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The Green Knight  by Le Rouret

19.

            When Bandobras awoke he knew immediately he had overslept.  The light slanting in past the edges of the canvas window flaps was pale and yellow, not the rich orange of early morning, and gone was the hush of dawn with its soft voices of piping birds and cocks crowing in the distance, to which he had become accustomed in their week in Gondor.  Instead he heard many men moving about the streets, and the hawkers crying their wares, and dogs barking.  He lay for a moment, trying to determine the hour and wondering why he had slept so long, when he heard Gimli speaking in the front room, his voice sharp and angry.  He could not understand what the Dwarf was saying, but it was apparent from the tenor of his rumbling voice that he had been deeply affronted.  Then the Halfling heard his Master reply, sounding aggrieved, and Bandobras threw the coverlet from him and padded out to the great room in his nightshirt. 

            He saw at once that his Master had been up to no good.  He was clad also in his white nightshirt, which Bandobras had laundered and pressed with such care that the creases were crisp and even, but it was so no more:  It was greatly wrinkled and soiled, with streaks of mud across the arms and placket.  More distressing to the Hobbit’s eye was the appearance of the Elf’s feet and breeches, which were very dirty and wet.  The breeches especially caused Bandobras to cry aloud, for one of the shell buttons had been torn completely out of the buttonhole, and the hole itself lay gaping and ragged against his Master’s dirty skin.  At his cry the Dwarf and Elf ceased their argument and looked towards him, and he flung himself at his Master’s knee, grasping him by the hem of the shirt and shaking it angrily.

            “Master, master!” he gasped, nearly dancing in his rage.  “What have you been up to, you – you – you silly Elf?  Look at you!  Look at you!  Dirty and wet and with torn breeches and – is this a stick?” he squeaked, reaching up to the Elf’s long, tangled hair and wrenching out a leafy twig from its strands.  “A stickWhere have you been?  You said you’d been ordered to stay in the tent – very sensible too, very good advice from his Majesty – and you’ve obviously been out – out in the woods, too!  And your feet!  Your beautiful feet, Master!  They’re, they’re muddy and dropping dirt all over my floor!”  Hopping angrily upon his toes Bandobras leapt back, put his fists upon his hips and glared up at his Master from beneath his curly fringe.  “What – what – “ he stammered, unable in his fury to further articulate himself.  Gimli grunted approvingly and said,

            “What he has done, my good Hobbit, is to creep out the tent unnoticed after we had retired to our beds, and to wantonly go on a little adventure – he has just been telling me about it – haven’t you, Legolas? – completely opposing Aragorn’s rule, which is so like to his contrary nature I am surprised we did not expect it – “

            “O Gimli, that is unfair,” interrupted Legolas looking hurt; “You know that I am not defiant always – “

            “Perverse, ungrateful Elf that you are, no consideration for your friends – “

            “And your buttons!” cried Bandobras suddenly, clutching the sides of his curly head and staring with horror at Legolas’ nightshirt.  “You’ve lost one of the pretty pearl buttons on your nightshirt!  O Master, I don’t have any to replace it, I shall have to put a mismatched button on it and it will never look the same – “

            “Gallivanting off into the woods with nary a look back, endangering yourself and risking exposure all on a whim – “

            Legolas, realizing they would not let him defend himself until they had run themselves down, sighed and sat down at the great oaken table, brushing his tangled, dew-soaked hair back from his temples with grimy fingers and listening to his friends’ diatribes with flagging spirit.  Bandobras was still bemoaning the loss of the pearl button, and Gimli had worked himself into a great tirade concerning the perverse thoughtlessness of Elves, when the sound of footfalls in the pavilion alerted Legolas to the presence of a visitor, and he lifted his head, alert to the possibility of detection; however after a moment he interrupted the Dwarf and Halfling to say, “Stay your niggling concerns a moment, my friends; the Green Knight has a guest.”            Bandobras sputtered incoherently but Gimli strode to the door-flap and lifting it peered out.  He gave a grunt of approbation and threw it aside to admit the Lady of Emyn Arnen.  Éowyn, clad all in white with her golden hair covered by a snowy shawl, greeted Gimli and Bandobras, and turned to Legolas, who had risen as she entered; neither Dwarf nor Hobbit could see the smile upon her lips, but her eyes sparkled when she saw the Elf’s downcast countenance.

