~ Chapter 50 ~

‘Andúril!’ cried Aragorn. ‘Andúril for the Dúnedain!’
Charging from the side, they hurled themselves upon the wild men. Andúril rose fell, gleaming with white fire.

TTT: Helm’s Deep

~oOo~

~ TA 3017, 30^th day of Yavannië:  Mistress Nesta reports a number of cracked ribs, more than one man concussed who remains under her care, one arm twisted to the point of fracture, and an abundance of lacerations and bruises.

~oOo~

I lean upon Master Herdir's hand as he helps me down from the back of his cart.  Ranger Saer stands behind us and sweeps his gaze o’er the field, path, and sheds, and the folk of the Angle who gather about them.

Ai!  I have lain so long abed my legs no longer support me for very long, and even the effort of sitting and clutching upon the side of the cart as we traveled the distance of the Angle has left me worn.  I abandon my wool wrap to the bed of Master Herdir’s cart and eye the steps into the granary warily.  There the granary stands, implacable and blank, perched high upon its straddle stones. 

I can make my way down the stairs from the solar upon my waking when I am most refreshed, but even then must cling to the wall and take the risers one at a time.  Of the evens, when I drift to drowsing at my lord’s table and words fail to form themselves beneath the quill I hold, Halbarad has taken to lifting his lord’s wife into his arms and ponderously making our way from step to step into the solar.  At the first, he complained of how heavy I was and begged I leave off stuffing myself with roasted meats and honeyed-figs, for all he need little help sweeping me from my feet and held me lightly.  I could think of naught to say in return of my lord’s Rangers and their bellies in general, nor Halbarad’s love of sweets in specific, and so a leaden silence fell.  And now we speak little when he bears me up the stairs. 

Ai!  I know not how I shall raise myself from one step to another into the granary with naught to help bear my weight.  And so many are the eyes watching to assess my state and bear news of it about the Angle.    

Elder Tanaes lifts himself from where he leans back upon the granary wall, easing his weight from his lame limb.  There beside him, among the rest of the Elders, stand two sturdy lads with thick, wooden cudgels swinging from their belts.  They are but one pair of many men we have set about the granaries and storehouses.  These two most oft accompany Master Herdir on his rounds.  E’en as we approached, Master Bachor emerged and, ducking beneath the low door and the eaves of the thatched roof above it, tripped lightly down the steps. It seems that rumor had circulated among our folk as the Council awaited the Lady of the Dúnedain, and a crowd of a dozen or more have drifted hither. 

The Elders’ faces are grim and the folk are uneasy. They shift about and mutter amongst themselves. Tanaes proceeds us up the stairs, and for this I am grateful.  He has had long habit with his own lameness and needed no plea to recognize the struggle in me.  He sets a slow pace and I must match it to follow him within and can give no heed to Master Bachor’s offer of his arm. 

For the low clouds of the day and the youth standing in its door, the inside of the granary is dim, but I need not see to know what concerns my lord’s reeve. A faint musty smell wafted from the grain through the open door and even now my eyes itch and water.  I swallow against the tickle in my throat for the rising chaff.  No longer is my cough wet, but my throat and lungs are so abused my breath whistles within my chest at night and awakens me.  It takes little to set me to coughing, and much effort then to draw a clear breath after. 

And there it is.  E’en I can see it through the burning that comes upon my eyes.  Here and there the dark shield of the thatch overhead is broken and light seeps in.  Some hand has taken a long, sharp tool to it and rent the cover it provides to our harvest.  It was well done.  No break in the roof is placed so that the water would drip and alert Master Herdir by its noise.  Instead, the walls are damp from where last night’s rain trickled in and ran in rills to the floor where the planks of wood absorbed it.

Master Herdir pries open the top of a cask and the smell arising ere it is fully open sets Master Bachor to cursing and sneezing.  I must cover my nose with my sleeve.  I dare not get close enough to look within for fear I shall start coughing and not be able to draw a clear breath in the stink.  Better prepared than any of us, it seems, Elder Lorn peers deep into the cask o’er a dampened scarf tied close about his face while Elder Fuller gasps at the air from betwixt his fingers. 

