The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine neared the White Horse in a state of high relief. It had been weeks since his master had last given him the freedom of a day and he already knew what he was going to do with it. First order of the day was some sleep. He did not normally sleep well with the sun in the sky, but his exhaustion was such that he knew he could doze away what remained of the morning with ease. After a hearty lunch he would wander the fields about Edoras and stretch his legs somewhat. He toyed with the idea of inviting Mae to accompany him, for he was not by nature solitary, but he immediately realised how such an invitation would be perceived by others – and he was painfully aware of how Mae herself might take it. His studies had kept him away from Mae in the last months, but in that time there had grown between them a warm regard, much like that of brother and sister. He was only a few years older than she, but he felt as though he were her elder. He had not seen much of the world, but he had seen more than she; what was more, as a young man of noble lineage he had enjoyed freedoms that were not available to a serving lass. He sighed somewhat at the thought of the disparities between them. Perhaps if he invited Gomen to accompany him on his walk first, he could then ask Mae without setting any tongues wagging.

Even as he thought this he heard the young man’s voice coming from the stable so he passed into its shadows to find Gomen and his father hard at work. Leofan greeted him cordially, but Hearpwine caught the note of reserve in his voice. Here was one, at least, who thought that Hearpwine’s affections toward Mae were more than filial. He hoped that what he was about to suggest might alleviate those concerns. “Good day Leofan,” he replied courteously. “I have come to seek Gomen, to see if he would like to join me in a walk this afternoon. I have been given my liberty this day and I would fain stretch my legs in the fields about Edoras.” Gomen immediately began to beg his father’s leave to join the bard, but Leofan only scowled and said that he would speak with Gomen about this further. “Very well,” Hearpwine replied, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I shall await your decision.” He decided that now would not be the best time to inquire if Mae could accompany him as well.

He looked in on Hrothgar before leaving the stables, making sure that his friend was comfortably stalled and fed (as always, he was both). As he made his way across the yard to the Inn, he heard a familiar voice come through the door, and even as he came over the threshold he was calling out “Osric! My old friend, how happy I am to see you! You went away ere you had the chance to tell me your full story so that I might set it to song!” As he spoke, he saw the young man who was apparently the old soldier’s companion. Hearpwine moved forward to introduce himself, but his attention was immediately caught by the sight of two more old acquaintances: his fellow bard Asad and his grandmother were at the Inn, for what purpose he could not guess. He called out to them as well. There were several strangers at the Inn, including an unusually large number of children. At the sight of him, several of the younger ones – Hearpwine had never been very good at remembering small children so he was not sure whose they were – called out to him for a jolly song. Hearpwine’s heart sank at the request even as he fought to keep a smile upon his face. He had rushed home with only sleep in his thoughts, but here was the Inn full of old friends and new audiences demanding his attention! He looked about, desperate for some polite way to extricate himself from the children, and his eye fell upon Hanasian. The Ranger, normally so alert and keen, as were all the folk of his race, looked as though he had been stomped on (repeatedly) by a troll with a very bad temper. “My friend,” Hearpwine called out to him, “whatever could be the matter with you? Why look you so ill?” He turned to the children, explaining, “I would sing you all a song, but yon Ranger is apparently in some desperate state. I will see to him first, and then we shall see about some entertainments.” He pulled himself free of the clinging hands and moved toward the table in the corner that had, by common consent of those at the Inn, become the Ranger’s reserved seat. Taking the seat opposite, he asked. “Whatever is the matter, friend? Is it an ailment of heart and limb – or is it the result of some excess that you now regret?” As he said this he smiled knowingly.

[Snowdog]

The bard took a seat as Hanasían smiled at his words.

'Regrets are only spent on that which could have been. If it was some back-barn Rohirric swill then yes it would have bene regrettable, but there be Hobbit-lore in the making of Snowbourne!'

Hanasían chuckled at the fact that an aquaintance of Meriadoc's from the Green Dragon, Hobs Burrowes, had come down to try his brewcraft with Shire hops grown in the highlands around Rohan. Old Eorly partnered with him, and Frea threw in some of his war pension as investment in the venture. Surely a halfling brewmaster would actually teach the old man how to brew a good beer, and last fall's harvest was the first of the Shire hops and he and Hobs worked through the winter to perfect their product.

