~ Chapter 23 ~

Gimli shivered. They had brought only one blanket apiece. 'Let us light a fire,' he said. 'I care no longer for the danger. Let the Orcs come as thick as summer-moths round a candle!'

TTT: The Riders of Rohan

~oOo~

~ TA 3009, 9^th day of Urimë:  Rangers Haldren and Mathil, assigned Amun Sûl six weeks past there to lay watch upon the East Road, due to report to Melethron two weeks past. Mathil reporting little movement upon the East Road at end of cycle.  Haldren left Amun Sûl to Mathil’s watch to pursue signs of incursions to the north and east in the Weather Hills.  Was to return to Amun Sûl within five days.  Melethron to Bree in three days hence. Gelir and Mathil to search for sign of Ranger Haldren and report to Bree within three weeks of reaching Amun Sûl.

~oOo~

 

The warp hangs in bundles from where I have sewn them to the tough linen. Soft and thick they are, and of a wool the color of ash. I hope to weave into it a weft of cream so that when I dye the whole in walnut hulls, it shall be a cloth of heathered browns and grays, and yet light enough for my lord to lie upon the forest floor under its protection come the fall and winter and not be so swiftly seen.

I have chosen a weave of repeating diamonds and shall need three heddles. I think it will be a pleasure to let my fingers remember the work, leaving my thoughts to drift elsewhere. I sewed the cloth about my beam of greatest length and it sits now upon the heddle supports, from where the bundles of warp threads dangle. I set them to rights, untwisting them and pulling them out from under the beam so that, when I use the forked poles to lift the beam to the very top of the uprights, they shall not catch upon the heddle supports.

So caught up in the soft tangle of yarn am I the shadow that falls upon the warp startles me badly, and I cringe and step away. I had not known my thoughts so deep, for, to my surprise, Halbarad stands at my side, his hand flying quickly to hover o’er my lips. But once he catches my gaze, his eyes slide away.

There, at the end of the path his eyes take, my lord sits at his table. His finger runs upon the short hairs about his lip and his eyes look far off. I wonder at what Halbarad intends until I see the look upon my lord's face is dark with a frustrated rage. He has been at his maps, again, and there they lie, covered in black stones. We have had news with our morning meal, and Haldren, an elder among our lord's Rangers and used to the Wild, is much delayed in his return as is not his wont.

I turn away and nod my understanding to Halbarad and he bows with the bare tilt of his head. My lord shall have many more weeks of this enforced dependence, no matter what moves upon the Wild. It is no wonder he suffers.

Halbarad strides to the door and my lord's hand drops from his face.

"You go to see Master Maurus?" he calls after his kinsman.

"Aye," says Halbarad, his hand upon the latch.  “And to take further report from Mathil and give him his commands as you asked.”

"I shall go with you, then," my lord says, rising.

"Nay!" Halbarad says, waving his kin to his seat. "Do not trouble yourself. Best not raise suspicions, eh?  Stay and rest. I shall be back upon the even’s meal."

And with that, he is gone, the door banging swiftly shut behind him. My lord frowns but soon shakes his head and seats himself again. His chair creaks with his weight and my lord sighs. With a sudden movement, he sweeps up the stones from where they litter the map and begins stuffing them into their sack. He will be at it for some time. The stones are many, the mouth of the sack is soft, he has but one hand to use, and he uses more force than may be strictly necessary.

So, Halbarad has left it up to me. Had I my choice, it would be easiest to distract my lord with the sweetness of kisses and a soft, tender touch. I marvel were this, indeed, what Halbarad intended. Were I my lord's love, I think he might find comfort in it. But as it stands, I am uncertain should my lord welcome my advances upon him e’en should he be in the mood for them.

I have seated the forked poles securely against the beam and now raise it, sliding wood and cloth upon the uprights as it goes. The beam is heavy and the butts of the poles press into my belly so that I grimace at the weight. It is none so pleasant, but it works, at least most attempts, for I allow one end of the beam falter. I hiss with mayhap more displeasure than strictly necessary, and then struggle in truth, for my trickery has put me in real danger of tipping the upright upon the floor, and then dropping the heavy warp beam and cracking it beyond use.

