The White Horse Inn, Act III

[littlemanpoet]

"I'll pick it up," Eodwine offered.

"Falco said to them, 'No, not a bath, but something worse still. And not just Ferny but his whole gang.'

"'That's to my liking,' said Twiddle with his face scrunching smile.

"'The more the merrier,' said Gob.

"'At least so long as we're merry watchin' 'em squirm,' returned Twiddle.

"'So what have you got in mind?' Falco asked.

"'Meet us after sundown in a place you name, and we'll tell you then,' Gob said.

"'An' a merry meetin' it's been to you, lousy lot of ruffians, an' don't you come near the ol' Three Farthing Stone tonight or I'll make as sure as sure that there's enough hobbits there to string the both of you,' Falco said with a wink, and moved on.

"And so the two slackers passed their shovels from side to side and sloughed some dirt from here to there, slouching and almost slumbering on their feet, whispering between them with all the sizzle on their tongues that couldn't be seen in their hands.

"Night came and they slipped their way to the Three Farthing Stone where they found as sure as they knew the hairs on their knuckles the dozen or so hobbits they expected to find there."

Eodwine stopped and quaffed his mead.

"And there I must end my part of the tale because I'm daft if I know what Gob and Twiddle had planned."

"What!" cried Falco. "You've led us this merry way not knowing the lynchpin of your yarn?" (Falco could mix metaphors with the best and the worst of them, take your pick.)

"I was hoping for a little help with that, but everybody keeps skirting the real tale just as much as I've been doing, and I can't blame 'em." Eodwine shrugged and held up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

Falco though he was bluffing.

[Bêthberry]

"Some of us, Eodwine," said Bethberry, "have longer skirts with which to circle the tale." Ruthven cackled and pulled on her nose. She handed Bethberry a tankard full of ale. "If your throat be parched," the old woman said.

Bethberry looked at Falco. "We've had a fair bit of fun at your expense, haven't we?" she soothed. Falco picked at a non-existent piece of fluff upon his fine vest and let matters settle a minute or two. If Eodwine was going to declare defeat, perhaps he could find a champion here.

"I suppose," he said, "none of you have heard of what drew Bill Ferny away?"

"Well, Falco," replied Bethberry, "perhaps it would be best if you told us a bit about this Bill Ferny, before I embark upon a tale of his misadventures. " She sipped her ale, a slow smile spreading upon her calm face. As she had naught to do but await the arrival of a friend, she might as well turn her hand to this challenge Eodwine had proposed.

[littlemanpoet]

"Bill Ferny," Falco sneered. "A rascal and a foul miscreant if ever there was one. I'd have liked to bean him on the shnoz with a ripe red apple myself, and I praise the Mayor of the Shire for having done so!

"But Ferny. He put hisself in charge of a lot so he'd have less real work to do. He liked ordering others around, looking busy while not doing a thing and winding up with the best of everything into the bargain. When old Will Whitfoot got thrown in jail, who do you think took over his place? Silly thing to do too, since he could barely fit through the front door, but that didn't stop Ferny. He knew what he wanted, or at least he knew what he thought must be hiding in the farrest back cupboards of Whitfoot's larder, and he'd crawl on his hands and knees to satisfy his greed.

"And he wasn't above injuring hobbits neither. That's what made me maddest of all, and ready to see him done in by another. Now now! I know that's not a nice thing to say or think of another, but it's what I thought. I surely wouldn't do him in myself unless it be in battle or to save my own neck, which I'm mighty fond of don't you know.

"But about injuring hobbits. It always had to be tricksy because the ruffians didn't want to get the hobbits roused up, so everything was done careful to make sure the blame couldn't be pegged to any one person. That's why Ferny always did his worst through his men.

"And them southern men were the worst."

Falco paused to take a long drink from his ale cup.

[Bêthberry]

Garreth stretched his legs a bit and scratched his ear while listening to Bethberry’s tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly. He looked away from her and then down into his tankard. What he saw made him gulp, involuntarily. It was empty and his throat was dry. Or at least his wits were parched, which amounted to the same thing. Boredom tasted far less flavourful than the ale he was suddenly missing. He wondered if he could interrupt the story.

“Well, Miz Bet’bree, that’s a mighty fine tale you are regaling us with. I never paid much mind to this here Ring story that people round about here talk of. And I must say, you are increasing my admiration for this hafling fellow, our Falco.”

Falco bore this public attention with a certain amount of modest composure, but he did feel his ears ringing and was afraid that their tips would soon become red if this continued. But he felt no modest pride in hearing Miss Bethberry tell of his small role in paving the way for the famous Halflings to mount the assault in Bywater. He opened his mouth to intone his fine sense of the occasion when he persuaded Bill Ferny to leave Bywater just when the Cottons were arriving when up spoke Garreth again.

