The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Nurumaiel]

"Aylwen!" the little voice cried, though it sounded more like 'Al-wen.' Little Motan, who had ever adored Aylwen and had found it true that 'absence makes the heart grow fond,' hurtled herself in a very unladylike manner through the Inn door, little hands once again filled with flowers. She was too short to kiss Aylwen's cheek, so she contented herself with throwing her arms about the Innkeeper's knees and hugging her fiercely.

Aylwen laughed and nearly lost her balance, and then stooped a bit so she was at eye level with the golden-headed little thing. The little girl smiled and satisfied herself by kissing Aylwen's cheek, which she could now reach. She brushed some strands of hair out of her eyes and looked pointedly down at the flowers in her hand until Aylwen followed her gaze to look at them as well. Motan flourished the flowers in front of the Innkeeper's face, saying, "From the garden we made."

A more dignified young girl came in, and this was Mereflod. Her face was beaming with pleasure but at seven she was conscious that she was a lady and should behave as became that position. She strode gracefully across the room and kissed the stooped Aylwen's cheek. "I'm glad to see you again," she said, laughing slightly. "We missed you very much."

Motan indignantly pushed her older sister aside. She had been talking to Aylwen first. It was unfair of Mereflod to shove in so. Positive that her sister would not interfere, Motan's face broke into a smile again and she waved the flowers in Aylwen's face again, repeating, "From the garden we made." Her smile grew wider and little pearly teeth shone in her slightly freckled face. "We took care of the seeds all the time you were away, just as you showed us, and these are the summer flowers. Aren't they beautiful?" She gazed fondly at them and then buried her face into them, taking a long whiff and sighing rapturously. Then she stretched out her little hand and waved the flowers yet again and Aylwen's face, saying, "Here, Aylwen - " (once again it sounded as 'Al-wen') " - these flowers are for you."

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry had continued to ply Sigurd with questions, questions which sometimes flummoxed the lad and sometimes brought a hesitant eagerness of explanation. Out of the corner of her eye, she had watched Hearpwine be drawn away by Gomen's eagerness. Something about a ride in the foothills, she had earlier overheard and she had wanted to speak to Hearpwine about it, but the dictates of talk and work had kept them apart. It was all she could do to manage to catch his attention as he strode out with the boy. Nothing specific did she suggest by her manner and no one else caught it. But nonetheless, there was an indescribable something which her look conveyed, enough for the young musician to sense, and to take away with him a hightened awareness. She was glad that Aylwen had returned safely, and glad too that the young woman had realised they must speak soon.

For the time being, Bethberry resumed her conversation with Osric and Sigurd, over the din of the children's warm welcome of Aylwen. It was perhaps unfair of her to draw Osric out with his rather blousey, overdone eloquence, for she could see it made the young Sigurd embarassed, yet it was an opportunity to judge his character. She had a good mind where he would help at The Horse, but she wanted him to give a greater account of himself before she spoke with Aylwen.

"Sigurd, you say you will carry out whatever task I assign you."

The lad nodded soberly while Oscric nodded several times enthusiastically and prodded the boy's side.

"But what if we need help in the laundry? Will you undertake that?'

She could not be absolutely sure but Bethberry thought she heard Osric muffle a surprised intake of breathe. The lad's face faltered a little.

"I know nowt of laundry and cleaning, Mistress Bethberry, for that was my sisters' chores. But I can carry tubs of water and heat cauldrons over fires."

Bethberry weighed this answer and found it in the boy's favour.

"So would it be kitchen work you could handle?"

She thought she could detect the boy's eagerness dim and certainly the thought of his nephew doing maid's duty in the kitchen was not an especially welcome one to Oscric, who coughed a little.

"Then there's mucking about in the stable. Liofan could use help there, I'm sure, and Gomen could teach you how to handle the horses as well."

The old warrier covered his eyes at this, thinking shrewdly how to convey his thoughts to his nephew. This was begining to become uncomfortable; he had not practiced an extended interview and had not thought beyond the opening request
If the boy had chaffed with his parents, however, he would need work which gave him some freedom as well as challenge. Bethberry held out a third posibility.

"Yet I think you might prefer to make your own routines . We have need of a handyman, a carpenter to fix broken furniture and gates, repair woodwork and carry and load supplies for us. Would you prefer that, Sigurd, to be our journeyman labourer, to apply your muscle where heavy work is needed, to keep an eye on the Inn at night perhaps, when patrons might need some extra help making their way out to guard us as well as tote and carry for us?"

She sat back, waiting to see which Sigurd would choose. Once he did, she would discuss the possibility with Aylwen.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine felt bad for having misled the boy. He could easily enough begin Gomen’s training as a bard, but he lacked the energy. He barely had time to see to his own training, let alone teach another. But Hearpwine knew how Gomen would take it, were he to say that he could not spare the time – the boy would be sure that it was only an excuse to avoid teaching him. Better the lad think Hearpwine an unfit teacher than think himself an unworthy student.

“Teach you but one song, do you say? Well, that will be no easy thing – indeed, I have been tasked with many great trials that will seem light by comparison.”

“What do you mean, Master Bard?” Gomen asked.

Hearpwine laughed and said, “My name, lad, is Hearpwine. I thought you would have learned that by now. Save your ‘Master’ for Eorcyn, or for me when I do finally become Bard of the Golden Hall. But this task you put me to is hard because I must now decide what song to teach you. It is no small think being asked to select from all that I know the one that will give you the greatest pleasure. Perhaps you could tell me what kind of song you would like?”

Gomen thought for a while in studied silence as they rode. The houses of Edoras slipped past them as Hrothgar got his legs beneath him, and within minutes they were passing through the tall gates. “Hang on!” cried Hearpwine, “I think that I shall let him have a bit of a run to make up for the weeks he’s spent without real exercise.” As though he understood his master’s words, Hrothgar snorted and went instantly into a full gallop, racing right off the road and onto to soft grass that lay between the mounds of the kings. They raced into the south-east towards the skirts of the mountains, and were soon going up the long slow slope of the foothills. Gomen, who was more used to horses even than most lads of Rohan, easily rode along at Hearpwine’s back. As they crested the first line of hills he broke his silence. “I think I should like a song about a girl,” he said, as though there had been no interruption in their conversation. “A song about a pretty girl.”

Hearpwine smiled into the rushing air and sunshine. “Aye lad, and why do you want to learn a song about a pretty lass?”

He felt Gomen grow a bit uncomfortable behind him, and he regretted his teasing tone. The reply, however, was that of a young man, and not a boy. “I wish to sing it for my sister,” he said evenly, “for she I the fairest girl I know.”

“Aye, she is fair Gomen. But the day may come when you will look upon another and find your own sister but poor company. But do not reprimand me! For I know that you will say that such a day will never come!” He fell into thought for a moment. “A song about a pretty lass, you say. . .I have it!”

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.

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.

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.

Stand off, stand off, you are deceitful;
You are deceitful, young man, 'tis plain -
'Tis you that have cause my poor heart to wander,
To give me comfort 'tis all in vain;

I'll take thee down to some lonesome valley,
Where no man nor mortal shall ever me tell;
Where the pretty little small birds do change their voices
And ev'ry moment their notes do swell.

Come all you young men that go a-courting,
Pray give attention to what I say,
There's many a dark and cloudy morning
Turns out to be a sunshiny day.

[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?"