The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Kransha]

Sigurd, who was not the most contemplative or thoughtful boy, seemed genuinely lost in thought. He raised a hand to his chin and scratched pensively, looking the part of a philosopher, which seemed to alarm Osric even more, who looked utterly confused. Sigurd, after a tranquil silence to which the area was unaccustomed descended and filled the brisk, indoor air around them, spoke, his voice firm and resolute, though wrought with hesitation. “Well, Bethberry,” he began politely, reserved in his tone of voice for care’s sake, “your suggestions are ample, and I thank you for that. There are surely enough choices mentioned for me to determine a suitable path…though some may not be as wanted as some.” The boy had a momentary, and rather disturbing thought cross his mind about the innate possibility of being cast the role of a serving maid. Yes indeed, that position was not wanted at all, a feelin mutual for both Osric and Sigurd.

Suddenly, before Sigurd could continue, Osric spurted into the conversation, lurching uncomfortably were he stood. He seemed to be making some truly grand speech, as his arms waved and made involuntary gestures of illustration, which were probably very distracting from his garbled words. “But, of course, if there is any space open indefinitely, he would gladly fill it.” His mouth was still open, ready to continue, but Sigurd began again before his uncle’s words had developed. “It is a delicate matter, but my choice is set before me.” He looked as confident as ever, a fact which should’ve made his uncle proud, or even delighted (which he probably had never been in his rowdy, often rebellious nephew), but it didn’t, for Osric was too busy interrupting again.

“And he will readily serve any other purpose if that choice is met with-”

This time, Sigurd interrupted, his voice cold but satisfied, “Uncle, do I speak in some foreign tongue that my words need translating? Pray, tell me if that is so. Otherwise, I think Bethberry can hear and understand to some extent what I say without your assistance.” He pleasant tone now died, and Osric shrunk out of Sigurd’s way, looking half dejected, while Bethberry blinked courteously. Sigurd stepped forward again, in front of his relative, and spoke again, with dramatic force, summoning a resolved strength of voice.

“Bethberry, your last offer is most desirable, in my eyes at least.” He shot a dark look at his uncle, who turned his bearded head, pretending to look away and not notice the perturbed look being directed at him. “As I have naught to do in Edoras but tote my weight around, I would be more than willing to serve as a laborer here, but in more respects. My days are empty, as are my nights, so I would carry and handle what you wished me to, but I would not be adverse to helping in the stable, or serving anywhere else when that duty was required. As my uncle has said…many times,” again he shot a venomous look, but tempered with a vague, mute grin which Osric truly did not see, as he was currently trying very hard to look as if he’d seen an troll just outside the shuttered window of the inn, and acting the part well, “…I will be happy to serve wherever I am needed, or laborers have gone missing.”

The secret was, as Osric had by now guessed, but dared not mention, was that Sigurd was simply trying to put every last one of his waking hours in the inn, and for one purpose, and that purpose was one of the establishments other employees, Maercwen. In the kitchen and doing the less manly chores, though he would be demeaned in his boyish arrogance, he would also gain more access to her and those around, to seek any quarry presented. Leofan in the stable surely had an insight or two, and Hearpwine too. Osric’s eyes dimmed grimly as he shook his head in contemplation. His nephew was a romantic, and a hopeless one, and would probably accept even the most menial, and uncharacteristic of chores to get what he desired, as he was very persistent. Osric could only hope that Sigurd would pour the same dedication into his line of work that he would into his newest contemporary quest. Now, as he stood silently, unblinking and unmoving, as Sigurd nodded meditatively to himself and continued.

“That is my answer, Bethberry.”

[Imladris]

The euphonious articulation that descended upon my ear drew me with beguiling notes. It beckoned me on, alluring me with its dulcet notes. How could I cry it nay? But I forsook my antediluvian master, whose mandibles, robed in ashen vibrissae, was resting upon his breast, and who was in somnolent repose.

How could I bar my ears from such a melodious song? I auscultated.

As I was walking one midsummer morning,
A-viewing the meadows and to take the air,
'Twas down by the banks of the sweet withywindle,
When I beheld a most lovely Fair.