Hanasían looked at Hearpwine and noted the fatigue on his face and went on,

' No ailment unlooked for grips me now, for it is sometimes hard to get the telling of the Fords out of some, being it was a losing battle. Yet it did buy time...'

Hanasían wondered if the celebrated bard wanted to hear of his old war stories, and so he turned the table back on him.

'You appear to be a victim of burning a short candle at both ends yourself eh.'

Hearpwine yawned while Hanasían spoke.

The door opened and Frea came in, looking fine on the summe rday. Does the brew not ever affect him? He saw Hanasían, but looked over the common room intently. Hanasían knew he was looking for Folca...


Meanwhile, behind the stables in some hay droppings, Folca lay snoozing the morning away.

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen turned pleading eyes to his father as Hearpwine left the stable. Leofan studied him thoughtfully. He knew how much Gomen valued spending time with Hearpwine the Bard. He did not doubt that one day the lad would also take up an instrument and sing before many. He did not cast aside the idea and he intended to let his son follow whatever path he chose, but he could not deny that he felt a pain of regret that his eldest would not help him in the stables. It was not the feeling that he would his son to take up the task of the family for ages past, but that he enjoyed the boy's company and would miss him when the road called. "Son, you know I need your help in the stable," he said softly.

Gomen bowed his head and nodded, "Yes, Papa."

That was his mother. From the first she had been very diligent in teaching her children obedience as a foundation for all other attributes. Gomen had learned this lessons now and showed it so as he humbly submitted to his father's will. Yet the disappointment was clear on his face and Leofan could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. If he considered it, he liked Hearpwine well enough. He often visited his horse in the stables and Leofan had grown accustomed to his face and ways. When the young man had first arrived at the Inn Leofan had had his doubts, especially when he noticed the attentions being played to his eldest daughter, but Liornung had spoken well of the lad and it seemed now that Hearpwine and Maercwen merely considered each other as good friends. Now he would not even mind if Hearpwine did start openly courting his daughter, for she was now a little older and with the attentions of many young men about the Inn she would be more able to discern if she were really in love with one or if she were merely swept off her feet.

He did not dislike Hearpwine. And under normal circumstances he would not care if Gomen went out with him. But Gomen had already been out riding that morning and had left much work undone. If he let him go now the work would continue to grow. Yet could he not make this sacrifice for his son, who so obviously desired to go? It was not often that Hearpwine had time to spare about the Inn; he was almost all day at the Hall with Master Eorcyn. It would not happen every day. An exception can be made. "You may go," he said. Gomen straightened up, his eyes shining. He lingered just a little while to thank his father before hurrying to the Inn.

He found Hearpwine sitting by Hanasían, a man who had come often to the Inn during the spring and early summer days. Gomen had never officially made his acquaintance but they would sometimes exchange passing words. He lurked restlessly in background of the conversation, unwilling to interrupt but eager to tell Hearpwine of the permission. He was relieved when Maercwen came out of the kitchen, drying soap-covered hands on her now rather dirtied white apron. She would know how to tactfully break into the conversation.

She was stooping down in front of Motan and Mereflod, laughing in delight and touching the flowers that crowned their golden hair. She was such a dependable older sister. She was so very friendly to everyone and knew exactly how to act in every situation. Gomen gazed at her admiringly. There were times he could almost believe his sister was the kindest person on earth, but before he could tell himself it was so he remembered his mother.

"Maercwen, Papa said I could go out walking with Hearpwine," said Gomen. She seemed pleased at this, and expressed surprise that Hearpwine was back so early. "But Hearpwine is talking with Hanasían and I fear of being rude if I break into their conversation," the lad continued.

Maercwen put a hand on his head and smiled. "So you want me to do it for you?" she said. She ran her fingers once through his hair and nodded. "Very well," she said. "It's very simple, if you watch." She began to move towards Hearpwine but paused to speak once again with her brother. "I know how much you value your time with Hearpwine," she said, "and I am glad Papa does not discourage you." She said nothing more. She had never told Gomen directly that she expected him to be a bard, but she knew he wanted to and said as much as she could without referring clearly to it.