A hand steadies the upright, my lord having come upon me swiftly from behind. I blush of a sudden, for I have not made such poor work of placing the warp beam since I was a young girl, and I am loath for my lord to consider me so inept. Together we lift the beam, I with my poles and my lord with his good arm, raising it high until it settles heavily into place atop the uprights.

"My thanks to you, my lord," I say as I lay aside the poles. "Forgive me for having disturbed you."

But he shakes his head and gives me his gentle smile. I think he is done here and about to go.

I stare up at the beam, making a show of squinting at it and considering what next to do. In truth, in our struggle, strands of the warp have become tangled in the notch between beam and upright.

"My lord," I say and his steps still, "Should I raise the beam, could you pull those free?" I nod to where the warp lies trapped beneath the beam. I could easily put them to rights myself, but mayhap he would not know this.

My lord raises his face to frown up at the warp where it is pinned.

"Aye," he says slowly and then casts about.

His face clears when I drag the bench I had pulled from beside the hearth closer to the loom. Unbalanced as he is with his arm lashed to his breast, my lord lays a light hand upon my shoulder to find his feet upon the bench. With the pole I lift the beam and my lord pulls the warp free. But, when done, he does not leap to the floor. Instead, he looks down upon the swinging yarns, puzzling out their tangles as I untie the bundles of warp threads and shake them loose.

"I do not recall you using such a thick stuff afore," he says and draws the wool between fingers and thumb. "Do you not use finer thread?"

"Aye, my lord, but the spinning depends upon the use," I say, combing the yarns apart with my fingers. Seeing that the threads I seek to untangle cling one tother above my head, he steps across the bench so he can card the warp for me with his fingers and ease my task.

"This I shall weave with another soft yarn,” I go on to his puzzled frown, “and then take the cloth to the Weaver's shed and ask Master Theril to have it fulled.  When ‘tis done, my lord, it shall be a thick, sturdy blanket to keep out both cold and wet well-fit to the needs of those who wander."

We change places so I may go on pulling the bundles apart unhindered. I wonder at the look he gives me. It is all I can do to not flinch beneath it.

"My lord," I say, leaping into boldness the better to hide my unease, "now you are home, would you lend me your aid in its making, when you have the time to spare? It would go the quicker, then."

"I?" he says and laughs but does not say me nay. For though a woman may ply spindle and loom at home, 'tis the men who make of it their life's work. "I wonder you would wish to suffer the trial of my fumbling."

I smile. "Come the end, my lord, it most like be the greater hardship for you."

"Think you so?"

The smile my lord turns upon me is knowing, but he seems to delight in the challenge, natheless.

"What must I do, lady?" he asks with a lift of his chin.

"Well, my lord," I say and return to tugging the warp threads from their bundles. "We must establish the first shed and then tie the warp to their weights."

"The shed?"

"Aye, there will be four sheds, so should it please my lord, count every fourth yarn and drop it over that rod," and here I point to the shed rod that connects the uprights at the level of my knee, "we could begin. Later we will string the rest upon the heddle rods." I then point to the long rods lying on the floor.

My lord gives me a puzzled look but, with a wry shake of his head, seems willing to leave what he does not comprehend for later instruction. Stepping along the bench, he bends his head to peer at the warp upon the far end of the beam, frowning at the twists of thread. And then he pulls a yarn from its mates and releasing it, sets it to twisting behind the rod.

So the morning passed. With Elesinda and my lord's reeve at their day of rest and Halbarad dining with Master Maurus and his family, my lord commanded I be spare with my preparations for the noon meal. And, indeed, he insisted upon plundering the pantry himself, bringing out bread and cheese and toasting it o’er the hearth to eat with our ale while I put the last touches to a soup I had prepared of greens, beans, and mutton-bone. We ate swiftly and in silence, albeit companionably, and returned to our task.