Midsummer mornings, I affirm, are diurnal courses of enchantment. '

With three long steps I stepp'd up to her,
Not knowing her as she pass'd me by;
I stepp'd up to her, thinking to view her,
She appear'd to me like some virgin bride.

He must have had expansive limbs, I deduced with my cerebration prowess.

I said: Pretty maid, how far are you going?
And what's the occasion of all your grief?
I'll make you as happy as any lady,
If you will grant me one small relief.

I cogitated that it was presumptious to think that he could make her happy.

Unfortunately the canticle brought felines of the female persuasion to my mind. I had never been joined to a member of that persuasion...but, in truth, it did not trouble me. Lasses were creatures who preferred to stay at home, whilst I enjoyed life. And I never deluded myself into believing that I, because of my golden aura-tic presence that I could make them full of bliss.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen accepted the flowers, her face bright and smiling uncontrollably. She had enjoyed her little welcoming committee, her cheeks flushing violently red and her eyes lit with simple happiness. Motan scrunched her eyebrows together at Aylwen and the flowers for a moment, and the Innkeeper wondered what the girl wanted her to do. Motan sighed deeply, and Aylwen grinned her understanding. Lifting the flowers up to her face and inhaling, Aylwen smelled the scent of the colorful plants. Satisfied, Motan giggled with youthful enthusiasm. Aylwen opened her arms and hugged both the young girls.

"My, my! You both have grown so much!" Aylwen observed when she had released the little children from her embrace. "If I should ever leave again, I would come back to see you both off and married with little Motans and Mereflods of your own!"

"But Aylwen!" Mereflod protested in a dignified, but somehow angelic little voice. "You've not been gone that long! We could not get married so fast!"

"I am sure that soon enough boys around Edoras will beg to differ!" Aylwen smiled at both of the girls, thinking of Hearpwine and the local boys and their infatuation with Mae.

"Papa will scare them away," Mereflod replied with certainty in her voice.

"I do not doubt that, either, little Mereflod. Now, Have you two been keeping an eye out for the Inn while I was gone?" Aylwen asked, her voice suddenly stern as Mereflod nodded gravely and Motan stifled her fits of laughter. "Making sure the men stayed polite and held their drinks? Making certain that Goldwine and all the horses were fed? Ensuring all the patrons good food and good times?" Aylwen paused, noticing that the girls' faces had become blank during her checklist. The Innkeeper laughed and pat both girls gently on their golden heads. "It was a joke. I am proud of both of you for taking care of your flower patch! You are both learning the values of good responsibility. When you work hard, you get something lovely out of it, like these flowers. Now...how have things been in my absence?"

[Bêthberry]

Not only did Bethberry blink courteously, she blinked several times courteously. The domestic tragicomedy played on as nephew and uncle each sought his own purpose and Bethberry slowly lost interest in it. She wondered mildly if they ever resorted to silly knockabouts as some families did, but somehow she doubted it. She suspected Sigurd would storm out in a huff and protest before Osric ever got that worked up. How different they were from Frodides and Liofan's family.

She sighed. These thoughts would not get her any closer to getting a straight answer out of Sigurd. She hmmmed for a bit. And then hawed for a bit. Her fingers absent-mindedly picked at some loose threads on her apron. She looked up at the banners high above the Mead Hall, banners of heroic times, and wondered how peace managed to produce youngsters so self-interested as these were.

She looked at Osric, whose eyes were about to bulge out of their sockets over some issue or item of which she was not aware. She looked at Sigurd, whose eyes wavered when she tried to make contact with them. She could not quite catch where it was his eyes were more drawn. Hmm. He is not speaking all the truth, she decided. She looked over at Aylwen, who was lost in a happy, eager conversation with the children. She looked down at Goldwine, regally commaning passage wherever he chose.

"Well," she proclaimed, with the kind of deliberate address which really means this is all a bit of a muddle, "you have made a most interesting claim, Master Sigurd."

"I have?" he intoned, a bit surprised by this tact.

"You have," she affirmed, quite pleasantly.

He waited. His uncle waited. Bethberry waited. Somewhere out at the back came the sound of tree branches snapping back and forth in the wind, not violently, but dolorously.