“In fact, beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Innkeeper, but I thinks we would be remiss if we didn’t here compliment the actions of young Falco. A toast to the Halfling Who Hoodwinked Ferny!” With that cry, he raised his tankard aloft and Harreld joined him with a “By Helm and by Hildeson, by Brego and Folca, on Falco!” Others around the table joined in, Eodwine with an impish grin and Ruthven with a glowing wink. Bethberry herself could not resist a gleeful laugh at this heroic invocation and replied softly with a “So be it!”

Amid the fussing and rushing of kitchen help, the clashing of tankards, the gurgling of pitchers, the voices crying “Arise, Arise, Hobbit of Hobbiton, fell deeds slaking and The Shire remaking”, no one noticed a slight person of sallow complexion enter the White Horse Inn. He stood calmly at the entrance to the Great Hall, observing the jocularity, recalling the cacophony of voice which had faded away upon his entrance to The Seventh Star. People were people everywhere, Sôông thought to himself, while wondering if silence would meet his arrival here as it had in The White City. He shifted his gaze around the crowded Great Hall, and found himself suddenly matching eyes with the Innkeeper. A fleeting smile crossed over her face as she acknowledge him but in respect of his courtesy and decorum she assumed a calm and sombre mein. She excused herself from the table, where, truth be told, others had now moved on from The Tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly. Ruthven looked up at her, a saddened frown suddenly creasing her forehead.

Bethberry and Sôông the Easterner sought out the smaller fireplace in the wordhoard, the small room to the back of the Great Hall and conferred. Deep in conversation they seemed, their heads at times coming together, then at times sitting pensively each in his or her own thought. Eodwine at last noticed Bethberry’s absence and spied the two. He rose, halting slightly at the entrance and politely waited to be invited in.

“Well might you join us, Eodwine of the Gap,” said Bethberry, “for there is a tale here to interest you.”

“Me?” he asked. “I might as well inquire what the daughter of the Old Forest is doing with an Easterling.” Sôông’s shoulders tightened but he made no move to acknowledge this statement.

“Sôông has been my messenger, and more,” answered Bethberry. “He has come from the halfling Fordim with instructions for the banner for his game.” Eodwine’s eyes widened in understanding and he looked back at the banners waving high from the beams of the Great Hall. They wafted in the smoky breeze of the hall, brilliant colours framed by the dark oak timbers of the ceiling struts and glinting like the jewels encrusted on the regal objects he himself had seen in the Golden Hall. We could make glass like that, he thought to himself, and set it in windows. And then he thought about the colours that would dance on the floor of the Inn.

“And what is to be the banner of Shadow of the West?” As Eodwine asked this question, he looked the Easterling in the eye—and one eye is was, for Sôông was of course blinded in the one eye—and saw not exotic difference nor anything fearful but some indescribable mystery. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the man spoke.

“something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”

Bethberry nodded. “Well chosen, it is. And it shall be made, ere I leave.”

“Leave?” inquired Eodwine. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, Eodwine of the Gap, that it is past time I continued on my way throughout Middle earth in search of she who I once set out to find.” The man stood there stupefied and then understood why Sôông had so set his senses tingling.

“You will leave with him? You will journey to the eastern lands? You will leave The Horse?”

“I shall, indeed, for there is much for Bethberry to learn of the lands of the East and there is much need among the people of my healing arts, which have grown stale here amid the beer and ale and smoke.”

“But, but, The Horse! Who shall be our Innkeeper! Who shall finish The Tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly? Who shall help us mind our Ps and Qs?” sputtered, for all his eloquence, Eodwine.

“Who? Why who indeed, Eodwine, Once But Now No Longer Messenger of the Golden Hall. Would it not be a position worthy of you and one that you can shine at? A messenger is as good a wordsmith as any, if not more. Will you take over The White Horse Inn Eodwine? Methinks the name Innkeeper Eodwine becomes you.”

[littlemanpoet]

It was not in Eodwine to accept an Easterling, let alone a Dunlending, at face. This Sôông aroused the old enmities of the War within Eodwine's breast. Yet there was clearly a bond of strong friendship between this man and Bethberry; and she was a wise woman. Such friends spoke well of the man. Looking upon him more closely, Eodwine saw in the man's eye and mien a peaceableness and courtesy. Well enough.

