A/N: I'm sorry it's been so long. It's been a rough year, but I haven't abandoned this story. Got another chapter almost finished, so that should be up within a week.

3. The Free Fair

July 1405

Sam wedged the shovel blade and strained with all his might, but he could not budge the woody root that had firmly taken hold under the wisteria.  He could at least be grateful the wisteria provided some shade.

“Going to be stubborn, are ye?” Sam said grimly to the root.  He’d already extracted the main body of the plant this root had been attached to, and it lay in a disconsolate pile nearby.

He sat down panting after another failed attempt.  “Oh aye, ye look pretty harmless, windin’ your way around Mr. Frodo’s wisteria, but if I leave ye be you’ll just grow another weed like this ‘un over here.”  He jerked a thumb at the root’s recently fallen offspring.

Sam sighed, leaning upon his shovel, considering.  He could get the axe and take the root out in pieces, but then there would be more risk of damaging the wisteria’s roots.

“There’s nothin’ for it,” Sam told the offending root.  “You’re gonna have  to come out, and that’s that.”

He wedged in the shovel blade for another try, wishing he had a longer and thicker handle for better leverage.  He pushed with all his might, then leaned his full weight on the handle.

CRAAAAACKK

Sam suddenly found himself on hands and knees, holding the broken end of the shovel handle.

“Fiddlesticks!” he exclaimed crossly, just as he heard the front door close.

“Sam?” Frodo asked, coming out with a covered basket on his arm.  “What on earth was that?  Did a branch fall?”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sighed.  “I’ve just gone and broke the shovel, is all.”

“Oh.”  Frodo approached to inspect the damage.  “The blade looks all right, at least,” he said, peering at it where it still stuck in the earth against the root of Sam’s difficulties.

“Aye,” said Sam.  “I can fix it, soon as I find a good stout branch ta make a new handle of.”

Frodo brightened.  “Let’s give that job to Merry.  He’s been moping about indoors all day, and wouldn’t come with me to bring Widow Chubb some of this morning’s baking.  Said it was too hot out, but it will be cooler in the woods, and a nice walk will do him good.  If you’ll tell Merry what sort of branch you need?”

Sam nodded.  “Sounds good to me, sir, if Mr. Merry’s amenable.”  Sam privately doubted he would be, but Frodo went in to talk with his cousin before continuing on his errand.

Soon after, Merry sauntered into the garden, where Sam was now pruning SOME CREEPER away from the pathway.

“Hullo, Sam.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Merry.”

They eyed each other for a moment.  Merry said, “Frodo asked me to look for a branch to make a shovel handle.  What kind do you need?”  His words were perfectly courteous, but Merry’s tone did not convey much enthusiasm.

Sam described what he needed and Merry ambled off toward the woods while Sam bent again to his pruning.

It took longer than Merry had hoped, but at last he returned with a branch for Samwise.  He found the young gardener in back tending to a window box.

“Here you are, Sam,” he said.  He was rather proud of the branch he’d found, so he didn’t understand the look of dismay that crossed Sam’s face.  “What’s wrong?” Merry asked.  “This is the right size, isn’t it?  I couldn’t find anything bigger, though I looked over an hour.”

“Aye, it’s a fine size, Mr. Merry,” Sam said hesitantly.  “Only—well, what you’ve got there is from a hemlock tree.  The wood’s too soft to be much use, if you follow me.”

“Oh.”  Merry scowled in embarrassment, feeling like a ninny.  Sam was looking at him, probably thinking he couldn’t do anything right.  “Well, maybe you ought to just be more careful with Frodo’s tools,” he snapped before he could think better of it.

Sam coloured, his slow-burning temper finally flashing.  “Aye, and maybe ye oughtn’t ta go worryin’ Mr. Frodo by getting into bar fights!”

Sam looked as shocked as Merry felt.

“I’m sorry, sir, I had no business ta say that,” he muttered, and hurried away.

Merry sighed, somehow feeling even worse.  He dropped the useless hemlock branch and went inside.

A few weeks later, Sam and Halfred sat cooling their toes in a stream.

“I really think you oughta come,” Halfred said.

“I told ye, I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Sam replied, studying a shiny black beetle making its way across a nearby rock.

Halfred rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be a ninny, Sam-lad.  Of course you’re coming.  It’ll be loads of fun.”

Sam grinned and splashed his brother with one foot.  “We all know why you’re so keen to go to the Free Fair, Hal.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I enjoy some time with Jessimine?” Halfred said, a trifle defensively.

Sam snorted.  “Why not indeed!  Are you ever gonna ask her ta marry you, Hal?”

“Well—I’m working my way up to it!” Halfred said, and elbowed his brother in the ribs.  “What would you know about it anyway!”

Sam sputtered when Halfred managed to kick water all over his trousers.  “Hang on now, there’s no call for that!”

Halfred snickered, then remembered his earlier line of questioning.  “Well, when are ye going to decide about comin’ to the Fair? We’re leaving day after tomorrow, after all.”

“I’ll decide when Mr. Frodo decides,” Sam said eventually.

“Oh.  Mr. Merry still sayin’ he won’t go?  What a sullen feller he is there days.”

“Aye,” Sam sighed.

Later that afternoon their eldest brother, Hamson, arrived with his wife and two children.  Number three, Bagshot Row, was to be very crowded the next two nights, but Sam didn’t mind much.  He was always glad to see Hamson, and Henna had proven to be a kind sister-in-law.  They were to leave their little ones with Daisy, May, and Marigold, who had elected to remain at home.  May had never liked the Fair, with its noise and its crowds, and Daisy’s interest had dimmed significantly when she’d learned her sweetheart, Holbert Cotton, was to stay at home and mind his father’s farm.  Marigold liked the Fair all right, but she liked playing with her niece and nephew even more.

