[piosenniel]

Falco had breakfasted well, and now he sat at the small table by the window, a mug of tea in one hand and his pipe in the other. The lovely, deep smell of well-cured Old Toby drifted up from the bowl, as he looked out at the Inn yard at the newcomers just stabling their horses. There, in the distance, riding from the east was a small figure with a green hat on his head.

The rider came closer and the image sharpened – a green hat with a white feather. Falco stood and went out to the porch of the Inn. It was Halfred, in his shiriff’s hat, and riding at a rather fast speed for the usually indolent Dumpling, his faithful steed. Derufin, noting the approach of the sheriff, had come out from the stable to take the reins as Halfred dismounted, heaving his rather large bulk from the pony’s saddle and plunking down ungracefully in the dirt.

Halfred paused for a few moments, and spoke to the stablemaster. Falco could see the man’s face take on a grim look, and he nodded to the Shiriff. When Halfred was finished speaking, Falco hurried down the steps to intercept him. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘How can I help?’

They went into the Inn and sat at a table apart from the cluster of patrons enjoying their ales at that time of day. ‘We’ve had news of the ruffians again,’ said Halfred in a low voice. We thought we had run them out for good, but the Rangers at the borders of the Northfarthing and Eastfarthing said they’d picked up signs they’ve entered again. Come west they think from Deadman’s Dike. And we’ve had word that the stable of the small Inn at Girdley Island was hit. They’ve gone off with a number of the horses and ponies stabled there.’ He motioned for Buttercup to bring them two ales. Falco winked at her, and she scurried off, her cheeks aflame.

Halfred took a swig of his ale when she brought it, then continued on. ‘The Golden Perch has been warned to be on the lookout for them, and news was relayed to me from one of the deputies riding west from the Floating Log at Frogmorton. There are Rangers covering the area, but they’re few. It would be good if you could go west from here and let the folk know what is going on. Best we Shire folk look after our own.’

Falco nodded his head at Halfred’s words. He drained his mug then went to his room and hastily packed up his few belongings. A few brief words to the stableman, and he mounted his pony, heading back toward Michel Delving to alert the deputies there.

Buttercup pouted as she watched Falco leave, and she gave a disapproving glance at Halfred, who had been the obvious cause of his departure. Slow steps brought her to Halfred’s table when he held up his mug to her. ‘Who’s that man,’ he asked, eyeing the tall member of the Big Folk standing at the bar.’

Buttercup turned, noting the only one of that description was Beren. ‘That’s the new gardener. Just started this morning, he did.’ Halfred looked him up and down. ‘Where’d he come from?’ Buttercup shrugged her shoulders and took his mug, leaving him to consider the origins of the ‘gardener’ on his own.

Halfred sighed and heaved his bulk from the chair. ‘Might as well suss out the fellow,’ he thought to himself as he approached the bar. ‘Who knows, he could be one of the ruffians spying out likely places to hit next.’

‘Beren, is it,’ said Halfred, with a welcoming smile on his face. ‘I understand you’re new here in Bywater. Let me buy you another ale. Thirsty work gardening.’ The two men took a pull at their drinks. Halfred wiped the foam from his upper lip with the red kerchief he kept in his back pocket. ‘I heard from Buttercup you’re the new gardener here at the Inn. I have a garden of my own. Lovely bit of soil – like to grow them cauliflowers, cabbages, too. Been having a heck of a time with the cut worm, though.’ Halfred took another drink and invited Beren to sit with him.

‘So,’ he continued casually, once they had settled into their chairs, ‘What brings you to the Westfarthing?’