Gomen watched in amazement as Maercwen politely interrupted the conversation, with grace and charm, notifying Hearpwine in one short sentence that Gomen had obtained his father's permission and then, after begging their pardon for interrupting once again, withdrawing with just as much grace and ease. Gomen thanked her heartily and then cast anxious eyes towards Hearpwine. "I hope he doesn't change his mind," he said in concern. "I was looking forward to it."

"He won't change his mind," said Maercwen, without the faintest hint of laughter at his concerns. Mother never laughed when he was afraid, either. "Just give him a little time to finish speaking with Hanasían. Now I must go hustle Motan and Mereflod into the kitchen to Mamma. She's been wanting them to give her some assistance." She patted her brother's shoulder gently. "Have fun on your little adventure," she said, "and work hard for Papa when you get back."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine watched Mae return to Gomen with the good news that he had not forgotten his offer in the time it had taken him to walk from the stables. He smiled at the boy, wondering why he was standing about so anxiously, and then it came to him Oh dear, Gomen thinks that I meant to go walking immediately, and not after a few hours of much needed rest! His heart fell at the realisation, but his aspect showed only friendly warmth to the lad. “Gomen,” he called out as heartily as he could, “be a good lad and fetch me my walking stave from my room. We’ll have need of it if we are to tackle the eastern hills!” The boy’s eyes sparkled and he ran off to seek what Hearpwine had asked. Mae was moving away as Hearpwine spoke to her brother, so he had to raise his voice to be heard. He affected as much nonchalance as he could as he asked the maid if she wished to join he and her brother in their walk. She paused in her step and looked at him with that maddeningly pretty expression of mild shock and embarrassment and his heart warmed to her all the more. She is comely he admitted, comely and merry, but she is too young at heart to know the full feeling of admiration for a man – she is concerned with boys still. He smiled at her, silently wishing for her a boy who would suit her – and be worthy of her.

Mae made a non-committal noise and quickly left for the kitchen. Whether she intended to join him and Gomen or not he did not know. Shrugging, and laughing slightly under his breath, Hearpwine turned back to Hanasían who was looking a little better for the tea he was drinking. Hearpwine drank off another quaff of the brew himself and then poured out another mug, being sure to add a great quantity of honey to sweeten it. As he sipped this more slowly he returned to his conversation with the Ranger. “Ay, I have been – what did you call it? – ‘burning the candle at both ends’.” He laughed heartily at the image. “An apt expression, and one that I’ve not heard before. Is it from your land in the North?”

Hanasían smiled weakly through his headache. “No,” he replied. “Well, not precisely. It is from the north, and it is from a land that I consider as dear as any other. For many years did my folk protect the land of the Halflings, and while we may have received little recognition or thanks, we were able to add to our own language many items from the great storehouse of words of the little folk!”

“So you are familiar with the land of Shire?” Hearpwine asked eagerly. “I have never been there myself, and I have only met a Halfling once, and that was all too briefly. Still, if I could have chosen to meet only one Halfing it would have been the very one whose hand I had the honour to shake: Samwise Gamgee himself. Samwise the Stouthearted, who bore his master and friend Frodo of the Nine Fingers up the very slopes of Mount Doom to the dismay and downfall of the Enemy. Long have I desired to fit that tale to music, but I have never yet found words worthy of their deed! But tell me, do you know much of the Shire? And have you met any of the Halflings who came from the north to disturb the counsels of the great?”

[Snowdog]

Hanasían shrugged slightly when Frea looked his way, and he quickly departed without words. He worried about his brother. Hanasían worried about him too, but what can you do? There were many who were disabled in one way or anorther from the war, having been fortuante enough to have lived.

He sat observingly as Hearpwine asked the maiden for a walk. Her look seemed to have an effect on the bard as he stirred in his seat. Her reaction and his turning back to converse put a smile on Hanasían's face.

'Aye, no, I have not met any of the famous hobbits who were of renown in the war, or the ringbearer himself. But the tale of Fordo's magical dance still is told amonst pints at the Prancing Pony in Bree.'

