Cautionary note: This chapter has some discussion of the ruthlessness of kidnappers. The details have been left deliberately vague.

Chapter 2. Laying the Groundwork

~ Two weeks later; about one month before Midyear's Day and departure ~

At the tap on the door, Haldoron, former Steward to Elessar’s Northern kingdom, raised his head from his contemplation of the empty desktop in this borrowed room on a lower level of the Citadel of New Annúminas. He’d left the trappings of Steward behind him on the day he’d tendered his resignation to the King. ‘Enter!’ he rapped out.

The door opened. Although the Man who entered wore no uniform, he might easily be taken for a guardsman simply from the polish on his boots and belt and the upright way he carried himself. Indeed, the former Steward saw the fingers of the Man’s right hand twitch as he came to a stop before the desk; he wondered wryly if the fellow had suppressed an almost-instinctive salute.

‘Come in, Denethor, and sit yourself down,’ he said, indicating the chair to one side of his borrowed desk.

‘Sir,’ Denethor said. He nodded and seated himself as ordered, though the impression he gave of a guardsman at attention remained. Denethor’s parents had named him after the Steward of Gondor, a Man both noble and grim, before the latter’s descent into madness. In this moment, he bore an uncanny resemblance to his namesake in older days.

‘At your ease.’ 

‘Sir,’ Denethor repeated, sitting as straight as before, though he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Haldoron suppressed a sigh as he studied the former guardsman. He supposed the raised eyebrow was something, at least. Might as well launch into the business at hand.

‘I called for you because I am in need of help,’ he said. ‘Your help,’ he amended.

He could swear the former guardsman sat more stiffly, if such were possible. ‘My help, sir?’

The fellow’s caution was understandable, even laudable in light of recent events, but irritation – aimed at himself, mainly – led Haldoron to snap, ‘I’m not about to consign you to the stocks or a cell in the dungeons, Man!’

Something cold and hard replaced the wariness in the former guardsman’s eyes as Denethor lifted his chin and drawled, ‘Nor the gallows, my Lord? Or do the gallows remain an option?’ 

Immediately after the words left Denethor’s mouth, Haldoron had the impression that the former guardsman braced himself then in readiness for the repercussions of what might easily be taken as insolence. Haldoron’s reputation, built up over the past two years of increasing bitterness from his unresolved grief, along with the Steward’s self-imposed isolation, easily justified the Man’s wariness. And so, quite deliberately, the Steward responded with a hearty laugh.

At Haldoron’s answering laughter, the visitor betrayed his surprise with the merest blink of astonishment – honest laughter, it was, seasoned with a tinge of self-derision and... regret? Yes, Haldoron decided. Regret was a part of it. There were past decisions that could not be changed, such as the death warrant he’d signed, condemning this Man’s kinsmen to the gallows. Only the desperate intervention of hobbits and Elessar’s timely return had prevented the deaths of those innocents from being laid at Haldoron’s feet. 

But the past was the past, and he must come to terms with that. Indeed, he must keep his focus on the future decisions yet to be made, and future events that were yet to confront him – along with the others soon to be entrusted to his care.

Sobering abruptly, Haldoron retracted the finger he’d pointed at Denethor, then took hold of himself. ‘Bold as ever, I see. It’s all too clear why the King appointed you to his special bodyguard.’

‘As punishment for not watching my words?’ Denethor queried. 

Though to the casual eye the Man sat as stiffly as before, Haldoron thought he might have relaxed slightly. Truth be told, even when he’d held the position of Steward, Haldoron’s power over this Man had been limited. Denethor was well-known and well-respected in the City, not only for his reputation as a tradesman over the past decade but for his past courage and dedication to duty that had ended his career as a guardsman and nearly taken his life. While following Elessar’s orders to guard the visiting hobbits from all harm, he’d thrown himself between the Mayor of the Shire and a murderous ruffian when Samwise Gamgee had tried to interrupt the abduction of two young hobbits: one of his young lads and the Thain’s oldest son. Shot through at close range, close enough to the archer for the arrow to punch through any protection offered by his mail coat, Denethor had barely survived and had never fully recovered from his wounds.

But Denethor was waiting for a response. The erstwhile Steward wrenched his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

‘O you watched your words, of that I’ve no doubt. Watched them as they came unchecked out of your mouth...’ A smile quirked at his mouth, and his next words sounded more like they came from the Northern Ranger he’d been, a lifetime ago, than the Steward of Elessar’s North-kingdom. ‘You remind me of a few Shire-folk I’ve known in that respect.’