            “You are slightly disheveled, my champion!” she said, stepping up to him and accepting his kiss of greeting.  “I have come to thank you for your timely revelations this morning.  Were it not for you, Legolas Thranduilion, this day would bring tragedy and bloodshed upon the family of Baldor of Lossarnach, but the felicity of your undertaking has surely spared his life and the lives of his loyal men.”

            Bandobras could but stand and gape at Éowyn, but Gimli cleared his throat, fixed Legolas with an angry glare, and said as sweetly as he could:  “I beg your pardon, my Lady Éowyn?  What was that you said about Hallas’ sire?”

            “Did you not tell them, my friend?” asked Éowyn, turning to Legolas so that Gimli and Bandobras could not see the laughter in her eyes.  “Ah, you are so diffident!  You must not conceal your good deeds from your companions; I am sure they would be wroth with you otherwise.”  Then biting her lip to mask her smile she stepped up to the stove.  “O but it is cold this morning!  Has your esquire not yet kindled a fire for you, my champion?  You must be chilled through – your great exertions last night have surely wearied you.  I am surprised to find you thus; I had expected greater accolades from your friends.  But if you have not told them of your heroic deeds, then perhaps they think you but a recalcitrant truant.”

            “It is true; I had not yet told them about the soldiers in the woods,” admitted Legolas, glancing uneasily at Éowyn; “Bandobras and Gimli have been otherwise occupied this morning.”

            “Soldiers!” squeaked Bandobras in horror.  “And the fire!” he added, mortified.  “I’ll light it right away – “

            “You must be hungry, Legolas,” added Éowyn shrewdly, glancing at the Hobbit who had stopped aghast at the door of the stove.  “My lord had you run so much in the execution of your duties I am certain you are quite empty and faint.  Have you broken fast?  No?  Ah well, I suppose your good esquire knows best – “

            “I am rather hungry,” admitted Legolas, being sure to not look at his esquire, who was wringing his hands in horror.  “My stomach is quite empty, and my feet are very cold.”

            “O don’t you dare – “ growled Gimli, but the damage was done; Bandobras with a wail threw himself at Legolas’ knees.  “O Master, Master!” he said.  “O, I am so sorry!  Please, please forgive me!  I have eggs – and streaky rashers – and I’ll run out and find the baker – O!  And I am hungry, too!” he added, then looked down at himself and exclaimed, “I am in my nightshirt!  With a lady in the house!  I beg your pardon!”  And scarlet-faced he scampered off to his room.  Gimli rounded upon Legolas, who only raised his eyebrows at him; recognizing his defeat the Dwarf muttered something in his own tongue and busied himself at the stove in the center of the room, setting in the neatly stacked faggots upon the wood chips, and pulling out his tinder-box.  Smiling Éowyn lowered herself upon one of the great chairs about the table, and tipping Legolas a wink as one conspirator to another she carefully arranged the folds of her damask dress about herself, then said,

            “My good Dwarf, you should know Legolas well enough by now to realize he would not vex you so intentionally.”

            “I had planned to be back inside the tent before the cock crew,” said Legolas penitently to Gimli’s back, stubbornly turned to him.  “It was so close within the tent, and I wanted to see the stars.”

            Gimli grunted and rose, brushing his hands off.  “So you were not running errands for the King; you were indulging yourself in exploring your fiefdom, as was your complaint last night!”

            “I was,” admitted Legolas.  “It was by happy chance I found the soldiers.  And I am glad I did so, and you should be too, Gimli; for had I not overheard their plotting Baldor of Lossarnach would ride to his death today at the crossings of Erui, and the fleet at Tolfolas would be sailing undetected up the River.  Please forgive me, Gimli, and be not angry with me any more; seven leagues have I run since midnight in defense of the land of Gondor, and today at the barriers I fight Vorondil – surely that is penance enough!”

            “Aragorn is gone to Lossarnach then?”

            “Aye,” said Éowyn, “with a host of soldiers out of Minas Tirith.  The fleet is docked at the Inlet of Erui.  Alas, they are too few to withstand more than a feint up the Ethir Anduin; my heart tells me there will be battle upon the River ere the night has ended.  How I greatly desire to go!  But his Majesty bid us remain here, lest our peace be threatened by some other incident.”

