The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Nurumaiel]

Maercwen sighed when Aedre left and sat down outside the kitchen, listening painfully to the sobs coming from within. She felt close to tears herself, suffering accutely every particle of her brother's pain. It had always hurt her and she knew it always would. She loved all her brothers and sisters dearly, but she could not deny that Gomen had always been her special brother. She remembered as a child she had nearly died of impatience, waiting for his birth, and how from his first days she had hovered about him, assuming the role of his little mother. Gomen had been passionately attached to his mother, and when Giefu had been born he found himself suddenly ignored by her, or so he felt. Certainly she didn't pay as much attention to him. But Maercwen had come and spent all her free time with him, though she had been only a little girl herself. And so they had grown up with each other.

In the kitchen Gomen slowly ceased in his crying and put his head wearily on his mother's shoulder, letting the last few tears slide down his cheeks. Frodides continued to stroke his hair but drew him back a little so she could look into his face. "Now, darling, would you tell me what is wrong?" she questioned him. Tears began to waver on the brink of his eyelids again, but he drew his sleeve across his eyes and held them back bravely.

"Mamma," he said, letting his head fall on her shoulder again and closing his eyes, "there was a beautiful young girl who came to the stable with her horse. She was so beautiful, Mamma..." He paused, and despite his sorrow added earnestly, "Though not nearly as beautiful as you!" He fought his tears back once again as he recalled what had happened and continued in a trembling voice. "And I was going slower than I usually do because she was so beautiful; I just wanted to look at her for a moment. She grew impatient and annoyed with me and she... she struck me!" The last three words were cried out amidst the sobs that once again racked his body.

Frodides reached out and touched the red mark on her son's cheek with gentle fingers. She had wondered about that mark, and now she knew. "Gomen," she said, her voice comforting, "you mustn't hold it against this girl that she struck you. I understand your grief, and also the shock it must have been to you. And I know nothing such as this has ever happened to you. But your father will tell you often that when he was a stableboy at his father's home he was often struck by impatient ones. It never ceased to hurt him, so he told me, but he learned to bear it bravely and return the cuff with a smile." She patted his sore cheek. "At least, dearest darling, you know that your dear sister has never struck you."

His face brightened a little and with shyness he pushed his head deeper into her shoulder. "No, Mamma, nor have you," he said. "But it still hurts."

"Yes, darling," she said softly. "It does." And no more. Gomen felt peace flooding him. His mother understood. His mother didn't tell him not to cry. She did not tell him it was foolish of him to cry over such a small thing, nor that he should just bear it as a man. She told him that it did hurt but she comforted him. She was the dearest mother in the world.

In accordance with his slight brightening, she allowed a cheerful smile and took his face in both her hands. "Now, Gomen, would you keep Hearpwine waiting any longer for the walk? Run along dear, and tell him. Perhaps on this walk he will teach you another song."

Gomen's sorrow vanished and he swelled with excitement. Kissing his mother's cheek, he skipped out of the kitchen, a smile on his tear-stained face. Yet there was still a queer little ache in his heart as he came to Hearpwine. "Oh, Hearpwine sir," he said, hoping the tears on his face did not show plainly; "I am quite ready to go now, if you are. Yet I would not interrupt you if you are in the midst of a conversation."

Maercwen had seen Gomen leave the kitchen and was glad. There was at least a smile on his face. Feeling as though the world were beautiful again, which she knew it surely was, she retied her apron and returned to the kitchen to continue with her work.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Gomen’s eager face bore still the marks of the tears that had flown across it, but Hearpwine had been a lad of Gomen’s age not so long ago and knew better than to let on that he saw the marks of the boy’s woe. The lad was at that difficult age on the very cusp of manhood, in which life was a constant movement between childhood and maturity. His first response to whatever had befallen him had been to fling himself upon his sister and mother for comfort, but now that the worst of the storm was past, here he was seeking out a man with whom to forget the passion and the tears. It was natural of the boy to do this, but still Hearpwine felt a slight twinge of loss on his behalf – a quiet lament for the loss of the easy unity of the young boy who did not know that he had to behave like a man, and who still could find comfort in the soft and loving arms of his mother and sister. Hearpwine often wondered why it was so that men had to learn to cut themselves off from that kind of comfort, and why to be a man one had to learn to hide one’s feelings. It was counter intuitive for himself, for as a bard he reveled in the passionate feelings of his craft, and would frequently be moved to tears by the power of song: why, he puzzled, are such tears acceptable – even in the hall of the King – when this boy’s tears of hurt and distress were not?