“I’ve not been able to sleep a wink the past fortnight. ‘Twas a dread that lay heavy in my bones, and I knew not why,” says Master Herdir and thrusts the handle of his cudgel into the grain.  “I’d set men to give each of our granaries a check, but ‘twas not ‘til this morn I checked them myself and the smell alerted me.”

As he stirs, I hear not the sharp clatter of grain upon grain but the moist tearing of root from root, and I gag behind my sleeve. 

“Is there naught for it?’ asks Elder Fuller and wipes at his eyes. 

“Elder, they eat this, man or beast, and it will rot them from the inside.  I have seen it afore.  They can eat none of it,” Herdir says, knocking his cudgel free of the mess upon the edge of the cask and gesturing with it at the dark shadows of barrels and sacks stored within.  “It’s best we be rid of both this and the building about it, as I’d not trust aught else we stored here e’en should we dry it out.  And I’ve got three more granaries just like this one here.”

“Burn it.”

As one, the men’s faces turn to me in the dimness that is the granary.

“Master Herdir,” I say when he does not move. 

He jerks his head in a nod and claps the lid back to the cask ere he touches his fingers to his brow and brushes past Master Bachor.  There is naught else to do, and so I turn and follow him.

Once outside, I make my way unsteadily to the edge of the field behind the granary, ignoring all the folk and Elders and their pleas for speech with me. For I am unable to either see or hear them. 

Ah! 

Had I the voice for it I would rage against the sky.  Dark clouds hang low, their bellies brushing against the high branches of the trees.  Oh, I think I know now the battle rage that must come upon my lord and his men.  For I tremble with fury and wish to strike out, to take whatever is in my hands and smite aught afore me with all the strength I possess, to pound it into the mud at my feet until it is bloody and battered and I can no longer recognize its form. 

But there is naught afore me and naught in my hands, just the shadows that play upon the fields, and I have no weapon that might wound them.  I can do naught but stand stiffly upon the edge of the empty field and shake.   

They have followed me here, the Elders of the Council.  Behind my back they grow restless and I can hear their feet stirring the dried grasses and fallen leaves upon the verge. 

My look must be grim indeed should it reflect aught of what I see on their faces as I walk through their midst back to the cart.

“Do you not wish the Council to consider our course, my lady?  The hallmoot is upon the morrow and I cannot think what the folk will make of it should we do naught to address it then.”  Elder Tanaes turns on his good leg and hobbles close behind.

“What is there to debate?  It is done,” I say and walk as swiftly as I can across the uneven turf.  “There is but one way to rid ourselves of it.  Should we delay, we are sure to find some of it gone and there will be folk who attempt to fill their bellies with it and others who shall attempt to profit from their need.” 

Without my knowing it, Master Bachor comes to my side.  He stands afore me and either I must halt or attempt to evade him.  “I agree with you, my lady,” he says and lifts a hand to stop my progress.  “But do you think it wise to do it just now?  Can you not speak to them?”

‘Tis then I hear the people of the Angle, for more have gathered while we were within.  They crowd about the stairs to the granary and their murmuring turns to shouting.  I cannot hear their words, but it seems they demand answers. I push past Master Bachor and he hurries to follow.

“Ranger Saer!” I call as I come upon the front of the granary.  I had left him behind, and he had stood between the Elders and the granary; awaiting our return or guarding our backs, I know not which.

“My lady?” he asks, turning to walk with me.

“Escort Master Herdir into the granary and have him bring out a barrel.  Guard the door behind him so none may get in.”

“Aye, my lady.”  His glance flickers o’er the folk gathered there, but he does as he is told and pushes past folk crowded upon the greensward.  He follows Master Herdir as he climbs the granary stairs with his bucket of pine pitch. There Ranger Saer stands at the top of the stairs and draws his sword. 

I have but time to see the sharp edge of light flick from his blade o’er the crowd when Master Bachor thrusts his arm behind him, keeping me back.  For the folk gathered about the granary are calling my name and surge to the foot of the stairs, blocking my way to it.