            “I wished to ride with him,” said Legolas wistfully, “but he told me to play the goat today instead.  And so I fight Vorondil in the foot-combat, and joust against Aldamir of Amon Din.  Both are doughty men and proved warriors.  I am glad to meet Aldamir at the tilt, but Vorondil concerns me; he strikes me as you strike metal upon the anvil, Gimli; I have fought him twice and been defeated both times.”

            “Were you a Man I should be troubled,” said Gimli sighing, “but you are a doughty and tried warrior yourself, and running seven leagues in the cold night air will not have affected you one whit.  You will beat Aldamir; I am sure of it.  And you have but to strike Vorondil twice for your defeat to not let you down a notch in the lists.”

            “Here I am, here I am!” panted Bandobras, rejoining them.  He had thrown off his nightshirt and was instead clad in a brown tunic and green breeches; his braces were just showing under the unfastened collar of the waistcoat.  “O thank you, Gimli, for starting the stove!  I will heat water for your bath, Master; you must wash before having breakfast, and that will give me time to find the baker.  I cannot see how I could have overslept so!  It is disgraceful of me; I will never forgive myself.  Will you have a cup of mead, my lady?  Will you breakfast with us?  I am making savory mushroom omelettes and frying up a pan of rashers, and if I can catch him I will ask the baker for some raisin bread.  Do you like raisin bread, my lady?  It is not my favorite but this baker stones his raisins very carefully, so I can assure you that you won’t break any of your teeth.  And we have fresh butter and cream too, and I’ll boil up a pot of tea.  How could I have overslept so?  Disgraceful!”  And so saying he bustled out of doors, where they could hear him stirring up the coals in the oven.

            “I should like to defeat Vorondil, not merely make my own defeat less bitter,” said Legolas smiling.  “Well, my Lady, it appears my Bandobras has everything well in hand; will you break fast with us?  Or have you other obligations visited upon you by virtue of your position?”

            “Breaking fast with my champion is my only obligation this morning,” said Éowyn.  “I shall tell my soldiers who are waiting about your tent that I am going to try a Halfling tradition, and eat a second breakfast.”

            The clouds had heralded summer’s defeat at the hands of autumn; gone was the heavy air with its sluggish breeze, gone was the yellow haze of dust that veiled the tents and walls, gone also the smells of hot horses and men in heavy leather and metal.  The rain had rinsed the air clean in the vale of Osgiliath and the very trees and grass seemed greener; the brown Anduin dimpled and shuddered its way down its swollen banks, carrying with it gathering flocks of geese and ducks and small grebes, paddling about with yellow and scarlet feet and bickering amongst themselves in the reeds.  The oppressive heat had lifted like a sodden blanket and the white clouds were high and remote in the blue sky.  A steady breeze blew from the north, rocking the tops of the pines and soughing through the branches of the oaks and elms.  Though the sharp crispness of true autumn had yet to make itself known, its harbingers were present, and knights and yeomen alike put on their arming doublets and leather jerkins with lighter hearts.

            Éowyn and Arwen watched the foot combat from their perch above.  As the Tournament progressed more knights were disqualified, narrowing the spectrum of heraldic colors considerably; the two ladies studied the sheets of parchment Belecthor had handed them, to see where the White Lady’s champion fell in the lists.

            “Look!  He has but to defeat Vorondil and Aldamir today and he will be at the top,” said Arwen, pointing to the coats of arms.   “Then there are three more days, and the Tournament will be over.”

            “It cannot end soon enough!” said Éowyn grimly.  “I have lost my liking for this pageant.  It is but a thin veil over a truer combat.”

            “If it ends too soon, our goat will never flush out the lion,” said Arwen.  “We must have patience, and be watchful.  Is that Orodreth over there?  I am sure it is he; I met him at the Feast of the Solstice last winter.”

            Éowyn glanced round a beam and lowered her voice.  “Aye, it is!  And that is his niece beside him.”  Both women peered carefully at the young maid, who sat flushed and discontented beside her uncle.  Orodreth of Linhir was clad in rich raiment, with embroidered doublet and many rings, and Dirhael wore a silver circlet about her dark hair.  Both looked cross and unhappy.  “Poor Hallas!” murmured Éowyn, and Arwen nodded.

