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Chapter Sixteen - He knows not to what end he rides

“He knows not to what end he rides; yet if he knew, he would still go on.” - Tolkien – ‘The Return of the King’.

“This way! I thought you might get lost with the entrance being so well hidden,” Aedred said without bothering with the preamble of greetings.

Faramir visibly sighed with relief. For one dreadful moment, he had feared that the Healers had betrayed him.

“You look exhausted, Lord Faramir," Aedred fussed. "Come, you can rest now; Tarostar has let it be known that he has given you a powerful sleeping draught that will not wear off until at least noon. Did your mission go well?”

“I have stored all the supplies that you and Tarostar so generously provided,” Faramir replied, unable to suppress a yawn.

“We are glad to be able to help you, Lord Faramir,” Aedred said, turning to indicate the entrance to the rocky passage. The way back, although uphill, seemed far shorter that it had been before. After what seemed only a few minutes, Faramir was back in his room, where a light breakfast of bread and fruit was awaiting him. While the Steward ate, Aedred took his nightshirt from the pillow and straightened the covers, then left him to undress.

Although exhausted, Faramir wondered if he would be able to rest. His mind spun with endless uncertainties, possibilities and a dreadful fear that all his efforts would ultimately be in vain. He was grateful when Aedred reappeared with a mug of chamomile tea.

Faramir almost feared to sleep now. His dreams of Aragorn calling to him were becoming ever more vivid and terrifying. He had tried to mentally reach out to him to tell him that he was coming, but in vain. He either lacked the ability or sufficient experience to do so. Even now, a corner of mind still held a nagging doubt that it was all wishful thinking on both his part and the Queen’s.

“Wake up, Lord Faramir!” Tarostar’s voice roused him from yet another dark dream.

The Steward sat up, blinking at the bright sunlight streaming into the room. “Where? What?” he asked in confusion.

“Your ear infection is quite cured, Lord Faramir. You can go home today,” Tarostar announced breezily, with a finger to his lips and a conspiratorial wink.

“Thank you so much for your help, Master Tarostar,” the Steward answered sincerely.

“May the Valar bless you and keep you in good health!” the Healer replied, wondering if he would ever see Faramir again.

***

The Steward spent the next two days trying to think of the right things to say and do, in order to ingratiate himself with the Lord of Lamedon. Such wiles were completely alien to his nature, yet he must use them in order to discover the truth. Even if Aragorn were dead, he could at least try to bring the murderers to justice. Not that there were any penalty that the law could impose, which could ever serve as recompense for the loss of  so great a man.

Faramir made a statement before the Council, announcing he would be away for a short time. He ordered Imrahil to take charge of the City in his absence. He had to force himself to look contemptuously at the man he had loved since early childhood. He was then compelled to turn away from the open disgust in his uncle’s eyes. Tarostar had promised to tell the Prince of Dol Amroth that Faramir was perfectly sane, which had surely shattered Imrahil’s last shreds of hope that his nephew was no traitor.

Faramir wondered now if he were going to his own death at the hands of those who had killed his King. It far worse than preparing for battle; then he would have been surrounded by loyal comrades and his death, were it to come, would be swift and honourable. If only he could have seen Éowyn and his daughter for one last time!

Faramir had decided against taking his beloved Iavas to the Lord of Lamedon’s mansion. He did not want to risk harm to the beautiful chestnut mare. Instead, he decided to ride Zachus, an unremarkable but sturdy and reliable bay gelding, given to him by his father.  Zachus had been sent from Rohan as a colt for Denethor, but had proved a disappointment to the late Steward. The bay was far from elegant, closely resembling a carthorse and could be skittish in crowds. Faramir had thought of selling him but decided against it, fearing the gelding might end up in the hands of someone who would ill treat him. He had a soft spot for the clumsy but good-natured horse.

Faramir set out with the servant the Lord of Lamedon had sent, claiming disappointment that Iavas had a loose shoe and he had to arrive on an inferior horse.

“Never you mind, my lord,” said the servant. “His Lordship will lend you a fine mount for your stay. He has some of the best horseflesh in all of Gondor.”

To Faramir’s relief, the man was not talkative. As part of his plan, the Steward made a few seemingly casual remarks, about how much better things had been in Denethor’s day, when they passed places still in various states of disrepair.

Although they were headed in the same direction that Faramir had taken two nights before, this time the route lay through open countryside rather than woodland. The Steward pretended complete ignorance of the area, which was plausible enough. He had rarely been invited to house parties unlike his much more gregarious older brother. Boromir had revelled in the atmosphere that usually prevailed with liberal consumption of alcohol and easy availability of women. Faramir was the more like his father in that wise, adhering strictly to the Númenorean ideals of sobriety and sexual abstinence outside marriage.

The Lord of Lamedon’s mansion turned out to be a vast structure built from white stone and decorated with ornate turrets. As he rode through the gates, Faramir wondered if he were walking into a trap. He wished fervently that he could somehow have managed to bring troops and conceal them.

