CHAPTER 52

Word had come to the hobbits that there was to be another feast that evening, a feast of welcoming for the Prince and Princess from Dol Amroth. They were discussing it over a luncheon in their quarters.

Viola was pleased. There would be another chance to wear her pretty gown, and perhaps she would be seated next to Berilac again. They had not much time together since they had arrived in Edoras. Mistress Poppy had kept her quite busy with their patient, and Berilac had been much in Freddy’s company as they tried to find out as much as they could about Rohan. Berilac had said it was his duty as a Brandybuck, seeing as how the future Master of Buckland was a Knight of Rohan. But perhaps they would have another chance to talk this evening. She cast a glance in his direction, and then blushed and smiled as she caught him doing the same to her. He lifted his hand slightly, and waggled his fingers at her in a comic wave, and she giggled.

The rest of the hobbits pretended not to notice, though Mistress Poppy cast her eyes to the ceiling.

Berilac hid his grin of triumph by taking a drink of his ale. He glanced at his cousin Mosco on his other side, and said, “I think I may try to run a little errand this afternoon before the feast. Would you like to come with me?”

Intrigued, Mosco nodded.

A short while later, he followed Berilac as the Brandybuck sought out Wiglaf. When he told the servant what he was searching for, Mosco’s eyes grew wide. He wondered what the Brandybucks back home would think of *this*!

Wiglaf stood thoughtfully for a moment, one finger to his chin, and then he said, “I am not sure that I know anywhere that you can get *exactly* what you are looking for, but I know that in the Street of Weavers there is a spinster to whom my wife often goes for similar things. I will have one of the underservants accompany you, for it may be that she does not speak Westron.”

Berilac nodded, and he and Mosco waited, while Wiglaf went to find a servant to go with them.

Mosco looked at his cousin. “Are you altogether certain about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure in my life,” said Berilac, “and I don’t wish to wait any longer.”

“Well, I cannot say that it is really a surprise to me.”

Berilac just grinned.

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Clovis muttered imprecations beneath his breath as one of the undercooks piled another huge pot on the stack next to his dishpan. There was already a mountain of ironmongery and crockery there, and it was all he could do to keep it from tumbling over. His hands were rough from the scrubbing and his fingers were wrinkled from the hot water. His clothing was greasy and stained. He was wet, hot, and dirty.

He had thought himself ill-used before this, but the flurry of activity in the kitchen this day made all he had experienced before seem as nothing. This princess was likely to become the new queen, and the whole kitchen was a-buzz. Mistress Grimhild was determined that there would be nothing for this foreign lady to complain of, and that all would be perfect at the feast.

There was no denying it was going to be delicious. The smells had been tormenting Clovis the livelong day. Both pork and lamb had been roasting, and fish and fowl were also being prepared. The yeasty smell of rising bread, and the scent of a marvellous golden leek and onion pottage, redolent of saffron teased his nose and made his mouth water. All around him were huge people chopping vegetables and mixing things.

True, he and the others working in the kitchens would probably get their share of all this bounty--at least of what was left *after* the feast was ended! But that would not be until much later, and in the meantime, they made do with day-old bread, bean soup and cheese, washed down with watered ale.

With an sigh, he hefted the huge crockery bowl he had been washing out of the water, and placed it on the table to the side. Then he turned to take another from the stack of dirty ones. But he was moving jerkily in his anger, and he overbalanced on the stool he stood upon; as he grasped the dirty bowl with his wet hands, he began to fall. The next thing he knew, he was deposited on his backside with a thump, on the hard stone flags of the floor.

And the mountain of dirty dishes began an avalanche. Amid the clatter and crash, and the sound of breaking dishes, all of the bustle and hubbub of the kitchen came to a sudden silent standstill.

Clovis looked up, to find himself staring into the angry eyes of Mistress Grimhild.

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Jolly, Rolly and Denny had often occupied their afternoons in Edoras by exploring the town. Usually they would go about in company with any one of the Riders who were not busy with their own tasks, but sometimes they would go out on their own, asking their questions through gestures, or occasionally finding a townsman who spoke a bit of Westron. They had been stood to drinks in nearly every tavern in Edoras at least once, and they had, on more than one occasion, gone to the homes of their Rohirric friends to meet parents or wives and children.

Everywhere they went, they were the objects of curiousity. Jolly had found it quite amusing, though in the beginning, it had intimidated Rolly and Denny. But they had soon realised that there was no malice in it, and that the people were genuinely interested in the “holbytlan”, as they called them. Often they were told some story or other about Merry, and sometimes about the other hobbits--though they were unsure as to how true they were. The idea that Frodo was a great wizard who blasted the Dark Lord’s Tower to bits with his magic they found more than a little silly, but they were too polite to say so. They’d heard enough on this trip to have put together most of the truth of the matter.

And they discovered that however far off the mark the stories about Frodo, Sam and Pippin might be, the stories about Merry all seemed to be in line with what they knew of the matter.

They had wondered about that, but finally had come to the conclusion that since the people of Rohan felt as though Merry *belonged* to them, they made more of an effort to keep things straight.