He smiled at Gomen and stood immediately. “Aye lad,” he said, “I am sorry to have made you wait but my good friend Hanasián and I were deep in talk of the Halflings. I;m sure you understand hoe engrossing they can be!” Gomen’s bright eye and fiercely bobbing head told Hearpwine that he did. “Well then, come along, and let us enjoy the rest of the morning upon the hills!” He put his arm about the boy’s shoulders and walked toward the door. In that gesture he could easily feel the frame of a grown man beginning to emerge from beneath the boy’s skin – and he noted with some approval that Gomen would be both tall and strong: a proud tribute to the strength and manhood of the Rohirrim, and a credit to his family.

As they left the Inn, Hearpwine caught the eye of Bêthberry who was still talking with the youth Sigurd. In conversation though she was, still her eye held his for a moment, and in that time it was almost as though she were speaking with him. Hearpwine was shocked, for while there was no voice in his mind he felt her sense of warning and caution as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. Perhaps sensing that he had felt her concerns, Bêthberry returned her attention to Osric and Sigurd. Hearpwine’s face became a bit graver and he said, “I need to fetch somewhat from the stables, Gomen, before we go.” But even as he spoke he saw that Gomen was not paying attention to him. Following the boy’s gaze he saw him looking at what was no doubt the cause of his upset – a very pretty young girl, both tall and stern of aspect. Hearpwine quickly hid his knowing smile so that Gomen would not be shamed by it.

Leading the boy into the stables he moved to Hrothgar’s stall. His horse snickered happily at the presence of his master and nuzzled Hearpwine. The bard stroked his friend’s mane approvingly and admired the tremendous care that he had received from the stablemaster – never before had Hrothgar looked so well. Suddenly realizing that he had not been riding in weeks, Hearpwine spoke to his mount. “My friend,” he said, “here I was planning on an outing and not taking you! And you’ve barely had a chance to stretch your legs beyond a round of daily exercise in the paddock! Come Gomen!” he cried, “Let us allow Hrothgar to take us out beyond the walls of Edoras so that we may feel the sunlight upon us in the high places of the vale!” A few minutes later Hrothgar was saddled and neighing happily as he bore his master and Gomen toward the gate of the city. Hearpwine smiled as he felt the fatigue drain from his limbs to be replaced by the vitality of his horse.

As they rode, he felt the reassuring slap of his sword against Hrothgrar’s flank, and he thought to himself how this way, he could bring his sword along without having to let Gomen know that it was his blade that he had gone into the stables to fetch. Bêthberry’s look came into his memory once more and he wondered why it had led him to ensure that he went out armed…

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen had felt Hearpwine's silence and wondered if anything were the matter. He had been delighted with the way Hearpwine had treated him, though the bard had clearly perceived that he had been crying. Gomen felt ashamed now for having wept at all, but as he reflected back on his mother's embraces he thought that it was a fine thing to have a comforting mother and he would remember that she was so for all of his life. He hoped if he was ever married he would marry a girl who would be much like his mother. And he hoped with a vengeance that she would not ever strike him as that other girl had. If he married at all, that is. He did not feel like concerning himself with such matters at the present moment.

Seeking to break the silence, he said what had been dwelling on his mind. "It is a pity that Mae couldn't come with us, isn't it?" And he felt keenly that it was a very deep pity. He didn't feel nearly so easy with himself when Maercwen wasn't around. Gomen was not sure if he were entirely correct, but he had always felt that Mae's cheery, laughing face brought kindness into the hearts of everyone else and made them friendly. It could be, he considered, that others had been kind to start with, but he liked to feel that his elder sister was in at least somewhat responsible for their cheeriness.

"It is a pity," said Hearpwine, and perhaps would have said more if Gomen had not broken in quickly, abruptly changing the subject as the wanderings of his mind drifted to another place. "Master Hearpwine, I do..." He paused and hesitated, wondering if he were not being too bold in what he was about to request. "I do wish you would teach me to sing and to play the harp. I... I rather want to be a bard myself when I'm older, but I fear I know not what I am doing. So if you would kindly teach me..." He trailed off, feeling warmth spread over his face.

Hearpwine did not laugh at him, nor did he show any signs of annoyance, but he said gravely, "I do not think, Gomen, that I am nearly skilled enough as a bard to be a suitable teacher for you."

Gomen flushed. Of course, this was true, and he should have thought of it before. "Why, yes, sir, I suppose you're right," he said weakly, but he had never been a boy to give up easily, and he spoke again, more quietly this time and with less assurance. "But at least, sir, you are better than I and perhaps you might teach me something, however simple it may be."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

A familiar face made its way up the dusty hill leading to the White Horse.

Dark hair framed a solemn and content face as Aylwen Dreamsong walked slowly towards the entrance of the Inn she had been working at for nearly fifteen years. Her deep hazel-green eyes beamed and danced like the light that quietly bounded from the sun and off down through the trees to the luscious green grass. Her set jaw and stubborn chin had softened since she had left her job for a short time, her face shone with newfound knowledge. The weather was far too nice out for a cloak or cover, and Aylwen felt comfort and resolute in the lovely sun.