Haldoron saw the corners of the former guardsman’s mouth tighten, though Denethor refrained from smiling as he answered. ‘Perhaps that’s why the Shire-folk have embraced me so heartily... I remind them somehow of some of the Shire-folk they’ve known.’

At this point, one of the hobbits currently visiting New Annúminas would likely have said, ‘None of your nonsense, now, Denny!’ But there were no hobbits in the room. And that was the crux of the matter, was it not?

*** 

Hildibold Took entered the King’s stables rather more cautiously than he might’ve under any other circumstances, such as arranging for ponies for Thain Peregrin or his family members, that they might ride out with the King or Queen on some excursion or other. His frequent visits to see to his own pony’s comfort, as well as ensuring the proper treatment of the other Shire steeds, had brought him into regular contact with the grooms and handlers, so much so that he’d lost much of his shyness and suspicion of them. These Men, at least, he could almost see as people, like himself, rather than potential ruffians. Almost.

In sharp contrast to his Thain, the Tookish archer accepted very few Men as trustworthy. Only Denny, as the hobbits had dubbed the Man in the earliest days of their acquaintance, and Bergil, whose understanding of Shire-folks’ customs and sensibilities had grown out of his friendship with Pippin from the time of their youth, had won Hildibold’s respect, perhaps grudging at first, but later whole-hearted in his acceptance of the two Men. Despite their unnatural height (by hobbit standards), they might be hobbits themselves, in his estimation, with their courage under extreme pressure, demonstrated generosity of spirit, and companionability coupled with an uncannily hobbit-like appreciation of simple pleasures.

And despite the inhibiting factor of the high esteem he had for the King and Queen, he was sometimes able to set aside his reserve in their presence. Not only had these two august beings seen into his very heart and soul, early on in their acquaintance, and accepted him for who he was, but they had never made him feel small or inadequate or less than. And he had seen Elessar lay aside his kingly grandeur for hunter’s clothes, sitting at his ease with a pipe in his mouth. 

Moreover, from his experience, he could look beyond the King and perceive the healer. Although the Tooks gave their own healers a great deal of trouble, as a matter of course, they also (privately, of course) held all healers in high esteem. The Tookish archers, especially, honoured healers in their heart of hearts – for unlike themselves, regretting the lives they’d taken in the past yet knowing they’d all too probably be forced to do so again in future, so long as rogue Men would insist on crossing the Bounds of the Shire, healers restored life to the ill and injured.

The lives he had taken during the Troubles, culminating in the Battle of Bywater, would haunt Hildibold Took to the end of his days. Nor was he ever likely to forget the cruelties of the ruffians who had infested the Outer Shire under Pimple Baggins and, later, Sharkey. Who had besieged the Tookland and threatened dire retribution against Thain Paladin and the Thain’s immediate family and all Tooks in response to the Tookish resistance. Who had beaten and tormented Tooks captured outside of the Tookland, even left some of them – his cousin Ferdibrand and Hilly’s brother Tolibold among them – for dead. Those two, and a few others amongst the rebels captured by ruffians, had survived, but not all had not been so lucky.

What was it, made some men choose to walk the upright path, and others to lead lives that, spilling over onto others, resulted in harm – even death – to those they deemed smaller or weaker? Until he knew the answer, Hildibold would never quite be able to let down his guard completely in the presence of Men.

Ruffians all, as he’d heard Ferdibrand mutter under his breath when Men were the topic of discussion.

Even that King fellow? his cousins would tease, and Ferdi would glower at them from under knitted eyebrows before issuing his inevitable retort.

I haven’t quite made my mind up about him yet. (Hilly could differ with Ferdi on that point, at least.)

The Thain had instructed Hildibold to enter the King’s stables by a particular side door and then wait. For what? he’d wanted to know. You’ll understand when it’s time, Pippin had replied.

But here he was. And he had yet to understand. He reached over his shoulder to finger the arrows in his quiver, an old habit carried forward from the Troubles that offered comfort of sorts, the knowledge that he was ready for whatever situation might arise.

And what’re you going to do, then? he asked himself wryly. Bring down the King’s favourite war horse with a well-placed shot?