            Then the crowd about the barriers erupted in cheers, and two knights approached.  Vorondil’s gray surcoat was richly decorated with silver threads, which gleamed and sparkled in the sun; Lasgalen’s verdigrised cuirass and helm flashed and his plume danced with the errant breeze.  Both warriors looked fit and ready; Vorondil was broad about the shoulder, a powerful man sheathed in his polished armour; Lasgalen stood tall and proud in his cuirass, the dragons-head charnel grimacing at his opponent.  Green and gray pennants were shaken by the surrounding crowd, as both knights were popular and well-liked; indeed many observing cared not whether one was victorious or the other, provided they fought well, and afforded exciting enough entertainment to while away the hours in the inns after sunset.

            The knights entered the ring and stood to in their respective corners.  The herald held out his rope, but without concern; he had officiated between the Gray and Green Knights before and knew both were far too noble and honorable to so flout the rules.  Vorondil stood still and quiet, but Lasgalen for once was restless, swinging his sword about, loosening his wrists and shifting upon his sabatons.

            “He is nervous,” said Arwen.

            “Well he should be,” said a voice over their shoulder, and they looked up.  Egalmoth and Eradan stood behind them looking down into the oval.  Eradan held a goblet of wine in his hand and glowed rosily at them, but Egalmoth glowered down at the two knights as they took their positions.  It was he who had spoken.

            “Think you Vorondil will be the victor, then, my lord?” asked Éowyn.

            “He is the better swordsman,” said Egalmoth, folding his thin arms across his chest.  “And he has defeated the Green Knight on two other occasions.”

            “’Third time pays for all,’” said Éowyn.  “Perhaps this afternoon my champion shall be the victor.”

            “Not unless some magic has infused his sword-arm,” said Egalmoth. 

            “Come, come!” said Eradan jovially.  “Whether he win or lose he is a pleasure to watch; I have never seen a young man so light upon his feet though he is weighted down with all that beautiful armour.  And you must admit, my lord Egalmoth, he is easily Vorondil’s match at the tilt.”

            Éowyn saw her friend smile; she looked curiously over at her and Arwen formed the words “young man” with her mouth, causing Éowyn to laugh.  Down at the barrier the herald called out, and Vorondil lunged forward but was parried with a loud clang.  There were cheers and whistles from the crowd, and the knights retreated to their corners.

            “Lasgalen of Dale is very quick,” said Belecthor, coming up behind Egalmoth.

            “His speed is all that saves him,” said that lord.  “He is agile and swift but not aggressive enough.  I suspect he needs to feel his well-being is threatened before striking out.  When Hallas of Lossarnach attacked him he was sufficiently forceful.  Could he but harness that necessity he would be unstoppable.”

            Eradan gave his companion an uneasy look.  “No knight is invincible,” he said, then glancing around his eyes lighted upon Orodreth and Dirhael.  “Ah!” he murmured.  “The dandy and his brat have arrived.”  He narrowed his eyes so that the folds of fat upon his face obscured them.  “How unhappy he looks!  For our sakes I hope the Green Knight wins, so that the merchant prince of Linhir is beggared by his love for wagering.”

            The herald cried out, and swifter than a striking snake the Knight of Dale darted forward, landing a stinging blow upon the surprised Vorondil’s gardbrace.  Éowyn cheered with the rest, clapping her hands, and the Green Knight tilted his basinet up to the back of the stands; Éowyn could see the glitter of his eyes through the pierced eye-slit.  She waved to him, and he saluted her, laying a clawed gauntlet upon his breastplate and bowing.

            “Lord Faramir ought to look after his lady more closely,” laughed Eradan, pointing to the reactions of the folk in the crowd.  “I fear me the White Lady of Rohan has stolen Lasgalen Oakleaf’s heart, your Majesty.”

            “There is little chance of that,” smiled Arwen.  “More concerned is he with the arming of men and the protection of settlements than with such romantic sentiments.  And since I have been so reminded of romantic sentiments, Éowyn, where is Éodild?  For it seemed to me her preference was also for the Green Knight, but in less commonplace settings.”