Stepping lightly up to the door that she knew so well, Aylwen smiled and walked through the open doorway of the White Horse. She felt comforted at the sight of the Innkeeper’s desk. Continuing quietly past the kitchen, Aylwen entered the Mead Hall. Her smile did not fade even as she ignored all other patrons for a moment and went towards a contemplating Bethberry with Osric and his young nephew. Seeing that her companion was deep in conversation, Aylwen’s smile faltered just a bit, weakening slightly as she met Bethberry’s eyes for just a moment and nodded, wordlessly promising to speak with her later.

Aylwen went back to the front of the Inn, opening the door to the office that Bethberry still often used and Aylwen rarely entered. Aylwen sat her traveling things down in the room, and picked up a small book from the desk. Leaving the office and stepping out to her desk, Aylwen sat and opened the book to a page empty of writing.

‘As I return to where I belong, I reflect on what I have learned from my journey away from the Inn and to another destination. At this destination, I thought that I had seen things I would never see again, and if I did ever see it again I thought that it could never hold as much beauty and wonder as it had upon first arrival.

Returning home brought new meaning. While I found a different way of life waiting beyond the home I have known for nigh on fifteen years, I realized that I missed the Inn, or, my home, rather sorely. I began to wonder what I had found so wondrous about my journey’s destination. It was somewhere new that I had never been to, surely. Then I wondered why this enticing new world was interrupted by nostalgia and dreams of home. I learned that captivation and wonder at my own life only comes when I am willing to open my eyes. I can make a life at my fourteen-year home just as exciting as somewhere I have never been before, if I try.

My only regret is that I did not learn this simple lesson sooner.’

As she finished the entry, Aylwen smiled once more and went off in search of Bethberry again.

[Nurumaiel]

"Aylwen!" the little voice cried, though it sounded more like 'Al-wen.' Little Motan, who had ever adored Aylwen and had found it true that 'absence makes the heart grow fond,' hurtled herself in a very unladylike manner through the Inn door, little hands once again filled with flowers. She was too short to kiss Aylwen's cheek, so she contented herself with throwing her arms about the Innkeeper's knees and hugging her fiercely.

Aylwen laughed and nearly lost her balance, and then stooped a bit so she was at eye level with the golden-headed little thing. The little girl smiled and satisfied herself by kissing Aylwen's cheek, which she could now reach. She brushed some strands of hair out of her eyes and looked pointedly down at the flowers in her hand until Aylwen followed her gaze to look at them as well. Motan flourished the flowers in front of the Innkeeper's face, saying, "From the garden we made."

A more dignified young girl came in, and this was Mereflod. Her face was beaming with pleasure but at seven she was conscious that she was a lady and should behave as became that position. She strode gracefully across the room and kissed the stooped Aylwen's cheek. "I'm glad to see you again," she said, laughing slightly. "We missed you very much."

Motan indignantly pushed her older sister aside. She had been talking to Aylwen first. It was unfair of Mereflod to shove in so. Positive that her sister would not interfere, Motan's face broke into a smile again and she waved the flowers in Aylwen's face again, repeating, "From the garden we made." Her smile grew wider and little pearly teeth shone in her slightly freckled face. "We took care of the seeds all the time you were away, just as you showed us, and these are the summer flowers. Aren't they beautiful?" She gazed fondly at them and then buried her face into them, taking a long whiff and sighing rapturously. Then she stretched out her little hand and waved the flowers yet again and Aylwen's face, saying, "Here, Aylwen - " (once again it sounded as 'Al-wen') " - these flowers are for you."

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry had continued to ply Sigurd with questions, questions which sometimes flummoxed the lad and sometimes brought a hesitant eagerness of explanation. Out of the corner of her eye, she had watched Hearpwine be drawn away by Gomen's eagerness. Something about a ride in the foothills, she had earlier overheard and she had wanted to speak to Hearpwine about it, but the dictates of talk and work had kept them apart. It was all she could do to manage to catch his attention as he strode out with the boy. Nothing specific did she suggest by her manner and no one else caught it. But nonetheless, there was an indescribable something which her look conveyed, enough for the young musician to sense, and to take away with him a hightened awareness. She was glad that Aylwen had returned safely, and glad too that the young woman had realised they must speak soon.

For the time being, Bethberry resumed her conversation with Osric and Sigurd, over the din of the children's warm welcome of Aylwen. It was perhaps unfair of her to draw Osric out with his rather blousey, overdone eloquence, for she could see it made the young Sigurd embarassed, yet it was an opportunity to judge his character. She had a good mind where he would help at The Horse, but she wanted him to give a greater account of himself before she spoke with Aylwen.

"Sigurd, you say you will carry out whatever task I assign you."

The lad nodded soberly while Oscric nodded several times enthusiastically and prodded the boy's side.

