Chapter six: The Muster of Gondor

From After the War: The Wars of the First Century, by Beregond Falconer, F.A. 1327

The early decades of the first century were a time of transition for the soldiery of Gondor. Many different companies fought in the War of the Ring, under many different captains. The Rangers in Ithilien swore their loyalty to Faramir, their captain. The Citadel Guards remained in the Citadel, and if they went out, they did so only as bodyguards to the Steward, Gondor's ruling lord. In the city, the City Guard, sometimes known as the Watch, guarded the gates and kept order in the streets. Each gate had its own captain, and few ever left the city, because the city itself was their charge.

When warriors were needed to fight in Osgiliath or further afield, they were for the most part levies who served under their own lords. In the Thain's book, we read how Thain Peregrin watched Forlong of Lossarnach march in with all his men. Others lords came with forces of their own, and last came Imrahil of Dol Amroth, with his knights and seven hundred men-at-arms. In battle, they fought beneath their own lords' banners, and wore not the livery of Gondor, but the livery of their lords.

As Captain-General until his departure for Imladris, Boromir son of Denethor had authority over all the captains of Gondor. The captains and the lords deferred to his wishes, and followed him because he was his father's son, and because he led them well. When he rode to war, he took the men most suited for the job, whether they were warriors from his own household, or from the household of other lords; whether they were promising captains from the walls of Minas Tirith, or Rangers from Ithilien. But although they loved Boromir, the humble man-at-arms would have considered himself a follower of his own lord or his own captain. A knight from Dol Amroth was a knight of Dol Amroth whose lord fought for Gondor.

By the end of Elessar's reign, all this had changed. When the armies of Gondor rode forth, they all wore the king's own livery. In peace time, many still owed allegiance to other lords, but in war, they fought for Gondor, and considered themselves soldiers of the king. At the core, there was a standing army, permanently based in garrisons across the realm.

The change had begun even before the crowning of King Elessar. When he rode forth to the Black Gate, all who marched with him knew that they were fighting for the future of Gondor, for the future of Middle Earth itself. Whatever livery they wore, they were bound together by the same cause. This belief endured, even when peace came and they want back to their lords' lands and settled back into their old lives.

Twelve years into the Fourth Age, then, the armies of Gondor were changing, but they had not yet changed completely. It took time to muster a large fighting force. The king sent his command to his great lords, and the great lords commanded their lesser lords, and the lesser lords turned to their knights and commanded each one to raise their allotted number of men-at-arms. It took time, and Elessar did not have time, for the armies of the east were fast approaching.

When he rode out, he did so with barely five thousand men, gathered in haste. Few wore the livery of Gondor.

All night long, Haeweth had been kept awake by warlike noises. The city's main armoury was on the fifth level, and although her master's house was on the sixth, its windows overlooked the armoury below. All through the night, she'd heard the clattering of weapons and armour being loaded onto waggons. Lights had blazed in the courtyards, and silly boys had sparred with their new weapons well into the night.

It was altogether too much! She laboured from morning to night, and after a hard day's work, didn't she deserve a good night's sleep? Her attic room was hot, and she liked to sleep with the window open in the summer, but how could she do that when the soldiers insisted on clattering so?

She didn't hold with it, oh no, not one little bit. Couldn't they keep their clanking to daylight hours? It reminded her too much of the siege. Not that she'd been in the city during that horrible business, because she'd gone with her mistress and her babes to Lossarnach, but she'd seen the levies coming through, and had often woken up in terror, convinced she could hear hordes of murdering orcs coming to kill them all in their beds.

Selfish, that's what it was, to make such loud noises and worry an honest woman so! Not that she disapproved of the war itself, of course, not she! Those savage Easterlings had tried to murder their king! She couldn't stand for such behaviour. She'd seen him once, standing as close to him as she stood now to yonder garden gate. He'd looked right at her. Of course, the silly old biddy standing next to her swore blind that he'd been looking at her, but what did she know?

A trumpet sounded, and some rash young fool was riding a horse somewhere, its hooves clattering on stone. A trumpet so early in the morning! What were they thinking? It was the only hour she had to herself, before her duties started. Down the servants' stair she usually went, along the street, and into the small public garden that the king's elf friends had planted for them all to enjoy, yes, even servants like her! It was normally quiet, nothing but the sound of bird song and the babble of the fountain.