            “So it was, though I labored in vain to dissuade her,” laughed Éowyn.  “But I have heard from her this morning; she broke fast with Híldaf my kinsman, who appears to have won her pity if not her affections.”

            “One may lead to another,” smiled Belecthor; “’Pity is akin to love.’”

            Now it was Vorondil’s turn to strike, and his great black sword described an arc over the Green Knight’s head.  To everyone’s amazement, Lasgalen’s sword was there before it, and the blades striking sent a shower of sparks down upon the heads of the two knights.  “Foiled again!” cried Éowyn, applauding.

            “He is swifter today,” said Egalmoth reluctantly.

            “His blood is up,” said Arwen.  “He desires to fight but is thwarted.”

            The three men gave her curious looks, but the two ladies did not see.  They were watching the knights travailing below.  Vorondil shifted back and forth upon his feet, seeming disconcerted; Lasgalen bounced springily upon his sabatons and swung his sword about.  Éowyn saw the Dwarf leaning upon the barrier behind him, grinning; beside him was little Bandobras, biting his lip and clinging to the top railing with his small hands.  “I think you are right, dear friend,” said Éowyn.  “All of the excitement is going to his head.  A spark has been struck; Lasgalen of Dale has grown a new sword-arm.”

            “That remains to be seen,” said Egalmoth, but he did not sound so certain.  Then at the herald’s call the dancing feet of the Knight of Dale dashed forward, but just as Vorondil moved to block him he sprang aside and aimed a shattering blow at the left pauldron.  The Gray Knight cried out in pain and staggered back.

            “Two up!” cried Éowyn happily.  “O did I not tell you, Arwen, how angry he was with Elessar?  His frustration has revealed to him skill that was as yet unknown!”

            “Why was he angry with the king?” asked Eradan in amazement, but Arwen only laughed and shook her head.  Belecthor and Egalmoth exchanged looks but said nothing.

            The crowd, as all crowds do, had shifted its preference to the Green Knight as soon as it saw his ascendancy; Lasgalen’s name was chanted and green flags were waved.  Vorondil’s esquires and armourer were examining his pauldron, which had been dented by the Green Knight’s sword.  Lasgalen himself was showing his sword to the Dwarf and the Halfling, whose heads were bent over it with concern; apparently he had notched it.  Then the Dwarf shook his head and pushed it back over the railing towards the knight; there was no time to sharpen it.  Vorondil had turned in his corner, shifting his shoulder uncomfortably; Lasgalen swung his sword about again and then stood ready.

            “He is dangerous when he is angry, then!” said Belecthor, amused.  “I had thought to see a repetition of the rout I saw when last these two men sparred, but now I am confounded.  Hail Lasgalen Oakleaf of Dale!  I am glad he is on our side.”

            “And Vorondil is not?” asked Egalmoth sharply.

            “I did not mean that,” said Belecthor in a bland voice.  “I only meant I am pleased that the men of Dale support Gondor, that is all.  There is no need to be offended for Vorondil’s sake.  I am not doubting his loyalty.”

            Egalmoth looked angry but his reply was cut off by the cry of the herald.  Vorondil stepped forward, sword raised, and Lasgalen tensed, ready to defend himself.  Vorondil was a mighty man, but the Green Knight had hurt his shoulder and he had been baffled in his sensibilities; his next stroke went wide and was easily parried.  The Gray Knight returned to his corner shaking his head; the Green Knight went to his own, running a clawed finger ruefully over the new nick in the blade of his sword.

            “That will take some grinding down,” said Éowyn.  “Is that his father’s sword?”

            “Nay, his grandsire’s, and a mighty blade it is,” said Arwen.  “I am pleased Lasgalen has found the skill to do it justice.  I had feared for him today in the barriers.”

            “It seems you need fear for him no longer,” said Éowyn.  “My champion has taken my command to heart, to best Vorondil.  I hope he will be as mighty against Aldamir.”

            “So long as his destrier is angry too, Aldamir is already defeated,” said Eradan laughing, taking a deep draught of his wine.

            “Or, so long as Lady Éowyn commands him to humiliate our best knights, Aldamir is lost,” said Egalmoth, his eyes flashing.  Belecthor clucked his tongue but did not reply.