The corridor was dark and cool after the bright morning sunlight. Dust motes floated lazily on the air. Hilly stood and listened. Most if not all of the stable’s equine inhabitants were out in the pastures, he deemed. On such a glorious day, the grass would be sweet and still fresh from the early-morning dew. Only the injured or invalids and the mounts kept ready for the King’s Messengers would be in their stalls. At this time of day, with the heavy work of stall-cleaning already completed and the stalls made ready for the return of their occupants, few if any groomsmen would be about. Very early, before the dawning, or this time of day, or late at night were Hildibold’s favourite times to visit his pony or check on the visiting beasts from the Shire.

The hobbit scarcely felt comfortable at this moment, however, feeling the back of his neck prickle with apprehension. It was too quiet, he thought. Uncannily quiet, in fact. To Hilly’s senses, the stables felt all too much like the jaws of a trap set to spring. If anyone other than the Thain had sent him on this errand, he’d’ve retreated silently, cautiously, peering around corners and on highest alert for danger.

Even so, he was alert for the sudden appearance of an unforeseen threat, any road. So alert, his senses tingling, that up until this moment he’d missed the soft sounds a few stalls further along: a rhythmic whisk, punctuated by an occasional grunt. At least one groomsman was still at work. He shook his head at himself. Fool of a Took!

He crept towards the sound, fighting the impulse to draw his bow from his back and string it, ready for trouble. 

The door to the occupied stall was ajar. Cautiously, he peeped through the crack to see a Man at work, forking soiled straw into a wheelbarrow.

Seeming to become aware of the silent watcher, the Man straightened from his labour and turned to face the doorway. ‘Hullo, Hilly,’ the former Steward of the North-kingdom said in welcome, adopting the casual term of reference the escort’s friends and relations used to address him. ‘Denny advised me to meet you in the stables rather than the Citadel. He seemed to think you’d be more comfortable in this setting.’

At a loss for words, Hildibold fisted his hands and then forced them to relax, though he remained poised for flight.

‘All is well,’ the Man said in a low tone, much as he might have spoken to a skittish horse.

The Thain’s archer cocked his head. ‘Is it?’ he said, clearly sceptical.

‘It is,’ the former Steward said. ‘The Thain,’ he carefully and deliberately did not refer to Pippin as the Ernil i Pheriannath, Denny’s having informed him of Hilly’s disdain for the epithet, ‘sent you to meet with me in the utmost secrecy on a delicate matter.’ 

‘Delicate matter...’ the escort echoed, but he stood straighter, more squarely on his feet. He even met Haldoron’s gaze momentarily before looking away, a concession of sorts. 

From what the former Steward knew of the fellow, this hobbit avoided contact with most Men, with the exception of Bergil and Denny and – most of the time – the King. That said, Denny had told him of Hildibold’s tolerance towards the stable workers, suggesting that the stables could serve as neutral ground for a meeting.

Had the Thain directed his escort to meet Haldoron at the Citadel, the Man now suspected that Denny’s prediction – that Hilly would maintain a stubborn silence or speak in monosyllables, at best – would have come to pass.

Even on this “neutral” ground, he sensed that he must proceed slowly and carefully.

From what Denny and Bergil had told him, Hildibold was renowned not only amongst the Tooks but also many of those who lived in the Outer Shire as one of the top archers in the Shire, having never finished lower than tenth in the annual Shire-wide Tournament since he’d first competed as a tween. He was also acknowledged in the Tookland, at least, as one of the Heroes of the Tookish Resistance who had played a large role in keeping the Tookland free during the time of the Troubles. However, uncomfortable with fame or notoriety, if asked about his accomplishments, he would merely have said that he served as one of the hobbits of escort to the Thain. This small group of elite archers, having sworn an oath to guard those they served with their own lives, if need be, would have snorted to hear a Man call them bodyguards. As it was, the escort were more likely to talk about their other duties, such as carrying messages, than the more demanding responsibility for which their position in Tookish society was named.

‘You serve the Thain and his family as a hobbit of the Thain’s escort,’ Haldoron said now, avoiding the term bodyguard that came more naturally to a Man’s mind.

‘I do,’ the Took responded warily.

‘Because of your position, the Thain will have informed you of his plans for his son.’

The small archer lifted his head higher, resembling a deer sampling the breeze for a whiff of danger. Perhaps a deer was the wrong image, however, for his reply sounded more like the snarl of a hunting dog or a wolf, perhaps. ‘What is that to you?’ Hildibold demanded.

