Updated with revisions on 9/28/19 US EST 5:40p.  Thanks goes to Idrils_Scribe for the feedback and quick beta!

~ Chapter 27 ~

The Men and Dwarves were mostly talking of distant events and telling tales of a kind that was becoming only too familiar. There was trouble away in the South, and it seemed that the Men who had come up the Greenway were on the move, looking for lands where they could find some peace. The Bree-folk were sympathetic, but plainly not very ready to take a large number of strangers into their little land. 

FOTR: At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

~oOo~

~ TA 3009, 24^th day of Yavannië:  The Angle’s hallmoot to occur no less than once per year, at the end of harvest, though may be called by the House of Isildur at need or the Angle’s Council should the majority of vote support it. There the lord of the House of Isildur or his representative shall preside over the hallmoot and his judgments take precedence as law, insofar as it not conflict with the Angle’s charter as determined by the jury of nine men selected by the pledgeholders.  There the Head of the Angle’s Council is to call for pledges, for the hearing of grievances, and the claims of minor breaches of our lord’s law.  The hearing of grievous breach of our lord’s law to be heard by the Council.  Sentences for all breaches of our lord’s law, both grievous and minor, to be proclaimed by the House of Isildur after consultation with the jury.    

~oOo~

My lord sits in the dappled and shifting shade where the limbs of the old oak spread out above the stone wall. There Halbarad has carried his chair and the wind stirs the leaves to dancing above his head as he sits and looks out upon the folk of the Angle. Crows and rooks raise their harsh cries o’er the stubble of the fields where we set the beasts of the Angle to graze. My lord has asked me to stand with him and so I do, at the back corner of his chair where his steward would be placed had he one. There I listen to the cawing echo deep against the line of the forest. Let the black-winged birds cock their glittering eyes to the ground and peck at the furrows. No longer do the children and dogs chase them away. We leave off our long battle and surrender the fields to them, for we have already carried off the greater prize. Sacks and bushels of grain stuff our granaries full to the bursting and we can afford to relax our vigil against them.

Afore us, the men and women gather upon the grass of the gentle rise, for today, in the lull between the harvest of grain and the mowing of the great hayfields, is the day of hallmoot. Here claimant and petitioner stand afore their lord and peers to speak what cause of grievance they may claim or hear what needs must have response. The Angle's chosen jury of nine men stands beneath the spread of branches creaking above their heads. Ploughman and craftsman and cotter they are, and they listen as the butcher raises his voice.  Beside them stands my lord’s kin and captain of his Rangers.  He stands at attention, his hand resting lightly upon the handle of his knife.  He alone of those gathered here may go armed and his eyes are ever vigilant.  

"We call first for the complaints against the harvest and holdings,” Elder Tanaes calls, having limped to the small bit of my lord's lawn free of folk. He beats the butt of his great carved staff upon the ground.  “Who shall be first?"

"I!" calls out Master Herdir and he makes his way through the men. At the man's nod, he bows first to Tanaes, then the jury and lastly to our lord.

"I, Herdir, son of Brandir, reeve to our lord do bring claim of shirking his day-work to Adleg. I present that Adleg, son of Aeg, without just claim of illness or release by our lord or his kin, did knowingly and willfully withhold three days-work of binding the grain and threshing."

"Very well, where is he?" asks the butcher, leaning upon his staff and peering into the crowd. The people look one to another, but in all the milling about, I cannot see the young man of whom they speak even should he stand forward. "Who is the holder of his pledge?"

"I am," comes a high, light voice at odds with hands and shoulders made broad and square for the grinding of grain and kneading of dough. He, the baker, too examines the crowd and then, of a sudden, waves o’er their heads. "Come on, lad," he calls. "No use for it but to stand forward and have it out."

With that, a grim-faced youth makes his way to the open lawn between the folk of the Angle and its jury. The shade of the oak falls darkly upon pale cheeks barely touched by whiskers and bones barely graced by flesh and sinew. He plucks at the hem of his tunic, but his gaze is steadfast and all but defiant. Behind him have come a man and woman and I know them for the lad's parents, silent and stern in their years.

"Have you aught to say in defense to the charge?" Elder Tanaes asks, and the lad shakes his head vigorously.

"Naught at all?" he prompts, but the lad's gaze falls fixed upon the ground and, though the sinews of his cheeks are drawn tight, he does not speak.

"Should you not speak on your own behalf, or find one who will do so in your stead, the jury will have no choice but to find you derelict of your pledge."

