"Despicable behaviour!" Lothíriel grumbled. She had been laying into her brothers all the way from the market to the tailor shop. "You are supposed to be ambassadors of our homeland, not tarnish our reputation with disgraceful rumours! Especially not in front of guests." She glanced uneasily at the Rohirrim.
Elfhelm shrugged. "Don't trouble yourself, my lady, my kinsman wasn't exactly a beacon of propriety himself, from what we've heard. Isn't that right, Éothain – wait, where is he?"
Everyone turned around, only to see the captain sprinting after them with a few beaded necklaces dangling from his pockets.
"What in Ulmo's name is this?" asked Amrothos. "Did you not say your wife would hate those?"
"Oh, she will, and they weren't cheap either," Éothain answered, "but I consider it payment for the tooth and all the bruises. They're decent people after all, it's only fair." He stuffed the necklaces back in his pockets, unaware of the astonished looks of his friends.
The door of the tailor shop was wide open and a young seamstress – a very young seamstress with bright hazel eyes, as Éowyn could not help but notice – was sitting outside on a bench, stitching away.
To absolutely no one's surprise, Erchirion was the first to approach her. "Good morning, my dear! This might be an unusual question to ask, but do you recognise us?"
She got up and curtseyed. "Of course, my lord. With respect, you haven't changed much since last night. Well, some of you have, a little." She glanced at Elphir, then at Éomer.
Erchirion smiled. "What a relief, so we are on the right track. The issue is this: it's hard to believe that anyone could forget a vision such as yourself but…"
At this point Lothíriel cleared her throat audibly, which gave the girl the chance to turn towards the door and shout, "Grandmother, they're back!"
From the workshop emerged a tiny old woman, scissors in hand, pins sticking in her apron. "Well, well, good morning to you, my lords, my ladies." She bowed her head to all of them. With a glance at Éomer's black eye she added, "I see your adventures have continued. What brings you back?"
"Their adventures, precisely," Lothíriel replied, still side-eyeing her brothers. "They do not remember last night's events and it has become a rather pressing matter to find out what exactly they got up to. Will you help us?"
The seamstress gave the men a quick once-over, then she nodded. "Of course, take a seat. I say, Rohirric ale and Haradric pipe-weed are not two things I would mix, personally. Rínil, go fetch more chairs!"
The girl went inside to drag out two wooden stools, all under Éowyn's appraising frown.
Elphir pulled the bonnet he had woken up in from his doublet. "Have you seen this before?"
The seamstress smiled. "Not only that, I made it, as well as the dress that goes with it. I gave both to the Lord Steward. By the way, I hope he is alright? He did not have a run-in with those shifty hood people, did he?"
Éowyn said quickly, "Oh yes, perfectly alright. But let's hear the whole story, if you don't mind. The Lord Steward and his friends came over from the market – and what happened next?"
THE NIGHT BEFORE
"And I thought we had strange wedding customs in the Mark, what with the fire jumping and sword giving and knot tying and all that," Éomer mused as he followed Faramir towards the shops opposite the marketplace.
"For the record, the undergarment is not a tradition I've ever heard of," the steward grumbled. "Truthfully, I only want to get this tiresome quest over with, and I figure it'll be easier to just do it than to argue with my cousins in their current state." He glanced over his shoulder, only to see both Erchirion and Amrothos propping up their hapless brother while Elfhelm and Éothain were trailing after them, clinging on to an empty ale skin each.
"So, what's the plan?" asked the king. "Remember, you cannot buy it for money – it's the rules!" He felt sorry for teasing Faramir but he reasoned that the man who was going to marry his sister might as well get used to it.
"You know, we could go the easy way – pardon the pun – and try the knocking shop," Amrothos suggested. "That fair maiden over there might not need her undergarments."
Faramir said dryly, "She looks rather busy. If you want to compete for her attention with those two… characters she's talking to, be my guest. By the way, what is it with those hoods? They seem to be everywhere tonight!"