My lord is of a quick and eager mind, and soon, between the two of us, the weights pull the warp taut, the heddles are threaded, and a finger’s width of cloth grows down from the beam. My lord pulls at the heddles, murmuring to himself to keep his place, and atimes beats the weft up against the cloth with the weaver's sword.

In his stead, for the lack of his good arm, my lord set me to cataloguing the movements of his men, gleaning numbers, places and times from the reports that litter his table. I listen as I work to the chiming of the weights and the scuff of my lord's feet and the groaning of bench as he walks the width of the loom.

And thus we spent what was left of the day, I sitting upon a bench beside my lord's chair, bent o’er his journals and he, striding afore the loom and, upon occasion, cursing so softly I hear not the words. It is all I can do to keep the smile from showing on my face where my lord might easily read my thoughts. No matter my diversion, I would not have my lord think I belittle his efforts. As it is, I need bend all force of mind to my task. I have thought to draw the movements of his men upon the page, much as my lord places his stones upon his maps. I clutch the quill between tight fingers, slow to make my mark upon the parchment and careful of what I would place there, for I would not give cause for my lord's plans to falter nor he to find fault with the aid I offer.

"Lady," I hear and lift my head to find my lord frowning at his work.

"Aye, my lord?" I set aside the quill. Rising, I go to him. He taps the end of the wooden sword against his breast, his dissatisfaction spread broad across his face.

"What is this?" he asks, drawing the wooden tip across the cloth when I come close.

My lord has done well. The weave is tight and the edges even, for the most part, a passable effort. But I see what disturbs him. A long line lies upon the cloth, only truly seen should one's eyes be practiced to the weave.

"I fear, my lord, you lost track of the heddles at this point."

"Truly?" he asks, surprised and, I think, more than a little dismayed. He moves close in and then further away now that he can stand upon the floor, but not too far, tethered as he is to the loom by the bundle of weft thread. "Is there aught can be done to correct it?"

"No, my lord. I fear not. You must unwind your weaving unto that point and begin anew."

He scowls at the cloth and then scratches at his jaw, his fingers sounding harsh against his beard.

"There is naught else for it, my lord," I say. "Either suffer the fault or undo the work."

"Very well." He winds the length of weft upon itself. "I take it I need only reverse my steps?"

"Aye, my lord. But, when you start again, you must be careful of the edges.  They creep inward so slowly you will not know it and shall soon have a much narrower piece than first you intended," I say, running my finger down the edge of the cloth and plucking at the guide thread so that it thrums low.

He scowls at the threads, watching my hands.  I leave him to it and he sighs, but sets immediately to putting the cloth to rights as should the fault offend him and he wish it removed from his sight as soon as can be.

"How long should it be until I need not count each pass to keep my place?" he asks.

I gather my skirts about me and ease myself between the table and bench.

"I know not, my lord. I suppose not long, as it is a simple pattern." I stumble at my lord's look. Mayhap I should not have called it thus.

"Simple? And what qualifies as a master's work?"

"Verily, my lord, 'tis a simple pattern. I doubt not you will get the right of it soon enough." I take up the quill again. The end has split and I reach behind me for the knife my lord keeps in his tall chest against the wall.

"How old were you when you mastered this pattern?" He waves the sword at the warp behind him.

I swallow and consider the quill point I am attempting to shape and my answer. He will not like it. "I believe I had a full ten years, my lord."

All I am to receive in reply is a blank, disbelieving look, and then he turns back to the loom. I think the very wood and wool would quail should it have thought enough to perceive the grim look it gets.

"A child of ten," he mutters and pulls roughly on the heddle. The weights bang sharply against each other in a great discord. He pauses, and then deliberately eases the heddle to its supports.  “Are you certain you have not the touch, lady?”

At this, I smile, for I cannot think how such a thing would have much to do with mastering somewhat as simple as the interweaving of threads.  “Quite certain, my lord, unless my mother had the touch, as well.  I am afraid you must continue your search for answers elsewhere.” 

He shakes his head. Though he does not respond ‘tis certain he does not fully agree.

It is not long after he has corrected his error the door opens and Halbarad returns.