            Now two green flags were mounted upon the barrier wall.  The crowd chanted the Green Knight’s name, eager for the combat to conclude.  The herald measured their paces with his rope, then stood back and called for Lasgalen’s strike.

            For a fleeting moment Éowyn thought Vorondil’s sword would block the sweep of Oropher's blade, but with a twist of his hips and a shifting in his shoulders Lasgalen brought the great sword up and in to clash upon the cuirass and slide shrieking up to the left besague.  Vorondil staggered back, to be caught by his esquires, and Lasgalen’s third flag was mounted upon the wall, to the great satisfaction of the crowd.  The Queen and the Lady of Emyn Arnen cheered along with the rest, and Eradan and Belecthor did as well, though Egalmoth only stood and pressed his lips into a thin line.  The Green Knight again looked up at the ladies and saluted them, to the great gratification of the onlookers, then handed his sword to his armourer (who winced when he saw the notching) and stepped forward to touch gauntlets with Vorondil.

            Vorondil approached and unfastened his visor, looking up at the Green Knight, then removed his gauntlet from his right hand and held the hand out tentatively.  Surprised, the Green Knight also withdrew the dragon-claw gauntlet from around the vambrace, tucked it under his arm and clasped the Gray Knight firmly by the hand.  Words were exchanged, and to everyone’s amusement the Green Knight burst out laughing; all could see Vorondil smiling at his adversary.  Then the knights were swallowed up in the crowds, and Arwen stood and helped Éowyn to her feet.

            “I wonder what Vorondil said to him?” said Belecthor curiously.  “Your pardon, my Queen, my Lady; I am just going to ask Ethmor – O!  Lord Faramir!  There you are!  My Lord, you missed a most astonishing match; Lasgalen of Dale won three strikes to naught over Vorondil of Lossarnach!  It is all the more amazing to me, since Vorondil had trounced him so thoroughly before, but the Lady Éowyn assures me his blood boils in anger and he is so become a mighty swordsman.  I hope he and his Majesty have not quarreled – that would go ill indeed, considering his father’s munificence.”

            “There is no need for them to quarrel,” smiled Faramir, kissing the Queen and taking his Lady by the hand.  “All has gone well today, your Majesty; I have recently had a runner in from Minas Tirith with the news that your husband will return from Erui in two days, his duties full accomplished.  Fear not, good Belecthor; Elessar and Lasgalen understand one another; Lasgalen chafes under the gentler yoke of peace when he desires combat that is denied him by the King.”

            “Combat?” said Egalmoth, turning to Faramir in surprise.  “Is there trouble down south, my Lord?”

            “Some small trouble,” said Faramir carefully, “but thanks to Lasgalen of Dale it has been spoilt.  He overheard the plotting of dark deeds and informed the King, who took upon himself the joys of chastisement and left the informer to kick his heels at the games.  It was for that Lasgalen of Dale was chagrined and filled with frustration; he wished to take part in the King’s campaign but Elessar instructed him to stay here.  But all has gone well,” he said, smiling, “as he has defeated Vorondil through his disappointment; now he can proceed to the tilt victorious and spoiling for yet more triumph.”  And placing Éowyn’s hand upon his arm he led his wife and the Queen down the benches to the royal enclosure.

            “Odd!” frowned Eradan.  “I had thought the southern fiefdoms quiet.  What could the Green Knight have heard?”

            Belecthor turned from them, and spoke quietly to a man who had come up the stands to him; they conferred together a moment and then Belecthor broke away, chuckling.

            “What is it?” asked Egalmoth.

            “That was Ethmor,” said Belecthor; “he tells me that, when Vorondil shook hands with the Green Knight, he asked him if it were really Lasgalen of Dale beneath the basinet, or if some other knight had taken his place in secret to so defeat him, so great was the difference in their combat from the previous time.  It was for that reason the Green Knight laughed, and assured Vorondil it was indeed he and no imposter.”

            Eradan laughed, but Egalmoth only frowned more deeply and pulled upon his lip.  When Eradan turned to go he asked, “Where are you going?”

            “To get more wine, of course,” said Eradan merrily.  “The joust begins and I am anxious to observe it!”





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