It was quiet today, too. She passed through the gates, and was immediately embraced by the scent of morning flowers. She could still hear the horse's hooves, but the clanking from the armoury faded almost to nothing. She drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of roses.

Perhaps she shouldn't begrudge them their clanking, she decided. She was glad that the king was going to war. For a few days, she'd worried that he wasn't going to do anything about the attempt on his life, and that just wouldn't do! But he was riding out, and he'd defeat his enemies, and then he'd come riding back. It would all be over by the end of the summer, and that was good. That was very good.

She would sit by the fountain for a while, she decided, and then head back, ready to don her apron and start cleaning. She meandered through the footpaths, sometimes reaching out to let the leaves trail across her chapped old hands.

Then she reached the fountain, stopped quite suddenly for a moment, and then she started screaming.

Éomer chuckled to himself at the foolish vanity of the horse lords of the Riddermark. "Do they think we know nothing of horses?" he had overheard a stable hand mutter to his fellow. "You mark my words: before this morning's out, every single one of them, every single one, will come and take their horses out for a ride, to make sure they're ready when they depart this afternoon. As if we couldn't do that perfectly well ourselves!"

Éomer had not been supposed to hear that, of course. Fortunately, the two riders of his escort had missed it, because they would have seen it as an insult, an attack on their king's honour. Suppressing a smile, Éomer had busied himself with readying Beortrod, and then had sprung into the saddle, and ridden out into the cool of the morning.

Beortrod was ready, of course, eager and swift. Éomer circled the sixth level as far as he could, then turned and headed back. He almost returned to the stables then, but it was good to be in the saddle, feeling the wind in his hair. There were gardens nearby, and the breeze brought him the soft scent of outdoors. He passed an open garden gate, and rode as far as the spur of the mountain. He wheeled round quickly. Showing off, he thought, and why not?

The screaming started as he passed the open garden gate.

His escort checked their horses, swords in hand. Éomer was faster. Reining up, he was out of the saddle even before Beortrod had come to a halt. The old woman in the garden gate was no threat, surely. "Peace," he urged her, as she screamed and wailed. He kept his distance, though, just in case, hating the fact that the times he had lived through had taught him such caution. "Peace!" he commanded.

"Dead!" the woman wailed. "There's a dead man in there, bleeding in the fountain!"

Éomer heard the sound of voices coming up behind him: citizens of Minas Tirith drawn by the screaming. From the other direction, a pair of guards were running towards him from the gate. Panic in the street was a dangerous enemy, Aragorn had warned him. Everywhere they spoke of war and vengeance. Secrets had spread that should never have been told.

"Hush," he urged, and he approached her. Ignoring the protests of his escort, he grasped her by the upper arms. "Hush," he said, and, "show me what has scared you."

She would not come, so he entrusted her to the care of one of his riders, and commanded him to keep the growing crowd from entering. The other rider came with him, and the two of them entered the garden together. They walked slowly, cautiously, alert for enemies in the cover of the greenery, but all was silent.

The dead man wore the uniform of the city guard. He lay on the lip of the fountain, half in the water, and half out. He lay face down, and the water of the pool was stained dark pink with his blood. Éomer touched him gently, but he was clearly dead, his face submerged and his pale dead hand floating on the surface of the water. His other hand was outstretched on the stone surround of the pool, and something gleamed beneath it.

It was not a knife, although that was his first thought. Éomer gently moved that hand to one side, to see what it was that the dead man had been holding as he died.

It was a gold bead, covered all over with intricate carvings.

He was not supposed to be here. That was the opinion of his seneschal, at least. The king of Gondor, it seemed, should not concern himself with a murder. A murder in the Citadel might just be deemed worthy of his attention, but a murder below those airy heights…? It was a distraction. He was riding out to war, and he had papers to sign and orders to give, and what would people think? "You have guards for this, my lord," his seneschal had protested.

"And one of those guards has paid for his service with his life," Aragorn had told him sternly.