But Bethberry, leaving? And suddenly Eodwine found himself virtually appointed as the new inkeeper. He was at a loss for words. It must have showed, for Bethberry was clearly amused. Me? Innkeeper of the White Horse Inn? Possibilities suddenly opened out in his mind, of how he could add to the warmth and goodness that was already here, with decorations and arrangements to delight anyone who called the Mark home; and to cause wonder and enjoyment even for those who did not. But it was silliness to allow even a speck of hope for such a thing.

"Though the thought pleases me to replace you, but the King has already appointed me Warden of the Marches of Dunland."

"Speak with the King," Bethberry replied mildly.

Eodwine could not help but laugh, discourteous as it was. "Behold, the wise Eodwine who appears on bended knee before the King of Rohan and says, 'My lord, I cannot accept the Wardenship that you have seen fit in your wisdom to bestow upon me, for my calling is higher; I am to be an innkeeper.'"

"Nevertheless, ask," said Bethberry evenly. "I am sure you will know best what words to use."

And now Eodwine found his heart at war. There were two desires in his heart: one was the joy and peace and homeliness of keeping such an inn as this. The other was a desire to order peace and law in a land that had known only war for too long. He had thought of how it would best be done. Which desire was stronger in his heart? He knew not.

"Give me the evening and the night to think it over, Bethberry, and in the morning I shall tell you whether this is a matter to be brought before the king."

"Very well, a night then."

[Bêthberry]

The two riders stopped their horses and turned back to see the sun glinting off the gold roof of Meduseld. The much plainer thatched roof of the White Horse was barely visible above the tall wooden barricade which still fenced Edoras even in these years after The War of the Ring. For one, the sight brought only relief from the uncomfortable feeling of never being looked at as a human being; for the other, wistful memories.

The obligations of fealty had been observed and the ownership of the Old White Horse Inn settled. Its timbers were ancient and creaking, its shutters splintering, and its walls in desperate need of chinking to keep the old wind which blew down the mountain from creating chilly drafts. Sometimes when the wind blew the wrong way, ash and smoke and even sparks from the great fire actually blew into the Great Hall, rather than up the chimney. Bethberry had never enjoyed that task, of clearing the cinder and airing the rooms and cleaning the soot off the furniture and walls. Yet she would miss the old place and good times it provided.

The leave-taking of Ruthven had been hard, for the old woman had pleaded her ancient bones and crippled gait as reason not to join Bethberry and Sôông on their journey east. In the rag woman Bethberry had found the one stalwart companion who had stood her in great stead as she faced all the usual and some of the unusual traffic an Inn sees. In great measure it had been Ruthven who had enabled Bethberry to tarry so long as innkeeper, finding in the twisting alleyways and grim social life of the Rohirrim both the dark and the comic aspects of life most often overlooked in the heroic tales of light and power. To Ruthven Bethberry had given most of her goods and chattel that she had not sold off with the Inn, for the old woman could use such coin to ease her final years. Glad Bethberry was that she would not be leaving Ruthven alone to face her last days, for Annawyn the seamstress would keep a watchful eye on the elderly woman, ensuring she had hot meals and enough wood to keep her small fire burning, no matter how crippled she became.

Bethberry smiled to herself imagining Annawyn’s face when everyone found her parting gifts to them. Too many players to be named one by one, yet each received, tied with the remnants of cloth from the game banners she had sewn, bottles sealed with wax. In them, a chutney originally of Annawyn’s devising, but flavoured and spiced with Bethberry’s own herbs and fruits: roast apple and anise, with currants and carrots and honey-sweetened wine. What would the strange little man Madi make of his apple pips? wondered Bethberry, for some of them had indeed grown into spindly trees. It had been beastly, harvesting the apples, for most were infected with small grubs and went for mash for the pigs, but enough firm, ripe apples were eventually found to make the preserve.

Bethberry’s horse whinnied and broke her reverie. She petted her mare’s neck and thought of Ælfritha’s kindness in selling her the horse. Ælfritha, who had nearly lost her family’s entire homestead in the disasterous theft of her horses years before the War. None of them had realized at that time just what the theft foretold. Ælfritha too had chosen to remain in Rohan, for the broad grasslands were her home and horses her domain. And besides, Ælfritha had never recovered from the horror she had witnessed long ago beside the Anduin and could barely look at Sôông—not that she blamed him--without remembering the terrible dread she had felt and violence she had seen.

“You are lost in thought of the past,” remarked Sôông to her after some time.

“Yes,” she replied. “A bad habit I thought belonged only to the elves. Well, let me make amends. Race me to the River Snowborn.”

And so it was that Bethberry took her leave of Rohan, journeying east where so many more stories yet remained to be learnt and told and told again.

[Bêthberry]

~ ~ ~ Finis ~ ~ ~

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