He stares, I think, surprised not only to see his lord and I still in the hall, but to see our roles so completely at opposites.

"Halbarad," my lord greets him mildly and then returns to beating the warp with a light hand.

"What is this you do?" his kinsman asks, drifting from the door to the loom.

"No more than what it looks, nor no less."

"Why?"

"Well," my lord says, lifting a shoulder, "for naught else, I am allowed the use of this." His eyes dance with suppressed mirth as he turns the weaver's sword about so Halbarad might examine each surface.

"Formidable, indeed, though mayhap a trifle dull, should you allow." Halbarad backs away from the loom, taking it in from top to bottom. "And so, this is what you have been at?"

"Aye, it goes slowly," my lord says. "I have only been at it since just after the noon meal."

"We come swiftly upon dusk, now."  At a sharp look from his kin, Halbarad allows, “Mayhap it is bit cumbersome to attempt with one hand.  All in all, it seems a fine bit of cloth."

He looks it over, and then squints and peers closely. "What happened there?" he asks and then backs away, tilting his head as were he attempting to gain a view of the whole.

"Where?" My lord follows his kin's gaze, scowling.

"There." Halbarad points at a line that falls as a thin shadow from edge to edge. "Does not the pattern falter?"

"It does no such—" my lord protests but then he falls silent of a sudden and the quiet is near as tense as a curse.

Aught more and I think I shall need bite through my tongue to quell my laughter.

"Well, my lord," Halbarad says and clears his throat. "Mayhap I should leave you to it, then."

I need not see the man's face to discern his amusement. Nor does my lord, for he clouts his kin upon his shoulder with the weaver’s sword in a great slap.

"Enough out of you, or I will set you to it and you can find for yourself just how easily you take to it."

Halbarad makes his way to the buttery, chuckling and rubbing his shoulder, his stride easy. "My lady," says he and nods his greeting ere he ducks his head beneath its door.

“Did Mathil have much else to report?” asks my lord, raising his voice o’er the sound of his work.

“Eh?” calls Halbarad, his voice muffled behind the wood of the half-closed door.  “Mathil? Nay, no more than we already knew from him afore.”

“Indeed?” My lord pauses in his work to glance at the darkened buttery door.

“What of it?” Halbarad demands.  He has emerged from the buttery with a cup of ale and comes to my lord’s table.

“You were there for far more of the day needed to gain so little news.”  My lord has turned his attention away, but, for some reason, looks rather pleased.  “Did I not say it?  You had little to worry on Mathil’s account. His eyes follow you all places you may go.  Mayhap I shall now have some relief and need not heed the habitual recital of your misgivings.”

Though his look is somewhat pained, Halbarad snorts and goes on as though my lord had not spoken, “Elder Maurus had much to say, though not much on where Bachor obtains his supplies of wine and more of aught he has e’er said afore. 'Tis a marvel the stars still stand and the sun rises upon the break of day."

Halbarad eases himself to the bench across from where I sit. The breath he releases o’er his cup is long in suffering.

My lord chuckles from his place by the loom. "And how fares Maurus? Will he attend the Council upon the morrow?"

"No, I think not." Halbarad scrubs at the back of his head and yawns mightily. "'Twould not surprise me should he take to bed in preparation for the end of all things."

"Halbarad," says my lord, his voice mild. "Much of the Angle stands as it does because of him."

Halbarad shakes his head and grimaces. "Aye, I do not contest it, but I wonder at his hold upon the Council at his age," he says, his voice rising and look vexed. "The Council needs but one firm hand, not the six it has."

My lord turns a kind albeit brief look upon his kin ere returning to his work.

"Aye, aye! 'Patience! Have faith!'" Halbarad says and sighs, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "'Tis hard when the days grow short."

Their words had not disturbed me, though I listen. But now their silence seems as a shout. I raise my head to find Halbarad looking upon me, and I wonder at his thoughts. His brows are knit with concern.

"My lady, what is it you do?" He leans across the table.

I turn the journal about, so he may better see the page. Numbers, dots, and arrows mar the surface of my makeshift map. "I have all but the last of my lord's men to account for of what we know of this last month."