‘As a hobbit of the escort,’ Haldoron persisted, ‘you are experienced in safeguarding the Thain and his family, even his oldest son.’ He held up a staying hand, anticipating the archer’s protest. ‘I am not trying to winkle secrets out of you, that I might threaten or harm the Thain...’

‘...or his son,’ the hobbit said, seeming to challenge more than confirm, but he lifted his head to meet Haldoron’s gaze firmly as he responded, and some dark knowledge stirred behind his eyes, darker than the former Steward might have credited in one of the relatively sheltered Shire-folk.

Haldoron clenched his teeth in sudden fury at the subtle but shrewd conclusion that sprang to mind. ‘Who has threatened Thain Peregrin’s son?’ he hissed. As a Northern Ranger, one who had dedicated his life to guarding the Shire and the Breeland, he was outraged at the suggestion of peril to any of the Pheriannath.

Then the Man drew a deep breath and forced himself to relax. His angry, unthinking response to the news of endangerment to Halflings was what had landed him in this mess, after all. By their unselfish, even heroic actions after transgressing the King’s edict by entering the Shire, the Men he’d condemned had won pardon – no, more than that – acclaim and favour from the King and the most powerful leaders amongst the Shire-folk.

More calmly, he said, ‘The Thain sent you to me that I might gain all the information I need in order to carry out the task he has set before me.’

The archer seemed rather nonplussed by this news. ‘The task he... the Thain? ...has set before you?’ he said.

‘That task exactly,’ the former Steward said, sketching a bow to the escort. ‘Which has to do with his plans for his son.’ Though he knew this part of the stables was empty – he had made sure of it before beginning his stall-cleaning efforts – Haldoron glanced about them in tacit warning before returning his gaze to the Thain’s escort.

Hilly nodded at this exercise of caution. ‘I see,’ he said. And then, seeming to change the subject, he added, ‘Not all that long ago, perhaps half-a-dozen years...’

Haldoron waited.

‘Word of the treasure-hoard of the Thain has gone far and wide into the world, it seems,’ the hobbit seemed to interrupt himself. ‘...and since the rediscovery of the lost treasure, our engineers have discovered more silver, and more gold to add to it.’

Haldoron nodded, refraining from asking questions to direct or focus the narrative, but letting the archer follow his own path in the telling.

‘You know how Elessar directed the Northern Rangers to deal with the Men who crossed the Bounds,’ Hilly said now. ‘Hung them up from trees, they did, and left them hanging, at least, until the Thain ordered them to cut them all down again.’ By the King’s decree, the lives of Men who entered the Shire in defiance of Elessar’s edict were forfeit. And yet... though the matter seemed straightforward enough, Haldoron had misstepped in carrying out the terms of the Edict rigidly, enforcing the letter of the law though perhaps not the spirit of the King and the Shire-folk themselves.

As the Man waited for him to say more, the archer levelled a challenging look that seemed to demand an answer, so Haldoron nodded and said, ‘I know of the orders issued to the Watchers, as well as the changes the Thain demanded.’

‘Even so,’ the archer continued, ‘Men would intrude upon the Shire, some with better motives than others...’

Haldoron’s brow wrinkled briefly at the idea that law-breakers might have anything other than the worst of motives, but he nodded for the other to go on.

‘When Farry was not much more than a faunt, a lad of but ten years of age,’ Hildibold said, suddenly switching the topic again, or so it seemed.

Half-a-dozen years ago Haldoron thought. The escort had circled back to the beginning of his tale.

The archer was having difficulty with the telling, Haldoron could see, and his years as a Ranger and subsequent experience as Steward had more than adequately equipped him to guess at the ordeal that undoubtedly lay behind the struggle. He said nothing, only waited and listened.

Hildibold fixed his eyes on a knot in the wall of the stall where they stood and continued, as if he were reciting events that had taken place long ago and far away. ‘A band of ruffians found their way past the Watchers and Bounders,’ he said. ‘The dead of Winter, it was, when most Shire-folk would be cosy in their holes, having just finished their Yuletide celebrations and unlikely to be out and about. Thus, the Men could have more confidence of their ability to go quietly about their foul business without their presence being reported, and a muster of hobbits called to deal with them.’

‘It sounds as if their incursion was carefully planned,’ Haldoron hazarded.

The hobbit looked at him. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They planned much more carefully than most of the miscreants we have dealt with. They were well-guided into the bargain.’

