[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The contest of horsemanship seemed to drag on forever, but Hearpwine had promised Mae that they would use the little time they had before the competition to watch. His mind turned back again and again to the strange woman and her oddly prescient words. Now that he reflected upon it, his demeanour – not to mention the harp slung at his back – would have been ample evidence of where he was headed this day, but he remained on edge still. Something in her manner had nudged his confidence. Until this moment it had not occurred to him that he might fail before the King. He was not so foolish as to believe that only he could win the contest, but he had been confident that his performance, whether it won him the garland or not, would be one that all of Edoras would remember for many a year. His vision of the King’s eye as he wept, and the feel of the King’s hand as he clasped Hearpwine’s shoulder by way of recognition, had always been before him as a palpable certainty, as sure as the next sunrise even to a small child. But the woman’s words had brought home to him for the first time how common, how hopelessly ordinary, his desire might be. How many other bards were about Meduseld this day, all of them with the same certain idea of how this morning’s contest would end? And how many of them were older, more accomplished and wiser bards than he? Hearpwine stole a sidelong glance at Liornung and felt immediately ashamed of the tinge of resentment that had accompanied that look. Fool! he cursed himself inwardly, Now you are jealous of your friend? Fearful that he might take the floor himself? Blush, blush indeed at your shameful thoughts! They do not become you.

His attention was called back to the ring by an outcry from the crowd as the horsemaster who stood in the stirrups at a full gallop, shot two arrows faster than they eye could follow through a small target more than fifty paces from where he rode. He dropped down to his seat once more and with a quiet command stilled his horse to perfect immobility. Hearpwine joined in the general clamour, the blood of the Rohirrim that flowed in his veins stirred to quickening by the sight. Beside him, Mae clapped and cried out for joy, and even Liornung, who had seemed to love the fiddle more than all else, cheered the master. The next rider entered the ring but Hearpwine could wait no longer. “Come,” he said to his friends, “I must be at the Hall!” He had expected Mae to beg for a few minutes more at the ring, or at the very least to cast a last longing glance backwards as they walked away, but she turned eagerly and followed Hearpwine up the hill. The silver bracelet glittered on her wrist as they went. Seeing that the young bard was lost in his own thoughts, she turned to her uncle. “Do you think this will work?” she asked him, touching the bracelet lightly.

Liornung smiled and shrugged. “I do not know. My head tells me not to trust in the bangles of wandering peddlers, but there are more strange things in this world than most realise. Do not place your faith in it…but do not cast it away either!”

They soon reached the great door of Meduseld where there way was ceremoniously barred by two guards. They were dressed in the full armour and cloaks of the King’s Guard and armed with long spears. One of them stepped forward and demanded, “Who seeks entrance to the Hall of King Éomer?”

Hearpwine enjoyed such pomp and ceremony. Indeed, the dramatic nature of the performance that he was expected to act before the doors of the King thrilled him like a fine tune. “I am Hearpwine,” he replied, “son of Æthelstan of the Western Marches. I come to play for the King in earnest of his request that all who would be his bard appear before him this day and prove their worth! My companions are the wandering bard Liornung and his niece Mearcwen. Liornung does not seek the contest this day, much to the relief of those who do!” He looked sideways at his friend and winked at him.

The guard looked Hearpwine up and down before replying. This time, his tone was more friendly and conversational. “You are very young, Master Hearpwine. There are already many bards in the hall of greater renown who vie for the garland this day. I have heard rumour of you this morning from those who heard you sing at the White Horse last night, but do you think you can best those gathered within?”

Hearpwine smiled broadly and replied, “There is only one way that we will find out, my friend, and that is for you to allow me to pass! When I have done this day’s work I will return and tell you how I have fared!”

The man smiled and indicated that the door be opened. Hearpwine bowed low and asked the guard his name. “I am Wulfstan, son of Beortnyth,” he replied. “I look forward to seeing you again master bard!”

The three friends entered the Golden Hall and were instantly taken aback by its glory this day. The large Hall was filled almost to capacity with a press of gaily dressed and noble people, whose very talking set the hanging pennants and banners waving above their heads. A low fire was burning in the middle of the hall and along both walls all the braziers and torches were lit, filling the Hall with light. At the end of the Hall sat the King and his Queen. At his left were Legolas and Gimli, looking very fine, and upon his right hand sat a noble lord of Gondor and his lady. The lord talked quietly with the King, but the lady’s eyes were fixed upon the door to see the new arrivals. The Contest was about to begin, and she was eager to see the bard. Her hair was like gold, and her face, though beautiful and merry upon this day, was noble and stern. Her memories of this day, like all of theirs, were of glory and victory, but there was also a deep and brooding darkness upon this anniversary for her, and while it could not overshadow the joy of the day, it lay upon her like the shadows under a field of white flowers. And thus it was that the three friends beheld the Lady Eowyn in the Hall of Meduseld.

