(This takes place immediately before The Music Lesson. Part one. by Parnard)
It began with the woman.
I had taken an early ride upon Arhel, out along the tree shadowed lane towards the Halfling’s lands. Not that I had any intention of travelling any further than the stone bridge over the stream. But I was light of mood, and Arhel was restless, and it seemed a good way to start the day for us both.
And as I rode on to the East, there came the steady beat of hoof–fall, a faint song to my ears, and the sound of a flute. A female voice, sweet and yet not the most skilled. To me it sounded as if she were sad? So I halted on the path, sliding off Arhel’s back and looking around for any possible threat.
Although I was lightly armoured, as was become my habit when traveling of late, there was no need for me to be apprehensive. After all, it was not as if a bunch of wicked men would pile out of the undergrowth. (Had we not slain them all?)
Nay, no Men. It was a solitary woman upon a dark brown horse of uneven gait, riding towards Duillond. Reddish-blonde of hair, freckled of face, and with wide, doe-like blue eyes, she looked surprised, though not afraid.
Putting aside her flute, she sang a few more words, then drew her own rather fine mount to a halt.
“You’re an Elf,” she said, observantly.
“And you are not,” I replied rather firmly.
She twitched slightly, then bobbed her head to me. “Hildfrith of the Mark,” she said. “I am looking for help. I am lost.”
If her introduction were truth, and I had no reason to doubt her, she was a very long way from home.
Indeed, the day started with her …
…It ended with me sitting by the high window of my study, keeping watch over a sleeping Estarfin, who had smashed all in his room, nigh accused me of betraying him, and of a certainty slain someone. (Hopefully not Mistress Hildfrith.)
It had been my fault. Or his? Most likely ‘ours’.
~ ~ ~
So it was I encountered Hildfrith of Rohan on the East Road, but half of an hour's ride from Numastaya. She was no threat to me, that much seemed obvious. She wore a leather jerkin over a tan coloured tunic and brown leather trousers. Her cloak, which had seen better days, was an olive green colour. She had an eating knife in her belt, and a short sword and frying pan strapped to her saddle. I had a suspicion her weapon of choice would be the frying pan. She talked a lot.
“Why are you in Elven lands,” I had asked her. “What is it you seek?”
“Bree,” she replied. “At least that is where we were heading before I got separated from the group. I am a cook and a tavern keep you see, and I was wanting to find more supplies outside our own lands and some new strains of pipeweed for the Roaring Dragon’s customers, and I have not seen an elf before though there are said to be some in the Golden Wood and one is a witch?”
I held up a hand, indicating nay, begging her to stop. Had I been a different sort of Elf I would likely have reprimanded her then and there for her slur on the Lady Galadriel.
“I have not been to your lands. I know none of your folk, though there are Elves in the Golden Wood. In that you are correct.” I tried to bring her back to my questioning. “You are some distance from Bree. You have wandered far afield, Mistress Hildfrith. You head for our sea ports, and, as I doubt most strongly you wish to sail to Valinor, you needs must turn about and retrace the way you came.”
Later I was to remember Estarfin would have slain her on the spot. Yes, she talked a lot, but I was not finding her in any way ‘unpleasant’. It was more a matter of pointing her in the direction she wanted to go.
She took up her water skin, uncorked the top and offered it to me!
“Here you go, Mistress?”
“Elf” I replied.
“It’s just water, and a little Strutting Rohir.” she said with a laugh. “No? Ah well. You must come to Rohan for the good stuff, Mistress Elf.”
She knew I did not want to partake of her ‘drink’, but I was impressed by her manners.
“Hildfrith,” I said in a most serious tone.” We need to get you to Bree. This is no place for a daughter of Men to be wandering, though our patrols would do you no harm. You should not be here.”
And why did I not think of Estarfin at that point? I thought of him nine hours out of every ten, why then had my mind gone blank? No, no patrol from Mithlond would harm Hildfrith. But I knew someone who would.
She smiled at me a little, still no fear in her eyes, but there was a little uncertainty.
“Hlif has a limp, I would rather not ride her without rest lest it damage her hoof. Is there a village nearabouts where I could spend a short time? If you can show me the way back to the lands of Men I will go right willingly. I do not wish to cause a problem by my presence, but I am truly lost. It is not like the Mark here. I could count upon the laws of hospitality among my own kind, though some are without honour and would refuse. May Bema’s curse be upon them. “
‘Bema, she means Orome’, thought I. If she thought she was being clever, she was not totally mistaken. Indeed, we Noldor had codes of hospitality, even as others of our kind. It was bad manners to refuse one in need in most lands. But it was also wise to be cautious.
“If you know of somewhere, please tell me, Mistress Elf. I can sing in payment, or cook, or perhaps play my flute or teach it to a child?’