Jolly broached the question to Anwynd, in whose company they now strolled the streets of Edoras. They were on their way to a tavern kept by the Rider’s brother-in-law.

Anwynd chuckled. “Nay, Master Jolly, that may be a part of it, but not the whole! Most of the Riders who lived through the War were *there* when our White Lady and our Holdwine, Sir Meriadoc, struck down that foul enemy--true, none were close enough to see and hear *all*, but there was no mistaking later as to what had passed. Further, though the song of Gléowine the skald made of Théoden King was the last he ever made as the King’s bard, his sister-son Gléomund made his *first* song of the ride of the Lady Éowyn and of Meriadoc son of Saradoc and their defeat of the foul Sorcerer on the Pelennor. And our White Lady made certain that the tale he sang was the true one!”

“Was that the song we heard on our first night here?” asked Denny.

“Aye; and it was rendered both in Rohirric and in the Common Tongue, so that Sir Meriadoc and his kin could understand it.” Anwynd smiled. “I believe our valiant Holdwine was quite embarrassed the first time he heard it. But his kin who were with him seemed to enjoy it greatly. I remember very well the look of pride he received from the Ringbearer!”

Jolly nodded. “Mr. Frodo was always right proud of his cousin, anyhow. They are more like brothers than cousins, what with them being brung up together when Mr. Merry was small.”

Anwynd nodded. “I noticed that during our time in the Shire--ah, here is Leodred’s tavern! Wait until you taste the ale my sister brews--it is, I ween, every bit as good as that in your famous Green Dragon!”

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Clovis wielded the mop slowly. He had never been this tired before in his entire life. He had been terrified by the look on Mistress Grimhild’s face, but more than a little relieved when the only punishment he received was to clean up his mess. He had taken away the shards of broken pottery--thankfully, they had not included any of the more valuable dishes, but only the heavy stuff used for cooking. He had restacked the pots. Two of them had serious dents, and he was going to have to haul them to the blacksmith when he finished mopping.

She had railed at him a bit, but she was so angry it was all in Rohirric, and he could not understand enough of it yet to know what she had said. When her rant was finished, she had stood silently for a moment, glaring at the mess. Then she sighed, and shrugged.

“Well, holbytla, you will take care of this mess! And I shall see to it that you have something sturdier to stand upon in future.” And then she had turned her wrath on the other workers who were standing about gawping. “Do you not all have something more important to do than to stare at a few broken dishes?”

Soon the kitchen was bustling once more--there was a feast to prepare, after all!

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Cado suddenly ducked behind the corner of a nearby shop. Danwine and Edric looked at him in surprise, but quickly joined him.

“What is wrong, Cado?” asked Danwine.

“I just saw some of the other hobbits. I didn’t want them to see me.”

“Why not?” asked Edric. “I would think you would be glad to see them.”

Cado sighed. “They would not be glad to see *me*. Two of them are distant kin of mine. They don’t think much of me now that I’ve disgraced the family name.”

“Oh.” Edric looked disappointed. He would have liked to meet the other holbytlan.

Danwine peered down the street. “They are gone into the tavern now, Cado. Come, Granfa is waiting on us at the cobbler’s shop.”

Both of the boys were being fitted for new boots, and Cado had come with them and Danhelm to the cobblers. Once the boys’ feet had been measured, they had gone to show Cado some of the town, while their grandfather visited with his old friend the cobbler.

Cado sighed. He wished he could tell Rolly and Denny how sorry he was for what he’d done. But he doubted they’d ever want to hear it.

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Berilac had been very pleased with his purchase from the spinster. True, it was not *exactly* what he’d been looking for, but it was close enough.

They returned to Meduseld to ready themselves for the evening’s feast. They had missed the “teatime” the hobbits had among themselves in their quarters, and Mosco was vocal in his complaints on that score. But Berilac was cheerful enough for both of them. “All the more room in your belly for the feast!” he laughed, getting a glare in return. It only made him grin the more.

He whistled cheerfully as he went to don his finery for the evening. And he hoped that he’d be seated next to Viola again.

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Viola twirled about. Truly her sister and aunt had outdone themselves with this outfit.

“Are you sure that you do not wish to come to the feast, Mistress Poppy?” she asked, as the healer watched her apprentice. “I am sure that Hiltrude would stay with the patient.”

“No, lass. I’m in no mood for all this frippery tonight, and I don‘t wish to dress up; I will dine just as heartily at the patient’s side. And Hiltrude would stay, I am sure, but she has a new grandchild she wishes to see, and I already told her we didn‘t need her tonight. But you behave yourself, my lass! No more than a cup of that mead, and drink plenty of water with it! Come and relieve me when the feasting is ended.”

“He really is well, Mistress Poppy,” said Viola diffidently.

“Yes, he *is* mostly well, my child. But I will keep him company anyway. He remains my responsibility until we get him to Minas Tirith.” She kissed her apprentice on top of her head, and gave her a little shake. “Now, along with you! And don’t let that Brandybuck cozen you into doing aught that you shouldn’t!”

Viola gasped and blushed. “Mistress!”

But Mistress Poppy just laughed. “Go, child. Go.”