AN: warning for field medicine/surgery, fairly graphic depictions of wounds of war and their treatment.
~ Chapter 47 ~
“And Aragorn arose and went out, and he sent for the sons of Elrond, and together they laboured far into the night. And word went through the City: ‘The King is come again indeed.’ “And they named him Elfstone, because of the green stone that he wore, and so the name which it was foretold at his birth that he should bear was chosen for him by his own people.
And when he could labour no more, he cast his cloak about him, and slipped out of the City, and went to his tent just ere dawn and slept for a little.”
ROTK: The Houses of Healing
~oOo~
~ TA 3017, 7th day of Yavannië: The Angle’s Council to meet upon the morrow. Mistress Nesta recommends implementing policies across all halls of the Angle’s folk and upon its square. Should any show signs of cough and fever they shall be put to a room of themselves. Any who have been near them in the past two days must also shelter in place. They may not gather with any others who have not already survived the coughing plague. Any of the house who do not show signs of the sickness are to keep their distance, no more than a room’s length between them, and may not share bed, clothes, cup, ewer, chamber pot, tub or bowl for bathing, or any other such implement of care. Those who have not the means to have a room to themselves may be taken to the sickhouses. Mistress Nesta to present her case for these policies afore the Elders upon the morrow and beg them to consider by what means the market may be made secure and not be a source for all to be made ill.
~oOo~
“Light, you there!” Mistress Nesta called, snapping her fingers, and a young boy of light hair and freckled face looked up from where he was beating a stake into the ground with a large rock. “They can do that, Horthon. Get us all the lamps ye can find and make sure they are filled, aye?”
“Aye, Mistress!” he called and darted away.
When there was none who stepped in to take his place, I picked up the rock he had dropped, loosened the stake from the soil, and pulled it tighter against its guide. The rope thrummed with my beating the stake taut to the ground.
In the dimming light of the coming even, we raised tents upon the mistress’ toft. Most oft in use in the days of the harvest fest when the feast and folk required shade, I pressed them to the healer’s service. Sure it was to rain o’er the night. Her sickhouse was full and ‘twould do no good to expose the injured to an illness that was just as like to take their life should they survive their wounds.
“Lift it higher, now!” I heard. “Get that tied down.”
“Get a hand on it, now.”
“Aye, I’ve got it,” I heard and the cloth billowed with the breeze as the folk raised it high.
Mistress Nesta’s hands were deep in a basket of strips of linen and wadding where she bent over them. “Master Duin?”
“Aye, Mistress?” A tall man of light blue eyes, tan skin, and hair of grey steel he kept tied at the nape of his neck halted in his path from sickhouse to toft. He carried a bundle beneath his arm and a bucket of sharply smelling vinegar.
“Have you got your knives sharpened?”
“Aye, but I will need a hand or two when it comes time, and I have naught of honey.”
“You will have it. Take the tallest of the tents for your use. You can set a table in there,” she said, nodding to the far edge of the toft where now stands a tent my lord had used for his men in years past for their rest and changing of their gear upon the harvest fest.
“Here, take this basket, then,” she went on, and, rising, hung it from his arm. “Ye will be needing all of these and Lenniel can prepare more.”
“The water is a-boil, Mistress,” called a young lass of naught more than twelve years across the toft.
“Has Master Edainion come with the honey, Lenniel?”
“Not yet, Mistress.”
“Aye, aye,” said Nesta, wiping her hands against the apron across her thighs. “Well, we shall need it last of other things. Let me know when he arrives and keep the irons in the fire. Have ye found the arrow spoons?”
“I have not had the chance to look yet.”
“Find them first, and then prepare more linens, aye?”
“Aye, Mistress!”
And then it is done.
The cloth of the tents rippled in the rising breeze with the sun’s setting. The lamps were lit and from them streamed bright flame in the gathering dusk. Soon the tents shall glow with the light of them from within as all about us darkens. There beyond the entrance of one, Master Duin touched upon his knives and tools, testing an edge here and arranging all to his liking there. Clean water and vinegar and baskets of torn linen stood at each tent’s opening. A young boy whose name I could not recall sat upon the grass in the midst of others of Nesta’s folk. There they rested a little and took what meal they could, for soon their hands will be busy and they knew not when next they might take a little sustenance.
The mistress herself stood at the head of the path that spills upon the sickhouse’s toft, her hands wrung deep in her apron. I had sent word and begged all our folk with their wagons and carts go ahead to meet them. All was ready. There was naught to do but wait.
“Would you assist Master Duin, my lady?” Nesta said when I drew near. “His eyes aren’t what they once were.”
“I shall,” said I and hoped I was up to the task. For the man is the Angle’s barber surgeon and most called upon when there is naught to do but cut away what will not heal. “Have you all you need?”
She nodded, her eyes upon the rise where the path dips below sight. “As best as we are able, my lady.”
They shall come from the north and so we stood upon the path and waited.
~oOo~
I could hear naught but the screams and moaning of men. For, not far from where I was knelt, the mistress’ folk forced knife and metal into a man’s shoulder. I knew not who it was, but he cried out and they were hard pressed to hold him still. For the arrow he had taken was barbed and there was naught for it but to press it between leaves of metal forced in about it and ease its passage out. Hands slip in the blood and, for want of other means of exerting greater force, Master Duin knelt upon the Ranger’s shoulder and pulled mightily upon arrow shaft and metal.