Osric began to worry. He coughed. He rose and would have begun a florid statement had Bethberry not raised her hand and gently, kindly bid him stop.

"No, please, this is indeed a profound matter. You are right, worthy Osric, to take such a keen concern and deep worry in your nephew's future."

Oscric's mouth seemed to pop several times as his lips quivered in a slight imitation of the words, "Quite so." And he huffed a bit.

Sigurd, for his part, began to bounce up and down on his heels. He was no closer to getting where he really wanted to be and he was not used to having to work this hard to get there.

"Your nights are as empty as your days, you say?" The woman caught him off guard with her question.

Sigurd stammered a sort of reply and cleared his throat.

"Well, then, without further ado, shall we call Aylwen over here and see what she thinks of hiring you as the night watchman? You can sleep all day, when we have plenty of hands here at the Horse, and then take over when we are all abed for the night. Perhaps you can help Liofan to put the horses to bed for the night at the stable, check that all the doors are locked, the shutters closed, restock the firewood for the next day for the main fireplaces and for the kitchen, clean out the chamber pots, restock the barrels of ale. A good way to fill your night, no?'

Neither Osric nor Sigurd could swear afterwards that there was any trace of a smile on Bethberry's face, yet both were strangely aware that there was a sort of gleeful sheen to her eyes as she spoke.

"Aylwen! Aylwen, come! We have the possibility of some new hands here at the Horse and we need your thoughts on the matter."

Then Bethberry turned back to Sigurd with her blandly polite face, and said, "Well?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The old man burst into the Inn with more speed and energy than any who knew him could have expected. He stood stock still in the entrance for a moment, his eyes taking in the occupants of the Mead Hall, but his furrowed brow indicated that whomever he sought was not there. He turned to the Innkeeper. “Good Mistress Aylwen, where is my student Hearpwine?” he asked breathlessly.

Aylwen, who had only just that moment been addressed by Bêthberry, took a moment to collect herself. “Master Eorcyn,” she replied as courteously as she could in the face of his rather abrupt manner, “I do not know. I have myself only just now returned from a long journey. Perhaps Bêthberry, who was looking after the Inn during my absence…” but she did not get a chance to finish, for Eorcyn was already rushing to Bêthberry’s side. Paying no heed to Sigurd and Osric (whom he somewhat pointedly ignored), he asked the woman if she knew where Hearpwine had gone. Bêthberry returned his gaze coolly – she was clearly not a woman who enjoyed being interrupted but for the sake of his high place in the Hall she would overlook it. “I believe that he went out riding with young Gomen,” she said.

“Riding!” Eorcyn acted as though Hearpwine had sought to inconvenience him personally. “But I must speak with him! He said that he would come here to sleep today, and now he is out riding? Perhaps I have not been working him as hard as I thought.”

“You have been working him much harder than I think is required, Eorcyn,” came the reply. This brought the old man up short, for he was unused to people taking such a tone with him, particularly since his elevation at the Contest. He gazed at Bêthberry in amazement, but the angry retort died on his lips as he looked at her. Something in her eye seemed to forbid him his hasty words.

“I am sorry, Mistress Bêthberry,” he said, “but it is urgent that I speak with my pupil. Do you know when he will return?”

“I am afraid I do not. But perhaps Maercwen will know. I saw her speaking with Gomen about the ride.”

“Thank you, lady. Thank you very much.” Eorcyn surprised himself with the ingratiating courtesy of his response, but he did not have time to wonder on it long. With as much speed as his aged body could manage he sought out Maercwen in the kitchens, where he surprised her with her arms half immersed in the washing-up tub. As she wiped her soapy hands on her apron, she listened open mouthed to the Master Bard’s explosion of words.

“Miss Maercwen, I have been sent to find Hearpwine and bid him be ready, but I find that he is not here. He told me that he meant to seek his bed this day, so I assured them that I could deliver their message without delay, but now I have found that he is on a ride – a ride, no less! – and not here at all. Oh dear, oh dear, this is most unfortunate, most unfortunate. The party is set to depart and have demanded his presence, but if he is gone from the City how am I to bring him where he is bid to come, and I am ordered to bring him…”

“Master Eorcyn,” Maercwen cried, stopping the flood with a gesture. “Please, speak more slowly, for I cannot understand you. You say that you have been sent to bring Hearpwine somewhere, and you cannot find him. That much I can help you with, although I fear you will not like the answer. Hearpwine has taken my brother riding in the hills and they will not be back for several hours. Now, if you can take that news with some patience, please tell me what it is you need him for.”