“What need have ye for a Ranger’s sword to keep us out?”

“My lady!  What is it?” calls Master Fimon.  His hand shading his eyes as he peers at us, he strains to see o’er the heads of the men afore him.  “What are you keeping from us?  Bachor!”

“Let me through and I will tell you!” I say, for Ploughman Gworon has pushed his way to the front and there he shouts and thrusts his finger at me.

“You would do naught but have us further beneath your heel, Nienelen.”

At this, there is a jostling in the back and men stumble forward. 

Master Bachor stops and stands all the taller.  He is very still, as were every sinew strung tight. 

“Let me through!” I demand, but Bachor’s arm yet holds me back and he has locked eyes with Gworon.  Ai!  Those two!  

Should I just get through and stand upon the stairs, there I could be seen and I could address the folk and their concerns. 

The men stumble beneath the weight of shoving behind them.  They call out somewhat I cannot discern and then the toft explodes with the sound of shouting and stones striking the granary walls.  The men at the front of the crowd and afore it duck and fall to the ground.  I know not what Bachor shouts.  I cannot tell for the din.  But, putting all his weight behind it, he thrusts men back from where they crowd upon the granary.  Last I see him, Master Fimon has pushed his way to the front and there, with a look of betrayal upon his face, shouts back at Bachor and, with a great shove, nigh thrusts Bachor to the ground.

Distant upon the edge of the noise of the crowd I hear a voice call, "Southron bitch!"

But ere I have heard the words for what they are a dark shape hurtles into view and pain blooms upon my face. I am on the ground with my hand clapped to my brow.  Blood streams into my eye. I blink against its burning from where I have propped myself up.  I see naught but the stamping of booted feet and shoving of men blocking the light.  In my gasping, my breath has caught in my throat, and, caught helpless under the force of my coughing, I curl upon myself.  Ai!  I shake so I have not the strength to push myself up from the ground.  A booted foot comes down upon my hand and I cry out at the suddenness of the pain.

“Here, my lady.” 

An arm grabs me about the middle and attempts to help me to my feet.  And he would have but for the buffeting Master Herdir receives as a man trips backwards o’er him and tumbles over us.  Knocked from his feet to sprawling upon me, he can then do naught but cover me with his own body. 

Scrambling to his knees, “I got ye,” he says.  He curls himself about me and tucks my arms and head beneath his chin.  There he smells strongly of pine pitch and mold and breathes heavily upon me as he squeezes us into as tight of a ball as he can manage.

Feet trample the ground about us.  “Move back, I tell you!”  “You there, grab that man and hold him fast!” 

I can see naught but the shifting of light and dark as the shadows of men slip o’er us and Master Herdir chances a glance about.  I am unsure should I wish to see more, as all I can hear are the shouts and thud of fist and crack of wooden cudgel upon the bodies of the Dúnedain, and Master Herdir’s grunt when somewhat catches upon him. 

“Halt you now!” 

And then there is but one shadow that falls upon us and clear I hear Master Bachor’s voice ringing out.

“Gworon, I swear on the last light of Aman I will lay you low myself with naught but my own fists should you not step back and cease your brawling.” 

I hear little after that until Master Herdir loosens his hold upon me.  He sits back on his heels, breathing heavily and wiping at his brow with his arm.  Blood from my face stains the breast of his tunic.  Above us stands Master Bachor.  At some point Ploughman Gworon had seized Master Herdir’s cudgel.  There he stands and behind him other men, shifting upon their feet and, it seems, for the keenness with which they eye Master Bachor’s fists, the other Elders, and the line of their pledgeholders, they seem not fully convinced to give way. 

“You have lost your cap, Master Herdir,” I say. 

Herdir startles into looking at me oddly, as had I said somewhat untoward, but then he lurches to his feet and reaches a hand down. “Here now, my lady, quickly.  You get yourself to Ranger Saer up there at the top of the stairs while ye have the chance of it.” 