“My lady,” said Melethron, his voice hoarse and scarce to be heard.
I had plunged a bit of wool wadding to a bucket and, squeezing it out, offered a trickle from it to the Ranger’s lips. They had laid him and the bier that carried him upon the toft and the lamp above us flickered in the fickle breeze. I had not seen the man so poorly afore. For his face was all but grey and his eyes clouded with pain and fever. The skin of his lips was rough and torn. He licked the water from off his lips. I dared not give him too much, for a foul odor arose from his belly. I wondered could he die of the shock of it ere long should I do more. Nesta had taken one look at what was to be found beneath the bandages make-shifted from cloak and blanket. After laying the bloody mass back to his belly she grabbed Ranger Haldren and yanked him to his feet and away from where we knelt at Melethron’s side.
“Bless you, my lady,” Melethron said, closing his eyes.
Young Horthon’s feet crashed through the grass above the Ranger’s head. A sharp scream rang out and then was as swiftly stilled. Mistress Nesta and Haldren were deep in argument not more than a few feet away. I knew not what they said, but she was angry and gestured widely and Haldren looked upon her as were he made of stone, his arms folded across his breast and his feet planted firmly. And yet Melethron seemed untroubled by the sound and activity about us. I wondered were he even aware of it, so great was the pain he suffered. Though Nesta had gentled her touch as much as she could, her examination of him had left him gasping and clutching at the edge of the bier on which he laid.
He clutched at my hand and I looked down to find his eyes open, considering me.
“They are arguing about me?”
“Aye.”
He nodded, gasping a moment for breath ere he spoke again. “Aye well, mayhap I should have let Haldren slit my throat when he offered. He would have made a clean end of it.”
I must have looked upon him with alarm, for he made a quick soothing sound.
“Nay, my lady. You did not know Ranger Naron, did you?”
“No, I did not.” I had heard of him from my father and seen him from a distance, but we had ne’er met.
“’Twas when we brought your father home to you. Took a blade to the belly, he did. Cut him just here above his kidney, it did.” He let go of his grip on me and his hand shook as it hovered over the bandages where he pointed. His hand was filthy with his own blood and I knew not what else.
“We brought him back to the Angle as he asked. He lingered nigh three days until the last. ‘Twas an ugly death I would not wish on a dog.”
At this, I took his hand and pressed it in my own.
Whatever their disagreement, it seemed now resolved. Ranger Haldren strode swiftly past us, taking the path to the mistress’ workshop.
“Do you wish more water?”
He nodded, wincing at the strain.
“He has gone for the hemlock,” he said when he had again wet his lips.
Ai! It was no surprise but still, the thought of it stung and I must blink to clear my eyes of tears. ‘Twas difficult to think of my lord’s councils with his men and not hear Melethron’s voice raised in story or complaint or jest.
“Will you sit with me, my lady?” he asked and, for a brief moment, I saw fear flicker deep within his eyes. “Until my Berel arrives?”
“Aye, Melethron, I shall,” said I. “Thou art my lord’s man. Thee and thy kin are never far from his thoughts. Do not concern yourself with what is to be. We shall see your kin well cared for.”
This seemed to give him comfort, for he closed his eyes again. He breathed shallowly but with great care. I knew not how he had survived the trip hither, by what force of will he had borne the pain it must have cost him to do so, should it only grant him a few moments to say his farewells to those he holds dear.
I knew not what other comfort I could give, but laved water upon his cheeks and neck to cool him, and wiped away sweat from where it slipped from his brow. Atimes, I trickled water upon his lips so he might soothe the dryness and sour taste of his mouth, and marveled at the man’s silence here at the end.
When four of my lord’s men each lifted a corner of Ranger Melethron’s bier and bore him across the Mistress’ toft, his wife, her kin, and their elder children arrived swiftly upon them setting him down within his own tent. There I left them gathered around him. They touched upon him and he spoke to them softly, and they tried not to weep.
“My lady!” came Mistress Nesta’s call ere I could even think to follow them, and, handing me a cup yet warm from its brewing, she gave me instruction and begged me elsewhere.
I could hear them e’en ere I lifted the flap to the tall tent. For ‘twas the voices of young men that caught upon my ear.
“Ai! Leave me be, the Bitch Mother will take his hand to me soon enough.”
“’What is this? How art thou still in thy bed?’” said a voice I well recalled. “’Are you not a Ranger of the North? Think you having naught but one foot enough cause for your shirking of your duties?’”
“Aye!” cried another and laughed ere he groaned. “’Get ye up, now! I’ve not marched from here to the South Downs and back with two broken legs and naught but a crutch to keep me upright to coddle your wretched ass.’”
It could be none other than Ranger Haldren they mocked. For the tale is a true one, though mayhap he had not traveled so far as claimed, nor had so many legs injured.
They fell silent hard upon my entrance, their look a little stunned ere Ranger Boradan straightened and touched his fingers to his brow.
“My lady,” he said.