Eorcyn sat in a small chair at the kitchen table and laid his head upon his hand. “Oh dear, it is as I feared. What shall I tell them?”

“Tell who?”

“Why, the Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn of course. They have sent me to tell Hearpwine that he must make his farewells, for they are bound for Ithilien this very day!”

[Orofaniel]

"Farewells?"

How so, Aedre wondered. But then she realised what the old bard had just said; Hearpwhine would leave for Ithilien, together with Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn. She gazed at him, but said naught, because the words wouldn't come any further than her tongue. "Will, you excuse me," Aedre muttered while shoving her hands down in her apron. She hurried out from the kitchen and out in the common room.

"Aedre, will you not tell me why Eocryn needs to speak with Hearpwine so urgently?" Mistress Bethbery cried as she saw Aedre coming out from the kitchens. Aedre eyed her, and walked towards her. Yet her legs seemed not to follow her wish, and she stumbled. Luckily she managed to stay on her feet. Aedre was very much confused as she saw that Aylwen, the Innkeeper, had returned.

"Oh dear! It's Aylwen!" Aedre exclaimed as she saw her, as she almost had forgotten about Bethberry. "You have returned!" Aedre continued now embracing Aylwen. "Indeed," Aylwen said as they let go of each other. "I wouldn't have expected you to be back this early. But please, do not misunderstand; I am delighted to see you," she said and curtsied. "Thank you Aedre," Aylwen said and smiled at her. The vague, but kind expression in her face was ever so beautiful.

"Oh, who gave you those wonderful flowers?" Aedre said, as she spotted the colourful flowers in Aylwen's hands. "Oh, these..?" Aylwen said, while looking at them. Her small nose then fell slightly down in the blossoming bloom. "Mereflod and Motan gave them to me...from the garden," she said, lifting her head up, looking at Bethberry. Aedre smiled weakly as she eyes Bethberry's expression; she had quite forgotten about Bethberry's question. Oh, how ashamed she was.

"I'm terribly sorry Bethberry," she said and blushed. "I quite forgot when I eyed Aylwen. I got carried away in my own thoughts...how foolish of me," she said and bowed her head. "Master Eorcyn rushed into the kitchen to ask Mae where to find Master Hearpwine, who is also his pupil.......but I'm sure you all knew that," Aedre said nervously looking at Bethberry once again.

“Yes indeed, he came rushing into the Inn...seeking Master Hearpwine I told him to seek the kitchens and Mae,” Bethberry nodded and narrowed her eyebrows as she was waiting for Aedre to continue. Aedre sighed deeply; ”As I said, he was looking for Hearpwine. Mae told him that Hearpwine was out taking Gomen for a ride upon the hills and that she didn't expect him to be back before several hours..." Aedre said and looked anxious.

"I do not understand Aedre," Bethberry said shaking her head. "I do tend to confuse, don't I?" Aedre said full of despair. "I'm afraid that, although, Aylwen whom all of us have missed, has returned to us, Master Hearpwine, with his merry songs, will depart to serve the Lord and the Lady in Ithilien...." Aedre then finished.

Aywlen gazed, feeling utterly confused. "But - Aedre, are you sure that was exactly what Eorcyn said?" She asked her while her eyes turned to Bethberry.

”They, Lady Eowyn and Lord Faramir, have sent me to tell Hearpwine that he must make his farewells, for they are bound for Ithilien this very day!” – “Those where his exact words, if my memory does not fail me,” Aedre said while frowning. “Although, since Master Eocryn was speaking in such a fast manner, some may have passed me unnoticed,” Aedre said hoping for the first time, that it was indeed what had happened.