The men of the jury frown at the youth, but I know not whether it be from vexation at his silence or rebuke for his transgression. I clutch at the post of my lord's chair, for I think I know why this young lad may have failed of the harvest and am reluctant to call him unfaithful. Sure I am my lord feels the pull of my grip upon his chair, but he raises his hand as were he to still both the jury's unquiet as well as my own.

"Adleg, is it?"

"Aye, my lord," the lad says and dips his head, fingers to his brow.

"Were you not upon the fields at the first of the harvest?" he asks, frowning mildly at the youth. "Do I not recall you there?"

"Aye, my lord," he says. "I was there."

"And how is it you failed to return?"

"Should it please you, my lord, ‘twas my grandsire, he who had fallen and broken his foot but the first day of the harvest. There were none who could watch o’er him."

My lord scrapes at his beard lightly, as were he considering the lad's words.

"None but you?" he finally goes on. "How was this decided?"

"In truth, my lord, 'twas I who decided. My parents," he adds, nodding to the couple, "commanded me to go with them to the harvest."

"But you thought better of it?" My lord's hand stills.

"Aye, my lord."

"And did not think to plead just cause for your absence?"

This seems to give the youth pause, for he glances at Master Herdir first ere speaking. "No, my lord."

"And you," my lord says, directing his words to the man standing silently behind the youth, "thought him able to make this decision unaided?"

He clears his throat ere responding but still his voice his gruff. "Aye, my lord, he would hear none of us and insisted he was man enough to bear the penalty."

The youth's jaw juts forward and he stands with shoulders broadly squared as were he preparing to hold still under some great blow. At first, I know not what to make of my lord's silence, but then the swift rise of his hand to his lips tells my lord's mind. He finds mirth, I think, in the youth's prickly and unnecessarily tried honor.

"Elder Landir," my lord asks without turning his gaze from the young man. "What is the penalty for shirking day-work?"

Among the jury a lean man with a face like tanned leather tugs upon his ear and muses, "That the man's house forfeit a half-bushel for every day withheld, my lord."

"So," my lord says, fixing the youth with a deceptively mild look. "And from whose portion shall it be measured, among those of your house?"

The youth looks from lord to jury to butcher and finds little quarter. Eyes that were defiant seem to find little upon which to rest and the color of a rose blooms upon his cheek.

"I would have none go hungry for my fault," he says.

"Think you so? Then you would be most like be quite ill, were you not dead ere the punishment had run its course. Should you wish even that upon your mother?  Your father? To eat while you hunger and fall ill afore them?"

The youth's eyes fall and the blush upon his cheek deepens.

"And so, you see," my lord says, his voice growing low. "Not you alone shall bear the consequence, no matter that you were man enough to make the decision without heeding their counsel."

My lord goes on, "An you would have neither shared burden of the penalty nor burden alone, what penalty would you have? For what might you hope?"

The young man shifts upon his feet, his face twisted in a wry grimace. "With your leave, my lord, I would hope you would not make the decision without first heeding others' counsel."

For a moment the crowd and the leaves overhead are still, as were both folk and wind holding their breath. But then it breaks, for my lord throws back his head and laughs.

"Well answered!" he cries. "Well, then, what say you, men of the jury? What penalty for this man of the Angle who thought not to plead mercy?"

Heads bow and shoulders turn in to the soft speech of the men of the jury. Then, it seems they are done, for they face my lord with their laughter barely suppressed in their eyes and Elder Landir speaks again.

"My lord, should you choose to swear oath to the lad's character as being more of pride than sloth, the jury may be convinced to fine him his missed days-work and no more."

"I so swear and pronounce the sentence just," my lord says promptly and, I think, the jury is satisfied, for they smile and chuckle among themselves.

"Aye, then," says the butcher. "Hear now your penalty, Adleg son of Aeg. The folk of the Angle have found you guilty of willful pride and misjudgment of your lord's mercy and your people's custom. You shall owe them your shirked days-work, to be exacted upon the next three days of rest."

"And be you glad of it, lad," he goes on as the youth bows, "for you could have been dealt with more harshly."

I think, from the twinkle in his father's eye when he receives him, his elders held more faith in the justice of the Angle then had their son.

"And who shall be next?" asks the butcher and a grizzled ploughman stands forth and raises his hand. "Very well, then, speak your complaint."

