The White Horse

[Bêthberry]

Atop the stable's roof of cedar shakes, Wyrd eyed the approaching group of horses, his sight darting rapidly from the rider to the horses to the ground where prey might be scurrying and back to the rider. Smallish, she was nearly concealed behind her horse's head, her dark brown hair almost blending with the mane of her sorrel mount.

The woman slowed the horses from a canter to a walk once they entered the packed, well-trodden dirt street which housed The White Horse and then, before they reached the Inn, she dismounted with a slight jump to walk the horses. She wasn't tall, her head barely reaching her sorrel's whithers. She didn't stop at the Inn, but led the four poneyed horses towards the Inn's large stable, almost larger than the Inn itself as befits a Rohan establishment.

Sensing the falcon's gaze, the woman looked up and nodded at it as she swung open the large wooden door. She was lithe, energetic and her every move was purposive and supple. Leading each horse to a stall, she removed bit, bridle and halter from the three bays and the saddle and blanket as well from her sorrel. Each horse she brushed down with both curry and dandy brush, standing so close to animals that her shoulder and hip touched their flanks. Each hoof she picked carefully, cleaning it of debris from the day's long ride. As she worked, she spoke to each horse and each nuzzled her as she walked around their front.

Growing hot as she groomed the horses, she quickly removed her sheepskin coat, flinging it over her saddle bags. She was attired in worn leather boots, which rose to mid-calf, a belted tunic, slit on both sides, which hung nearly to her knees and which was embroidered on the edges with cross stitches and flowers. Under the tunic she wore a wool shirt, curled around her neck, with long sleeves, and wide pants tucked into her boots.

She worked fast, spreading straw into each stall, then hay, before mixing some oat and beet pulp to feed the horses. Clearly she knew her way around this stable. Once the horses were cared for, she pitched the long fork into the pile of straw once again, to send mice and other vermin scrambling. Wyrd swooped down and she turned her back to the bird.

Her labours over, she yet lingered. She went to her sorrel, scratching his ears as he ate and combing his mane with her fingers as she spoke to him. Finally, almost reluctantly, she picked up her coat and saddle bags, and left the stable, closing the heavy door behind her and heading to the Inn.

She spied Froma the cook and hallo'ed him.

"Another run, Ælfritha?" he asked.

"Yes, a short one. Three bays to an estate skirting Fangorn Forest," she replied.

"You want dinner? Root vegetable stew or chicken pastries?"

"The stew, with your dark rye bread, thanks, Froma. And some wine." She glanced furtively over the assembled guests. "You and Bethberry have a large crowd tonight. I'll eat in the library."

With those words the woman Ælfritha strode away from the mead benches where the revelry was loudest and sought a large wooden chair, covered with rough, embroidered pillows, near the books. She plunked her saddle bags on the floor beside her, wrapped her coat over her shoulders and curled up into the chair, her legs tucked under her, to gaze at the curling flames in the fireplace.