Once I am aloft, Master Herdir steps to stand at Bachor’s left heel, for Gworon’s grip shifts upon the cudgel as were he in no hurry to surrender it.

“I said move back,” says Bachor, his voice as steel. 

But Gworon’s grip tightens upon the cudgel and he shifts his weight as were he coiling to leap.  Ere I know what I am about, I have ducked between the men at Master Bachor’s back, reaching for the cudgel as Gworon raises it.  Without a word, Bachor strikes swiftly, his fist breaking upon Gworon’s jaw as a hammer upon the smith’s anvil.  Men at my back surge forward and I can tell naught for the jostling of elbows and grunting of men. It seems I am not alone in my thoughts, for other hands have joined mine in clutching the cudgel and between us we twist it from Gworon’s loosening grip.  When it is done, the men about Master Gworon are pushed back and he, himself, lays with Master Herdir beneath him, caught with the reeve’s arms in a tight hold about his head and neck where he has little leverage to move. 

“Man of the people of the Angle, are you?” spits Master Gworon at Bachor, straining against the arms that hold him.  “You are a pretender and a cheat as always.  Thou art naught but a slit-lapping tool of the House.”

At this, Master Herdir tightens his grip and digs his heels in the dirt so Gworon’s attempts to throw him off are to no effect. 

“Ai!  Gworon,” Master Bachor says, shaking his hand, “Give it up.  You have been a fool and an ass since ere our mothers put us in pants!”

“Enough of this,” I say.

The men halt and look upon me, for a fine sight I must be.  For, in the way of wounds upon the scalp, blood yet trickles from the cut upon my brow and slides down upon my cheek and neck.  I push strands of hair from my eyes where they have been pulled from my scarf and step between Bachor and Gworon.

“Let him up, Master Herdir.”

I am unsure whose look is more incredulous, Master Herdir or Ploughman Gworon’s.

“As you wish, my lady,” says Herdir through teeth tightened by his effort, “but would you not want his blood to cool a little first?”

“It is cool enough.  Come.  I have somewhat to show you, Master Gworon.  I think you shall want to see it.” 

His look improves little and his glance upon the Elders and their pledgeholders about him is a leery one, but, when Herdir loosens his grip, he shakes off the man’s hands and rises. 

“Come with me,” I say and lift my hand to urge him to the foot of the granary stairs ahead of me. 

“You as well, Master Fimon,” I say, raising my voice.  Though I cannot see the man, I trust that should he not hear me, the message will be passed swiftly to him.  “And any others of you who are chiefs of the pledge or hold the oaths and care of others.”

Men bend to pick up caps and dropped tools, and there is much wiping at blood and sweat, sour looks, and shoving quickly stilled at the threat of another bludgeoning, but little comment as they allow us through.  Master Herdir takes the cudgel I hand to him as I pass, and he and Master Bachor follow close behind. 

The barrel Master Herdir had carried from the granary lies upon its side, the lid cracked from its fall where he dropped it in his haste.  I yank at the lid and the seed within pours out upon the ground.  There I take a great clodding handful of it so that clumps of rotted stuff spills from between my fingers.

“Can you not smell it?” I say, and, in truth, it seems they can for the scattered sounds of dismay and disgust that arise from the men that ring the toft.  There they strain over their neighbor’s shoulders to get a clearer view.

“Who would you have eat this?  Come, have some, Master Fimon.  It is yours if you would but take a taste of it.” 

I hold it close where Master Fimon can do naught but get a good look upon it.  He says naught, but his face falls grim and closed. 

“You?  Master Gworon?” I ask and thrust my hand at him.  He glares at me as were it clear I mean only to make a fool of him. 

“No?  Then mayhap you are not desperate enough.  But you know those who are, do you not, Master Fimon?  Why not take it to them?”

“I am not such a man, my lady,” he says.

“I am glad to hear it, Master Fimon.”  I back away to the barrel where I drop the rotted grain to splatter within.  “Neither am I.”

I scrape my hand against the barrel’s open lip to rid myself of the slime on my skin.

