[piosenniel]

Hob hauled the water buckets out from the kitchen, filled with steaming water and a generous measure of white vinegar to take away the stains of last night’s pudding fling. Ruby leaned on her mop, and stared at Prim. ‘I’m thinking we should have held out for a larger sum, Mistress Prim. What do you think?’

‘I’m thinking it will take a lot of elbow grease to get this back to normal.’ Primrose Bolger stood, hands on hips, surveying the stains that had worked their way into the wooden floor. ‘Right, then. Let’s get to it.’ She grabbed up her hard bristled scrub brush and directed Hob to pour a generous bit of water on the floor. ‘Ruby, you get that spread around in a big circle, then everybody grab a brush and kneel down and we’ll see what we can do.’ It was a large area that they had to go over - it took a number of buckets of water and many minutes of hard scrubbing and rinsing to bring back the plain, clean grain of the floor.

‘Good work, you two!’ Prim rubbed the small of her back as she stood up from the final scrubbing, and sighed wearily. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen for elevenses. Cook’s made some tarts we can try out. And I could use a large cup of strong tea.’

Buckets, mop, and brushes were put away, and the windows to the Inn left open for the floor to dry faster. The three Hobbits gathered round the old wood table in the kitchen and were soon laying into the generous plate of tarts and scones that Cook had made for them, washing them down with several cups each of bracing tea. Cook, too, had taken a break in her preparations for lunch and sat like a queen in her parlour, sipping at a cup of tea with a dollop of honey and cream in it, feet up on a wooden crate, and listening closely as Ruby filled her in on the antics that had taken place in the Common Room last night. Both Cook and Hob asked her to repeat the story of the arrival of Mistress Piosenniel’s “interesting” friend, and would not have believed her had not Prim said she had seen it, too, with her own eyes.

A sudden, insistent knock at the kitchen door, and the sound of a loud voice demanding to be let in, put a halt to their conversation, and Hob got up to see who was making such noise. He unlatched the door, and had barely moved out of the way, when it flew open with bang and a rather untidy, red faced Hobbit burst in, panting and wheezing out a string of unintelligible words.

‘Sit down and get your wits about you, Filibert. We can’t understand a thing you’re saying.’ Cook shoved a cool glass of water into the gasping Hobbit’s hands as Hob pushed him firmly into a chair. The four of them hovered about the seated figure with increasing curiosity. What would cause Flilibert Whitfoot, a rather sedentary and ample Hobbit, to hasten from the Shiriff’s office, at a dead run, apparently, and end up here in the Green Dragon’s kitchen?

He took a large gulp of water and sat up straight, looking frantically round the kitchen. ‘Is she here?’ he asked. Four perplexed faces stared back at him. ‘Who?!’ prompted Prim, her patience growing thin.

‘Mistress Piosenniel.’ came the quick reply. ‘She’s wanted at the Shiriff’s, on a matter of some importance concerning one of the Big Folk who's been arrested.’

Prim turned pale, wondering what this was all about. Try as they might, though, they could get no further information from the Shiriff’s younger brother.

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Amaranthas was just giving the thirsty flowers in the front planter box a watering, when she spied a small cloud of dust moving along the road leading to her house. ‘Miz Pio, she called through the open window into the parlour, ‘come out here and see what this is all about.’ Pio hoisted herself up from the overstuffed chair where she rested, and hurried out to the front steps. Shading her eyes against the noon time sun, she looked closely at the distant horse and rider heading toward the lane to this house at a run. A frown creased her face, and she chewed her bottom lip, not believing what she saw.

‘It is one of the horses from the Inn's stable who flies so quickly down the road, and Hob rides her.’

They stood on the porch waiting for the horse and rider. Amaranthas had put down her watering can, leaving the flowers to fend for themselves in the hot sun. Her hand was on the Elf’s arm, anxious to know why Hob had come in such haste.

The clatter of the horse's hooves could now be heard pounding down the short lane from the main road. And soon the mare stood at the very edge of the porch, her sides heaving from exertion, nostrils flaring. Hob slid from her back and ran panting up to Pio. ‘Prim sent me,’ he gasped. ‘You must come quickly. There is a Man, one of the Big Folk, being held at the Lock-holes by the Shiriff, Halfred Whitfoot, and you are needed.’

‘One of the Big Folk?’ demanded Amaranthas. ‘Can’t you be any plainer than that?! Who is it? Speak up, lad!’ Pio’s face had gone pale at Hob’s words.

‘Mithadan!’

‘Falmar had been grazing on the greensward in front of Amaranthas house. Pricking up her ears, eyes wide, she noted with interest the apporach of the other mare. Pio called to her to come closer and whispered a few words in her ear. The horse nodded her head and stepped sideways to the porch, so that the Elf might mount her more easily. You will have to ride with me, Hob. I do not know where the Shiriff is. Ride 'Falmar with me - your mount is too slow.’ She reached down a hand and pulled him quickly up behind her.

‘Falmar was eager to be off, sensing the growing tension in the Elf. Pio reined her in as Amaranthas spoke. ‘Sam lives just across the road. He’s the Mayor of the Shire. See what he can do for you.’ She waved them off, then, and they flew to Bag End, stopping there briefly before hastening once again down the road to Bywater.

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

The horse was well lathered by the time they reached the Lock-holes just northeast of Bywater. ‘Wipe her down, as best you can, Hob,’ she directed the Hobbit as she helped him from ‘Falmar’s back.

Her clothes were wrinkled from the ride and from Hob's desperate grip on her; her face pale beneath the dust from the road. But she gave no thought to either as she strode quickly into the Shiriff’s office, her grey eyes glinting in the dim light.

A Hobbit sat at the desk she approached, looking at some document. A second Hobbit stood behind him, bent over, also peering closely at the same piece of paper. She came upon them quietly. Startled, they stood, gaping at her sudden presence. ‘Which of you is Halfred Whitfoot?’ she asked in a low, clear voice. The seated Hobbit rose, clearing his throat, and made to speak to her. She cut him off as she thrust the letter she had received from Sam into his gesturing hands.

He broke the wax seal, noting the imprint of Mayor Gamgee’s stamp on it, and read the message carefully:


“My dear Halfred Whitfoot, Shiriff of the Shire, West Farthing

Greetings, my friend! I write you this letter for two purposes. First, to commend you for your loyal and faithful upkeeping of the King Elessar's ban on Men entering the Shire; and second, to ask you to break this same ban.

A certain Mithadan is now in your custody in the Locks, for entering the Shire, which is forbidden to those of his race by King Elessar. You did right and well, according to your duties, to take him into your custody and detain him. However, this man is an exception to the rule. I am sure that you are familiar with Piosenniel, the Innkeeper at the Green Dragon. Mithadan is her husband, who was long traveling, most recently from Gondor, and has now come to the Shire for several reasons, one of which is to be present for the birth of their twins. In order that he may be able to be with his beloved at this blessed event, I beg you to release him to Piosenniel's custody.

Once again I praise you for your faithfulness, but I ask you to release Mithadan. I will vouch for him, and if any ill comes of his release, the consequences will fall onto my shoulders.

Sincerely,

Samwise Gamgee, Mayor of the Shire”


Halfred lowered the paper, and peered over the top of it at Pio.

‘I have come for my husband, good Sir,’ she said carefully. ‘For Mithadan. Bring me to him.’

_____________________________________________

Sam's letter courtesy of Orual

[ March 07, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]