“Greetings, Lord Faramir!” Fosco said effusively. “Welcome to my humble abode! I am so glad that you could come, especially as I heard tidings you were unwell.”

“The thought of your lordship’s hospitality hastened my recovery,” Faramir replied.

“You come alone?” The Lord of Lamedon’s expression was suddenly wary.

“Of course, my lord, for what have I to fear now that the Northern upstart is no more! I know you care only for the welfare of my House and to see that my brother’s heiress given her due,” Faramir exclaimed with feigned fervour.

The Lord of Lamedon stepped aside and whispered a question to Faramir’s escort. The reply obviously satisfied him, as his smile became warmer. He embraced the Steward and kissed him on the brow. Faramir fought hard to repress a shudder as he returned the greeting. That he might be embracing Aragorn’s murderer, was not a pleasant thought.

“My servant tells me that you speak the truth, Lord Faramir,” his host smiled.

Once any question over his veracity would have horrified Faramir. Now, he merely nodded politely.

“Due to the fever our company is but small," said the Lord of Lamedon. ”We are going to stay with Dervorin of Ringlo Vale in his Hunting Lodge instead. This house is rather large for entertaining just a few guests and many of my friends are sick with the contagion at present. You will be amongst good friends. Do please, call me Fosco!”

 “I would be delighted, Fosco. Maybe we will find good sport at Lord Dervorin’s Lodge,” he said warmly. “Not that I will be able to wield a bow like I used to after our late unlamented King’s ill treatment of me!”

“You shall have the best healers to attend you in future, Lord Faramir, rather than an Elven trained charlatan!” the Lord of Lamedon gushed. ”You will then, I hope, recover your former strength.”

“Indeed, I may,” Faramir replied. “As I have not had the honour of visiting your home before, I would be most grateful if you could show me its splendours?”

“I would be delighted to, Lord Faramir,” Fosco replied, proceeding to take Faramir on a lengthy and detailed tour of endless rooms.

The Steward pretended polite interest, not all of which was feigned. The architecture was truly magnificent. He kept looking for any sign of Aragorn. He found none.

When the Lord of Lamedon even showed him the cellars and boasted of his fine collection of wines, his spirits sank. There was no way in which Aragorn could be concealed here; unless it were in some secret room he had no idea how to enter.

“Send up several more bottles of my best wine!” Fosco told the servant, who showed them round the cellars, “Lord Faramir must see just what my hospitality has to offer!”

A bell was rung soon after to announce dinner.

Faramir discovered that the Lord of Lamedon’s dining hall was more in the style of Rohan than of Gondor. No cutlery was used; apart from the daggers they carried, while the dogs roamed freely, picking up scraps off the straw covered floor.

The meal was a lavish affair with enough food for double the number present, washed down with far too much wine. Faramir pretended to imbibe freely, while spilling a good deal surreptitiously on the floor, drenching the bones that the dogs scavenged for amongst the straw. Faramir looked round the table for familiar faces, wondering if Hanna would be there, or any of the other lords he suspected. However, apart from Fosco's subdued wife, the only others present appeared to be wealthy tenant farmers.

“Tell me, Lord Faramir, what caused your change of heart regarding the King?” Fosco asked, once he considered the wine would have loosened Faramir’s tongue.

“He made me do all the hard work while he took the glory for it,” Faramir replied, slurring his speech slightly. “I also disliked seeing how much influence his Elven wife and friends had over honest men of Gondor. Then the final straw came, when he had me sent to prison and beaten when his friend, Éomer of Rohan attacked me. The man he had hanged was a mere scapegoat for his perfidy! I cannot even eat properly since my dreadful ordeal as I suffered such injuries!” That lie at least gave him an excuse for his lack of appetite. He tossed another piece of meat to the dogs at his feet.

“You will rejoice then, Lord Faramir, that the scoundrel is getting what he deserves at last, as I am sure you will be pleased to know,” the Lord of Lamedon smirked.

“Indeed!” Faramir tried to look indifferent. Inwardly his heart pounded as the significance of the remark sunk in.

The meal over, everyone appeared too drunk to move, which gave Faramir a chance to ponder the situation. From what he remembered of the map, which he dared not bring with him, Dervorin’s Hunting Lodge was only a few miles away.

With only an hour or so left before sunset, the party finally set off along a rough and narrow track. It wound steeply through the forest, broken only by the occasional field where scrawny cows, marked with Dervorin’s distinctive brand, foraged for the meagre winter grazing. Two armed Guards wearing the Lord of Lamedon’s livery led the way and the party proceeded at a slow and cautious pace.

Faramir’s heart was in his mouth as they neared their destination. He could sense that the mystery of Aragorn’s disappearance was finally going to be solved. He was certain now that the invitation had been a test to see whether he would turn up unescorted as bidden. He suspected the Guards were not for the Lord of Lamedon’s protection but to stop him trying to escape.