Chapter 11; in which there is hammering on anvils and plotting most foul.
That morning, there seemed to be especial hustle about the kitchens, for a large procession of new refugees had arrived. Brasfain and Jake were sent to the armoury to ask the blacksmith to sharpen the old weapons he had there so the new arrivals could bolster the guard, down to a skeleton shift now the army was gone. Jake had not been to the smithies yet, and he had to admit he was curious, for up till now, discounting Éomer, he hadn't spoken to any of the warriors, or even any men, and the drudgery of the kitchens, despite the constant barrage of strange smells and sounds, was becoming dull.
However, as soon as they were outside in the bright morning air Brasfain caught Jake's arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.
"Come on, we'll go through the town; then we'll be able to see the eastfoldings."
"Eastfoldings?"
"Yes; apparently there from across the Snowbourn river and they're a right ragged bunch. That Selfir I was talking to, you know the one, apprentice baker, well he was saying they're almost all men, but there are a few boys, and they'll be bunking in with us."
"Really? But there's no space!" Jake tried to picture the room any more crowded; it was already quite stuffy, though fresher than most, due to the thin roofing.
"No space! Why you could fit a dozen more up there. You should see it at festival time, I can tell you. Anyway, come on, they'll be at the market now like as not, and if were slow we'll miss them." He scampered off, and Jake followed him, not quite as ready to greet new room mates.
Down in the market the stall holders were in full shout. With all the noise around him Jake had to concentrate hard in order to understand individual cries but his eyes had no such handicap. Arrayed on the tables were comestibles, such as fruit and vegetables, bread and little spiced cakes, with the butcher's table taking centre stage, chickens hanging off the board, limp heads occasionally nudged by passers by, blood from a pig's leg being caught in a tray underneath, and sold separately. Every so often they would chance upon a crafts stall, and Brasfain fingered a leather dagger sheath inlaid with a picture of a red horse covetously before the vendor shooed him off. The lady from the night before was there with the wooden spoons and he was just about to ask what they were for when Brasfain grabbed his arm again.
"There's one see; talking to the weaponry man, in the brown jerkin, do you see?" to Jake the refugee, talking with the weaponry vendor, looked like just another one of the Rohirrim, though his standards of cleanliness seemed lower. He nodded to Brasfain, who was scrutinising the man as though he had never seen another in his life and before they could think them rude for staring pulled him away.
"Oi, get off my shirt. If I rip another one Seorwyn'll have my head."
"Well come on, where's the blacksmith?"
"There's no hurry. I was just looking."
"He's only a man what's so special to look at?"
"He doesn't look like an eastfolding, that's all."
"Well maybe he isn't then!" Jake had felt the lash of Seorwyn's tongue that morning for not being back in time to serve the evening meal, and was not over keen to do so again. "Come on, or we'll be gone too long."
"You eager to get back to the kitchens then? Got a lass you're sweet on up there?" Jake made a face at him, but at least he had got Brasfain attention.
"Not me, but I've noticed that assistant bake cook has her eye on you!" Brasfain's laughed; the lady in question was nearer sixty than sixteen and had what Jake's mother would call a 'fuller figure', and swiped at Jake then gave chase as the older boy started to weaved through the market stalls to escape.
The smithy turned out to be a partially fronted building close to the market square. A curtain separated a workroom from view but a thin boy of about Brasfain's age could be seen sweating over the anvil. Brasfain shouted to him and he looked up. There was a slightly scared look on his face, and it seemed he had been beaten recently for there were dark bruises visible on the weather beaten skin of his back. Almost as soon as he had straightened up a voice bellowed from behind the curtain.
"Get back to work boy or you'll never work again!"
"But master, there's messengers here, from up at the hall." A figure stepped from behind the screen and the boy cringed. Brasfain frowned at this, as though puzzled but to Jake the boy's fright was obvious. The blacksmith was not large in body anywhere except for his arms, which were heavily muscled. Despite this sign of obvious frequent labour he was fully dressed unlike his apprentice, and his clothes bore the many small details of wealth that Jake had learnt to recognise since he arrived, though never had he seen them so numerous on one individual. His clothes looked quite new and there was an intricate, though brash, buckle on his belt, and a brooch in the same style was at his neck. It seemed flamboyant beside the plain clothes he had seen on the men of the market square, and Jake wondered how a blacksmith came to be so wealthy.
"What do you want?" Jake was called swiftly out of his reverie by a sharp slap to the side of his head. Angry, he started to answer hotly, astonished by the man's behaviour, but Brasfain cut in quickly, in an entirely different tone to his normal engaging cheekiness.
"Well, sir, we've come on an errand from Seorwyn,"
"Seorwyn? That old bag, I swear she's never satisfied. How is a man to get any rest around here with her around? Get back to work boy." This last was barked behind him to the apprentice, and Jake's anger was not diminished by his scurrying back to the anvil.