“What shall happen to the apportioning of grain that is left?” I hear.  To my surprise, ‘tis Master Gworon who speaks.  Though Bachor continues to glower at him, he thrusts his chin at me.  “How will we know it fairly given out?”

“Because you and I shall review what is left and account for its distribution, Master Gworon,” I say without looking upon him.  I have got the worst of the rot and ruined grain off, though I cannot rid myself of the feel of it.  I dare not touch aught else and so my hand dangles at my side.  I care not what he responds.  And so, when I am met with silence, I do not prompt him for a response or censure his insistent lapses in respect in speaking to me as he has.

“Now, stand you back and let Master Herdir and his men do their work,” I say, and, after a moment’s hesitation, they shuffle back a little.  “They take no pleasure in it, nor do I take any in the ordering of it.”

“Master Bachor!” I call, only to find the man not far from my elbow. “Take Master Fimon and the rest of your chiefs here into the granary so they may see the damage for themselves.”

“Aye, I think that a good idea,” I hear on the far end of the granary.  There Elder Tanaes limps toward me upon his bad leg.  He has cracked his crutch upon somewhat so it cannot bear his weight.  “You first, Bachor,” he says.  “Gworon, go join Elder Lorn there.  You will have your turn.” 

The smell of pine wafts from the open door to the granary where Master Herdir and his men applied pitch within and pour oil upon the floor and casks.  Men have filed silently up and down the stairs in groups of a few at a time, and soon shall be done.  Much of them, since then, have drifted on to other pursuits, though there are those who yet linger, waiting, I think, to watch the granary and its contents burn.

Master Herdir has found scraps of cloths among his things.  They are not the cleanest of linens I have seen, but with one I scrubbed at my hand and with the other he wiped the worst of the blood away as I sat back upon the edge of his cart, and now wrings it out in the water from his leather bottle.

“Can you get word to Mistress Linnadis with none marking it, Master Herdir?”

“Aye, my lady,” he says and, making a pad of the linen, pats at the cut upon my brow.  “Her husband Bronon and his brother are back from their foraging.  He owes me days’ work.  There’d be none who would think aught of it should I call on him.” 

“Good,” I say, keeping my voice low.  “Tell her I have need to take up her offer and ask her to make plea for aid to the house of Elder Maurus soon after the midday meal.  Should you be so kind, I shall also need to speak with Mistress Pelara ere then. And when that is done, send to the houses of Elders Tanaes, Landir, Fuller, and Maurus.  Gather them to our lord’s hall after the even’s meal; just them, and only them.  Do you understand?  Do it quietly and do what you can to keep their arrivals unmarked.”

“Aye, my lady. I understand.”  He nods sharply.  With great care, he attends to the cloth he presses upon my brow, frowning.  He licks at his lips.  He chances a glance to where Bachor and Fimon are deep in conference at the far side of the shed, ere speaking low.  “Not Elder Lorn, neither?”

“No.”

He pats at my skin, making much of checking should the cut have stopped bleeding.  He does not speak for a little, but he need not, for I can all but see him reviewing his lists of men and the charges he put into their hands.

“Should you wish it, then, my lady,” he says.  “I shall see to it and none shall know the better.

“There,” he says with a final pat.  “I think, my lady, that will do for now.”  He peers at me and flaps the cloth above the cut to encourage its drying.  “It looks worse than it is, in truth, as these things go. I doubt it will trouble ye much a few days hence.” 

“My thanks to thee, Master Herdir,” I say, “for this and your many kindnesses today.”

At this, his glance comes quick upon me as he pours more water upon the cloth to rinse it clear ere he wrings it dry.  His glance is as quickly gone and, could I credit it, a blush of pink rises upon his cheek. 

“Ah, my lady, think naught on it,” he says and sniffs, clearing his throat ere he scratches at the back of his head.  “’Twas naught any man of yours should not have done.” 

His observation could not have been better timed, for Ranger Saer, done with escorting the Elders and their chiefs in and out of the granary, has come upon us where I lean against Master Herdir’s cart.