Thoughts of the Shire and the unfortunate turn of events that brought hard times upon the land of the halflings sorrowed Hanasían, for if there were a time the Shire could have used a sword or two was when Sarumann and his orcish ruffians invaded its borders. But alas, we were all called to war either here in the south, or in the Mistys of which things could have been much worse for them had it not been so. Hanasían went on telling Hearpwine of the Shirelands, though he had never set foot there, nor will ever.

'The shirelands, are seemingly green and lush from what I've seen from its borderlands. I know their pipeweed and brew are the best, and though most seem reluctant to travel anywhere, I was glad that Hobs Burrowes did get the adventure bug from the Green Dragon tales from the travelers. Did you not meet Meriadoc when he was here in Rohan?'

[Bêthberry]

OOC: Currently at the White Horse

It is midsummer, early morn on a glorious summer day in Edoras, Rohan. It is the 4th Age, year One (1432 by Shire Reckoning) and four years after the events of the War of the Ring. Éomer Éadig sits in the Golden Hall as King of the Mark, with his queen Lothíriel, whom he wed last year.

The current Innkeeper is a Rohan woman, Aylwen Dreamsong, who is currently away. Taking over for her temporarily is the previous Innkeeper and owner of the White Horse, Bethberry, a woman who was an Itinerant healer from The Old Forest, of illustrious parents if rumour holds true.

Cast of characters:

(Durelin_ Dureline and young son Loar

(Imladris) Goldwine the cat

(Kransha) Osric, old Rohirrim soldier
Sigurd, his nephew

(Nurumaiel): Leofan, stable master and his family
Frodides (the mother)
Liorning, her brother, a musician
Maercwen (seventeen-year-old lass)
Gomen (twelve-year-old lad)
Giefu (ten-year-old lad)
Mereflod (seven-year-old lass)
Deman (six-year-old lad)
Fierlan (six-year-old lad; twin to Deman)
Motan (four-year-old lass)
Middaeg (two-year-old lass)
Beorht (two-year-old lad; twin to Beorht)
Drihten (the bonny baby laddie)Leofan, stable master and his family

(Fordim Hedgethistle) Hearpwine, bard-in-training

(Snowdog) Hanasian, itinerant historian

(Memory of Trees) Arrya, an ill-tempered young woman, newly arrived

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bethberry's post

Bethberry looked at the carefully written notes which Aylwen had left her. They were concise yet complete. In effect, they represented a small handbook on running an Inn and Aylwen's thoroughness brought a smile to Bethberry's face. She was satisfied, in an inexplicable way, to see how well the young woman had handled the many responsibilities and onerous tasks of running an Inn. This calmed her heart which so often these days seemed to find fault with those who had not known the sacrifices and sorrows of the struggle against the dark lord, and of how narrowly Rohan had come to being completely within his thrall?not that Aylwen was one of those. And now Bethberry was to be Innkeeper again, for a time, and not merely owner, as the young woman was called away to attend to urge concerns of her family. So be it. The Healer would once again be Innkeeper and try to maintain a pleasant, sociable face to the patrons. Be more patient, she told herself, with the youngsters such as Mae and Hearpwine and Gomen and Sigurd. Let them do their learning.

She checked over the list once again and went to the kitchen where she conferred with Frodides, who always seemed to have children underfoot but who yet seemed ably and calmly to provide the kind of food and drink which had brought the Horse great renown. Maybe not quite as tantalizing to the palates as the menus of old Froma, the Horse's cook in days long passed, who had his way with wines and ports and spices and fruits, but healthy and tasty nonetheless. Indeed, Frodides' cooking was fresh and flavourful, she knew herbs as well as Bethberry, and her soups were never a thin water but could put meat on bone. No patron ever left the Horse saying his belly was not satisfied, nor his body refreshed, with Frodides' fare. It was hearty fare, as hearty as her manner of raising her young.

Walking back to the Mead Hall, Bethberry immediately saw the young Mae approach the table with Hearpwine and Hanasian--approach somewhat needlessly, it seemed, for their table was full and they wanted naught.

What was that girl up to now? thought Bethberry rather uncharitably. She had not forgotten how the young girl had brought worry to her parents on the day of the Bards' Competition, nor of the perhaps unknowingly forward way she had danced with that young musician Hearpwine the night before here on the very boards of the Mead Hall.