"Yes, she asked if you would be willing to provide the new refugees with the old practice swords, once you've sharpened them."
"Oh she did, did she? Well she's getting mighty soft in her old age isn't she?" He flung out an arm to clout Brasfain around the face but the other boy dodged. "I'll thank you not to mince the words as spoken, thank you very much, and mind you tell her from me that your friend here is staying here to sharpen those swords himself, for I'll not be doing it for some eastern bumbler to blunt the edge the next moment. What's he doing still here anyway; why isn't he off scouring the lands of orcs then so we can get rid of the refugees once and for all?" He turned, muttering to himself and Brasfain shot Jake an apologetic glance, shrugging his shoulders helplessly before hurrying off.
Gloomily Jake watched him go. He may have been curious about the smithy, but had not thought to stay there so long. Nevertheless, there was nothing else for it and he followed the man into the back of the workshop, where he pointed to a large barrel, filled with old swords, some rusted, some just blunt, and several with only half a blade.
"Now these swords are sharpened on that whetstone, right? And if you do it wrong I'll tan your hide, so I will." He flung himself down onto a bench, taking a swig from a dirty goblet of toughened leather that stood on the table beside him. He was carving something with a short knife, and even from a couple of metres away Jake could see it was notched and twisted slightly. Seeing him looking the man snarled and waved the knife. "You see this boy? Well you'll feel it as well if you don't get to work!"
Hurriedly Jake picked up the first sword and began to run it along the side of the large stone. There was a grating sound but after a few strokes he tested the edge by gently running his thumb across it, and he seemed to be doing it right. He became quite absorbed in the work, for though tiring it was methodical and there was the rhythmic clash of hammer on anvil in the background. He enjoyed seeing all the different ways in which the hilts had been carved; many with horses' heads, though far clumsier than any the warriors he had seen before had had. He remembered Seorwyn asking for the practice swords, and assumed these had been done quickly, probably by apprentices in happier times than now, as their own practice. They were surprisingly heavy, different from the fencing foils one of his friends back home had used, and substantially thicker, though even these varied in length and width.
After what was probably hours he noticed the absence of the hammer's clashing note and turned his head to see another man talking with the blacksmith, and the apprentice sent away. They were talking quietly but when the man looked up Jake recognised the refugee from the market. The blacksmith was now in possession of a new knife, a better knife; the knife, in fact, that Brasfain had picked up so recently. The refugee must have bought the leather gourd on the table with him too, and they were both drinking from it. Jake guessed it contained some kind of liquor or mead as they called it here. Suddenly he was startled to see that the refugee was staring at him, eyes and expression murderous.
"Oi! Who's that then?"
"Boy from the hall. He'll not talk."
"From the hall? Are you crazy? He'll go straight to her, he will." The refugee glared at the other man but the blacksmith waved his objection aside.
"He's an idiot. Doesn't hear proper or speak proper, and he's not with the army, so he must be a dullard. Look at the lout now, staring at us. Doesn't understand a word I tell you. He hasn't heard anything I've said these past three hours he's been here, just stares at all those old god-awful swords like they were toys given him by his ma. I tell you he'll not talk. Get back to work you!"
Three hours; no wonder he was hungry! It must be almost noon now. Curious to know what a refugee wanted secret, and not wishing to attract any more clouts around the head he turned back to the stone and picked up the next sword.
"Anyway, as I said, we've got the Distraction on our side now; he agreed last night, so he'll arrange that part, and you say your men are all positioned right?"
"Yeah, we'll get there all right."
"Well, you'll get your weapons from Seorwyn herself."
"Seorwyn? The old hag up the hill? Nah- she's not with us surely?"
"No; of course not you fool- you're going to be in the extra guard, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, right then."
"And you'll need to kill the horse first, because it's a right terror; got a mouth as sharp as the little lady's."
"Then what?"
"Then what what?"
"Then how do we take out the rest of them?"
"Well our friend on the council will make sure the rest are sympathetic to us, and those that aren't, well, they can be disposed of easily enough."
"And the people?"
"Look, look Rhanas, it'll be easy; what woman do you know who'll come out and fight for their country? I mean, really, they're not heroes; they're mothers, daughters, sisters, not warriors; and they won't care one way or another, so long as the price of bread don't go up too much, and there are hardly any men left who aren't either over the hill or on our side so there's nothing to worry about."
As soon as he had sharpened the last sword Jake took care to leave as quickly as he could, in as slow and bumbling a manner as possible. He had no doubt that if the blacksmith thought him anything other than an idiot he would indeed feel the edge of the knife, and it would be on his throat. Therefore he deliberately tripped over some tools as he went and dawdled down the street. However, as soon as he turned the first corner he began running towards the hall. He had to tell Brasfain what had happened, for the conversation had brought back to his mind what he'd overheard last night.