“Should you give me a moment more, my lady,” Master Herdir says and tucks away his bottle and rags amongst his things beneath his seat, “I will leave my lads with instruction and get you home, eh?”

“Aye, Master Herdir.”

I grab Saer by the seam of his coat at his shoulder as I rise under pretext of needing his strength as a prop and turn his back to the folk where I can speak to him unseen. 

“In all of this that occurred, Ranger Saer,” I ask, “what kept you from joining the Elders of your Council and the House to which you are sworn in enforcing your lord’s peace?”

“My lady commanded I guard the granary door,” he says and for a full moment I know not what to say. 

I think mayhap he is glad my tongued weighed down with my misgivings, for there is naught upon his face that gives any hint as to his thoughts but that he might wish this interview over.

“Should there be aught else my lady wishes –“

“Who threw that stone?”

He glances back at the men gathered about the granary and licks his lips.  I am unsure what he searches for that he could not see afore.  Surely he does not need me to explain. 

“I know not, my lady.”

“You do not know?”

It strains credulity, aye, to the point of breaking, his answer does, for he stood a good half a man’s height o’er every head in the crowd from his vantagepoint upon the top of the granary stairs. The sullen tone he gives them his words do not help his cause should he wish me to put much faith in them.

“There was much confusion, my lady,” he says.  “Should you like, my lady, I could ask the men should any of them have seen aught.”

“I think not,” I say and let go of his shoulder.  I doubt not my look is grim, for a defiant look has crept upon the set of his eyes and mouth.  “Your sword, Ranger Saer.”

“My lady?”  He starts and stares at me, dumfounded.

“Your sword,” I say and hold out my hand.  For the weapon is not his and only loaned to him upon the condition of his continued service as my lord’s man. 

His hands make short work of unbuckling his belt as he rips at the leather.  He says naught, and his face is bowed o’er his work.  But I can hear his breathing coming in sharp bursts from here.  When done and the leather wrapped around its sheath, he holds it up.

His face reddened and eyes hard, he says, “Please you, my lady, to take this.” 

“Report to your captain,” I say and turn from him and give him no more of my time.     

It is heavier than I had thought and I must put my weight behind it to toss it into the back of Master Herdir’s cart.  There the buckles of its hangers clank against the wicker bottom of the cart.

When I turn back, it is to find Master Bachor and his keen gaze upon me. 

“Are your men satisfied?” I ask and he nods.

Master Herdir strides to us, banging the torn grass and dirt from his cap upon his knees.  “Begging your pardon, my lady, are you ready?”

“Aye, Master Herdir.  Let us go!”

He touches his fingers briefly to his brow as he passes and nods. “Aye, my lady, gladly!”

“My lady,” Bachor says, “might I beg a ride?”

“I think Master Tanaes might be more in need of one than you, do you not think?”

“Mayhap, but he intends to stay and see it through.  I, on the other hand, have urgent business at home.”

“And would wish to talk, I would think.”

“That, too,” he admits readily.

Ai!  I had hoped to avoid this.  Mayhap he knew that as well. 

“Very well, Master Bachor, let us see what use you can make of the time.”

For want of a stool or other aid, he laces his fingers together and offers them for my foot.  Together, him lifting and me grabbing onto the pole at the end of the cart and pulling, I settle onto its edge and he leaps up to join me there.  Soon, Master Herdir clicks at his piebald mare and we are underway.  The track has been wet for far too long and carts and feet have worn grooves into the mud, and so the going is aught but smooth.  For a long moment, we do little but hang onto the wicker-work and sway with the cart’s movements. 

Once we are onto a cleaner path, Master Bachor asks, “How fares your head?” peering at my brow.

I do not touch it, though the impulse to do so is strong.  “It stings."

"I heard what was said," he says.  "You think it aimed apurpose?"

"Do you truly need to ask to know the answer?" I ask, my voice sharpening.  "You swore you had them under your sway and placated."

For indeed he had.  Oddly enough, those of the Angle most opposed to the wandering clans' flight hither had found solace among his oathmen.  Mayhap their distrust of the House o'ercame their dislike for the color of Master Bachor's skin.