"Aye," the man says and nods jerkily. His face is a study of flushed righteousness. "I, Godref son of Gorn, bring complaint against Hammand, that he did willfully and knowingly extend his ploughing into my furlong."

"I never did!" comes the cry and soon they are at it.

So the morning wears on. Through much of it, my lord remains silent, lending the weight of his authority to the butcher and the jury through the mere vigilance of his House. At first, I attended sharply, for, at this uncommon view of the Angle, I marvel at so many faces turned with one mind. But as the sun rises, the heat gathers, my belly empties, and my mind turns the more oft to the meats I have yet to prepare and bread I have yet to slice for my lord's noon meal.

"And now we come to the holding and breaking of vows.  Let us now view the pledge!" Elder Tanaes calls when the last grievance is heard and judged. "Who here shall claim as right and responsibility the holding of swearing of oaths and the offering of pledge of good conduct, or the holding of accounts when that should fail?"

"Aye!" and "I shall!" I hear shouted by voices in the crowd.

"Then call you, chiefs of the pledge who holds the oaths of your men!"

The chiefs call out their names. "Tundril, ploughman!" "Lorn, fuller!" and more I hear and the people move as many grains of dry river-sand should you try to cup them in your hand. Soon, the men stand in groups of no more than a dozen at a time with the women of their families in a silent ring upon the slope of grass.

"Have you those unclaimed who are now of age?"  asks Elder Tanaes and he is answered in scattered calls of names and acceptance of pledges across the croft as men bring their young sons to stand beside them. 

Here and there, as well, I see the wary or worried eye laid upon the men of the wanderers. Only but a few each year have been claimed among them, so that nigh to all families are seen as newcomer and not been claimed.  I bite upon my lip to quell the sight of my misgivings. A man and his family not claimed upon the Angle has few rights and none to speak for him afore the Council.  Nor can they hold land. More years of this and soon their status will take an air of permanence we will have little chance of altering.  Here our plans come to fruition, the mistress and I, or we shall fail and it will be many years more ere we make the attempt again.  

"Aye, and aye. And those of you who have now come to the Angle," Elder Tanaes says to those men hanging silently upon the fringe. "Have you any shall accept the claim of your pledge?

Mistress Pelara has been busy among the women of the wanderers, selecting her lieutenants, filling their ears and sending them forth.  She has forged alliances from the raw material of our folk’s great need for more hands to bear the load of the Angle’s work, throwing those willing to do the work together to achieve it, and then celebrating with much of her ale after.  And so not near all, but most as can be hoped now step forward.  A mutter arises from the crowd as a rumbling of stone.

Could I credit it, Elder Tanaes looks to be a little startled. I am sure he expected to be called upon to explain the claiming of the pledge as he has in years past, for many of the wanderers come from holdings no larger than what a man and his family may work alone. There they hold each other accountable to the Lord's laws and their own customs. I almost feel pity for the butcher. He surely had worked his review of the custom into what he thought were fitting words, and now there shall be no need for them.

"Aye," I hear and one of the men of the wanderers raises his hand. "We here," he says nodding to the others, "know of the pledge and its claiming and are agreed to it."

"You speak for them?" the butcher asks.

“Nay, I hold no man to account," he says and at this, Elder Tanaes halts, unsure how to proceed.  He has not one man to address and confirm their willingness, but now many.  He glances to the men of the jury where they gather beneath the arms of the oak tree, but they know naught more than he.  

Pursing his lips and considering the folk afore him, the Elder nods of a sudden and calls out, “Aye, then, each will speak for his own understanding by his deeds.”  He gestures to the crowd with his staff. "Should you find yourself a man willing to claim your pledge we shall accept it."

Men sift through the groups of chiefs of the pledge and oathmen, coming to stand one or two beside their new brethren.  Aye, the men of the Angle shall no doubt speak of it for days.  Heads crane upon necks and voices call out, but so slow had been the work, there is no protest, though I would not swear to their thoughts being of one accord.  

Some go with more eagerness and are there accepted.  Some go with reluctance, and I know not their welcome.  Others watch them go and seem not inclined to look upon it with much favor.  Indeed, the largest group of wanderers cluster about a tall man with a dark ruddy-brown skin and silvering hair he wears in loose twists pulled back from his face.  He is new to the Angle, and I know him not, but he looks on with his arms crossed upon his breast, neither scowling nor smiling.  My lord's head turns my way and I have the briefest of glimpses of sharp eyes.  I had not thought my breath would be quite so loud in its releasing.