Ai, him! He certainly thought well of himself, that one, yet he had taken gracefully to being passed over for the Competition and by all accounts had comported himself well in his efforts to develop his art. Bethberry had developed a habit of running memories through her mind these days while she attended to work.

Well, I shouldn't blame the girl. He played her a pretty tune and flashed many a handsome smile her way. Remember, Bethberry, Mae is young, said the healer to herself. Let her learn to hear the true tune and not the falsely pleasant.

Seeing the girl run off after whispering something to Gomen, who hovered near the table but hesitated to come forth, Bethberry herself approached the table, the only full table at the Horse this morn, and gently, hand on his shoulder, guided Gomen to join her. She enjoyed talking with Hanasian about the old days, comparing the tales he had heard with her memories of growing up in the Old Forest, and of the skirmishes between the trees and the hobbits long, long ago. And she felt some sympathy with Osric, too, worried about his nephew Sigurd, a worry he had let show on his face but had not yet divulged to her directly. Well, Bethberry, what likely tales can you draw forth from our travellers today if you would but give them a nod and courage to talk, she said to herself as she decided to join the table.

"Hail, stout-heated men. Have you room to entertain me this morn as my work is completed and I would hear what you have to tell of your summer's labour."

.

[Kransha]

Osric, though he knew that the previous innkeeper who spoke now had not requested his oratory pamphlets, saw the opportunity to state his ploy and grabbed it without hesitation. He leapt to his feet, far too fast for a man with a useless leg, and managed to step into Bethberry’s scope of vision completely, raising a cupped hand with a sidling movement and began briskly. “Actually, Lady Bethberry, upon the matter of summer labor, I was hoping to speak to you about that subject briefly, for I have a more self-serving agenda this day.”

Her keen, deep eyes turned to him with moderate contentment, and she might have replied, but his quick wit and inner requirement spoke for him, forcing further words from his sore throat. He continued, constantly gesturing furiously for no apparent or sensible reason, though it seemed to be at least slightly effective.

“My nephew, Sigurd,” he rattled on, his speech droning but full, “has accompanied me from Aldburg to this city for a purpose unrelated to his or my enjoyment. As a boy who has now become a man, albeit a young one, I have been trying to seek employment for him. His mother assigned me the task, as she has seen too many years to gallivant across field and country searching for an occupation for her son, and I have been considering what manner of labor would be best for him. Then, as it happened, I was struck with the memory of this enchanting place and thought that it might be auspicious to find some enterprising activity for him in a place such as this, one where I could be sure amicable folk would be to educate him in life’s ways. I know not if the White Horse requires any laborers, but you, a woman of wisdom and knowledge of these lands that I lack, must know of some manner of charge I can give him that would be rooted here, in Edoras.”

Here, at last, the ancient Rohirrim paused, taking several sharp breaths and panting meagerly, his eyes that had been fixed on the uninteresting floor turned finally to Bethberry, seeing a look of polite understanding on her expression. He could not tell what her reply to his many queries would be, as her features portrayed no real emotion that he could detect. His dealing with her had been few indeed, and the last one he recalled was only a vaguely settled memory within him. Again, he did not wait to discern whether or not she would speak before diving back into his own words headfirst.

“He needs a teacher, Bethberry,” he said, now with weariness and overly obvious frustration, each syllable spouted to quickly to be considered by listener or speaker, “or rather, he needs teaching, for he is a brash youth, and has never been well schooled in his childhood. He is a stout lad, strong willed and otherwise, so he would serve for many purposes. If you could do so much as suggest a charge for him, I would be exceedingly, nay, eternally grateful. I can no longer teach the boy, nor can his mother and teachers have long lost hope for all save austere reprimand. He is not as unruly as he sounds, for he has matured and has a hearty, willing arm ready for whatever orders issued him.”

As he drew to a dazed close, he realized with some notion of confusion and horror that even he could not recall half of the things he’d uttered, for he had been preparing for this for such a time that every planned and contrived manner of speech had been fused unwholesomely into a singular mess. It was irrelevant now, though, since his end was complete. Now, he could only hope that Bethberry had words of wisdom in return. He had his reasons for such desperation, as deeply rooted as the gnarled digits of the tallest, greatest trees.

