[piosenniel]

The Farroweeds

At the urging of their mother, two of the older Farroweed boys had gone silently out the opening to the hay loft. ‘Bring help,’ she whispered to them, the sounds of heavy footsteps just starting up the ladder. They crept to the door and went quickly down the pulley rope.

‘Shall we split up?’ the younger boy asked his brother. ‘Not yet,’ the other replied. ‘Stick close by me and in the shadows until we’re well past these ruffians.’ He pulled his brother close to him as they crept to the far edge of the little farm. The noise of the raid grew dimmer as they slipped in among the trees. ‘You go to Farmer Thistle’s place,’ the older one said in a whisper, keeping his hearing tuned for any suspicious sounds. ‘I’ll go over to the Rushy’s place.’ The younger boy frowned at his brother. ‘The Thistles? Da said we weren’t to have nothing to do with those Little Folk.’ The older boy grabbed his brother by the front of his nightshirt. ‘Well, it’s Ma that’s sent us for help, isn’t it, and the Thistles are the closest. Farmer Thistle’s got six strong sons. We’ll need them all if we’re to run off the men.’ He pushed his brother down the dirt path to the Hobbits’ burrow. ‘Now hurry!’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Letty Farroweed had watched the scene unfold with wide eyes. Her face was pale, and she clung onto her husband tightly as Guthwine threatened her child. A small measure of relief eased her terror as Big Tom threw the cashbox to the bandit. For one brief moment it looked as if that might satisfy these demons that had sprung on them in the night. The feeling of terror, replaced by a small flicker of hope, began to recede.

And then she saw the face of the man who entered the loft, his daggers pointed at her and Big Tom. Again there was fear . . . but beneath it was a growing anger. This was the man her husband had brought into their house! She barely heard the commands by Guthwine or took note of the struggle between them. A cold, icy feeling crept over her, and she stepped away from her husband, gathering the remaining children to her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Despite the fact that they had taken more plunder than they could quickly be away with, the bandits continued to plunder and pillage the small holding. Caught up in the fury of the assault, they wreaked havoc on what they could not carry away in their arms. The garden was trampled through, the pig pens kicked apart and the pigs left to run squealing from the noise and the flying timber.

Several of them had broken out the windows in the house and were throwing things out the window. Their mates below had pushed the objects into a pile, and one of them had lit a chair leg from the fireplace inside the house, preparing to set the heap alight. He grinned wickedly, the fire of his torch lighting up his features in a ghastly way.

He dropped the torch with a yelp as an arrow hit his hand. His companions, too, began to yell, as a barrage of missiles hit them. Arrows from the little hunting bows of four of the Thistle lads along with the sharp rocks from the Father and his youngest son flew wildly into their midst. The Rushy’s had come just after the Thistles, bearing cudgels and staves and yelling loudly at the louts to give way. They were big, burly farmers, the lot of them, and they made an imposing image as they charged toward the bandits.

Guthwine called a retreat, shouting at the bandits to get out. It was no use fighting for something they couldn’t hold onto, and he had other plans for them.

It was Farmer Thistle who sought out the rest of the Farroweed family. He saw Big Tom’s face in the hay window and waved him to come down, shouting that it was safe now. Big Tom’s face was unreadable in the shadows cast by the door frame. But Letty looked out, when she heard the Hobbit’s voice, and nodded at him.

She turned away from the hay door and herded the children to the ladder. Big Tom called her back, saying they couldn’t trust the words of one of those Little Folk. For all they knew he and his kind were in league with the bandits. Letty looked at him with unmasked disgust. ‘It’s you that can’t be trusted, you fool! It’s you that led that man to our home. And you that showed him all about. And all for the sake of your stupid, stupid pride.’ She was shaking with anger as she faced her husband, the children wide-eyed behind her. ‘You and your self-serving pride – you almost had us murdered in our beds.’ She shook her finger at him as he came toward her. ‘You stay back, Tomsin Farroweed. You’ll not be talking me out of this one this time.’ She shooed the children down the ladder where Farmer Thistle and one of his sons now waited below. Letty climbed down after them, then rushed out into the yard to see where her other two sons were.

The oldest one had come back with the Rushy’s, and was just returning to the yard with the men, the bandits having been run off. ‘Where’s your brother?’ she asked frantically, seeing him nowhere. Farmer Thistle spoke up, her other children gathered round him. ‘He’s safe at my burrow, goodwife. I thought him too young to come back with us, and the wife is seeing to him. I’ll send one of the lads back to fetch him and a wagon. We can take you to one of your relations houses for the night.’

Letty thanked him, telling him they had no family close by. Farmer Thistle asked would she like to spend the night at his place then. She declined, knowing that her brood would burst the seams of his small place, and beside that, she did not feel safe out here. The bandits could hit another little farm she feared.

‘Well then,’ he said rubbing his jaw in thought. ‘We’ll take you into town. You can stay at the Inn, can’t you? Until you can sort all this out.’ Letty’s gaze drifted about the ruined house and yard. ‘Yes, the Inn,’ she said. ‘Safe behind the Gates of Bree.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was well after midnight when Farmer Thistle and his son delivered Letty and the children to the Prancing Pony. The Gatekeeper was reluctant to let the Hobbit in, but backed down when Letty accosted him with her angry words. Wild-eyed, her hair flying in the night breeze, she came at him like some terrible wraith; the moonlight catching the folds of her nightdress gave her a spectral look. At least for this night, she was having none of it when it came to men telling her what she could and couldn’t do or think.

A short time later, Farmer Thistle was banging on the door to the Inn. ‘Open up!’ he called in a loud voice to a window that had swing open above. ‘Open up! I’ve someone in need who’ll be wanting a safe bed for the night.’