He was right. The men chatting to the working girl were wearing black hooded cloaks, just like the youngsters they had seen at the market. An unusual fashion choice, even for the capital.
"It is a mystery indeed," Erchirion groaned while doing his best to keep Elphir on his feet. "Can we find him somewhere to sit down and sober up for a while, before we both break our backs?"
They dragged the chuckling heir of Dol Amroth a little further down the street, praying to their respective Valar of choice that word of their predicament would not spread too far. Finally they could plop him down on a wooden bench outside what looked to be a tailor shop. Despite the late hour there was still light inside.
"Some water will do him good," Elfhelm observed. Faramir could not argue with that, so he decided to swallow his embarrassment and knock on the tailor's door.
It opened with a creak and an old woman stuck her head out warily, looking left and right and then at Faramir. "Yes? What do you w-… oh, my word!" Her face froze when she realised who was standing in front of her. "My eyesight isn't what it used to be, but I'll be damned if it isn't the Lord Steward at my door! What on earth brings you to these parts?" She noticed his sorry entourage.
"We… we are in need of assistance," he explained. "May we trouble you for a cup of water? My cousin here has had an encounter with a Haradric herbal remedy."
"Ugh, bloody pipe-weed!" she scoffed. "The smell gets everywhere. I'm telling you, I do like the beads they're selling but I cannot wait for them to leave for the sake of breathing fresh air again. Well, as fresh as it gets down here anyway. By all means, bring him inside."
Elphir was dragged into the workshop where he promptly sat down at the only table and rested his head on a pile of embroidered fabric. The small room was dimly lit by some tallow candles and crammed with half-finished garments and bales of cloth in all imaginable colours. A young woman was sitting in the corner; on seeing the visitors she dropped the piece she was working on and jumped to her feet, pulling a pair of scissors from her apron pocket.
"It's all good, they aren't here to rob us," the old woman reassured her, and to the guests she said, "This is Rínil, my granddaughter, who knows to be wary of strangers at this time of night. And I'm Tíril, at your service."
"Thank you, truly," Erchirion replied while pulling a delicate piece of needlework out from under his brother's chin, "as you can see, we are hardly in a position to attack anyone."
The girl put down her scissors. She went to pour some water for Elphir, who downed the whole cup in one gulp. It seemed to work, after the second cup he even managed to stay upright on his chair.
In the meantime Éomer and Éothain inspected the different fabrics. Even though no self-respecting Northman would ever be seen wearing such outrageous colours, they were fascinating to look at nonetheless.
"Do you see anything you like, my Lord King?" Tíril asked.
Éomer shook his head. "They are all very nice, but I'm not exactly one for purple silk. However, if I recall correctly, the Lord Steward is after a very specific piece of clothing." He smirked at Faramir, who looked ready to murder him.
"This is hardly the time and place," he started, but a second later the irony of his statement occurred to him, given where he was. Before he could bring himself to tell the women about his predicament, Amrothos took it upon himself.
"You see, Lord Faramir is on a mission. It is his last outing as an unmarried man, and as his kin from Belfalas we have asked him to honour an old custom of ours and procure a maiden's undergarment."
Tíril frowned. "Funny, that. My late husband was from Belfalas and I must have seen half a dozen family weddings, but not once did that particular custom come up. I suppose you're never too old to learn something new."
She raised an eyebrow at Faramir, who only shook his head. "Don't I know it? If only you had seen what I have seen tonight, good woman, you would understand why I'm humouring them." In the corner Rínil chuckled into her embroidery.
Suddenly there was a bang at the door that made everyone jump. Elfhelm, who was standing closest, raised his fists, and Éomer pulled a knife from his boot. To their surprise, Rínil brandished her scissors once more, marched to the window, and peeked through the curtains.
"Hood people," she simply stated and her grandmother shrugged, equally unfazed.
