The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Good Liornung,” Hearpwine said, “music may be as food and drink to men such as us, but it does not wholly replace the need for nourishment. And if we are to play the night through, we will need to keep up our strength!” As though waiting for her cue, the serving maid returned at that moment with a board laden with bread, cheese and cold meats. She had in her other hand three cups, one filled with golden ale for Liornung, and two with water for Hearpwine and Maercwen. She quickly placed the refreshments on the table. “Thank you my lady,” Hearpwine said courteously. “I must apologise for my behaviour in the kitchen earlier – but you can see now why I ran out so quickly. Is not my old friend Liornung a mighty…I would say bard,” but, noting the look in the older man’s eye, he added quickly, “but he has forbidden me to do so!” He laughed. “I have yet to make your acquaintance? I am Hearpwine.” The pretty maid curtsied and said that her name was Aedre. “A lovely name! Well-deserving of a song!”

Liornung laughed around his mouthful of meat. “I begin to think that you wish to compose a song about everyone and everything you meet.”

“Nay, about everything and everything there is! And is not that right? For if what the sages say is true, then the whole of Middle-Earth was wrought from song, and should it not therefore be celebrated and renewed in the same way? A song for every star, each drop of water and all Peoples – does not the glory of the world deserve such?”

“You will need many more years than you have to accomplish that, my friend. Perhaps you mistake yourself for one of the Eldar race?”

Hearpwine grew suddenly, and quite surprisingly, serious. He cast his voice lower to a pitch that none of them had yet heard. “Nay, I do not aspire to such as that.” He fetched a light sigh and thought for a moment. When he began again he spoke as one in a dream. “I saw the mightiest of the Departed, you know. When King Theoden was brought back to Edoras after the War, myself and a few others who had fought on the North Marches met him on the way and sang his praises. There were among that troop many of the Golden Wood, and I saw – and heard sing – the Golden Lady herself. Ah! There was a music above mortal ear and fancy my friend! Would you had been there…” He shook his head as though waking from a sleep. “No, I do not pretend that my music is aught compared to that. But it is, I hope, accomplished enough for the service of my King and people. Still, when I returned to my home I could not help but feel that my own world was somewhat smaller and duller than I had thought -- after seeing such greatness and beauty, how could it have appeared any other way?"

"What is your homeland?" Maerwen asked. "I do not recognise your device or apparel, and yet you are clearly of Rohan."

"My family holds a small estate on the very rim of the Westfolds. Formerly our lands bounded those of Saruman -- curse his name! -- but since the War, the King granted us new lands beyond the Gap of Rohan so that we might pacify the Wildmen of the west and bring that rich land under cultivation. It has been hard to manage those lands, so long bereft of the rule of Men, but it has been rewarded. We are not a rich or powerful family, but we are proud, and of nothing more than of our labours in fulfiling the wishes of our King! But what of yourself, fair maiden Maercwen? Have you family in Edoras or are you from some small upland vale, come to the city of the Kings to seek your fortune, as I have?"

[Kransha]

Osric’s ancient eyes half closed again, pondering the oration that this man who sat before him related. He gave an acknowledging nod to Maercwen as she passed and presented the men with food and drink in ample supply. The retired warrior looked down, with a slight gleam of hunger in his eyes, at the surplus of food that lay there for the taking. As Hearpwine and Liornung paused momentarily in their discourse, he quickly spoke, hoping for but a simple bite to replenish his energy after the tiresome trek to this inn.

“Might I?” mumbled Osric softly, gesturing a withered and rough-skinned hand at the platter before him. Hearpwine nodded curtly and the aged man of Rohan tore off a small piece of bread from one of the many loaves. He hesitated before taking a conservative bite from the food and swallowed abruptly as he listened to Hearpwine’s words. There were more memories relived in that speech given, as Osric remembered with a bowed head the passing of the mighty Theoden, son of Thengel, on the field of Pelennor so far from this jovial inn. It had been a great and terrible day, when Osric was a younger man, though not so young as to be stalwart and brave like the Rohirrim pups on noble steeds who charged the armies of darkness on that fate-remembered day. The memory that flitted through his countenance might cause a mournful tear, but past glories were still glories, and solemnity was only a path to the lighter reflections of that past.

As he heard more of Hearpwine’s words, he simply could not resist speaking up again after the man of the Westfold posed a simple question to the lady, Maercwen. He leaned forward in the chair he’d reclined in and raised a quizzical hand at Hearpwine, talking quietly and as humbly as a fellow like him could.