A shout breaks out o’er the muttering of the folk. For a knot of men roils amidst the crowd.  A man breaks from his fellows only to turn and face his pursuer.  The tide of men ebbs from about them, jostling with each other to form a writhing ring about them. There they shout and shove at each other.

Ai! ‘Tis Ploughman Gworon, on whom Mistress Pelara expended much effort.  I had had little faith in our efforts and my heart sunk to see it confirmed.  

My lord springs from his seat and stands tall upon the open grass, with Halbarad not far behind.  The Ranger’s hand has found its way to his knife and seems about to draw, but my lord forestalls him with a hand across his breast. 

Elder Tanaes beats upon the ground with his staff in great clouts.  “Silence!  Stop you, now!”

But it is to little effect, for Gworon is set upon and all I can see is the thrashing of fists and kicking of booted feet. The scuff of shoving and shouting echoes back upon the folk from the stone fence and pasture so naught can be heard but a confusion of raised voices.  

Above it all comes my lord’s clear command as he strides alone across the greensward. “You there, chiefs of the pledge!” my lord shouts.  “Hold your men fast!”  

Men stride swiftly to the melee from all points about the toft.  Elder, ploughman, juryman, and craftsmen alike, their faces grim, descend upon the fight.  They ward away those flung aside from the center with outstretched hands and soon the brawl is submerged beneath their weight.  

“Hold there!”  “Grab him.”  

Soon they have them and draw them down through the crowd, the folk parting afore them as the long grasses upon the meadow.  My lord speaks to his kin, their heads inclined.  Low his voice comes to me, though I know not what he says.  About him, men of the jury drift back to their place, resettling their tunics about them and picking up caps.  

My lord does not answer my gaze nor speak to me when he returns to his great chair. He seats himself and there he rests his chin up on his hand, his elbow propped upon the arm of his chair.  The House has kept the peace and ‘tis the Angle that will judge the wrongs committed afore it.  

Heaving for breath, Gworon is fair flung to the open toft, dragged there from the crowd by many hands.  And there, beside him, to my dismay, is also cast Sereg.  Both are much battered and blood trickles from Sereg’s nose upon his lip.  He sniffs and wipes at it.  

At the sight of the men, a cry arises from the folk gathered upon my lord’s toft.  

Ai!  It seems the more I do upon Sereg’s behalf, the worse his lot.  Indeed, through no fault of his own we could discover, the Mistress had been hard pressed to find a man of the Angle willing to give him the shelter of his accepted pledge.  

“A plague on you Southrons and Dunlanders!” I hear shouted from the crowd, though know not from where.

“I’d have beat ye, too, would it not taint my hands!’  

“Silence!” my lord shouts from where he sits and then returns to worrying at the hairs beneath his lip.  

All then is still, but for Master Bachor, who wends his way swiftly through his oathmen.  They part afore him to let him pass.  There he stops aside a man I know, Master Fimon, half-virgater and chief of his own pledges, he whose land Bachor intended for the granaries.  Bachor pulls upon his shoulder, so he may speak low to the man, nodding to the toft atimes.  I think his man unwilling, for Fimon shakes his head and his mouth forms a refusal.  But Master Bachor is not one to be denied so easily.  Turning his back to where I stand with my lord and the jury so his face is hidden, he speaks the more urgently, atimes squeezing his man’s shoulder in emphasis.  

And then I must look away, for Elder Tanaes has finished with his consultation with the jury and comes back to his spot upon my lord’s toft.  He now speaks.   

“Gworon, son of Iaewon, and Sereg, son of Seregil, the folk of the Angle have found you guilty of the charge of minor breach of your lord’s peace.”

“How do you give us no chance of defense?” comes bursting from Gworon.

The butcher leans upon his staff and gives the man a weary look.  “What defense would you make, Master Gworon, eh?  You committed your offense in full sight of all the folk of the Angle, and your lord had to command hands laid upon you to stop.  You would be hard put to find any to speak for you.”

The man lets loose an angry huff of breath. “’Tis no secret why none would come forward.  There would be plenty to speak for me were it not for the lady and her –“

“Have a care, Gworon,” said Elder Tanaes.  “I would say no further were I you.”

Gworon shakes his head, raising his eyes to the heavens as were he to find more justice there then afore the Angle’s jury.  “’Twas not I who struck the first blow,” he says at length, though he has lost none of his mutinous look.  