At the former Steward’s questioning look, he added, ‘One of the band had wandered the Shire in his youth, a long time before the King’s edict. He knew the land, and what’s more,’ he blinked, ‘as a youth, he’d seen the treasury at first hand – had held a gold coin or three or four in his hands, had cupped a handful of jewels in his palm and then, at the insistence of his Master, who’d shared with him the secret, poured them back into the casket where they rested, in a hidden hole deep in the high Green Hills...’

‘So they came to rob the treasury,’ Haldoron prompted when the hobbit fell silent.

But Hildibold flushed, and his hands closed into fists, and he squarely met the former Steward’s gaze once more, his eyes snapping with fury. But he was not insulted because of the Man’s prompting, as it turned out. ‘Two of my cousins were travelling along the track between Tuckborough and Tookbank,’ he said through his teeth. ‘The son of the Thain was one of them, and his escort was the other.’

Haldoron waited.

‘Seeking to avoid discovery, the ruffians struck the escort down and left him to lie in his blood... worse, they talked of burying him alive and prying the rocks loose on the hillside above to make his death look accidental. They would have murdered young Faramir as easily, only one of them recognised him for who he was...’ Hildibold swallowed on an obviously dry throat; his eyes were hot and accusing. ‘There are certain practices that child-stealers follow,’ he added, the words simple but chilling.

How in the world would simple Shire-folk know about child-stealing? Haldoron thought to himself, stunned. He felt his own hands tighten into fists.

Hildibold seemed to confirm the thought. ‘Before my cousins and Samwise travelled to the Southlands and back again, Shire-folk had never heard of such a thing. Mayor Sam learned of the practice while they were recovering from their endeavours, but he saw fit not to tell the others about it until years later.’

The archer’s next words betrayed a horrifying degree of familiarity with the ghastly practices of certain outlaw Men despite the efforts of the Northern and Southern Stewards, acting on the King’s decree to hunt such men down and eliminate them. ‘They cut hanks of Farry’s hair and enclosed them in a note, with dreadful threats of the harm they intended to the little lad,’ Hilly said. The eyes the archer turned to meet Haldoron’s shocked gaze were haunted with the grim memories he still carried. ‘I read that note myself, at the place where the ruffians left it to be found, and I carried it to the Thain. I watched him die a little death as he read it, before he pulled himself together and ordered the muster to ride out, even though it seemed more likely we’d be exacting vengeance rather than managing a rescue. And from what I saw when we recovered the lad, they had inked on his body the guiding lines they intended to follow in dividing him into pieces, to move the Tooks to their will...’

Haldoron, jaw tightly clenched, held up a staying hand.

Both stood silent, breathing, for long moments, before the Man spoke. ‘But Faramir is here with his father,’ he said. ‘And he appears to be whole, and well.’ Better than most victims of child-stealers ended up, at least in Haldoron’s experience. It was enough to make him appreciate the Easterlings’ ruthlessness in dealing with such criminals.

The archer’s mouth twisted in something resembling a grin, though it was more of a grimace. ‘He has all his parts and pieces,’ he affirmed. ‘The muster got to him in time... but we’d’ve been too late if not for one of the ruffians, aye, one of the band that struck Ferdi down and threatened unthinkable harm to Farry. For one of them, a youth, secretly turned against the others and took the lad’s part. He was ordered to take Farry’s eyes and tongue, to be sent in yet another message to the Thain, but he didn’t. As I heard it told, he took instead the eyes and tongue of a young deer, or perhaps a wandering sheep, and he sought to hide from the others the fact that Farry remained unharmed.’ He drew a shaking breath. ‘When the muster arrived, we were expecting the worst. The Talk had gone up and down the ranks of the note and “tokens” the Thain carried next to his heart. It was – it was like a miracle, when they took the bandages off him, and he looked out at us, and spoke...’

Haldoron swallowed down sickness. ‘I understand now,’ he said.

‘Understand?’ Hildibold said thickly.

‘I understand why your Thain sent you to talk to me – to tell me this tale,’ he said. ‘But – wait.’ He thought back. ‘You said struck Ferdi down, did you not? Was he young Farry’s escort? The one they left for dead?’ Clarifying, he added, ‘Ferdibrand, the Thain’s chancellor?’

‘Aye,’ Hildibold answered. ‘Left him for dead. But Tooks aren’t quite so easy to kill as rogue Men might imagine, it seems...’

*** 

Author’s note: The story of young Faramir Took’s abduction in the heart of the Shire can be found in A Matter of Appearances.

***