"But what if we need help in the laundry? Will you undertake that?'

She could not be absolutely sure but Bethberry thought she heard Osric muffle a surprised intake of breathe. The lad's face faltered a little.

"I know nowt of laundry and cleaning, Mistress Bethberry, for that was my sisters' chores. But I can carry tubs of water and heat cauldrons over fires."

Bethberry weighed this answer and found it in the boy's favour.

"So would it be kitchen work you could handle?"

She thought she could detect the boy's eagerness dim and certainly the thought of his nephew doing maid's duty in the kitchen was not an especially welcome one to Oscric, who coughed a little.

"Then there's mucking about in the stable. Liofan could use help there, I'm sure, and Gomen could teach you how to handle the horses as well."

The old warrier covered his eyes at this, thinking shrewdly how to convey his thoughts to his nephew. This was begining to become uncomfortable; he had not practiced an extended interview and had not thought beyond the opening request
If the boy had chaffed with his parents, however, he would need work which gave him some freedom as well as challenge. Bethberry held out a third posibility.

"Yet I think you might prefer to make your own routines . We have need of a handyman, a carpenter to fix broken furniture and gates, repair woodwork and carry and load supplies for us. Would you prefer that, Sigurd, to be our journeyman labourer, to apply your muscle where heavy work is needed, to keep an eye on the Inn at night perhaps, when patrons might need some extra help making their way out to guard us as well as tote and carry for us?"

She sat back, waiting to see which Sigurd would choose. Once he did, she would discuss the possibility with Aylwen.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine felt bad for having misled the boy. He could easily enough begin Gomen’s training as a bard, but he lacked the energy. He barely had time to see to his own training, let alone teach another. But Hearpwine knew how Gomen would take it, were he to say that he could not spare the time – the boy would be sure that it was only an excuse to avoid teaching him. Better the lad think Hearpwine an unfit teacher than think himself an unworthy student.

“Teach you but one song, do you say? Well, that will be no easy thing – indeed, I have been tasked with many great trials that will seem light by comparison.”

“What do you mean, Master Bard?” Gomen asked.

Hearpwine laughed and said, “My name, lad, is Hearpwine. I thought you would have learned that by now. Save your ‘Master’ for Eorcyn, or for me when I do finally become Bard of the Golden Hall. But this task you put me to is hard because I must now decide what song to teach you. It is no small think being asked to select from all that I know the one that will give you the greatest pleasure. Perhaps you could tell me what kind of song you would like?”

Gomen thought for a while in studied silence as they rode. The houses of Edoras slipped past them as Hrothgar got his legs beneath him, and within minutes they were passing through the tall gates. “Hang on!” cried Hearpwine, “I think that I shall let him have a bit of a run to make up for the weeks he’s spent without real exercise.” As though he understood his master’s words, Hrothgar snorted and went instantly into a full gallop, racing right off the road and onto to soft grass that lay between the mounds of the kings. They raced into the south-east towards the skirts of the mountains, and were soon going up the long slow slope of the foothills. Gomen, who was more used to horses even than most lads of Rohan, easily rode along at Hearpwine’s back. As they crested the first line of hills he broke his silence. “I think I should like a song about a girl,” he said, as though there had been no interruption in their conversation. “A song about a pretty girl.”

Hearpwine smiled into the rushing air and sunshine. “Aye lad, and why do you want to learn a song about a pretty lass?”

He felt Gomen grow a bit uncomfortable behind him, and he regretted his teasing tone. The reply, however, was that of a young man, and not a boy. “I wish to sing it for my sister,” he said evenly, “for she I the fairest girl I know.”

“Aye, she is fair Gomen. But the day may come when you will look upon another and find your own sister but poor company. But do not reprimand me! For I know that you will say that such a day will never come!” He fell into thought for a moment. “A song about a pretty lass, you say. . .I have it!”

As I was walking one midsummer morning,
A-viewing the meadows and to take the air,
'Twas down by the banks of the sweet withywindle,
When I beheld a most lovely Fair.

With three long steps I stepp'd up to her,
Not knowing her as she pass'd me by;
I stepp'd up to her, thinking to view her,
She appear'd to me like some virgin bride.

I said: Pretty maid, how far are you going?
And what's the occasion of all your grief?
I'll make you as happy as any lady,
If you will grant me one small relief.

Stand off, stand off, you are deceitful;
You are deceitful, young man, 'tis plain -
'Tis you that have cause my poor heart to wander,
To give me comfort 'tis all in vain;

I'll take thee down to some lonesome valley,
Where no man nor mortal shall ever me tell;
Where the pretty little small birds do change their voices
And ev'ry moment their notes do swell.

Come all you young men that go a-courting,
Pray give attention to what I say,
There's many a dark and cloudy morning
Turns out to be a sunshiny day.