The young man upon the table by which he stood was broader of frame, but so like him in form and so like their father with his ruddy-brown skin, it could be naught but near kin to him. He struggled to sit upright and give respect.
Ai! I came swift to his side and touched upon his arm. “Nay, be easy.”
Boradan had rolled his blanket into a bolster and set it beneath his brother’s head. There we eased him back to laying upon it. He gritted his teeth and stifled a groan as he came to rest. Breathing heavily, his eyes pinpricks of pain, his skin glowed with a sheen of sweat in the lamplight. For all their laughter afore, Boradan’s face tightened at the sight of it and his hands eager to relieve his brother’s distress.
“You must be Muindir,” I said, taking up the cup I had set upon the table on which Master Duin’s knives lay. “Your brother has much to tell of you.”
“All lies, my lady,” he said thinly. “I beg thee, do not believe a single word of it.”
“Aye, mayhap not all good things,” I said, to which Boradan’s face lit with a grin ere he returned his gaze upon his brother. “But enough to know you now I have chanced upon you.”
“I am not at my best at the moment, my lady. Are you certain ‘twas not of himself he spoke?” Muindir asked, squinting at me from where he lay.
I could not help but laugh. For Boradan had captured his elder’s character so well in his stories of him, I could not have mistaken him.
“Well, then,” I said. “You must allow me to become better acquainted with you, then.”
“I am afraid, my lady, the next we meet you will find me a little less the man you see today.”
“A very little less in body, but no less in spirit, I hope,” I said, turning away to take up the cup I had set on Master Duin’s table. “Have you prepared yourself?”
“Aye, my lady, I am ready,” Muindir said and Boradan and I lifted him to sitting. He cried out when we jarred his leg, hissing and breathing deep to still the pain of it.
“This will help,” I said, and he nodded from where he leaned heavily against his brother. “Though, do not take what you shall come to see and feel for it to heart. They are but dreams.”
His hand shook when he would take the cup I offered and so Boradan took it up and lifted it to his brother’s lips. There, with their hands together steadying the cup, Muindir drank deeply of its contents. ‘Tis not the best of tastes. I recall it well, though I had not drunk of it since my daughter’s birth. In but a moment, his wit will not be as sharp and, I hope, he, like I, will recall little of what is to come.
I have taken the cup and Boradan his brother’s hand. There they watched as I removed strips of cloth binding thin branches of beech and the remains of his blanket about his leg. I had no hope of untying the knots laid upon them and so took up one of Master Duin’s knives and cut them away. His foot and ankle were little more than a mangled mass of blood and bone.
“Ai!” Muindir moaned and his eyes rolled at the sight. “Help me, Boradan! They mean to cut my foot from me.”
Boradan shifted his grip upon him the better to hold him upright. “Aye, brother, but thou shalt live. And I shall still have thee, and our mother and father will keep their son still.”
He went on when Muindir groaned and shook his head sharply, attempting, I think, to clear it. “Come, vuindor! The High Days are soon to come and we shall steal Adar’s ale and sing the songs of the North! Who then shalt beat thy chest and proclaim thee the champion of the Hare and Hounds but thee, eh? Thou canst not leave me to tease Fornion on my own. He is difficult to humble as it is.”
This set Muindir to chuckling, though his head lolled upon his brother’s shoulder.
“And we shall see our sister marry her betrothed soon after.”
“Aye, but I will not dance at her wedding,” Muindir said, his speech slurred until I could scarce make out what he said.
“That is good, for she does not wish it. The last thou attempted it, she limped about the house for two days after and cursed thee.”
Muindir chuckled. “Do not tell her I did it apurpose, wilt thou?” “Ai!” he cried and squeezed his eyes shut as I cleared away cloth and crushed athelas and other herbs.
Swift footsteps came upon us from outside the tent and the flap covering the entrance was flung aside to reveal a man of the wandering clans. He still wore his hair in long, locked twists held back from his face that I recalled from the hallmoot long ago. But now he wore a short beard of black and silver upon his dark jaw. Tall and broad of shoulder as he was, he filled the entrance to the tent as he rose. His gaze flew to the bloody mass of his son’s foot, to me, and then to his son’s faces. At the sight of them somewhat about him gentled. They looked upon him as had he the power to set all that was amiss aright. I would have thought he would have demanded to know the cause of Muindir’s injury and what we intended, but, instead, he brushed past Boradan and took his place behind his eldest son.
“Find thy mother,” was all he said as he drew Muindir against him and Boradan nodded. He said naught but strode swiftly from the tent, nodding and raising his knuckles to me in a swift salute as he left.
Muindir slurred, “Ada?” and the man cupped his son’s head in his hand and drew it against his breast as were he a young boy.
“Aye, I am here.”
“The Butcher of Umbar is come for me,” whispered Muindir.
“Nay, ioneg, he is not. I would not allow it.”
“He has drunk mandrake and will remember little of this,” I said to the man’s dismayed look, for his eyes glinted in the lamplight. “Take heart, Master Orthoron. I, myself, have born the bite of a healer’s knife and lived to good health after.”
Mayhap he would have said somewhat in reply, but the thud of bucket dropped to the ground warned us of another’s approach.
