The wagons left Rivendell early one cool autumn
morning, massive things pulled by four horses apiece
and led rather than driven. Three were loaded with
cloth, thick and soft and beautifully dyed, and the
fourth with boxes of preserved fruit and bottled
cordials, bedrolls and other baggage.

There were two Elves to each cart, armed with bow
and knife, and Gilraen and Nuneth and the three
children. The whole company was dressed as country
folk but Estel didn't quite see the point.

"Anybody can see you're Elves after all." he told
Glewellin, the chief carter, who smiled.

"That they will not. It's easy to fool the eyes of
simple Men."

They went slowly because of the carts, crossing the
fords of Bruinen at noontide and following the Great
Road southwest through the dense wood known as the
Trollshaws. By nightfall they'd reached a place where
the road curved very near the river and there was an
Elven resting place, a sheltered dell overlooking low
falls with a stone lined fire bed in the center of a
bowl of smooth green turf, ringed by bowers woven out
of living trees for sleeping in.

Almost overwhelmed by the excitement of being
outside the Valley and a little intimidated by the
open fells and dark woods, the children had clung
close to their mother and the carts for the first
day's travel. But on the second day, as the road
turned westerly threading its way through forested
hills, they became more venturesome.

They were playing tag in and around the trees
alongside the road when Meleth's giggles suddenly
stopped in a gulp. Estel and Amin rushed to her rescue
and found her staring wide eyed up at a Ranger; tall,
dark and grimfaced in his green leathers. He looked
expressionlessly at all three then inclined his head
slightly to Estel.

"Dunadan."

"Mother's with us." he said, rather defiantly, in
response to the Ranger's unspoken disapproval. "And
Nuneth, and Elves too!"

"We're going to the fair in Hoarwelling." Meleth
added.

"Are you indeed." he looked past them to see the
first of the carts coming abreast of where they stood,
gestured for the children to proceed him and followed
them onto the road.

Mother started at the sight of him then, to the
children's surprise, blushed deeply.

"Gilraen," he said, "there is war beneath the
Mountains and in Wilderland beyond, with Stone Trolls
ranging as far west as the Lone Lands and you choose
this time to take the Heir of Isildur to a fair?"

The blush faded leaving Mother a little pale and
distinctly defiant. "The Angle is safe. Or should be
if the Warden's Rangers are doing their duty!"

"We are and it is as safe as we can make it," he
replied evenly, "but none of us, even the Warden
himself, would deny there is always risk this near the
Mountains."

"You know as well as I my son will never be
entirely safe anywhere." Gilraen said quietly. "Would
you make a prisoner of him, then?"

The Ranger sighed, defeated. "I am Bregolas son of
Berengar, at your service Lady, and yours Dunadan."

Nuneth welcomed this new companion wholeheartedly.
The Elves too showed traces of relief. Armed and
willing they were but not warriors, all those had gone
over the Mountains to Elrond. The children were
inclined to keep their distance at first, but warmed
after Bregolas carved them three wooden whistles and
taught them to play simple tunes.

An hour or two after noon they turned off the Great
Road onto a rutted cart track heading due south which
they followed til sunset. That night they camped in a
clearing beside the track. The children were put to
bed on soft bales of cloth in one of the four carts
formed into a circle round their fire. And Bregolas
and the Elven carters kept watch in turns all night
long.

As they continued southward the next day they began
to pass rough homesteads with log houses and small
fields hemmed in by woods. And to meet other
travellers on the road; three Men each leading a
string of pack ponies loaded with bundles of cut wood;
a homesteader in brown homespun with his wife riding
pillion behind him; a boy driving a small cart, an
older Woman knitting placidly on the seat beside him;
another Woman and her bevy of daughters, laughing and
talking as they trudged along with packs on their
backs, escorted by a pair of young Men who seemed
unable to get a word in edgewise.

The children stared fascinated. Hitherto the only
Men they'd seen were their own kind; tall and lean,
dark of hair and light of eye with chisled features
and long, elegant hands; or the Men of Rhudaur, no
less tall but broader built with swarthy skins, sharp
black eyes and heavy beards.

The country folk of the Angle were completely
different; shorter and stockier with brown hair and
ruddy cheeks. They had frank, open faces and a
cheerful, chatty way with them that was about as far
from the habitual reserved courtesy of Elves or
Dunedain as it was possible to get.

They eyed Bregolas slightly askance but seemed to
see nothing unusual about the rest of the party. The
Woman afoot struck up a conversation with Gilraen and
the children listened in astonishment as their mother,
speaking easily in an accent they'd never heard from
her before, named herself Gilly Weaver and explained
she and her Aunt Nan were taking her children to the
fair as a special treat.

"Ah yes, my girls never miss it." Mrs. Cobbold
answered, twinkled down at Estel. "Looking forward to
your first fair, eh young man?"

"Yes, ma'am." he stammered, considerably taken
aback. He'd been taught to make conversation with
Princes of Elves and Dwarves, but a common farmwife
was beyond his experience.

Fortunately she didn't take it amis. "There, there,
my boy." she patted him on the head, adding; "A bit
shy, eh?" to Gilraen, who smiled.

"A bit."

"But not as shy as this pretty little miss." Mrs.
Cobbold beamed at Meleth, clutching nervously at her
mother's skirts. "What's your name then, sweeting?"

She looked frantically up at Gilraen for help,
clearly none of her Elvish names would do at all. "We
call her Melly." Mother answered for her. "Say how
d'do to Mrs. Cobbold, dear."

"How d' do." Meleth echoed, trying to imitate her
mother's accent.

the Woman laughed kindly. "Not used to strangers
are they?"

"Not at all." Gilraen said honestly.

Mrs. Cobbold turned her attention to Glewellin,
walking on her other side. "You should bring your
children down with you more often, Lewin. Not keep
them tucked away in that northern valley of yours."

He smiled easily in return. "It's a long hard
trip, Alys, our womenfolk won't allow it. Gilly, here
is an exception."

"You know each other." Gilraen observed.

"Alys and her girls are some of our best
customers." Glewellin answered, added to Mrs. Cobbold;
"I remembered that pale green Lori has her heart set
on. There's a whole bolt just for her."

One of the girls, with light brown plaits and hazel
eyes, squealed delightedly. "I've been saving all
year." she told him. "Five coppers and a silver piece.
That'll be enough won't it?"

"More than enough." Glewellin assured her.
*******************************************

"I don't believe it," Estel said to him later,
after the Cobbolds had dropped behind. "She thought
you were a Man."

"As I said, it's not hard to fool the eyes of
simple folk."

"You still look like an Elf to me." said Amin.

Glewellin smiled at him. "You are not simple, my
young friend. Dunedain see clearer than other Men."

Estel looked at his mother. Even in green bodice
and full blue skirts she looked more like a princess
from an ancient tale, with her fine features and silver
fair hair, than a farmwife. "Mrs. Cobbold wasn't seeing
you as you are either was she?"

"Not exactly." Gilraen admitted. "It's a simple
thing, you'll learn to do it too when you're a little
older."

"If Meleth is Melly what are our names, please?"
Amin wanted to know.

Mother though a moment. "Amund and Errol Weaver."
she decided.

"Errol." Estel repeated. It was his first name in a
language of Men, it would not be the last.