“You will pardon the interruption, good Hearpwine, but my curiosity is unflinching and must know of one thing. You say you have seen the Golden Lady of the Wood herself? If so, I would be most grateful if you were to tell me some small thing, some bare word that could tell me of her. You see, Hearpwine, I am…or was…a teller of tales and a spinner of yarns in my day, but I have naught been able to relate any knowledge of the Golden Lady to my comrades. In the service of the King, I have traveled many leagues across these lands beneath the vessel of the sun, but never have I been blessed by the sight of her or heard the voice which I have oft been told of. Good sir, I pray you tell me but a little so that I might now before my time on this world is over.”

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry sat off to one side, coddling a mug of hot cider in one hand. Her other hand absent-mindedly scratched Prince Goldwine's chin, the cat stretching and yawning and directly her hand's attention to an ear and then his back. This cat has seen and heard much here, thought Bethberry. She sat back, watching the Inn's patrons. Many of them, like Taliesin and Hearpwine and Osric, were veterans of the War. Something about the Inn drew them here, a place where memory could be given voice. Yet perhaps also it was the children running underfoot which gave them comfort, children for whom the songs were just songs and not experience wrought with music. There was comfort in the contrast between the old warriors with the young exhuberance shown by Leofan's children. Bethberry was glad, very glad, she had kept the stable master and his family after that disasterous fire so long ago..

Smiling, Aedre brought a plate of cheese to her and more cider. At the other end of the mead hall, Aylwen was working on her ledger, a smile marking her face as well.

Out of all that pain and terrible struggle, reflected the older woman, has come this contentment of music. Or perhaps it is the form and structure of the songs which help us make sense of our memories. Bethberry found herself nodding, Hearpwine's and Liornung's tales weaving in and out of her memories. Achingly, she hoped this day, this moment, would last, stretch out into a golden afternoon.

Goldwine jumped down and broke Bethberry's revery. This wouldn't do, she said to herself. Yet she found herself looking to catch both Hearpwine's and Liorung's eyes, hoping they would understand the depth of her appreciation.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Far from being upset by the interruption Hearpwine was gladdened that he had said something to intrigue the old warrior. The young bard had fought in the War, but his had been but a small part on the edge of mighty deeds, and he regretted that he had not been there when the Rohirrim rode to death and glory before the walls of Minas Tirith. He was not one of those mad souls who craved death, but he longed to have a life as wide and as beautiful as the songs he made. It had never occurred to him that perhaps such a life as he wished for existed only in song, and had a wiser greyer head pointed it out to him, he would only have laughed. In Osric, Hearpwine could see a man who had lived the life that he sang of, and he held the older man in a kind of reverence for that.

“Tell you something of the Golden Lady? You ask much, my friend. I am as accomplished a Man of words as this land can boast, and still I am afraid that I would run out of all mortal words before I could pay the Lady her due. Could I sing for a week about the beauty of sunset over snow, and of frost by midnight, or of lilies in the sun! If I could put to music the sight of ice that burned and water that rushed like diamonds, or if I could tell the tale of the moon’s journey through the skies in pursuit of his love the sun – if I could do all this, then – perhaps – I could begin to capture for you some of that Lady’s greatness and beauty! But, alas, I cannot put any of that into words, and even if I could it would still be lacking, for she was of a descent and greatness that far exceeds the waking world. They say she is gone, now. Gone into the departed West and all that will remain of her are the pale songs that Men like me use to try and keep the memory of her alive in this world of shadows.” He fell into a deep and brooding silence at that, and a stillness spread outward from him to all those who sat and listened to his lament in the failing light of the afternoon.

Slowly, they began to make out a song. Hearpwine began by humming a simple tune, but soon the humming took on shape and like stars appearing in the evening sky, words emerged from the humming and sparkled in the room.

“Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

“Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?

“An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;
ar sindanóriello caita mornië
i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië
untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!

“Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.
Nail elyë hiryva. Namárië!”

Hearpwine fell silent, and as was the way with Elvish music it took a time for those who had heard to come back to the waking world. Liornung was the first to speak. “You are mighty indeed, my friend. When I said that you wished to be one of the Elder Race, I did so only in jest. I see now that you are likely to be numbered among them.”

Hearpwine’s joyful laugh shattered the stillness like glass. “Had you heard the one who sang it to me, you would find my version to be the cawing of a crow! The Lady herself sang that to me and my companions. She heard our laments for Theoden and came to us to congratulate us on our music. We were all of us dumbstruck before her. She asked if we knew any songs of her land, and I – foolish youth that I was! – sang some old children’s ditty that came to my mind. Immediately I was finished I felt as though I were a child, but the Lady laughed and it was like joy itself had found a home amongst us. She then offered to reward my for my song with one of her own, if I so desired it. It took me many minutes of staring at the grass before I found the courage to meet her eyes and accept her offer. Oh!” Hearpwine closed his eyes at the intensity of the memory, “That was the song she sang, and as she did I felt it enter into my heart as though she were writing it there with a pen of solid gold. There has it lain ever since, and I have never before dared to sing it aloud, for fear that it would fail and fall in the waking world of Mortal Men – and it grieves me more than words can say that it has.”