“Ah, good, you are here, Master!” said Master Duin. He gave Master Orthoron and I a quick nod and dropped a bundle of linens to the basket at the foot of the table.
He set the small pot of sweet-smelling honey dangling from his fingers upon the table by his knives. He nodded to the table upon which lay Ranger Muindir. “Just throw that mess upon the ground, should it please you, my lady.”
“Let us see what we have here, aye?” He rubbed his hands briskly together and peered at Muindir’s leg as I cleared away the bloody cloth and splints in which it had been bound. “Aye, we’ll have it off in a trice.”
At a touch to the crook of my arm, Master Duin coaxed me to his table of knives, turning our backs and leaving Master Orthoron staring after us.
“I could use your help, my lady,” said Master Duin in a low voice. “We shall need to tie off the flow of blood from vessels we cut, and the faster done the better. Once we have started, we have but a moment or two to get the work done, else we might lose him to the shock of it. You understand me, my lady?
“Aye, Master Duin,” I said. “What would you have me do?”
“Once I have cut the skin, you will need to pull it back and hold it fast, so I might cut first the muscle then saw the bone. It will be greasy with blood, but ye must not let it slip, nor impede my use of the blade, nor stand in my light. Can you do that for me, my lady? I know you’ve seen much of butchery, what with ye raising your sheep and all. But this is a man, and he will be screaming for the pain of it. You and I cannot falter for our sympathies for him and his state.”
He awaited my nod and then continued, hovering a hand above his tools.
“You see that fine hook there? I have tied the gut, but you should check it. Ye must find the main vessels and loop them closed ere we release the binding, else he will bleed himself dry.” He picked the tool up by its wooden end and dug at the air with it.
The gut was finely pulled and his knots, despite his fears, well made and looked to hold. I pulled at the end of one to get the feel for it and it slid through the knot with a little effort.
“Reach in and hook the vessel, both top and bottom, and slide the loop down its length over it ere you pull it tight.”
Master Duin waggled the tool at me to gain my attention. “We have got the one chance to get them all. We will be looking for three of them; one to the front, the side, and the back,” he said, touching three points about the wooden haft with his thick fingers. “Have you got it, my lady?
“Aye, I understand, Master Duin. I know what to look for.” I had thought I had held my fears to myself, but I doubt not my eyes were wide, for I was unable to turn my gaze from the long, curved knife laying with the rest of his gear. His hand alighted upon my arm ere it was as quickly withdrawn, and I glanced up to find his kind look upon me.
“Ne’er fear, my lady,” he said. “I will guide you through it. You have but to do what I tell ye. We will have him cut and bandaged up quicker than that young Horthon out there can swallow down a bowl of porridge, and I swear him half wolf-cub.”
“All right there, young Master Muindir,” he said, turning to the table where Master Orthoron had been speaking low but urgently to his son. Duin grabbed up a strap of tough cloth, which he then handed to me. “The worst of it is the cutting of your skin, but you must do your best to hold still. Ye hear me?” He grabbed up the cloth of the Ranger’s breeches below the knee and stuck the point of his knife through the fabric and began to cut away the ragged bottom. “My lady, the strap, if it please ye,” he said when done.
At this, Muindir’s father moved swiftly ere Master Duin had the chance to take it from my hand, grabbing upon the barber’s arm and pulling him close.
“Master Orthoron!” I said, reaching across the table and lifting my hand to him, but he was the faster.
“He is my son,” said Master Orthoron, his voice low and stern. “Not some piece of meat that you would speak of him so.” It seemed then, that words failed him, for though he glared at Master Duin, he said naught else.
“Aye,” Master Duin said, returning his gaze as steadily. “There is naught for it but to proceed.”
“Master Orthoron!” I said, though the man spared little attention for me and did not release the barber. “I beg thee, sir. ‘Tis not the first Master Duin has seen him. Thy son has had his questions answered, and would have told thee had he not already drunk mandrake. He has reconciled himself to it.”
“You swear it?” said Master Orthoron and Duin nodded solemnly.
“Aye, I swear it. I will do my best by him, but I need your aid.”
Master Orthoron swallowed and looked the grimmer. “What am I to do?”
“Stand behind your son there and hold him fast about his arms. Keep him as still as you are able. The lady and I will be working as quick as we can, but do not be surprised if he swoons in the midst of it. Ye must be prepared to bear him up. Do not let him fall!”
With that, Master Orthoron nodded and released Master Duin and gentled Muindir into position against his breast.
Master Duin wound the strap about Muindir’s leg and then inserted a metal rod within its loop.
“Are ye ready, my lad?”
Muindir groaned and bit at his lip, too far gone to do much more than nod, and his father, his face resolute, took a good grip upon his son.
“There’s a good lad,” Master Duin said. “Sooner started, sooner done, and then, ne’er fear, Master Orthoron, we shall get your son to healing.”
Master Duin swiftly twisted the rod to tighten the strap and then secured it. “Now, my lady, hold his leg straight and fast.” And with that, he reached about Muindir’s leg with his curved knife, and, in one smooth, sure motion, slit the skin so that it split in a sudden red line about it.