[Kransha]

The interruptions were more than enough to sever Sigurd’s train of thought, as this conversation was losing interest in him, or vice versa, he wasn’t entirely sure. At the moment, he was perfectly content to chuckle smugly at the wildly moving old fellow who darted up to Bethberry, yelled something so rushed and so garbled that Sigurd caught none of the escaping words that had pried his mouth open, and rushed away in a fiery motion, though it looked very awkward from afar. Osric, though, was unimpressed and focused, while the sudden arrival of Eorcyn only caused him to shudder involuntarily. That day, in a brisker, colder season, under these very hanging banners that rippled, swaying gently in the breeze that wafted in through open windows, he’d made his manner of amends with the man, but never got over their verbal fallout. The sight of him, though, was just enough to snap him into readiness and, as one of the serving maids, or holder of some position Sigurd didn’t want, named Aerdre, arrived, he spoke abruptly.

“Will you excuse us, Bethberry?” He questioned, managing a polite smile. Bethberry was looking now at Aerdre, listening to what she had to say, but still nodded back at the two. “Yes, of course.” She murmured, obviously more engrossed in whatever Miss Aerdre was telling her. Ignoring that fact, and the perturbed air that now permeated the inn, Osric took a firm hold of Sigurd’s shoulder and spun him foolishly about until both men were hunched over with their backs to the rest of the discoursing folk. “Many thanks.” The old man shot over his shoulder before pulling Sigurd close and beginning to speak, in a voice whose volume was barely an octave above a whisper.

“Sigurd, it is a good offer,” he muttered quietly, reservedly, “and you would be hard-pressed to find another like it.” His eyes were aflame and his usually whitened pallor incendiary by either the excitement of the situation or massive frustration at it. He looked into Sigurd’s eyes as an uncle should, with vague concern for him, but Sigurd shot back with the gaze of a battle-weary serpent, too tired to do any harm, but willing to lash out if anything got too close. “Uncle, I know it is a good offer.” He snapped suddenly.

Osric stared at him, mouth agape again. Where did the willingness spring from? What was Sigurd, the lad who’d been so uncontrollable, so untamable, doing just letting this happen? Did he want truly to work at the Horse? Osric’s face, which was now colorless with a jaw flailing up and down as noiseless words ushered from above it, found a voice. “You…you do?”

“Yes, yes I do,” Sigurd shot back, with equal venom in him, “and I’m going to take it as soon as you let go of my shoulder.” Osric involuntarily yanked his complacent hand from where it had sat on Sigurd’s shoulder, unfurling around the boy’s back and coming to rest limply at his side. “Are you sure? There are other options, other paths that cannot be taken.” His voice, this whole time, was riddled with disbelief, his throat groping for more air as he felt he might choke on his own words, or have to swallow them too soon.

“You were the one most keenly set upon me being here, so do not try and discourage me now.” The boy replied harshly, again causing Osric to shrink away. He was getting older, descending into old age, and Sigurd was getting older, but ascending into an age where, in maturity and prowess, he could challenge his uncle. It was hard enough to act like a father figure, but in this circumstance, it seemed harder still. Reluctantly, Osric nodded, as if he was defeated somehow. “No…you’re right.”

And so, he turned again, looking brighter and happier, ready to reach out and grab this new quarry where it stood and waited. Osric turned with him, and the two of them looked upon those who had apparently congregated just behind them as the spoke so softly, whispering in their own conspiratorial way. Not paying attention to the finale of the currently escalating conversation, he intoned loudly, “Alright, Bethberry, my decision is made.” There was no response, for all those in the vicinity looked more befuddled, and paled by some ill happenstance which Sigurd and Osric knew not of. They looked, each individually, from Betberry, to Aerdre, to any and all others who had materialized rather unceremoniously in a counseling circle around them, which they’d both been assimilated into, unbeknownst to them. Osric, trying not to be rude, spoke up on the subject. “What? What is it?”

Aerdre responded first. “Hearpwine must depart for Ithilien this day…I think.” She added the final words as something of an afterthought, as if she knew, but wanted no one else to know that she knew. In truth, she seemed half-uncertain, but that uncertainty might be no more than hopefulness that she was uncertain. No matter what the case, the words she said caused Osric and Sigurd to lapse into the same uncomfortable silence that had enveloped everyone else.