"Strange bedfellows you keep," say I but he does naught but sigh, shrugging and shaking his head.

"Elder Bachor," I say but he throws up his hands as were he warding away any further ire.

"I shall see to it."

"See that you do!"

The silence between us lengthens until we must grab upon the supports of a sudden.  Master Herdir's mare puts herself to some effort to pull the cart through a trough of mud and we jerk free.  Bachor grabs upon me to steady me but then winces at the pain this causes him.  He shakes his hand and rubs at the knuckles.

How fares your hand?” I ask.

He snorts in response.  “’Tis naught.  I should not let him provoke me,” he says with some regret.

“Do not lie to either me or yourself,” I say.  “You have wished to pummel Gworon since that day at the harvest when he grabbed Laenor.”

“Then I should thank him for the excuse!”  He then chuckles.  “Well do I remember it.  She may have done somewhat to earn it, but, natheless, you lashed him about the head and shoulders with the edge of her winnowing basket until it was in tatters. ‘Twas then I knew I had best court you as well as Laenor, else I would have small chance of marrying her.

“Nay,” he says when I do not answer or smile upon him.  He speaks low so I scarce can make out what he says o’er the creaking of the cart.  “’Twas ere even that, in truth.  He’d single out Einiond for his ire when it had had little effect upon me, when we were boys.”

I recall little of it, so young was I then, but for the times Bachor would sit in the shade between the wall and steps of their father’s granary.  There he would talk to his brother until, calmed, Einiond would emerge disheveled and tear-stained from the cool shadows beneath the raised shed.  From the distance of the years, I am unsure now what to make of those times Gworon set himself against us and we against him. 

Bachor snorts softly, breaking my thoughts.  “’Slit-lapping tool.’  I must tell Matilde.  A true man of the North is unafraid to get his face wet.  She will be greatly entertained.”

I know he might wish me to share in his amusement, but I find I cannot. In truth, I feel little, but watch as the low, pale sky passes overhead and cling to the wicker-work of the cart so that its jostling does not throw me to the stones o’er which we pass. 

“You do not put great weight on his words, my lady, surely?”  He peers at me from close quarters and the wheel beneath him rises and falls over a stone so that his shoulder bumps into mine.  “‘Twas not he who crippled the granaries. That was skillfully done and with forethought.  He may yet lead them to petty mischief, but he has little wit for aught else.”

“Think you so?”

“Aye, ‘tis they who did this we should be addressing, not putting Gworon in a place of authority.  Else we will not have little we can save, but naught at all.”

“He may make poor company, but it would be best to have him there were he can satisfy himself, would it not?”

Bachor snorts softly.  “Should he make himself available to you.” 

“And yet I must give him the opportunity.  He may yet avail himself of it and prove to be more than our childhoods would have us decree him.” 

“Should you be determined, then, my lady, but make sure he is not alone.  Bring someone of his acquaintance with you.  Or take Fimon, should you be willing.”

“You think Gworon a danger to me?”

“Nay, my lady, but his version of the truth may differ greatly from yours.”

At this we fall silent for a little and stare down the path we have taken.  Smoke rises from the edge of the field behind, billowing thicker e’en as we watch.

Bachor looks at the cut upon my brow for a moment ere speaking.

“Forgive me, my lady, but Halbarad sends those who are hardened men into greater danger, does he not?”

I do not answer.  His is not the defense of the lands outside the Angle.

“And what would our lord esteem so highly he would leave the Angle, much less his wife, so thinly guarded by these youths in such times?

“Oh, I have no doubt you will not tell me,” he goes on when I turn a flat look to him, “but I must wonder should even you know where they go and why.  And why you continue to put yourself in danger to protect them.  I have known you to be loyal, my lady, but not blind.”

“I am not blind.”

“Then will you not check yourself?  You press harder than you have the power to back with force. Today, it was Gworon who showed little respect for your voice.  Tomorrow?”  He pulls a wry face and shrugs. 