“Mayhap you had better stop the more swiftly with your blows when your lord calls for it, then, and we will put more weight to it next time.”

At this, Elder Tanaes shifts his weight and takes a labored step so he might address Master Sereg.  

The man has remained silent, standing alone and nigh unremarked with his back to the Angle’s folk.  He takes in short, shallow breaths and the muscles of his cheek twitch as he stares at the grass afore the jury.  I must wonder at the state of his ribs.  For the last Gworon was free he had been bringing his boot down on a form I could not see.  

“Aye, well, Master Sereg, it seems I shall call for what defense you might make. Have you any?”

With a quick glance upon the Elder, Master Sereg clenches his jaw, shaking his head.  “I have naught,” he says.

So, he will not speak, and no doubt does not think his words would mean much should he attempt to make excuse.  Is there naught can be done?  He has good enough cause to lighten the burden of his sentencing.

Quick my lord’s hand comes upon my wrist, for I have stepped forward.  

“No,” says he, his voice low and scarce heard.  

It is then I look full upon Master Sereg. Though his face does not betray his thoughts, his eyes are fixed upon me from beneath lowered lids.  There they glint with a sharp light until he releases me.

Ai! ‘Tis with great effort I ease the sinews of my face, for they had tightened as had I expected a blow.  Aye, I have been purposefully blind.  I had known the man averse but had not thought him so bitter.  I should have seen it and can only be grateful my lord was the more cautious. 

“Very well,” says Elder Tanaes.  “My lord, your jury gives recommendation of one full day each in the digging and clearing of the cesspits.”  

My lord does not look upon me and eases his hand back to rest upon his chair as had naught happened.  “I pronounce it so,” he says.

With this Elder Tanaes considers Sereg for a long moment.  “Gworon I can refer to Elder Lorn to secure the fulfilment of his sentence, but we have none to hold you to an oath you have not made.  What have you of value you can give the Council in bond?”  

Sereg rubs at his arm, his shoulders hunched as he would make himself small.  “I have naught of value but the grain I have labored to grow, Elder.”

“You need not take it.  I will hold him to his penalty.”  

At that, Master Fimon walks from the edge of the open toft.  When he had made his way through the crowd I know not, but all turn to him as he comes forward and strides between Master Tanaes and the jury.  He has removed his cap to appear afore the jury bare-headed to there give respect, leaving a line of light and tan upon his high brow stark against his dark hair.  

“I would allow it. Indeed, I would prefer it, but we have no custom that gives you the right,” says the butcher.  

I think none on my lord’s toft so stunned as Master Sereg himself, for he stares at the pledge-holder coming upon him through a narrowed gaze.  

Master Fimon, himself, seems unaffected.  He steps to Sereg’s side, clutching his cap in both hands afore him, and there turns to the jury.  “Should he give me his oath, I will be his pledge-holder.  And I will hold him to it.”  

“What say you the jury?” Tanaes calls. 

There the jury consults below the spreading arms of the great oak.  I see much of shrugging and pensive looks, but naught of objection.  

At last, Elder Landir steps out from beneath the shade of the oak. “We have not much to guide us, but it does not contradict either custom or charter.  Should both parties be willing, we say ‘aye.’” says Elder Landir after some moments 

“What say you then, Master Sereg?” asks Elder Tanaes.   

With a glance to the crowd where Master Bachor stands, his arms crossed upon his breast surveying the events as they unfold, Sereg licks his lips and considers.  

I do not envy the man.  I cannot account for Master Bachor’s purpose.  I have naught on which to bend my thoughts to make sense of them.   

“Aye, I will take the oath, should Master Fimon accept it.”  

“Very well, I yield you to your pledgeholders and we shall consider this matter done,” declares Master Tanaes, raising his voice so all in the crowd might hear him.  

The men make their way through our folk, Master Fimon’s hand upon Sereg’s back, ushering him away.  And so, it is done, and I know not what to think. 

At the prick of hair upon my neck, I know eyes are upon me.  From o’er the heads of his oathmen, Master Bachor stares pointedly at me.  His features unbroken by his thoughts, he nods slowly, his eyes not leaving mine now my regard is upon him.   And then he turns aside to speak to Master Fimon, who is now upon him, and it seems that I am forgot.  