I will not speak of Muindir’s screams, nor his aborted frantic movements upon the table. Nor does the feel of a man’s skin and sinew and freshly sawn bones beneath my fingers bear the telling of it. But, should I recall the events of that night, e’er shall come to mind the flickering of the lamps and my desperation to find what needed tying off in their dim light. And o’er all, I recall the low sound of Muindir’s father’s voice. E’er he spoke low and steadily in his son’s ear.
“It will be done in just a little, ioneg. It will soon be over. I am here. It will soon be done,” he said o’er and o’er again in a soothing cant even after Muindir fell silent within his father’s grip.
Soft was the light that spills upon Mistress Nesta’s toft. O’erhead the moon sailed above clouds that crowd upon the horizon where she painted their edges with silver light. ‘Tis quiet now, but for the low moans of folk, the soft speech of their kin gathered to them, and the voice of a child raised in complaint. It is long past my lord’s son’s time to be abed and, my labors done for the moment, I must send him to it.
Ai! I think it gave my lord’s son a fright, for when I first came upon him, Edainion dropped the pestle he held to the table where it rolled and clanked upon the floor unheeded and a horror stole upon his face.
“Ammë?” he called, his voice low, and ‘twas only then was I aware of myself. Blood stiffened my apron and dress from sleeves to breast to thighs. It had sunk deep to the crevices of my hands and beds of my nails, where it would not wash out in the bowl my lord’s son offered when I had begged his forgiveness and consoled him. He then gave no protest when I commanded him home. He awaited there where the sickhouse throws its shadow upon the path, rifling through the basket Elesinda sent. He had shared its contents with Lenniel for their even’s meal, and now searched for somewhat else to eat therein, ere he was to go.
Low came their voices and their shadows played upon the cloth of the tent, thrown there by the flicker of the lamp that hung within. And as I neared soft their words came to me.
Our mothers sat upon the banks of the Echuinen
And watered deep flowing rivers with tears
Our fathers stood guard and gave us farewell
And as the flowers that wait for the rain
We lay quiet beneath the hunter’s feet
Yet spring to awake at the call
Of songs ringing o’er red highlands
Of broad waters that open upon the sea
Our hands are the hands of the forsaken
Our eyes are the eyes of the dead
Our tears are the tears of our mothers’
Yet as the flowers that wait for the rain
We grow roots as strong as the mountain
And spring to awake at the call
Of the thunder of hooves on the hillsides
And clashing of spears in the valleys
We are the children of lamentation
We are the children of stars
That shine upon lands of our forebears
Yet as the flowers that wait for the rain
We tend the seeds of those who bore us
So they shall spring to awake at the call
Of our fathers whose trails we have followed
And our mothers whose hearths call us home
Loath was I to speak. The words are known to me. I have seen them written in my own mother’s hand in the pages of the journal passed to me after my sister’s death. There among the tales of her dye pots and weaving were words of our foremothers I had not heard but in my own voice. For a moment, I could do naught but listen and hoped I would not burst into tears at the fullness of my heart. For here, they were put to song.
“Ranger Boradan” I called when the singing faded, and the voices within stilled.
‘Twas but a moment and he pushed aside the flap and emerged. It seems, of a sudden, I had forgotten how tall he was.
At my silence, he frowned upon me in obvious concern. “What is it, my lady?”
“I have a favor to beg of you,” I said. “Would you escort my lord’s son home?”
His face cleared. “Aye, my lady, of course.”
All about was quiet and so I could do naught but hear them whispering inside amidst the chime of buckle and slip of leather.
“But thou art so weary. Surely another could take him.”
“Naneth, he is my lord’s son and heir and I am their sworn man. ‘Tis proper I see him home safe.”
“He is but a child. What is he doing here?” came his father’s deeper voice.
“He has been helping Lenniel in the healer’s workshop. I will not be long.”
The flap of the tent flew open and afore me stood a woman of the wanderers, her hair a chestnut crown of tight curls lit with threads of silver between brow and scarf and freckles upon her nose and cheeks the color of a young fawn.
“I am sorry to take him from you at such at time. I would not, had I another to ask,” I said as her look assessed me keenly.
“My son speaks fondly of thee, my lady,” she said.
“Mistress Istriel,” I said and inclined my head to her, for I had heard much of her, as well.
She had no chance to respond, for Boradan pressed behind her and left the cloth of the tent bobbing in his passage.
With a quick kiss to her high cheek, Boradan smiled upon his mother and took his farewell, “I will be back soon, Naneth. Try not to provoke discord with the House of Isildur while I am gone.”
“My lady,” he said and nodded, bringing his fingers to his forehead and smiling as he went.
Her gaze following him was all of fond, vexed, and worried, and I felt the pang of guilt at separating them when she had just received him back from danger.
“My thanks to thee for permitting his absence. I pray it will be for just a little.”
“I am afraid my son has grown past the need for my approval of his deeds, my lady,” she allowed, if a trifle wryly.
“Mayhap, but it seems not like him to e’er grow beyond the need for his mother’s regard, I would think. He is very dear to my lord’s son and I.” For indeed did I regret the lack of Boradan’s warmth and steady presence, and Edainion his companion and tutor. “Has Elder Bachor seen to thy needs, mistress, so that thou mayest meet the needs of those of thy clan?”