"Yes, what exactly is that about?" asked Erchirion. "We've been seeing them all evening."
Rínil explained, "It's the same every week. They come down here already drunk, some of them stop at the… you know," she gestured in the general direction of the house of ill repute, "and eventually they move on to the First Circle. They're mostly harmless, just a nuisance, certainly not the strangest thing that happens here."
"No the strangest by far," Tíril added. "And those up there don't seem to care. I feel like the last time I saw a guard down here was when I still had a head of black hair. You know, this used to be a place where good honest people could live in peace. By Vairë, I'd give a free supply of maiden's undergarments to anyone who could rid the lower circles of all the filth that creeps around at night." She was speaking more to herself than to Faramir but he had heard her just fine.
"My jurisdiction in the capital is limited but I will raise the matter with the king. In fact, I shall personally see to it that the posting of guards is revised before I leave the city."
Tíril seemed sceptical but she clearly appreciated the gesture. "Thank you, my lord. Whatever comes of it, things can only get better, really." She paused for a moment, then she scanned the workshop until her eyes came to rest on a large basket on the floor.
"Now let's see if I can't uphold my end of the bargain." She dug through the basket, throwing out ribbons, scraps of lace, a woollen shawl… "This might do," she finally said, pulling out a bundle of dark blue fabric held together with string. She untied it, and out came a finished dress, with a matching apron and bonnet wrapped up in it.
Tíril held it up for Faramir. "It's not an undergarment but it's the best I have on such short notice. The woman who ordered it years ago never picked it up. I think she might have died of the pox, actually… Anyway, it's only collecting dust. It might have some moth damage and the colour is completely out of style now, so I don't even think it's worth reusing the fabric. If you have any use for it, my Lord Steward, I'll gladly let you have it."
Faramir reached out but Erchirion grabbed his arm. "Wait a moment! Did the lady have the pox when she came for her fitting…?"
Faramir rolled his eyes and took the dress. "I am delighted and very grateful indeed. It will do wonderfully for my cousins' quest." He glared at them, just in case there were any objections. "But I have to insist on a payment…"
"Nonsense!" Tíril stopped him. "I'll tell this story for as long as I live, to anyone who will listen. 'The night the Lord Steward stood in my shop.' And it was the young, handsome one, too." She giggled.
Faramir hesitated for a second, then he grinned. "Perhaps the story needs a punchline. May I?" He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you very much for your help."
On the other side of the room Rínil gasped and her face turned almost as red as her grandmother's. Elphir started chuckling again, and Éothain thought it a great idea to whistle.
"And that's it, you took the dress and left," Tíril concluded, once again blushing a little.
Éowyn suddenly seemed much more affable than before. "Splendid! Thank you for enlightening us. Good to know that someone at least got a good story out of this folly. Do you have any recollection of where they went afterwards?" The seamstress thought hard for a moment but couldn't recall.
"I do!" Rínil chimed in. "I'm not sure my grandmother was paying much attention anymore by that point…" Said grandmother gave her a half-serious scowl.
Rínil turned to Éothain. "You challenged the Lord Steward to find out what the hood people were up to. You said because he used to be a ranger and all that, he should be able to scout them out. I didn't see where you went, but from what I've heard, they usually meet at the Ugly Mug."
"The what?" Éothain blurted.
"It's a tavern on the First Circle," Erchirion explained. "Not the sort of place one would visit in polite company. Or unarmed, for that matter." The others exchanged uneasy glances.
"Well, let's do what has to be done!" resolved the Lord of the Mark and signalled the others to leave.
Lothíriel stopped them. "Not so fast! We are not taking this good woman's merchandise for free." She slipped a few coins in Tíril's hand. "No, I insist! After last night the House of Imrahil may be called many things, but miserly will not be one of them." She said the last part with a glare at her brothers. "I shall also recommend your services to my mother. She mentioned wanting the curtains in her bedchamber replaced."
With that the company took their leave and moved on towards the First Circle.