"Hear you now, then, the claiming of the pledge!" Elder Tanaes begins, shifting his weight upon his good leg and working his breast as were they great bellows. "Be you now sworn to the laws of our Lord and the custom of the Angle. Hold the land, you shall!  Work the land, you shall!  Defend its folk, you shall!  And should any among you fail, those with whom claim your pledge shall hold you to the Angle's justice or be forfeit themselves.  Do you so swear?"

"Aye!" comes a great shout from the men and in their echo comes a thin scattering of cheers.

"Then shall you accept the pledge in good faith, my lord?" the butcher cries, overriding the noise.

"Aye, l do," my lord says, rising to stand tall and gaze upon his people. "I, Aragorn son of Arathorn, accept your pledge and shall uphold your rights and hold you to your responsibilities as ever have my fathers, the Lords of the Dúnedain, the Kings of Arnor, and the Faithful of Númenor."

Aye, well, that is done. Even my lord smiles at the cheers that follow, scattered though they may be. They are free men and hold one and another accountable. And have the need as not afore.  

"I have claim!" I hear spoken low, and I collect my thoughts as my lord reseats himself to find a man easing his way through the ranks of his fellows.  I know him little, for he is new come to the Angle from the south this past six months.   

"Come you forward, then.  We hear now the claims against all other oaths," Elder Tanaes says and wipes at his brow with his sleeve. It is not so much that it is hard work, but his ruddy face comes to glow beneath the strength of the sun. I think he, too, hopes the hallmoot shall draw soon to a close.

Not one, but two now stand upon the small bit of greensward. Husband and wife, they are. Her small, neat hands lie clasped upon her skirts.

"And what have you to claim?"

With a quick look to his wife, who, it seems, will not return his gaze, it is the man who speaks. "I stand afore the jury and plead with them to allow me the right of the seidiad."

The word sets the crowd to murmuring and I hear its soft sounds echoed on many lips. I cannot recall a time when this right was claimed ere now, and I think it is the same for many of the folk of the Angle.

"Quiet now!" the butcher cries and the people slowly come to stillness. "Only the Lord of the Dúnedain can hear your plea," says he to the man. "The oaths of his people are the Lord's to enforce or to deem broken. It is of him you must beg the right."

"My lord, will you not hear me?"

My lord has fallen very still.  Indeed, I would think his face has paled for the starkness of his eyes and beard against his skin.  He clears his throat ere he speaks and even it seems his voice tightened by his discomfort. "What is your basis for the claim?"

"My lord, should it please you," says he and dips his head, "my wife and I, we agreed to a marriage should it provide us with children. Such was our contract, made in cool thought and with terms agreed aforehand."

My lord shifts in his chair, drawing in his long legs.  His look is grim.  "The custom of our people allows this but rarely, and we must consider in all deliberation what we do here.  Have you complaint of her?"

"I wish her no ill, my lord," the man says. "But such were the chances to which we agreed."

"And have you no other cause to remain as husband and wife? No other comfort you may take?"

Slow and hesitant is the response, but it seems they are of accord. His answer is "no," and she does not counter him. I wonder then, should this breaking be of her will or should she be merely weary of contesting it.

"Your husband requests this thing, what of you?"  

She startles, for it seems she has been deaf to her husband's words. In their stead, she stares at me and with the soft light in her eyes am I held captive. 

“’Tis not my right to claim, my lord,” says she and her glance flickers to my lord.  True it is, but such is the bitterness in that soft voice it gives my lord pause. 

“Have you aught to complain of him?” he then asks.  

I would have thought him satisfied at the shaking of her head, but she now looks upon the grass of the lawn beneath her feet and she speaks no word in answer. Though she does not move, she seems to shrink back from my lord’s gaze, for his eyes sharpen upon her and his hands clench upon themselves.

In the long moment that my lord yet regards her, there is silence. But for the whispering of the leaves of the oak tree as they shift above us and the muttering of its branches.  I think, mayhap, he knows not how to proceed, for he does not speak.  Instead, he studies the woman afore him, unnerved by her silence.  No matter she cannot hold the oath, still she has the right of protest, but will not take it.

“Lady?” I hear and find that I have stepped to my lord’s chair and laid my hand upon him.  

Hard upon the fence to the well-garth stands Mistress Pelara.  Having conferred with Mistress Nesta beside her, she shakes her head a little when I look upon her, but then twists her mouth as were she to convey that which she might not know.

My lord twists about and pulls me near by my wrist so that he may speak more closely.

“What know you of this, lady?”

