A horse and rider trotted into Bywater from the east, and stopped in front of the Green Dragon Inn. The rider looked around. Hobbits were busy with the day’s labors, and after quick glances, identifying the man as from foreign parts by his garb, gave no more notice of him; this was Bywater, home of the Green Dragon Inn, where all sorts of folk stopped in of late. Old Cotton was known to have joked that they should change the village’s name to New Bree “what with all the foreign types about”.
“So this is where it happened, Flithaf.” The rider’s mild tenor voice carried to the horse’s ears only. “The wagon was over there,” he pointed to the middle of the square, “the Ruffians came in from over there,” he nodded toward the road, leaving town westward. “And the memorial should be right – over – here. Just as the Master of Buckland said.” The thatch haired rider nudged his horse over to the monument: ‘Battle of Bywater’.
“Worth a song, is it not, Flithaf?” The chestnut charger nodded vigorously, stamping his rear feet. “Easy, boy. We’ve gone far enough for one day. Buckland to Bywater might not be enough for your vigor, but it’ll have to do. I wonder if Camelia will turn up? Goodchild then, Brandybuck now, according to the Master. Good names.” He chuckled at the simplicity of hobbit names. He was interrupted by a snort from Flithaf. “Whoa, then, boy, we’ll make sure you’re well stabled.”
With that, the rider eased his mount toward the Inn and brought him to stable.
“A handsome stallion, sir,” said the stableman. “What is he called?” The rider supplied the horse’s name. “And who does he call master, sir?”
“Eodwine of Rohan, messenger of King Eomer of the Mark.” He tipped the stableman well, removed a tall and somewhat flat leather sachel from Flithaf’s side, and went inside the Green Dragon Inn.
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