This gang were planning to kill someone, some woman anyway, and take over the whole of Edoras! That, he was sure, would not be sanctioned by the King, and he had seemed, once he'd got a hold of a sword, the right person to rule. And Gandalf; Gandalf had been able to allow him to communicate, and Jake couldn't help thinking that it would be better if the wizard stayed alive. Not that he could help them at all, except by telling someone what he'd heard. Hurriedly he quickened his stride. He had to dodge the still substantial market crowds, and before long his hurry caused a casualty. As he picked himself up from the ground he was surprised to see that the girl he'd knocked down was Gertwyr.
"Here, I'm awfully sorry." He stretched out a hand to help her up and she took it, blushing. When she was on her feet again he noticed there were other things that needed the same treatment. Hurriedly he gathered up the groceries, mercifully wrapped in starched linen cloths, but there were a few eggs that had cracked and as he remembered the tiny room the family shared he felt dreadful. Telling Brasfain would have to be put off slightly.
"Let me carry that back for you." Blushing even more deeply she allowed him to accept the basket and they walked instep towards the gate. The conversation was as difficult as the previous evening, and he was left desperately trawling for things to say again.
"I am terribly sorry about the eggs."
"Oh, I'm sure Mistress Liesa won't mind." At response to his, desperately, enquiring face she continued, "She's the inn keep's wife, though she's not a bit like any of the women mother told me to avoid in bars." Her tone was earnest, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she gasped in mortification and shut up as firmly as a clam, an even more fiery flush spreading over her features.
When they reached the inn Jake had meant only to stay to apologise but he was quickly made to sit down and eat with the family when Gertwyr's mother explained how he 'worked with Gertwyr up at the hall." He was soon sat on one of the rough benches around a large table in the public room staring at a tureen of creamy potato soup made by Mistress Leesa, and found himself most uncomfortably the centre of attention. The inn keep wanted to know all about the running of the hall's kitchens now there were so many mouths to feed, for it seemed many of the new men were to be housed at the inn and mistress Leesa and Gertwyr's mother fired a barrage of questions at him as well, seeming to work as a team. He found them almost as disconcerting as Gerthwig, who had been glowering at him from his raised seat since he had recounted why two of the eggs were broken. Only Gertwyr had nothing to say to him, though she swiftly attempted to cover up Gerthwig's ideas for conversation starters by choosing those moments to deposit cutlery and tableware which unfortunately did not do the job- Jake did not have the dictionary definition of 'Golter yeded gawpsheet' or 'curpin' but by the tone used when saying them, and the sharp slap it earned him from his mother, he guessed they weren't overly friendly.
"It was right kind of you to walk my daughter home with you last night Jake; very nice indeed." He nodded; embarrassed by further praise of what had been a request from one of the bake cooks.
"She'll not be working up there any longer though, so I doubt you'll get the chance to bump into her again. She'll have to help us down here with all these new fellows come along."
"Though I should think the other girls there are much chattier than our little Gertwyr?" Gertwyr, currently handing around the plates produced another interminable blush and scampered off to the kitchen to fetch another spoon. The Rohirrim, it seemed did not use a fork at all; only a knife and spoon. Feeling sorry for her, Jake answered as politely as he could,
"After the noise at the hall, a little quiet is welcome mistress." He couldn't help noticing a glance pass between the mother and the inn keeper's wife at that, and wondered what he'd said wrong.
"So you're one for a family life then; not a big place like the hall?"
Family was a dangerous topic, involving too many questions, and Jake hastily tried to steer the conversation away from such choppy waters.
"Yes, though the people at the hall are quite interesting. I had never before met an elf." This was perfectly true, and, knowing elves were not common in Rohan, hopefully it would spark a new discussion.
"You met an elf did you? Well, that must have been him who came with the dwarf then," the inn keep sucked his breath in, and leaned in closer, "and that's mighty unusual and no mistake. We've certainly never had an elf or a dwarf in here, have we Leesa?"
"Aye, that we haven't, but I wouldn't say as I'd like it neither. Legends and such like have no business at an honest board and they do say as the elvish women are too beautiful for their own good. I prefer the folk we do get, and I wouldn't say as I didn't prefer our Gertwyr's looks to some high and mighty firstborn either. Isn't that right lad?"
Taken by surprise Jake had no time to choose anything but politeness, "Oh, yes, certainly."
Again, mistress Leesa exchanged looks with Gertwyr's mother, and mystified by the whole thing, and females in general, Jake returned his attention to the soup.
Thankyou to my lovely reviewers, I'm writing this on the eve of my Italian oral. Is anyone else out there doing AS levels (I know I'm not alone in the exam hall, that's for sure) or GCSEs or uni exams or just done their SATs or anything? Good luck to you all! And please cough review cough.