"Eh!" he grunts, his brow rising. "Seems our lists were plain enough.”

I drag the journal back to its place afore me. Despite my lord’s quiet approval of the work, Halbarad’s words sting as had he slapped my hand away as would a parent of a young child.  My lord is very quiet at his work by the loom.  I know not his thoughts on the matter.

Halbarad returns my gaze steadily and slowly spins his cup between his palms. I must stare at the man, for I cannot account for his ill-temper.  Ai!  I shall profit nothing from a contest of wills on such foreign soil as this. 

With some effort, I drop my eyes to stare at the marks upon the page afore me.  I confess it, some of the joy of it has drained from the work.  I hope I had not expected praise from the man, but surely not such censure was deserved. 

With this, Halbarad releases a slow breath and takes up his ale.  I am unsure why this must enflame me, but it does, and a heat rises to my thoughts so I know not the meaning of what I had just put upon the page. Be he kin of the man or no, how dare he visit his ill mood upon me in such a way as to demean me afore my lord and husband!

“My lord,” I say, dipping the nib to the inkhorn and making a deliberate mark upon the page.  “Would it not be the role of the Council to assure that Mistress Nesta has what she needs for the health of the Angle’s folk, especially now Master Dwalin’s folk no longer travel across the Great Road?’

Halbarad peers at me from o’er the rim of his cup and my lord pauses in his work. For a long moment, he stands very still and considers me keenly.

“I do not question the wisdom of your foresight on this matter, lady, but that is not your purpose, is it?  To what end would you put the Council to it?”   

I shift in my seat, though I do not look up from my lord’s journal. 

“The wine Elder Bachor provides the mistress is not of the Southfarthing, but I do not recognize it, my lord.  I doubt I may discover the source, but enough of when he provided it, how much, and of what type it is to give you a start.”

“And why might wine of Southfarthing be of significance, my lady?” Halbarad has set down his cup and scowls at me from across the table. 

I falter.  He must truly think me both blind and deaf to the events in my lord’s hall.  I stare mutely at the man. 

At this, my lord carefully sets the loom at rest, releasing the heddle rod he had been holding to its supports.  Hanging the wooden sword upon its hook, he strides to the table and, easing his legs o’er the bench, takes a seat beside his kin.  There he turns an impassive look upon me.   

I set the quill upon its rest and remove my hands to my lap, where it seems my eyes are drawn.  Oh, ai!  I have been most unwise and tread upon things my betters would think well beyond me.  I know of women who have been shunned by their husbands and kin for less than this.  I dare not look full upon them, the men of my house arrayed together across the table from me.   

My lord’s look betrays naught of his thoughts, and now do I greatly regret attempting an attack upon his kin’s fitness. I know not how I thought my lord would not detect my purpose nor my perception of what he might not wish me to have greater understanding.  At the least, I shall have many months of hard work repairing what trust I might hope to regain.  At the most, I may have sundered myself from my lord in all but name, all for a poorly played moment of pettiness. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” I say and clear my throat, staring at my lap. “I should not –"

“I am not the one owed apology, lady,” he says.

At this, I release a slow breath as quietly as I dare.  Ai, merciful Nienna.  I swallow what pride I have left and speak.  “Forgive me, Ranger Halbarad.  I should not have seen fit to take precedence in matters that are yours.” 

I dare a quick glance at the man and he nods, though his face as soft as stone. 

“I weary of your contentions,” my lord states flatly. “They will not be aired afore me again.” 

To my surprise, his stern look takes in both Halbarad and I. I know not how to respond, for I was unaware of any strife between his kin and I afore today.  Aye, well, I doubt my lord in any mood to accept my protests.  There is naught for it but to nod in agreement. 

“Now, answer the question put to you, lady,” he commands. 

“As it please you, my lord,” I say and, nodding briefly to the map I had yet to finish, watch as my hand worries at the web of skin between thumb and finger.  “’Tis clear, my lord, from your councils with your men upon this past winter, the maps with your markers that you leave upon the table, and now with the ordering of your men’s comings and goings that you are much concerned with securing the border of the land of the Halflings against incursion of our Enemy.  In doing so, you have left much of our own folk unguarded.”