I tire swiftly of the Master’s probing.  Any answer I give him will no doubt lead to more questions and conjecture on his part and I would not have him delve too deeply into my thoughts, not now, not today.

“Can you not beg Halbarad to assign you a man with more experience?  Ranger Haldren would give you a stronger hand in these matters, indeed.  Had you him behind you this would ne’er happened today.”

“You have your own troubles with the folk under your care, Master Bachor.  Leave mine to me.”

He huffs a quick breath.  “My troubles.  And what troubles would these be, my lady?”

“I confess I am not surprised you must use the weight of your fists to reinforce your will in these matters, Master Bachor.  In truth, I am surprised your oathmen still give your words credence at all.  I would have thought their patience with your inaction at an end by now.”

“My lady, I treat those under my care very well.  They may not have all they might wish, but they have what they need.”

“Indeed.”

Master Herdir has drawn his mare to a bumping stop and here we pause.  Either Master Bachor must accompany me to my lord’s house or he must alight and make his way to his own home. 

When I have no other response for him, he lifts himself from the edge of the cart and drops the distance to the path over which our feet have dangled. 

He turns to make his farewell, but I have somewhat to say to him instead. 

“Have a care where your next steps take you, Bachor, you tread a treacherous path.

His eyes narrow upon me.  “Are you threatening me, my lady?”

I laugh, though flat and bitter is the sound.  “Nay, Master Bachor. I believe what you say.  You and your folk shall ever make do, no matter what action I take, and it will pacify your oathmen, until it doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?” he demands.

“Tell me, Bachor!  What shall you say when we learn that none of the granaries to be burned are held by your oathmen?” ask I.  “‘Miracles and mercy of the Valar!’  You and yours alone have been preserved.”

“Quit with your riddles!”  He is now well and truly angry.  He does not shout, but it is a near thing.  “I care not for your stories.  I never have.  I am not some pet you can dangle the tease of a string afore and take delight in my pouncing upon it.  Either speak plainly or cease casting your aspersions.”

“Master Bachor, you are no threat.  You wish no harm upon me.  I need none of my lord’s men to guard me against you and yours.”

“What is this foolishness?  Did I not stand in thy defense not moments ago?  Did that mean naught to thee?”

“You need me,” I say, ignoring his protests.  “For with one hand you use me as a distraction, a threat of what could happen to them should your oathmen fail to bind themselves to you, while with the other you offer me pity and the blandishments of remembrance and flirtation.”

“You think I am behind the assaults upon our granaries?” A swift look of fury and abhorrence spasms across his face.  “That I am such a man who would do this thing, bring down suffering upon our folk.  For what?”

“Either you have done it, or you have turned a blind eye to those beneath your oath who would do it for your benefit,” I insist, my voice low and hard.  “You would parade the suffering of the Angle afore your oathmen and encourage their bitterness against the House.  For with each drop of misery and death they may pass onto a neighbor, they seek out your protection, and your power over them increases.”

“You are mad!” For a man of wit and substance as he is, it seems he can think of no other words to plead his cause.  Instead, he stares at me as could he not believe what I have unleashed upon him. 

“Look to your own house, Bachor.  I need not the protection of your spies, your pity, nor the flattery of your pretense at concern.  Are not the majority of men who guard and check the granaries your oathmen?  The men responsible for this are among those loyal to you.  I recommend you find them ere I do.”

“Drive on!” I command Master Herdir and the cart pulls away with a jolt. I clutch at the post for fear of losing my seat, for I am weary, and cold, and my arm and body shake with a fine tremor I cannot still.

I do not look upon the Elder, but rummage in the bottom of the cart behind me for my wrap for the remainder of my journey.  Should Master Bachor have said somewhat, it is lost in the clatter of wheels and rattle of stones and my refusal to hear it.

~oOo~

AN:  I am going to need to beg your forbearance, dear readers.

I had planned to post three chapters this week, but I'm afraid work has been a hard grind lately, so I've not had much energy level over for writing.  I plan on tackling Chapter 51's issues this weekend, so you'll have the other two chapters next Friday.