[piosenniel]

Leaving The Green Dragon Inn . . . arriving near Buckland . . .

Surprise Attack!

The weather had gone from bad to worse as the companions trekked down the road toward Buckland. The morning of departure from The Green Dragon Inn was bitterly cold. No snow, but the day had been overcast and the wind came in great gusts from the north, blowing its icy breath through every little hole and tear in the Hobbits’ clothes. The following day brought flurries of snow and spells of icy rain.

Madoc drove the big wagon with Estelle on the seat beside him. Others of the Hobbits took turns walking and riding in the wagon as they trudged along, grateful fot the thick layer of straw that cushioned them from the cold wood bottom of the wagon bed as they huddled under the stacks of quilts their neighbors back home had lent them. Once one group had warmed up, they would hop off and start walking, making room for another bunch of nearly frozen Hobbits to climb on board and warm up for a spell.

Tom and Gorbadic walked in front of the wagon for most of the way – trading places with each other when one would grow too cold. They were on the alert for signs of the ‘wolves’ that the gaffer at the Green Dragon had spoken about. Much to the relief of the other Hobbits, the only signs seen were old frozen paw prints . . . nothing fresh. Still the companions kept to the road . . . none dared the darkness under the trees that lined the road.

Their first stop after Bywater was The Floating Log Inn at Frogmorton. Business there was as sparse as it had been at the Green Dragon. The Hobbits were glad to be inside for the night. They were able to dry out their wet clothes and to sleep in warm, comfortable beds. That, and there was ale to make them feel less grim.

Again, though, the Hobbits heard tales of ‘things’ bedeviling hapless travelers. Not just four-legged marauders this time – but now two-legged creatures of dubious ancestry were mentioned. Gorbadic, his second flagon of ale in hand, nudged Madoc in the ribs. ‘Next thing you know they’ll be saying there are goblins about!’ Gorbadic laughed out loud. ‘Everyone knows old Bullroarer Took drove them all away!’

Well rested, warm, and their bellies full of hot porridge, the Hobbits set out early the next morning from Frogmorton, bound for Buckland. They would cross the Brandywine River at the Stonebow Bridge late in the day, then make camp at High Hay. From there it would only be a two day journey into Bree.

It was early noon, the day cold and cloudy. The Hobbits had just passed the small hamlet of Whitfurrows and deciding it was time for lunch had pulled off into a little clearing at the side of the road. Madoc unhitched rocky and Nettle from the wagon while several of the others gathered wood to build a small fire.

Estelle took a bucket from the hook on the side of the wagon and walked to the small stream that ran on the far side of the clearing. ‘Tea water,’ she called out to Daisy, as she passed the Hobbit lass with an armful of small branches and twigs tucked up in her overskirt. Daisy nodded at her and hurried to where the fire was being started.

The flames from the small blaze crackled cheerfully as Gorbadic fetched the big kettle for tea water from the back of the wagon. He put it down by the fire and fetched out a packet of loose tea leaves from his pack, along with a small tin of honey. Madoc grinned at his cousin as Gorbadic crouched down by the fire to warm his hands with the others. ‘Now all we need is for Estelle and the water to make an appearance,’ he said, poking the fire with a stick.

Then, from the direction of the little stream came a ghastly, high-pitched scream, ending suddenly with a strangled cry for help. ‘Estelle!’ cried Madoc leaping to his feet and grabbing up his stout blackthorn club . . .