangers.” Dago still had uncomfortable memories of the ease with which the Rangers had captured him when he first tried to slip out of the Shire.

Clovis shook his head. “What about *these*?” He lifted his tied hands in front of himself.

“They haven’t hampered us that much, have they? Once we’re out, you can slip into the cooking box and get us a knife.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re younger and quicker.”

“Don’t you think they might find us?”

“Maybe. But this is likely to be our last chance for a good long while. If we don’t take it now, we’re not going to see another one any time soon. They are two Men short, the other hobbits are all tired out from swimming lessons, and everyone is worn out from worry about the child.”

Clovis nodded. He looked up to see his younger brother staring at them, and gave him a glare. If Cado was too much of a coward to come along, it was his loss. He flicked a contemptuous glance at his father. His father had proven useless. Why had he ever thought his father was so wonderful? Bracegirdle was no prize, but at least he did not lay down like a lamb to the slaughter.

He started to say something more, when they noticed Berilac coming up to Artamir.

The Gondorian guard turned to the prisoners. “Supper time,” he said tersely. “Come along.”

In a few moments, the shade beneath the tree was empty, and then a lithe form dropped from the canopy.

As the little group had their evening meal, Legolas went over to Targon.

“Captain,” he said “a word with you, if you please.”

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After a pleasant meal, Adrahil and Danulf relaxed at the table with their host, and he told them of how a family of Rohan found itself on a steading in the wilds of Dunland.

“My son and I,” began Beorhthelm, “were in the éored of Grimbold of the Westfold. We were fortunate enough to win free at the Fords of Isen,” His face grew solemn, as he recalled his prince, Théodred, cut down in the prime of his life. “At any rate, when Gandalf Greyhame came upon us, he sent us to the Hornburg, to the aid of our King. Joyous was the news that our King’s spirit had been renewed, and he had thrown off the yoke put upon him by Gríma son of Galmod.” Beorhthelm spat at the mention of the cursed name. “We rode with the muster of the Rohirrim to the great battle before the gates of Mundberg. There, my son took a blow to the head from an Easterling, and his days would have ended, but at that very moment, the death cries of the accursed Dwimmerlaik sent our enemies into confusion. So it was that his life was spared by the blows struck by our Lady Éowyn and the holbytla Meriadoc of the North.”

Danulf and Adrahil exchanged glances. “The death of that foul Sorceror was the salvation of many upon the Pelennor,” said Adrahil.

Beorhthelm nodded. “My son was taken to the Houses of Healing, and I followed. In the cot next to him was young Mardil, and the we struck up a friendship. Merewen was among the healers, and when she was not attending the other wounded, she was by her brother’s side.” He smiled at his daughter-in-law, who was nursing the baby with a blanket thrown over for modesty. She looked up briefly, and smiled back fondly.

“It soon became clear to me that my son had grown fond of her. I smiled upon the match, as did her brother, and they were wed not long after the coronation of the High King.”

Mardil spoke up. “My sister and I had no parents. Our father had died long ago when we were yet children, and our mother died not long after. We were taken in by friends of our parents, yet never did we truly feel part of their family.”

“Mardil and Merewen accompanied us as we returned to the Westfold, but there we found that our steading had been burned out by Saruman’s forces; my wife and younger children, and my brother’s children had been taken to safety at Dunharrow. My brother, though he is a farmer, not a warrior, had joined with the defenders there.”

“Then word came several months ago: the empty lands in the north of Dunland would be open to any who wished to settle there. We decided to leave behind the sad memories of what had been, and to start a new life here.”

Danulf looked around. “You have done much in a small amount of time, Beorhthelm. I am impressed with this farm of yours.”

“Much of the credit goes to my brother. As I am a warrior, he is a farmer, and knows how to make the land yield up its bounty.”

“And it is the bounty of your land that brings us here,” said Adrahil. “As we said, we’ve coin to buy provisions. We cannot take much, as it is just the two of us, but--”

Beorhthelm held up his hand. “I will be glad to sell you some of our provision. I am thinking that if your Company would care to stop here with us for a time, then we may be able to spare a good deal more. And tomorrow, Beorhstan can ride back with you, leading a packhorse.”

The two soldiers grinned at one another. “That is most generous of you, Beorhthelm!” said Danulf.

“We cannot speak for our captains,” put in Adrahil, “but I think it is likely that they would be willing to take you up on your hospitality. I cannot be certain, though. Part of the delay has been caused by the illness of a member of our Company.”

For the first time Derehild spoke up, “Surely not one of the holbytlan?” she asked.

“No, goodwife,” said Adrahil, “it is a child, the page of our Company, a lad from Gondor. He took ill after a tumble into a stream. But he is on the mend now. Our Bergil is a sturdy youth, and not easily kept down.”

Merewen leaned forward, the baby over her shoulder, where she had been patting him. “Bergil, son of Beregond?” Her shyness seemed forgotten.

“Aye, Mistress Merewen,” said Adrahil. “Do you know of him?”

“He was one of the lads who ran errands for us in the Houses of Healing, during the siege. He truly is on the mend?”

“Yes, he is. One of the hobbits is a healer, and another her apprentice. He has had excellent care.”

She leaned back. “That is good then. He is a very dear boy.”

“He is, indeed,” Adrahil nodded.

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In the Captain’s tent, Bergil sat up, as Freddy came in with his supper and Bergil’s.

“I thought I’d keep you company while you ate, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Mr. Freddy!”

They sat back companionably, and attended to the food, Freddy in the businesslike manner of hobbits, and Bergil like any growing boy. Freddy was glad to see the boy’s appetite had improved.

After a while, as they sat sipping their tea, Bergil said, “I was wondering, you have known Sir Pippin for a long time.”

“Since he was only a faunt.” At Bergil’s puzzled look, he added, “since he was about three years old. Would you like to hear a story about him?”

The delighted grin on the child’s face was answer enough.

“One spring, when he and Merry were visiting Frodo at Bag End, my father had business to discuss with old Cousin Bilbo, and he took Folco and me along for the ride. Pippin was about eight years old then, and Merry was sixteen or so--”

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“You’re just useless,” snarled Dago to Clodio. Clodio looked at him in confusion at this attack seemingly out of nowhere.

“What brought that on?” he whined.

“I’m just sick of looking at you,” the Bracegirdle yelled.

“Leave my father alone!” shouted Cado.

“That’s enough of that!” Borondir walked over and snatched Dago up. “I still have the gag,” he said.

Targon shook his head. “Separate them tonight. Put him and the older cub together in your tent. Put the other two in with the Rohirrim.”

Dago could not quite suppress a flash of exultation in his eyes. So far, so good.

Cado watched as Borondir hauled Dago and Clovis off. He shook his head. Nothing good would come of this, he was sure.