Never before in all her days could Bethberry ever remember hearing of so many elves come to Rohan. One would almost have thought a cock had crowed and that a man named Peter had reinvented The White Horse for a popular film.
Yet gathered here they were, and, sadly, for all that they were welcome and for all that their manner was courteous and civil, she knew their presence spoke of dangerous times and dark trouble ahead. No number of lanterns could dazzle the bleak recesses of the stories which had come forth in answer to Guthrin's gentle invitation. So strange that his calm and gracious manner did not meet with the sympathetic response which it deserved.
"Come, elf messenger from the Fearful Lady of Lorien, your errand and message brings little cheer, but we shall not return in kind your story. Let Fróma warm your stomach if not your heart with a full plate. And I will need you to inquire of your lady, Aman, what manner of colour and symbol she should wish for the banner of her story, Kidnapped, to hang here in the Inn." The elf gave a half-bow of courtesy to the Innkeeper, and silently took his place at the long table, where he was soon joined by Garen, son of Galthun, and Lilebrian in whispered conversation about the strange times in the Golden Wood.
Bethberry then quickly found herself in discussion with Maikadurion: "True it is that Rohan is a borderland, pulled this way and that by the shifting alliances and incursions of others. Its independence is hard-won but has taught the people of the Mark not to refuse hospitality to those who have been jostled out of their native place. Well met, half-elven, and may you find the job here you wish beyond what I might offer here at the Inn."
Just then, a familiar voice drew the Innkeeper's attention, and Bethberry rose to see a companion from old days arrive. She ran to Pio, a warm, hearty hug in open arms to greet the tired traveller. The gifts of her homeland, the mead kegs, earned Pio two kisses, one on each cheek, and the two were soon lost in conversation--so distracted that they saw not the sudden departure of Ćlfritha.
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A muffled neigh and many whinnies caught Ćlfritha's ear in the midst of all the festivities at The White Horse. Despite the inky darkness of the sky and the biting cold, she grabbed a large lantern and exited promptly to the stables, where she found the main doors swinging open, the stalls empty, the stable boy, Heórrend, unconscious.
Dropping to her knees, she held him, wiped blood from the large dark welt at the back of his head, and shook him gently. Relief softened her shock as he returned to consciousness. He was one of the few people in Edoras with whom she had forged any kind of acquaintance beyond simple formalities and her concern was honestly felt. His club foot had rendered him unfit for duty as a Rider and often shunned by other more able-bodied men, but he was one of the most knowledgable horsemen in Edoras despite his young age.
"Men," he choked, "many men, Easterlings dressed as us. They wanted the horses." Ćlfritha nodded silently, her face in the lantern light an impassive stone of fury.
Woozy and unstable, he climbed to his feet but fell against her. Cradling him, one of her arms around his shoulder, one of his around hers, Ćlfritha led him back to the Inn, to Bethberry's quiet alcove, where the Innkeeper immediately rang for aid and a call to arms.
Sickened and fearful, Ćlfritha strode into the main hall. "Good people of Rohan and guests of the Mark, we are abused and assaulted within our very gates. Our horses have been stolen, four of them mine, those of others as well. One of our own has been wounded. Who will join me in pursuit to recover the horses?"
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[ December 26, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]
[ February 06, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]