“There shall always be need of more, my lady, but he treats fairly with us.”
“As my lord is not here to tend to thy sons’ needs, it is on me to attempt it. Shouldst thou have need, thou hast but to send to me.”
I bowed and was to take my leave, but turned to find Boradan returning with Edainion at his side. The Ranger leaned to my lord’s son and spoke softly to him.
“Let me do the asking, then,” I heard.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Boradan said, bowing his head touching upon his brow as they approached. “But your son begged to meet my brother ere he goes.”
“For a little.”” I said holding out my hand, for they were an exact pair, the two of them, their eyes wide and innocent and pleading.
I had thought, mayhap, Edainion’s face would brighten as it had when I had relented earlier in the day, but it did not. In its stead, he looked up at Boradan with a somberness that reminded me much of his father’s grim look. At the Ranger’s nod, my lord’s son took my hand and Mistress Istriel held the tent’s flap open for us.
There, Master Orthoron rose from his seat and bowed, his dark brown eyes warming as he watched. For Edainion lingered uncertainly by my side at first. They had made him comfortable, their eldest son, wrapped in blankets and laid upon a mattress around which they sat. There he blinked and frowned upon us.
‘Twas not until Muindir squinted and mumbled, “I thought you were taller, my lord,” did Edainion’s face light with a smile and he stepped away from my side.
It might have earned him the fond shaking of his father’s head, but Edainion settled himself beside the mattress beside Muindir and there looked upon him curiously. For the Ranger was still befuddled, the lids of his eyes unwieldy and voice soft and slow.
“Do I really look much like him?” asked Edainion, biting upon his lip.
But it seemed Muindir had exhausted his wit, for, blinking heavily, he did naught but reach a trembling hand to take a lock of one of Edainion’s curls between his fingers. There he frowned and looked upon it with somewhat of wonder, tugging upon it ere he released it.
“Aye, that you do, young master.” Master Orthoron had returned to sitting and, watching, leaned his chin upon his fist. But now he sat straighter and spoke. “’Tis in the set of your chin and the sharpness of your cheeks. But, you should know too, you have your mother’s eyes and they are that color and shape most oft seen in the folk of her clan of the Mawrím. Their forefathers came to Umbar from the western shores of Harad, long ago, and still their children bear the look.”
I was unsure what Edainion made of it, but he looked upon Master Orthoron solemnly. “Wilt thou tell me more stories of them?”
Master Orthoron’s face warmed with a smile, his eyes soft and pleased. “I would, young master, should not my wife be the better teller of tales than I, or so my children oft remind me.”
A rude noise from Muindir drew their gaze. But his thoughts on the matter were most like to have to wait, for he struggled to turn to his back, and he fell to dozing even as Master Orthoron rose and eased pillow and blanket about him.
“Come, onya,” I said. “We should let him rest.”
In all this, Mistress Istriel had remained silent, standing at my back and watching. I know not why, but when we took our leave, for all her husband’s fondness and pleased smiles, it came to me that she had wept, her tears shining softly upon her cheeks.
And when we withdrew from the tent and the small circle of light and warmth within it, we made our way across the toft, Ranger Boradan trailing behind us, and I, for the aching of my heart, struggled to smile upon my son.
~oOo~
Some time later, at the far side of the sickhouse, I leaned against the wall and used it as prop to let myself down to the ground beside Mistress Nesta where she sat in the shadows. Soon, my eyes would accustom themselves to the dark, but now, I could see little of what she might be thinking. Without comment, I pulled my shoes from my feet so I might feel the cool grass beneath them. The wall of limewashed daub at our backs yet bore the day’s heat and its warmth stole through wool and linen. There we sat for a time and said naught, and I let the warmth ease sinews strung tight for holding myself in readiness.
The moon had risen and looked down upon us with her broad face. Dark the leaves danced o’er our heads, flickering silver in her light, the breeze driven upon us by clouds upon the western hills and smelling of rain. I would have said the night a peaceful one, were it not for the moaning and mutters of the folk within. Somewhere, beyond the wall at our back, a child pled for her mother, coughing so in between her cries my own breast ached in sympathetic pain. I know not whether I hoped her mother was soon to come and give her relief, or should I hope she was far from this place where her child saw her face yet knew her not.
“She is dying, my lady,” Nesta said and ‘twas only then I knew she, too, was listening.
Her hand was warm and strong when I took it in one of my own.
“I am sorry you must bear this, Nesta,” I said, and her hand clutched at mine in response.
After some time of wiping at her cheeks, she spoke, her voice low and colored by her tears. “I have not asked, my lady,” she said. “I know it is not my place to be told these things, but were you to tell me there is a purpose to this, then I think I might be able to bear it a little longer.”
“My lord –“
She squeezed my hand to halt what I had thought to say and turned so she could look upon me more fully. “Forgive me, my lady. I do not know him,” she said, her eyes glinting in the pale light. “I know you.”