“Little, my lord, we know of no fear she may have of him,” I say low in his ear, my face turned from the company about us.  “But I cannot say for certain.  Had he taken the oath ere now, we would know more.  But he has not.  No chief of the pledge has the claim to hold her husband to her rights or could speak for her should she not speak for herself.  Should he set her aside, she will have naught.  She is not skilled.  Their kin are dead or remained south.  Unless some other house take her in, she has little means of provision and no defense.  Should she stay, I know not her husband’s mood and the reason for her silence.”   

He considers this, returning to looking upon the couple, his thumb playing upon my wrist.  

“I have little liking for this, lady, in all parts,” he says, shaking his head.  “Should she have reason to fear him I would not abandon her to him. Yet, should I break their vow for somewhat less, with this as their example, neither would I wish my folk begin to take their vows so lightly that they might break them for no reason but they tire of them or matters do not unfold as they would wish.  Had I more certainty of what occurs between them I would know how to act, but I have none.  What do you counsel?”

“My lord,” say I and fall silent.  It seems I have little answer for him.  How long had they considered what must be done and how long had they waited until my lord could attend to their petition?  “Could they not wait a little more, my lord?” 

My lord’s hand tightens upon me sharply and he draws away to see my face.  “Have you plans, lady?”

I glance to Mistress Pelara, who watches us intently, as do all.  “Mayhap, my lord,” I say, only to find he has followed my gaze and now considers Mistress Pelara in my place.  “Should you secure her safety, my lord, we could do the rest.”  

With one last squeeze, he releases me, and I go to stand behind my lord’s chair again. 

"Thus I decree it," my lord says and turns his gaze upon the man. "It is not our custom to enter oaths of marriage lightly, nor mine to permit their breaking until it is considered in its full.”

The husband takes breath as he might speak, but my lord declares, “You have had your time to come to a decision, I will have mine.”  

“For your good and the good of the Angle, I decree one year of contemplation, much as that you took ere you bound yourselves together.  Even should my House grant your petition at its end, I will not break the vow of care you gave.  She may yet not be your wife, but she remains of your kin and her care remains yours, for she forsook all others to cleave to you and that cannot be undone.  Should your petition be granted, in fine you are to find house sufficient for her needs and to pay to the woman who once was your wife the sum of a dozen bushels of yield from your holdings and upkeep of the house you give her. But this I further decree, regardless of your petition.  You shall take the pledge, and you shall do it now.

“Tanaes,” he calls and the butcher jerks to standing from where he had been leaning back against the stone fence in the shade.  

“Aye, my lord?”

“Will you take this man’s pledge and hold him to our laws and customs?”

“Indeed I shall, my lord,” Tanaes replies and, limping upon his leg stiffened by inactivity, makes his way to the greensward where the couple awaits.  

“How say the jury?" calls my lord.

The jury murmurs among themselves, their heads turned away. I hear naught of what they say and can see little in their faces for the deep shade of the oak. They take their time, for I think they must search deeply among their memories.

"My lord," Elder Landir says when they finally part. "We have no example to guide us but acknowledge the right and are willing to leave the rest to your wishes."

"It is done, then," says my lord. He thrusts himself to standing.  “Hear this, people of the Angle.  She and any who are sundered from their kin are yet under my care.  Should ill befall them, I care not whose hands have caused them pain, I will not suffer it! Do not think them without defense. Neither I, nor any of my House, will take it lightly.”  

At this the folk take to murmuring.  They shift about as the couple, husband and wife in name only, part afore them.

"Lady," my lord says.

He has turned and looks to me, so I might stand beside him and he might call an end to the hallmoot. But here he falters for the solemnity upon my face.  He lifts my wrist from my side and clasps my fingers in his. His hand is warm and fingers sure of his grip.

“Are there those who would take her under their tutelage?  You will see to it?” he asks, and I nod.  I think he feels some relief, for he takes in a deeper breath for it, though his face is still shadowed.

"Come," my lord says and leads me forward. There we stand afore all assembled as he raises his voice.

"My thanks to you, folk of the Dúnedain.  Though much grows shadowed beyond our sway, here is to be found much of peace and comfort as can be found in these times.  For our strength is with each other, and to that we must hold.  Shall we have another year as this past, then I shall consider myself and my House well-blessed. Good harvest to you and a blessing upon your day!'

"A good harvest!" I hear in scattered reply.

My lord then leads me to our home, winding his way through our folk, and he does not release my hand until he must open the wicket to lead me through the path that winds about the well.

~oOo~