The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Bêthberry]

It was a performance beyond most that had graced the mead hall of The White Horse Inn and like all mesmerising and enigmatic performances, it brought a calm denouement in its wake, as if the audience was quietly in thrall to the ineluctible promise that had been held out to it. Hearpwine looked around at Liornung, who was silently cuddlying the bairn Drihten on his lap and at Osric whose wryly twisted mouth held promise of future comment. Aedre, Taliesin, the cloaked woman, the other patrons, all sat back as if exhausted and the childlren were silenced. Goldwine sleepily decreed that he had had enough of Bethberry's coddling and jumped off her lap with a dismissive self-possession that the Inn's patrons seemed to lack.

"Rough indeed is the Common Tongue, Hearpwine. Its glory perhaps can be made to shine only by the hands of a Master." It could not be denied that there was a twinkle in her eye, yet her face spoke of wistful thought. Here indeed was a wild Rohirrim boy, uncompromising in his fealty to his art. She wondered, however, if this would be the kind of Bard the Golden Hall would want, uncaged and uncageable and forever young.

"Gomen and Maercwen, you must remember this day, for it is the stuff of which lengends will be made and if you do not live it perhaps you shall write it." The two looked at Bethberry quizzically and she grinned mischievously.

"This is your mistress of the letters talking. You have an hour to spend over your slates while I read to your younger siblings."

Their faces darkened and pouts appeared around their lips.

"We shan't go far but only to gather 'round the other fire, where you may still hear the amusements of the adults. but where my voice will not interfer with those here."

Bethberry rose and took Drihten from Liornung's arms, for even the babe attended to her story-telling sessions, his eyes darting to the sound of the common tongue made soothing by her voice.

"Oin and Finky, what would the dwarves say to the elven lament? What are your tales of the perilous realm? And Osric, though your voice be quavering with age and memory, think not that an infirmity. Let time be the judge of your tales and not human scorn nor humbleness. All of us here have experiences of how the past War engrained its struggle and deprivations upon our lives. Gomen and Maercwen will return with their tales and even Aedre, I think, can add to our remembrance. Aylwen's call is not far away."

With a slight bow to all and a nod to Hearpwine, Bethberry rose and took the children to the side for an hour of conning and drumming over words and letters, but an hour that passed swiftly for she was no school marm, but an entertainer in her way.