At that, I fell silent. Faint I saw her face turned to me pale against the dark. For the grief and resignation etched there, I wished not to give false hope. We have had enough of that, we Dúnedain of the North; beginnings that failed of their promise as the threat rose yet again in a new form. The Butcher of Umbar, the Witch King of Angmar, servant of The Giver of Gifts and The Abomination who twisted all to his grim thoughts; he has not forgotten us, those of his House and city who rose up against him. His children, he calls us. What fell form shall he assume that we must come to know and fear again?
“Should we not make the sacrifice now,” I said at last, and her eyes searched mine, “any peace we might earn will be but for a little. It will not last. And when it ends, our lives, and those of our children, will be a horror as we have not seen afore, and we shall have no chance of escaping it.”
Nesta nodded, but then her face twisted with grief of a sudden and she drew my hand to her brow and pressed it there as she wept. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and a stillness settled upon her.
She pressed a kiss to my knuckles ere she let our hands drop to her lap, where her thumb rubbed against mine as were it I she hoped to comfort. Mayhap I had need of it. I knew not what she saw in my face but found myself too weary to wonder what I felt.
“The Council meets ere tomorrow’s evening meal. We shall need to talk in the morning, you and I and Pelara, I think,” said I.
“Aye, that we must, my lady.” She turned away to rest more fully against the wall behind us, but did not release my hand.
What would my lord say could he see me now? What would he think of the choice he made when first I alighted to the ground afore him and he took my hand in his? How much, then, would he regret what it cost him? For I stink with the blood of his people. Deep it is sunk within the fibers of dress and linen beneath it. I will not get it out. And at most, no matter they be injured of body or spirit, I could do naught but ease the pain of their passing.
Ai! I wish most to be standing at my loom, long though it had been since I had the chance. Should I close my eyes and wish my thoughts far away, I would hear naught but the chiming of stone upon stone with my pulling upon the heddles and the whisper of threads as they slip one past another. I would feel not the thin tack of drying blood, but the tickle of wool and linen beneath my fingertips. Should I need pull on one thread, I knew there the touch that would be its limit and trust it could bear the burden. For there, I could wind thin line upon line, until I knew with certainty the form my efforts would take.
I must have fallen to drowsing, for Nesta’s hand jerked in mine and I startled alert at somewhat brushing upon my leg.
“Nesta!” I heard and, to my surprise, found Ranger Haldren standing o’er us. With a stifled groan, he lowered himself to the greensward at our feet and, limb by limb, stretched out upon its cool surface. His mare stood upon the bit of toft behind him, tearing wearily at the grass, and I wondered that I had not awakened at the thudding of her steps.
“Do somewhat with that.” He waved a hand at the sack he had dropped between Mistress Nesta and I and draped an arm o’er his eyes. “I will not take it back.”
“And here I thought there was naught could frighten you, Uncle,” said Nesta.
He grunted. “You would choose her o’er all others you could have had,” he said. “She should be here, not halfway across the Angle.”
Pelara shrugged as she opened the sack. “I have been asking since her youngest was married.”
The warm scent of bread drifted upon the sack’s opening and set my belly to rumbling. What I would not have given for Pelara’s ale, but that shall have to wait until the fall harvest.
“Knife?” asked Nesta and Ranger Haldren withdrew a small blade from his belt, tossing its hilt to her.
Roused a little, he fumbled within his coat and pulled his flask from within while Nesta unwrapped a loaf of good, dark brown bread and a pot of soft sheep’s milk cheese. I could smell the garlic from where I sat.
Ah, I had not had bread of so fine a texture and smooth a taste in some while. ‘Twas all I could do not to gorge myself upon it.
When Ranger Haldren held out his hand for his own piece, Mistress Nesta gestured with her fingers at him and he sighed. Stoppering his flask, he tossed it to her in trade for a slice of the bread with a generous slathering of the cheese.
“Och,” she spluttered after her first mouthful. “This is the worst yet,” she said as she handed the flask to me. “Wherever did you get this?”
“Do not ask what you truly do not wish to know,” he said, taking small bites of the bread and chewing them thoroughly as he lay there. His mare wandered over to snuffle at his face and hands, her ears pricked forward. She thrust her great nose between his arms when he attempted to hold the bread out of her reach.
“Get away, you great skamelar,” he said, pushing at her nose, which did naught but tempt her to snorting and licking after the bread with her long tongue. “Aye, I will give you some, but first you must quit with your begging.”
Glad was I to be forewarned, for the drink truly was vile. Though, this I would say for it; it burned as it went down the throat and settled warmly in my belly. ‘Twas a pleasant enough that I took a second mouthful ere I tossed the flask back to its owner.
“Well, I shall grant her mercy for this,” said Haldren, sucking at his thumb and then forefinger. He shook his head at his mount and patted her ere she huffed and swung her head away and returned to her meal of the grass. “At least she can cook, your woman, which is more than what I could say for my sister.”
Nesta snorted. “My mother could cook, just not aught you would wish to eat were you healthy enough not to need it.”
“And can you cook a good dish, Ranger Haldren?” I asked, sinking into the warmth of the liquor and watching the man with his beast. I had puzzled much as to his character in the past and had not seen him like this. He could be vicious and cold, sharp of temper and quick to cuff and berate the youths under his charge. And yet, I had heard more than one story of his carrying them great distances upon his own back when they were injured, and they jostled with one another for a position with him. For sure, any of his fostering were sure to advance quickly among their ranks.