“Uncle Samwise, play with me!” a little voice crowed, causing Sam to smile.  He was helping May keep the little ones occupied outside while the adults packed for the coming journey.

“All right, Hob-lad, what do ye want to play?”

“Piggy-back!” was the immediate response.

“Come on, then.”  Sam crouched low enough for the seven-year-old to clamber onto his back.

Hob’s little sister, Petunia, was playing in the grass at May’s feet, and Sam carried Hob over there.

“Decided whether you’re going to the Fair yet, Sam?” May asked, absently pulling an ant off Petunia’s sticky little hand.

“Stay, Uncle!” Hob cried from where he clung to Sam’s neck.  “Stay with uuuuss!  We’ll have loads of fun.”

Sam laughed.  “We’ll see, Hob-lad.”

Just then Bell walked by.  “Say, Samwise, have ye made up your mind about comin’ to the Fair yet?” she inquired.

“No, Ma, not yet.”  Sam tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Well, best go and talk to Mr. Frodo before it gets too late, and find out what his plan is,” Bell reminded her youngest son.

“Aye,” Sam agreed reluctantly.  He’d really put it off too long; he wanted to stay and help Mr. Frodo, if he was staying, but he dreaded getting into another argument with Merry.

“Everybody’s asking you that, Uncle,” Hob whispered in his ear.  “Go on, let’s go up an’ talk to your Mr. Frodo!”

“Hob—“

“Giddayup!” the lad cried, digging his heels into Sam’s ribs.

“All right, you can come along,” Sam exclaimed, “but no more kicking!  I’m not a pony, ye wee imp!  And ye must behave, in front o’ Mr. Frodo.”

“I will,” Hob promised, laying his curly blond head on Sam’s shoulder.  “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Sam had no doubt he would try.  The little lad got into a surprising amount of mischief for one so young, although usually with the best of intentions, and that along with a beseeching look from his wide blue eyes made it hard to stay cross with him. 

Sam shook his head and trotted up the road to Bag End. 

“You’ll have ta pull the bell, Hob, as my hands are a mite full,” Sam said when they reached the round green door.

Hob had gone unusually quiet, but he reached forward and pulled on the bell-cord.  Sam realized Hob had likely met few gentlehobbits in his small village, and deduced correctly that that accounted for the child’s nervousness.

The door opened to reveal Merry.

“Sam!” Merry said, clearly surprised.  Things had been rather awkward between them since the incident in the garden, and Sam was no more happy to see Merry than Merry looked to see him.

“I suppose you want to speak with Frodo,” Merry said eventually.

“Aye, if you please,” Sam replied.  He could hear voices inside, and felt suddenly embarrassed, not realizing Frodo had company this evening.

“Who’s that?” Hob whispered in his ear when Merry had vanished back inside.  “He looked cranky.”

Sam tried not to laugh.  “That was Mr. Merry, and you’d best remember your manners.”

He had no time to say more, for Frodo appeared then.

“What is it, Sam?  Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, everything is just fine, Mr. Frodo.  I didn’t realize ye had company, or I shouldn’t’ve intruded.”

Frodo shrugged.  “Don’t worry, Sam.  It’s only some of my Tookland relations, stopping on their way to the Fair.”  His blue eyes widened as he noticed Sam was not alone.  Hob had been holding quite still, but now he peeked around Sam’s head, peering at Frodo curiously.

“This is Hamson’s lad, Hob,” Sam quickly explained.

“How do you do, Mr. Frodo?” Hob piped up, and then ducked his head uncertainly.

Frodo smiled.  “Pretty well, thanks,” he replied, and shook Hob’s little hand.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

That fairly finished Hob, and he shrank back behind Sam, blushing furiously.

Sam grinned, remembering a time not so long ago when Frodo’s kind blue gaze had had a similar effect on Sam.  “Will ye be going to the Fair then, Mr. Frodo?” he asked, finally remembering his question.

“I’m afraid not,” Frodo replied. “Merry isn’t keen to go, and poor Pippin isn’t feeling well, so I’ve offered to mind him while his folks are at the Fair.”

“I’m right sorry to hear about Mr. Pippin,” Sam said.  “I hope it’s not serious?”

“No, just a head-cold.  But Paladin and Eglantine thought it best not to tire him out with the Fair.”

Sam said, “The lasses and I are stayin’ behind as well, so just let us know if ye have need of help.”

Frodo gave him a puzzled look.  “Your Gaffer told me your sisters were staying to look after your niece and nephew, but why aren’t you going to the Fair, Sam?”

Sam shook his head a little at Frodo’s obliviousness.  He didn’t want to be away so long in case Frodo had need of him, but he couldn’t very well say that, because he knew Frodo would only encourage him to go and enjoy the Fair.  “Thought I’d stay and help the lasses look after Hob here, and Petunia,” he said instead.  “They’re quite a handful, you know, sir.”

“Am not!” Hob huffed.

Frodo smiled.  “Well, good luck then.  Do let us know if you need anything, Sam; I think most of the neighbours are going, so the Hill will be a quiet place the next few weeks.”

“Aye, and the same goes for you, sir,” Sam replied.

Frodo waved him off.  “I’ve looked after my cousins before, Sam.  I’m sure we’ll be fine.”