The wagons left Rivendell early one cool autumn morning. They were massive things, pulled by four horses apiece and led rather than driven. Three were loaded with cloth, thick and soft and beautifully dyed, and the fourth with boxes of preserved fruit and bottled cordials, bedrolls and other baggage. There were two Elves to each cart, armed with bow and knife, and Gilraen and Nuneth and the three children.
The whole company was dressed as country folk but Estel didn't quite see the point. "Anybody can see you're Elves after all." he told Glewellin, the chief carter, who smiled.
"That they will not. It is easy to fool the eyes of simple Men."
They went slowly, because of the carts, crossing the fords of Bruinen at noontide and following the Great Road southwest through the dense wood known as the Trollshaws. By nightfall they reached a place where the road curved very near the river and there was an Elven resting place. This was a sheltered dell overlooking low falls with a stone lined fire bed in the center of a bowl of smooth green turf, ringed by bowers woven out of living trees for sleeping in.
The children were almost overwhelmed by the excitement of being outside the Valley and a little intimidated by the open fells and dark woods. They clung close to their mother and the carts during the first day's travel. But on the second day, as the road turned westerly threading its way through forested hills, they became more venturesome. The three of them were playing tag in and around the trees alongside the road when Meleth's giggles suddenly stopped in a gulp. Estel and Amin rushed to her rescue and found her staring wide eyed up at a Ranger; tall, dark and grimfaced in his green leathers.
He looked expressionlessly at all three then inclined his head slightly to Estel. "Dunadan."
"Mother's with us." he said, rather defiantly, in response to the Ranger's unspoken disapproval. "And Nuneth, and Elves too!"
"We're going to the fair in Hoarwelling." Meleth added.
"Are you indeed." he looked past them to see the first of the carts coming abreast of where they stood, gestured for the children to proceed him and followed them onto the road. Mother started at the sight of him then, to the children's surprise, blushed deeply.
"Gilraen," he said, "there is war beneath the Mountains and in Wilderland beyond, with Stone Trolls ranging as far west as the Lone Lands and you choose this time to take the Heir of Isildur to a fair?"
The blush faded leaving Mother a little pale and distinctly defiant. "The Angle is safe. Or should be if the Warden's Rangers are doing their duty!"
"We are and it is as safe as we can make it," he replied evenly, "but none of us, even the Warden himself, would deny there is always risk this near the Mountains."
"You know as well as I that my son will never be entirely safe anywhere." Gilraen replied quietly. "Would you make a prisoner of him, then?"
The Ranger sighed, defeated. "I am Bregolas son of Berengar, at your service Lady, and yours Dunadan."
Nuneth welcomed this new companion wholeheartedly. The Elves too showed traces of relief. Armed and willing they were but not warriors, all those had gone over the Mountains to Elrond. The children were inclined to keep their distance at first, but warmed after Bregolas carved them three wooden whistles and taught them to play simple tunes.
An hour or two after noon they turned off the Great Road onto a rutted cart track heading due south which they followed until sunset. That night they camped in a clearing beside the track. The children were put to bed on soft bales of cloth in one of the four carts formed into a circle round their fire. And Bregolas and the Elven carters kept watch in turns all night long.
As they continued southward the next day they began to pass rough homesteads with log houses and small fields hemmed in by woods, and to meet other travelers on the road. First three Men each leading a string of pack ponies loaded with bundles of cut wood. Then a homesteader in faded brown clothes with his wife riding pillion behind him on an stocky, undistinguished horse. A boy driving a small cart with an older Woman knitting placidly on the seat beside him. And another Woman and her bevy of daughters, laughing and talking as they trudged along with packs on their backs, escorted by a pair of young Men who seemed unable to get a word in edgewise.
The children stared fascinated. Hitherto the only Men they'd seen were their own kind, tall and lean, dark of hair and light of eye with chiseled features and long, elegant hands, or the Men of Rhudaur, no less tall but broader built with swarthy skins, sharp black eyes and heavy beards. The country folk of the Angle were completely different; shorter and stockier with brown hair and ruddy cheeks. They had frank, open faces and a cheerful, chatty way with them that was about as far from the habitual reserved courtesy of Elves or Dunedain as it was possible to get.
They eyed Bregolas slightly askance but seemed to see nothing unusual about the rest of the party. The Woman afoot struck up a conversation with Gilraen and the children listened in astonishment as their mother, speaking easily in a countrified accent, named herself Gilly Weaver and explained she and her Aunt Nan were taking her children to the fair as a special treat.
"Ah yes, my girls never miss it." Mrs. Cobhold answered and twinkled down at Estel. "Looking forward to your first fair, eh young man?"
"Yes, ma'am." he stammered, considerably taken aback. He'd been taught to make conversation with Princes of Elves and Dwarves, but a common farmwife was beyond his experience. Fortunately she didn't take it amiss.
"There, there, my boy." she patted him on the head with a smile at Gilraen. "A bit shy, eh?"
"A bit." Mother conceded.
"But not as shy as this pretty little miss." Mrs. Cobhold beamed at Meleth, clutching nervously at Gilraen's skirts. "What's your name then, sweeting?"
She looked frantically up at her mother for help as clearly none of her Elvish names would do at all.
"We call her Melly." Gilraen answered for her. "Say how d'do to Mrs. Cobhold, dear."
"How d' do." Meleth echoed, trying to imitate her mother's accent.
The Woman laughed kindly. "Not used to strangers are they?"
"Not at all." Gilraen said honestly.
Mrs. Cobhold turned her attention to Glewellin, walking on her other side. "You should bring your children down with you more often, Lewin. Not keep them tucked away in that northern valley of yours."
He smiled easily in return. "It's a long hard trip, Alys, and our womenfolk won't allow it. Gilly, here is an exception."
"You know each other." Mother observed.
"Alys and her girls are some of our best customers." Glewellin answered, adding to Mrs. Cobhold; "I remembered that pale green Lori has her heart set on. There's a whole bolt just for her."
One of the girls, with light brown plaits and hazel eyes, squealed delightedly. "I've been saving all year." she told him. "Five coppers and a silver piece. That'll be enough won't it?"
"More than enough." Glewellin assured her.
"I don't believe it," Estel said to him later, after the Cobholds had dropped behind. "She thought you were a Man."
"As I said, it's not hard to fool the eyes of simple folk."
"You still look like an Elf to me." said Amin doubtfully.
Glewellin smiled at him. "You are not simple, my young friend. Dunedain see clearer than other Men."
Estel looked at his mother. Even in green bodice and full blue skirts she looked more like a princess from an ancient tale, with her fine features and silver fair hair, than a farmwife. "Mrs. Cobhold wasn't seeing you as you are either was she?"
"Not exactly." Gilraen admitted. "It's a simple thing, you'll learn to do it too when you're a little older."
"If Meleth is Melly what are our names, please?" Amin wanted to know.
Mother though a moment. "Amund and Errol Weaver." she decided.
"Errol." Estel repeated. It was his first name in a language of Men, it would not be the last.