Meanwhile, as all this occurred, Sigurd had summoned up both courage and curiosity to pursue another course. Getting up more slowly from his own sturdy seat, the youth had made his way around the tables of the inn until he’d drawn near the young man who his uncle had singled out from the crowd earlier, the man he knew of only from his uncle’s heavily exaggerated tales, Hearpwine. He saw her, in fact, returning from some conversation with Maercwen. A very bare flicker of annoyance darted up in him as he considered what he might have been speaking of, but it concluded speedily as he found Hearpwine discoursing with another man.

“You are Hearpwine, the legendary bard, yes?” said Sigurd eagerly, his eyes twinkling with polite brightness reminiscent of the sly spark that glinted continually in the starry gaze of his uncle. He had interrupted one of them, which one he did not know, but he had severed one sentence nonetheless. Despite that, his excited gaze persisted as he looked upon the man.

“Indeed I am, though I would not say ‘legendary.’” Hearpwine laughed jovially, shooting a mildly apologetic look to his compatriot, Hanasían, as if he was able to speak on behalf of the inconsiderate Sigurd interrupting their conversation. “And you, you are he who was with Osric?” He extended a light-hearted hand. Sigurd’s hand, trembling foolishly, shot out to grasp Hearpwine’s and shook it vigorously.

“Yes.” He responded swiftly, “I am his nephew, Sigurd, son of Sigmund. It is a great pleasure to meet you.”

[Nurumaiel]

Leofan ground his teeth together in anger but remained outwardly calm as he strode to the Inn. Gomen had fetched Hearpwine's walking stick and given it to him, and then seeing that the bard was still engaged in conversation had returned to the stable. A young woman had come then, and she had struck him for no apparent reason. Leofan's blood had surged within him, but he had said nothing until the girl had left. And then he had comforted a stunned, sorrowful-looking Gomen in the best manner he could while staring at the horse the girl had brought. It was rather injured, to say the very least, and he was surprised that the girl had just left it there without speaking to him at all about it. Perhaps not everyone knew how good he was with horses, but he would expect one to have a certain amount of confidence in the knowledge of a stablemaster. She was young, however, and perhaps it could be slightly excused.

Her youth was no excuse for striking Gomen. The boy had struggled valiantly with his tears and had succeeded in keeping them back, but he had been deeply hurt. His first thought when he saw the girl was that she was very pretty. She had very large, lovely eyes. Gomen was not yet old enough to admire a girl with the intentions of perhaps courting her, but he could not help but admire beauty as he would admire the beauty of his mother or his sister, or perhaps the beauty of Aylwen or Bethberry. The girl had brown hair cut rather short, but which brought out the fair characteristics of her face and complimented her eyes. He had been standing there, admiring her with all his boyish will, when she had cursed him and struck him across the face. Leofan had seen the look of shock that swiftly spread across his son's countenance, and then change to hurt and sorrow. The girl had not given him another glance but had swept out of the stable.

She was standing at the bar now, a broken cup in her hand. Leofan did not approach her immediately but calmed himself a little more. He did not want to clearly show how uspet he was. He could not do much about the way she had treated his son, except speak to Bethberry who was temporarily serving as Innkeeper, and he was loathe to do that. He did not consider the matter great enough at the moment to cause such trouble. If it ever happened again, he would then speak, but for now he would grimly let it go by. He would not, however, allow the horse to remain unattended by its mistress in the condition it was in, and he intended to take her out even if he had to drag her. He doubted it would come to such extremes, for he had seen the look of love that passed in the girl's eyes when she looked to her steed, but he would surely show her exactly how careless she had been to merely leave as she had done.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, and as she turned he touched his forehead politely. "You came into the stable with your horse not five minutes ago, and I have not heard your name."

"Arrya," she replied briefly.

"Then, Miss Arrya, I must request you to come back to the stables," he said. "Your horse, I have noticed, is seriously injured and it was careless of you to leave him in such a condition. I am the stablemaster, Leofan, and if you need any assistance in caring for your mount you may ask me. However regardless of that, I bid you return to the stables and suitably care for your horse, with or without my aid."