“There are very few children in our lands, and most would be able to sing and play as well as you by their second year. But I take the kindness of your offer.”
Then came my mistake, my folly. I was thinking of how Filignil would respond to Hildfrith cooking in her kitchen, and I was thinking of Parnard’s recently expressed wish to better learn the flute. I was thinking of Barahirn taking a look at the Mare, Hlif’s, hoof, that the woman could be on her way. I was thinking…..but that was the problem, I wasn’t thinking.
“Our Halls are not far off, if we walk, that rests your mare, my Stable Master may have an answer for her lameness. May it be you can offer a little in flute playing to a good friend of mine, in exchange. Alas, my hospitality cannot extend beyond that, as I think it would be wise for you to try and find your travelling companions as soon as possible.”
We set off on foot, the horses walking at a slow pace in our wake.
Hildfrith smiled. It was a warm and genuine expression. “Wait till I tell my Bronna I met an Elf this far from the Golden wood. She will be telling our Thane, and Ethel…and.”
“Your ‘Bronna’?” I picked up on the first name she gave, rather than let her tell me about dozens of others.
“My daughter,” she said proudly. “Do you have any children, Mistress Elf?”
Her question was overstepping good taste, as far as I was concerned. It was not her business. But then again, how was she to know?
“Nay, Hildfrith. I am not wed.”
“They don’t always go together you know.” she winked at me and laughed.
“For us they do,” I replied bluntly.
“Oh.” It seemed she realised that talking of more personal matters with me was unwelcome, and we continued in silence for a while, until she seemed unable to be quiet any further, and regaled me with her ‘best’ recipes for mutton.
Did they all talk as much, I pondered?
And we were at the gates of Numenstaya shortly after midday. Barahirn raised both brows as we approached.
“Lady Danel”
“Oh, is that your name, Danel?” Hildfrith spoke as if we were friends of old. And Barahirn winced.
“How may I serve, Lady.” he bowed his head to me.
Hildfrith was running a critical eye over him. ‘Umm…ahh….”
Whatever she was doing, I wished she would stop. So did Barahirn. He kept his eyes fixed on me.
“The mare is lame. It would be beneficial if that could be cured,” I told him. “Then Mistress Hildfrith can be about her business…in Bree.”
The Stable Master needed no further instruction. Indeed I could sense his haste to see the work done.
I turned back to the short path to the main Hall, thinking to bring food and drink to the woman upon the sward. Filignil had already seen us. She hurtled down the path, her feet barely touching the ground.
“Lady, what are you doing?” she said in Quenya.
“This is Hildfrith of the Mark. She is lost and her horse is lame. She does not understand our tongue.”
“None of them do!” Filignil replied in Quenya. “Lost; a lame horse? What is that to do with us?”
“Hospitality, Filignil. I thought you would understand. “
“Not really,” she still spoke in Quenya. “But you are Lady here.”
Bobbing her head briefly to Hildfrith, Filignil had resumed her lemon–sucking expression. “I shall bring out some cordial and some….no I won’t..it will be sliced meats and bread….for you, Lady. What you do with it is not my concern.” Still Quenya.
She hurried to the Halls, and returned swiftly, her duty discharged, as far as she was concerned.
“Some of my folk speak our old language still,” I explained away the discourtesy to Hildfrith.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, “the words sound like they are twinkling stars.”
Now that did impress me somewhat. I indicated she should sit and partake of what was offered, and I ate and drank a little with her.
I did not let her wander, though her eyes wandered over the houses and gardens as far as she could see. She seemed amazed, which was rightly so. Rather than tell her about our Halls, I encouraged her to speak more of her daughter, assuming it would be a topic on which she had much to say. I was quite right.
Then Barahirn was back, a small smile on his face that I knew his care was successful.
He nodded to both Hildfrith and I, but addressed me in the Common Tongue.
“It is well. The lameness will soon be gone I deem. On examination there is a dark spot…a bruised sole…under her front left hoof. I have applied a poultice, which will ease it. She should not be ridden hard for at least two days, but you can ride her within a few hours.”
The woman nodded, and beamed her ‘thanks’. “How can I repay you?”
“Look after your horse. Watch her hoof and fetlock. I think this will cause no further damage, but some of that will be down to you.”
She nodded seriously. “We of the Mark care greatly for our horses, Master Elf. This is due to an oversight on my part. Hlif shall be well cared for.”
And there was a measure of understanding between her and my Stable Master.
As he departed, she leant close to me and whispered, ’A pity. I like him. But he is too gentle of spirit for Fight Club’.
“For what?”
She chuckled and patted me on the arm. ‘A Mannish tradition, Mistress…Danel.”
I did not want to know.
‘Too gentle a spirit?’ And finally I remembered what I should not have forgotten. My heart thumped wildly in my chest. ‘Tintalle, what have I done, how can I explain this to him?