“What do you think of this?”

I shake my head.  “’Tis not my place to sit in judgment upon you, my lord.”

“That is not what I asked,” he says and points at me. He then taps upon the table afore me.   “Do not think I have missed that you hide much from me, lady. I have no need to know all of it.  But these are matters of grave importance and I would know the thoughts of my household on them.  Speak fully, or we shall ne’er speak of it again and I shall exercise a much greater caution.” 

At this, it is as had I been plunged in cold water of great depth.  For, at this moment, I cannot breathe and all else feels numb and the hall about me at a great remove.  An I thought my lord circumspect in revealing his heart and his mind with me afore, should I fail of his trust, how lonely and cold the marriage bed shall I make for myself.  For he is sure to set a guard upon me to ensure my compliance and ne’er speak to or touch me unless it is to see to the making of his heir.

I set the nail of my thumb to the skin pinched between thumb and forefinger and hope the pain shall sharpen my thoughts.   

“I have ever known you willing to bear the burden of our protection,” I say, “no matter the cost.  I can only think there must be somewhat or someone in that land you prize as necessary for our defense.  It must be of great significance to the Nameless One, else you would not have taken to your journeying so hard upon Lord Mithrandir’s visit.  And him newly come from the Shire to seek you out.”

My lord makes a small thoughtful sound.  “And what think you Elder Bachor has to do with the matter?”

“’Tis not just him.  You would not wish any folk of the Angle to have dealings with Bree or the Shire, for it would risk drawing eyes upon it you would not wish to linger there.  I would think, too, you would not wish those of the Angle to know of your plans, or, at least, to delay their full understanding as long as you are able.  Elder Bachor has the wit to discern our situation easily, should he have news, and he has the ear of those who would not take to it kindly.  You need this time to build upon the Angle’s goodwill what defenses you can for them. Should he discover the whereabouts of your men, we are sure to have little goodwill and little time.”

I have released the skin of my hand, leaving it dark about a half-moon of imprinted flesh.  I rub at the ink that stains the forefinger of my writing hand and await my lord’s judgment upon me. 

A great clap of an open palm upon the table startles me so badly I jerk upon my seat and my eyes fly up to find Halbarad’s eyes fixed upon my lord.  For my lord has taken to smiling softly upon me and his eyes shine with somewhat of gratification and relief.  I know not why, but Halbarad’s features are both grim and sad. He shakes his head as had he somewhat he would say but is not allowed the right. He rises swiftly from his seat, the edge of his boot knocking upon the bench in his haste.  I can only stare at his back as he strides to the great door and mumbles somewhat of seeking out Master Baran.  With a jerk, he snatches the door open and disappears behind it. 

“Lady.” 

‘Tis only then I can turn to my lord.  He had watched his kin’s departure. But now, he wipes at his mouth and chin, and, once his hand drops to the table, turns a sober look upon me. 

“It seems ‘tis I who owes you amends, lady.  I had had no real hope of concealing the movements of my men and the importance it reveals from you, but had not given much thought to your understanding of the ramifications.”

“My lord?”

“Introduce your proposal to the Council,” he says in a low, steady voice.  “Should you learn aught of Elder Bachor’s dealings with those outside the Angle, I would know them.  But do so with great care.  Aye, he is subtle of thought and not much happens that goes without his notice.  An you can reason so clearly to our purpose, so can he. Should it seem your attempts reveal too much, desist from them and we will pursue another route by which to discover what risks his sources present.  He is a member of the Council and one of our kin.  Your presence on the Council is a discomfort for him as it is.  It is to no one’s good should he have reason to feel we have set ourselves against him.” 

With this, he twists about upon the bench and, pressing the fingers of his good hand to the table, lifts himself to standing.  He says naught more but, glancing briefly at the pattern growing down from the warp beam, pulls on the correct heddle, takes up the bundle of weft wool, and resumes his work at the loom.

~oOo~