Hearpwine shook himself roughly. “But I shall not let such misery overtake me. The greatest of all singers may have left us, but there are still musicians of note amongst us! Liornung, play us another tune and drive away my melancholy. But Maerwen,” he said, suddenly remembering the girl. “That is the second time today I have given you scant notice, and for that you shall never forgive me, and my mother will be sure to box my ears should she hear of it! Please, tell me of yourself or, if you wish, what song you would like to hear and I shall give it you at once! And you my lady Bethberry,” he said, calling out to the woman whose eyes were searching for his own, “If you would like to hear a tune let us know and we shall endeavour to sing it for you!”

[Crystal Heart]

A young woman walked into the Inn, her hood concealed her face. It was the only form of protection besides the sword underneath her cloak that she had. She looked around the Inn in interest. It was much different then the other Inns she had been in, but it seemed quaint enough for her liking. She walked swiftly through the maze of chairs and tables to the front desk. She touched her pouch. There was enough coins for a nice meal, a couple of drinks, and a room for the night.

She sat down on a stool. She pulled the hood from her head slowly and shook her hair out from under it. Auburn hair pulled away and lay in soft curls as it always did. Her unusual mixture of brown and green eyes looked around the room. She didn't open her mouth to say a word. This place was so different then she had first realized.

She wasn't afraid or shy of this place. She just liked to be quiet for a while and take it all in. She learned more by just listening to the people around her. She also learned more about the place she was in by how the people acted, talked, and what they ate and drank. Someone had once told her that it was a type of gift of hers, but she had never believed it. It was only just a skill she had acquired over her years of travel.

She had left her home so many years ago that she couldn't remember where that home had been. She had lost several years of her memory. She wasn't sure how it had happened, but it had and she hadn't regained it back. She had a feeling that she didn't want to remember those memories ever again anyway so she wasn't worried about the fact.

She did remember her name, or at least what she thought her name was. She had been under so many aliases that she had started to forget what her own name was, but she remembered it right now. Her name was something wonderful, at least in her opinion. Crystal Lerena Sandrine Heart. A name that she had thought was regal and noble, even though she didn't come from noble or regal blood.

She decided to order a drink at first. She wasn't sure what they sold here.

"Excuse me, but what is a good drink to have around here?" Crystal asked the bartender.

[Orofaniel]

"How can I be at your service dear?" Aedre asked the woman as she passed by her table. She had just stepped in to the Inn, and she was probably hungry. There had been quite a few guests at the Inn that day, and Aedre found it difficult to keep up with everything. Aedre had been walking from table to table asking the guests if there were anything they would like to eat or drink; she hadn't been standing still at all that day, just running around in all directions.

The woman looked up, a bit surprised, and smiled. "Ah..yes thank you. I'll just have a mug of ale to start with, I think...," she said seeming exhausted. "I thought you might say that," Aedre smiled. "Is that so?" The woman asked curiously. "Yes, dear...you seem exhausted..and there is nothing like a cold mug of ale for an exhausted body and mind.” Aedre continued. The woman laughed and her eyes sparkled. “Is that so?” She asked trying to be sincere. “Yes, I do believe it is,” Aedre answered trying to muffle the sound of her own laughter. “An ale it shall be then!” The woman said in a commanding voice, smiling at the humble servant. “..and an ale you shall have!” Aedre replied, while she curtsied.

Shortly after, Aedre returned to the woman, holding a cold mug of ale in her hands; “Here you are..”

[Bêthberry]

A still hush of late midday greeted Hearpwine's singing of Galadriel's lament. It was the cessation of movement around The White Horse which caught Bethberry's eye. It was as if not a breathe was taken nor expelled.

She saw Aylwen poised above the desk, hand still holding pen, as still as the barrows which rowed the entrance to Edoras. She saw Aedre unmoving, her hand holding a pitcher which she had placed upon a wooden trestle, her face turned towards the warrior turned bard. She saw Maercwen sit quietly and all Liornung's other neices and nephews rooted to their spots upon the floor, no longer rolling their small glass baubles nor bouncing their balls and pick up sticks. She saw Ruthven and the two dwarves, Oin and Finky, stop their raucous laughter to listen to Hearpwine's entrancing voice. It was difficult to imagine those two still, but indeed they were, not a tug at their beards nor a scratch at their heads nor a stretch of their arms. The old warrior Osric, his eyelids lowered to half cover his eyes, had straightened his back and his neck, lifted his head; even his arms had sought a stiff attention as his hands held bread. What enemy was he seeing march towards him?