“I have many talents, my lady, both natural and learned. Best way to a woman’s bed is to cook for her,” he said, whereupon Nesta kicked him in the shoulder.
“I tried my best to teach you the art of it, Nesta,” he said with a smile that gleamed sharply in the dark, “but you have your mother’s talents.”
“I need not your talents, Uncle mine.”
“Nay, you do not,” he said. “Glad am I you were here and we close enough to make it to you. More were saved than I had thought to hope for.”
“You have checked on your mewling babes?”
“Aye, and they have, nigh one and all, left off their mewling and sleep now.” Haldren laid back upon the grass and closed his eyes. “I must leave on the morrow to meet our captain, and so I shall leave them to your care.”
“You should not have brought him so far,” she said. “’Twas truly cruel of you to let him suffer like you did.”
“I offered. He refused,” Haldren snapped. “Who am I to question it?”
Mayhap it was the liquor, or mayhap the weight of weariness upon me, but I had naught to say. For Melethron was dead and I would not hear of his tales nor Halbarad’s complaints of them. Nor would his wife have much of laughter or light-hearted jests with her sister. I knew little how to feel. But ere I had much chance to puzzle over the lack, Haldren grunted and rolled to his side, pushing his way to standing.
“Come, Nesta,” he said, “give me your farewell, unless you have naught but more bitter words for me.”
He took up her reins, and his mare stumbled a step and shook herself from head to tail, the leather upon her flapping, for, her meal done, she had fallen to drowsing upon her feet.
“I will see thee home, my lady, shouldst thee wish it,” he said.
“Aye, Haldren,” I said and grabbed up my shoes, “and you are welcome to sleep at my lord’s hearth tonight, should you wish to rest ere you take to traveling again.”
“That I shall, my lady, and my thanks to you.”
“Uncle,” said Nesta. She stood and now took him by the head and pulled his brow down upon hers. “Forgive me my harsh words. I know you loved him.”
He did little in response but submitted to her touch. She then drew in a breath, and releasing it, spoke.
“Mayest thou remain fierce in our defense and may our enemy fear the rumor of thy approach and fly afore it. May they beneath thy care listen well and bear thee up when far from home. But dost thou not forget us and e’er shall we look to thy returning home.”
“Be well,” he said and planted a kiss upon her brow.
By dint of his arm and shoulder beneath my thigh, he had pushed me to the saddle and taken his place behind me when next he spoke. “Tell that woman of yours to expect a visit from me should she not give you an answer ere my return.”
“You shall leave it to me, Uncle, else I’ll let your pin and ballocks rot off ere I treat them again,” she said, and his low chuckle rumbled against my back.
“Ne’er fear, Nesta, I have found naught but one home for them, as you prescribed.” He pressed his knee to the mare and she clomped in a slow arc to face the edge of the toft. “Or mayhap two,” he said, shrugging, “I’ll not be needing your aid with them.”
With his arms about me, he set his mare to a walk and we swayed in the saddle with her movement.
“Worry not, my lady,” he said to my stiff back, “If you will permit me, you may rest a little. I’ve not let a man slip from my hold yet.”
With my nod, Ranger Haldren wrapped an arm about my middle and pulled me up tight against his breast. There I closed my eyes and recall little else from journey across the Angle but snatches of his low singing and humming to his mare as she walked. ‘Twas not until much later I recognized the tune. For he sang a lament for the dead, as he had sung years ago in my father’s hall afore the bier on which we had laid him.
~oOo~
“I could cure mayhap five of every ten who were sick with the coughing plague. Now? Now ‘tis more like three,” Mistress Nesta says to the Elders about my lord’s table. Here, in the light of the afternoon, she speaks to them and they look upon her attentively. “They come to me weaker than afore. It has come for the aged and the young and the unlucky. I see now the unwanted, the uncared for, the nuisances and hermits, those who are alone and have none to care should they go hungry or have naught. Then next it shall come for the cotters, those with no land who must scrounge for what they have.
“Should we prevent it from coming for us all by the end,” she says, “we cannot go on as we have been.”
And we cannot. For, soon, all things will change.
Master Bachor’s dark eyes stare back at mine o’er the line of his fingers as it clasps his chin. He no longer plays restlessly with his stylus. It is tucked away in the embossed leather that holds his wax tablet and set aside. He no longer presses me to address questions for which I have no answer or to speak of hope where I know not where to find it. Neither, too, do I hear Mistress Nesta’s pleas nor the Council’s response.
Bachor narrows his gaze upon me, and I know him uneasy for my examination of him. But I know not what he sees. For my thoughts tend not to him, either.
No, my thoughts are much occupied with other matters. For Nesta arrived early, well ere it was time for the Elders to sit at my lord’s table.
There she pulled me from my work at the hearth into the buttery to speak in private. There, in the low light, she laid a hand upon my arm and said, “Lenniel has come down with fever and cough.”
And when I would start and pull away, mute and staring at her, she tightened her grip and spoke firmly.
“I have brought rûdh-glaew with me, my lady, and we must give it to your son, now, even should he not have signs of the sickness yet.”
~oOo~