*************

Gomen watched his father leave the stable and then slipped up to the loft, where he buried himself in the hay and let the tears run down his cheeks. He had been a stableboy at the White Horse all his life and never before had anyone struck him. The mark on his cheek pained him but it pained him more that the action had actually been carried out. He hoped his father would not return for awhile yet; he did not want to be seen crying. He rubbed at his eyes vigorously but it was no use. Helplessly he abandoned himself to his sorrow and wept.

*************

Maercwen returned to the kitchen rolling up her sleeves and looking rather mournfully at her mother. She said nothing, however, and began to wash dishes. Frodides pursed her lips and paused in her own work to study Mae carefully. Something was on the girl's mind; that much was clear. Frodides often worried about her eldest. Maercwen was old enough now to be attracting the attention of the lads and Frodides doubted the way she had raised her daughter. Suppose Mae married some wicked man who would not care for but rather cause her much pain?

"Maercwen darling, something is troubling you," she said gently. "You don't need to wash those dishes yet. Breakfast is not quite over and more dishes will be coming soon. What causes your distraction?"

The girl looked down in distaste at the rejected dishes and ceased from washing them. She glanced sternly at Motan and Mereflod who had been reaching up to steal some cakes while their mother was not looking, and they hastily withdrew their little hands. "Well, Mamma, I am merely disappointed," she said. "Hearpwine is taking Gomen out walking later, and he asked me to come along. I have already guessed what your answer will be."

"I would not refuse you for the sake of the walk itself," Frodides assured her, "but I must refuse to let you go because there is still work to be done and you are needed to do it." She gazed thoughtfully at the look of devastation that came to Maercwen's face. At times she wondered exactly how her daughter felt for Hearpwine, but always had Mae fervently denied having any feelings of love for him. She seemed to be quite in earnest, but Frodides could never tell if she were too much in earnest. "I apologize for denying you the pleasure, Mae," she said.

"Think naught of it, Mamma," said Mae, but the disappointment was still clear in her eyes. Frodides sighed and continued on with her work.

[Bêthberry]

The sound of a cup breaking drew Bethberry's attention away from the rather extraordinary disquisition of Osric. She was about to attend to this new woman, who was apparently calling to someone, when Leofan appeared, in some manner a bit disturbed about some event. She moved to excuse herself and speak to him when he raised his eye to her, nodding and shaking his head towards her before taking the young woman back to the stable. Realising she could discuss the matter later with him, she turned back to Osric, who was pulling at Sigurd's arm as if to draw attention away from Hearpwine and towards Bethberry.

"Osric, that is a mighty speech for one with a sore throat," she wryly observed.

He nodded and his face reddened, but he looked somewhat pleased.

She looked over at him without speaking for some time, waiting for him to continue. He coughed and pulled on Sigurd's sleeve some more. Hearpwine looked up and sat back in his chair, ready to observe this little drama, some of the tiredness in his body coming back into his mind. Blushing with all this attention, Sigurd finally looked up at his uncle.

Osric looked back at his nephew and with his eye winking tried to give the boy a hint to speak up to Bethberry.

The boy looked at his uncle and saw a half wink, half grimace.

"What's wrong with your eye, Uncle?" he asked, wanted to talk with the young Bard and not the older, somewhat austere woman who was observing him, who did not have the attractions to his mind of the young Mae.

"Nothing, nothing,' hastily replied Osric, who was running past all manner of idea about how to proceed, having used up all his ideas in his previous address to the woman.

Discretly hiding a smile, Bethberry turned to the boy.

"Your uncle has made a request for you. Would you like to make a similar request of your own or would you prefer to leave me in suspense about what you want?" she said, not unkindly, but clearly deciding to have a bit of fun with this situation, as a way of testing to see how the boy would react. It was the easiest way she knew to test his character in order to determine if she could use his help at The Horse, and, as the morning was somewhat idle, it was a way also for them to pass some time.

So, all four adults, Osric, Hanasian, Hearpwine and Bethberry, turned their gazes upon the hapless lad.