"It is a song of great keening, the White Lady's lament," spoke Bethberry finally, "a song suited to the passing of her people, to opportunities lost, to roads not taken, to great regret."

Both Hearpwine and Liornung raised their eyes towards the former Innkeeper. What did they know of her past, of who this woman was?

"Yet every beauty has its cost, its great peril. There are those who say that Gimli himself spoke of the danger of light and joy and the wounding which comes of its passing."

Here a fleck of sunlight skittered into the great hall and fell upon Hearpwine's face. All could see him raise an eyebrow at Bethberry, which she acknowledged with a slow, small half smile which wafted over her face as moonlight dances over a running stream.

"Your words of praise are strung as pearls, great ornaments to beauty. Yet you have said when you returned home after the War that home seemed smaller and duller than you remembered it. And now you have forsaken it, seeking a different path."

Hearpwine did not contract her, but sat waiting for her to continue. Liornung watched her closely.

"For elves, memory was their heart's desire. And their bain. Can you sing a song for me, Hearpwine, of those who heart's desire turns them not back but forward, to find ever present beauty in the changes of each day?"

The woman who as a child had played in the Withywindle and around the roots of Old Man Willow, heedless of their dangers, and who had then journied the many paths of Middle earth as an itinerent healer, in search of the lost mother, sat back in her chair, realising that this day would bring wonders more bountiful than the current Innkeeper had imagined. She asked Aedre to take a seat beside them all, relaxing with the music. Then Bethberry waited calmly.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s laughter rang out clear into the Inn at the woman’s words. “Aye, and again Aye, my good woman Bethberry. A song of Men for Men, who must live and die in a world that changes ever – that’s more fit for us. Forgive me my song of Galadriel, as I hope the Golden Lady herself will forgive me for mangling it as I have. But do not be so quick to consign the Elves to that which is gone. From the songs I know of them, and from what I heard during the Last Journey of Theoden it would seem that their part in the great Song is come to an end. But the melodies they have played linger in the tunes of lesser beings.” He saw Bethberry smile at this, and he knew that she too found him to be a bold and not entirely realistic young man. Hearpwine merely laughed again, so used was he to his elders thinking him a fond young person.

He drank another cup of water in a few swallows, and then lifting his harp, he sang a sprightly song that lifted the hearts of all who heard it.

“Her arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Frealaf.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
‘It is no wonder,’ said the lords,
‘She is more beautiful than day.’

“As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been.
Frealaf sware a royal oath:
‘This beggar maid shall be my queen!’”

He finished the tune on his harp and acknowledged the gentle applause with a slight nod of his head. “What think you of that song, eh mistress Maercwen? It is one of my favourites, for it tells the tale of a young person from the countryside who came to Edoras seeking her wealth, only to be cast into the direst poverty. But when the King himself beheld her, his heart was smitten with her beauty, and he took her up as his queen!” Maercwen simply blushed and looked away, unable to speak to Hearpwine’s manner. The young man turned back to Bethberry. “I can see by the laughter in your eye that you liked my song; but there is something there that also speaks to dislike. Perhaps you do not approve of my tale of a woman condemned to wait upon the whim of a powerful man? Well, let me mend that song with another!” And without waiting for a reply he stroked his harp into vigorous life once more.

“I know her by her angry air,
Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair,
Her rapid laughters wild and shrill,
As laughters of the woodpecker
From the bosom of a hill.
’Tis Kate–she sayeth what she will;
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue,
Clear as the twanging of a harp.
Her heart is like a throbbing star.
Kate hath a spirit ever strung
Like a new bow, and bright and sharp
As edges of the scimitar.
Whence shall she take a fitting mate?
For Kate no common love will feel;
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate,
As pure and true as blades of steel.

“Kate saith ‘the world is void of might.’
Kate saith ‘the men are gilded flies.’
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows;
Kate will not hear of lovers’ sighs.
I would I were an armed knight,
Far-famed for well-won enterprise,
And wearing on my swarthy brows
The garland of new-wreathed emprise;
For in a moment I would pierce
The blackest files of clanging fight,
And strongly strike to left and right,
In dreaming of my lady’s eyes.
O, Kate loves well the bold and fierce;
But none are bold enough for Kate,
She cannot find a fitting mate.”

Once more applause filled the Inn, but this time there was also some laughter. “So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we,” with a sweeping gesture of his hand he indicated all who sat and listened, “which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”