A pork loin cold and pale did lie
In a pan, trussed and string uptied
What would be its uncertain fate?
But a hero soon swung open the gate -
With a spoon, like a sword, in his hand
The baster-as-weapon would save all the land!
He ground, and chopped, and then mixed up
Salt, pepper, and onion (about half a cup)
Fennel, honey, and mustard so bright
Wine, ginger, and clove, a glorious sight!
He whisked and scraped with flourish and glee
This tasteful sauce, so wonderful-ly
On the pork did he paint, each curve and line
A glistening masterpiece, truly fi-yi-yine!
Marawendi smiled and swayed back and forth, humming along with the familiar tune; the Wood-elves would often sing in the steamed-filled kitchens of King Thranduil while they laboured away, often improvising silly lyrics to fit the rhythm, and it reminded her of home. In a sudden impulse she raised her soft voice in song and began trilling out high notes, like the call of the warbler among the violet shadows of evening.
The spoon hung in mid-air dripping honey mustard glaze on the floor. “So you can sing after all!” said Parnard, who had stopped to listen in keen delight and watch the shape of her mouth.
Marawendi lowered her eyes, her cheeks tinged pink as a blossom of the wild rose. It was not that she was false to the Noldor; she knew they were closely observing her, and while she did not wish to appear ungrateful or unsocial, her songs were only simple airs, those that the Woodland folk delighted in, and she could recollect no song when their bright eyes were regarding her so attentively.
“How did you learn to cook, Lord Parnard?” she asked.
He laughed to himself, realizing he was being put off, and deciding against further solicitation on the subject answered, “As the sage once said, ‘You learn by doing, and by falling over,’ and that means failure, but we cannot fail if we do not take steps, however halting. Tell me how to do something, and I will forget it more often than not, but if I do it, over and over again, it will be mastered: I know how because I have been roasting meat far longer than your fair little feet ever played upon the pine straw.”
The maiden bowed her head in answer, and to hide her blushes better. “I think an onion and cheese tart is what we need to make next, and we will make it richer if we use cream,” she murmured, taking up a bowl and mingling proportions of flour, salt, and butter for a crust.
“Savory tartlets? But my little flower, what shall we have for dessert? We need a cake - can you make a cake with a berry sauce? There is nothing more delicious to finish a meal, besides iced custard, of course, but we have no snow for that.”
With great ingenuity and foresight did Marawendi oblige, and took out of the cupboard a tall pyramidal nut and honey cake slathered with icing and decorated with yellow petals. She had made the cake during the early hours of the morning; in fact, the novelty of her position at Númenstaya had kept her awake most of the preceding night, and she decided not to wait for Filignil’s direction in the kitchen to begin baking. “It is not to be cut yet,” she told Parnard. “But - there is plenty enough for the feast,” and blushing even harder, offered it to him.
The cake was too beautiful to spoil with cutting, thought he, and demurred with a wave of his hand. The two elves continued working in silence, Marawendi pouting because he refused to taste her cake, and Parnard wondering where he could find a grill, spit-bar and two andirons, until Filignil returned with a basket of cucumbers and red plums to pickle in a spicy brine, and set them to peeling and slicing.
When they had finished, there was the greatest profusion of good things to eat, each dish cooked and flavoured to perfection, laid out on a cloth on the grass in a colourful mosaic, “a veritable flowerbed of deliciousness,” as Parnard commented with pride, and said that no Noldor could ask for a better Midsummer feast.
The food and drink placed by the waters of the little lake, the elves gathered round in their finery – red and blue doublets laced with gold, and long dresses of whisper-soft silk in shades of grey, lavender, and red. They ate heartily of the good fare, praising the dishes: the delicate flavour of the sauces, the well-cooked meats, and the toothsome crispness of the vegetables. Parnard drank down glass after glass of wine, while Estarfin refused it. The Noldor had positioned themselves along one side, saying little as they sat eating and staring down the road. Then Parnard realized they were anticipating a horde of Men creeping in and attacking them as they feasted. It was making Marawendi nervous, he thought with irritation; the poor maiden kept glancing over her shoulder, and was so distracted she could barely eat a bite.
“Are we expecting a wine delivery?” he asked the Noldor. No one laughed at his jest. Parnard shook his head, doggedly trying to make conversation. “I see no one is girt with a sword, yet here we watch so vigilant.”
He had struck upon a topic dear to their hearts, and the Noldor began talking at once:
“You speak wisely, Parnard, as usual,” said Estarfin. “It is easy to fall out of the habit here. I shall endeavour to remain armed.”
“I have a long knife, Cousin,” Danel reminded Parnard.
“I shall go fetch swords,” announced Yrill, and she got up and left.
Then the Noldors’ conversation turned towards the idea of building a castle fortress to discourage and repel any further attacks from Men.
“If the Naugrim build the walls, and we fortify the houses, it is a good start,” Filignil said.
Danel said, “If we are to have a stronghold, I think we would prefer Noldor craftsfolk. I can write to Narsamö, and see if he will consider the work – he may not have time.”
“A few Noldor are worth fifty Dwarves,” said Parnard. “Although they are most clever with their locks, and Dwarf-steel is the strongest metal in the world, besides mithril.” Little else did he know of Nogrod steel, ever-sharp, untarnished, hard as heavy stone, as unyielding as the Dwarves that forged it in dark caverns long ago. “My sword, Angnassë,* is made of Dwarf-steel, is it not, Estarfin?”
“Indeed,” replied the laconic warrior, before adding, “They are cunning crafters.”
“And merchants, too,” said Parnard, who had some experience haggling with Dwarves and being cheated on several occasions by the more artful and duplicitous. Envious of their superior bargaining skills, he made much study of their mercantile ways, ultimately concluding that because their thought was most occupied with buying and selling, it required no small amount of cunning, and this led to an adoption of the bad qualities that follow necessarily from a cunning mind – cheating, defrauding, misrepresenting, and so on, and thus their characters were expected to be of the lowest sort and should be viewed with the greatest of suspicion.**
“Would your brother think of building one of his towers nearby?”
“My brother!” cried Parnard.
“The new Captain of Lindon.”
“Him! You want to ask my brother to build a watchtower here?” Parnard pursed his lips together and awaited the answer with an ill grace.
“We do not have the funds for it. Does he?”
“I do not know,” he answered, his face now downcast as he dawdled with the stem of his wineglass. “We would have to ask him.”
“It may be possible, at least?”
“Anything is possible under the sun.”
*: Angnassë, or 'Steel-Thorn' in the common tongue
**: see ‘To Market’ https://laurelinarchives.org/node/11483