Almost as soon as they had taken their places in the crowds, the King stood and called to all those gathered. He began with a rather lengthy speech noting all the lords and great people who had come this day, and welcoming the contestants. “Today,” he said, “we are here to decide who will become the Bard of the Golden Hall. We have called upon you from all corners of our kingdom to play for us so that we might decide who will do the Hall honour for years to come. Most of you I know already, and you are all mighty singers. Some of you are known to me only by reputation, and some,” and here he looked openly at Hearpwine, but his expression was one of openness and kindness, “are strangers to me. Only one can win the laurel this day, but all shall reap glory!” The King sat and his chamberlain came forth with a large basket, filled with many scarves of different colours. He bid all those who wished to sing before the King to come forward and take a scarf. Hearpwine’s heart fell when he saw how many men, and even a woman or two, stepped forth. As he took his scarf from the basket he saw from the corner of his eye a familiar face – it took him a moment to remember where he had seen it, but soon it came to him. It was the same youth who had been at Jesia’s booth. He smiled inwardly as he realised what her interest in the Contest had been.

When all the scarves had been claimed, the Chamberlain went to the Lady Eowyn and bowed before her. In his hands he bore a cup which he held to her. She took from it one of the many coloured chips of wood that it contained and handed it to the Chamberlain. He examined it and turned to the assembly, calling out, “He that bears the crimson scarf: stand forth!” Hearpwine looked down at the blood red scarf in his hand and his heart skipped a beat. His feet reacted more quickly than his mind, and before he could even realise what was going on, he was bowing before the throne. He rose and the King met his gaze. “What is your name, master bard?” the King asked.

So flummoxed was he by the sudden attention of the great crowd that the young man forgot his courtesy and answered rather too simply. “Hearpwine, my King.”

King Éomer smiled and urged the young man on with, “And where are you from Master Hearpwine? And what lay shall you sing for us to celebrate this great day?”

Hearpwine flushed at his own clumsiness and sought to recover his composure. “I an son of Æthelstan, my King, of the Western Marches, and this day I shall sing a lay that I have composed myself of King Theoden’s death.” A rumour of surprise ran through the crowd. It was rare for a bard to sing something of his own composition, and it was bold to sing of such a subject before the people who were gathered in the Hall this day, who had seen Theoden's fall with their own eyes. The King’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and his eyebrows lifted. “Well then, Master Hearpwine of the Western Marches. You do this Hall an honour. Let us hope, that you do it credit with your music as well. Begin!”

Hearpwine touched his harp, nervously at first, but as he ran through the familiar tune his fingers found their accustomed grace and his mind ceased its whirling. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to flow over and through him, willing himself to lose himself in the melody. Without thinking of it, the song began, almost as though it were singing itself, using his voice.

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the Pelennor;
Until the King’s eored, man by man,
Had fall'n in shadow about their lord,
King Theoden. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Lord Eomer uplifted him,
And bore him to a green hill nigh the field.

Then spake King Theoden to Eomer:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Edoras, as in the days that were.
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

So saying, from the battlefield he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Lord Eomer
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of death.

But, as he walk'd, King Theoden panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
Then saw they how there hove a dusky bier,
Dark as a funeral scarf from end to end,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the field was dense with stately forms,
Golden-haired and golden-clothed, like a dream
Lady Galadriel: and from her rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur'd Theoden, "Place me in the bier."
So to the bier they came. There Galadriel
Put forth her hands, and took the King, and wept.
And she laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Theoden who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Edoras, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Lord Eomer:
"Ah! my Lord Theoden, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.”

And slowly answer'd Theoden from the bier:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May those who follow me make pure!
But now farewell. I am going a long way
To the land of my great ancestors;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and Eomer groan'd, “The King is gone.
He passes to be King among the dead.”
Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

The last low note of the tune hung about the Hall and then fell into a silence that was so complete, that Hearpwine fancied he could hear the slight heartbeat of Maercwen behind him.