The dead guardsman had been left in the fountain where he had been found. Aragorn crouched beside the body, and touched the man's throat and his brow and his hand. There was an ugly wound on his head, and he had suffered two knife thrusts, one in the back and one over the heart, but…

Frowning, Aragorn stood up, and headed along the narrow grassy footpath that meandered through the shrubs. "He was not killed here," he murmured, but he was already shaking his head. "No, he died here, but he was attacked somewhere else. Did the head injury come first, or the knife wound on his back? Either way, he was unconscious and bleeding, and they carried him here." He pointed to the smears of blood on the leaves. Earlier, there might have been footprints visible in the dew, but they had melted away with the sun. "There is less blood than I would have expected. Perhaps they tried to wad the wound with a cloak…"

"Or he bled into the clothes of the man carrying him," said Faramir, his face grim and pale in the morning sunshine.

Aragorn nodded. "And he got his death wound here," Aragorn said, "and his life's blood flowed out into the fountain. But why? They came this far unseen, yet they made no attempt to hide the body. This garden is well used during the day."

"They killed in stealth," Faramir said, "but they wanted their victim found."

Éomer looked sickened. His people were no strangers to death in battle, but death in the shadows would forever be alien to them. But Aragorn and Faramir were Rangers, accustomed to hiding. They had resorted to stealth out of necessity and to protect those who needed protecting, but when the need had been dire, they had both killed quietly, and at night.

"Who was he?" Aragorn turned to Captain Celagon, suddenly ashamed that he had not asked this question first. The other questions mattered, but this was a murdered man, somebody's brother or husband or son.

"His name was Hastor, my lord," said Celagon. "He was stationed at the sixth gate, under Captain Othoner. He was a good soldier, serious and conscientious. He was on the midnight watch, along with another, but nothing seemed amiss when the two lads of the next watch came to relieve them. He said he wanted to stretch his legs for a few minutes before heading back to the guard house. It was a noisy night last night, because of the mustering, my lord. Lots of comings and goings, and normal routine all thrown out. The lads would have missed him, else."

Faramir drew close to Aragorn. Unthinkingly, he plucked a blood-stained leaf, then seemed to notice what he had done, and let it fall. "It might not be anything to do with…" He let it trail. "He was a young man, and a handsome one. It could be a crime of passion: a tavern argument or a rivalry over a girl."

"Begging your pardon, my lord, but he wasn't one for that sort of thing," Celagon said. "He was quiet, not one for drinking. He had no sweetheart and spent his time in the practice yard or with his books."

"Thank you, Captain." Aragorn took a step back from the fountain. "Your men can remove him now. Send Othoner to report to us later."

Outside the garden there was silence. The guards were keeping the people away, but he imagined that many of them were watching from their windows. They would see Aragorn, Faramir and Éomer leaving together, and they would talk, and within hours the talk would spread. But talk had been inevitable. The old servant lady had taken care of that with her screams.

"The bead," Éomer said quietly, as they paused for a moment by the garden gate. "Does it belong to our friends in the east?"

"Yes." Aragorn nodded. "They wear them in their hair." He clutched it tighter in his fist, feeling the intricate carvings against his palm. "A bead this fine would only be worn by a renowned warrior. It is a badge of his status. He would not willingly part with it in life."

"Yet I see no dead Easterling," said Éomer.

Aragorn shook his head. "No," he agreed.

"I feel quite useless," Pippin confessed, in the pleasant sitting room that he and Merry shared. "What can we do? Go with them?" Nobody had asked them to. He was a knight of Gondor, but he was no fool, or so he hoped. He and Merry had won the Battle of Bywater, but there was little they could do to turn the tide of a battle between men.

"Perhaps," Merry said, "there is something…"

There was a knock at the door, and once again, they stopped their talking and turned to greet their visitors. The undaunted cheerfulness of hobbits was like a balm to a troubled mind. Who had said that? Gandalf, perhaps, or Aragorn? He couldn't remember, but he remembered the words. Perhaps this, if nothing else, would be their role in this. Faramir and Éowyn were also staying behind, although he doubted that either of them wanted to.

Legolas and Gimli entered, followed by servants carrying steaming plates. "Second breakfast," Gimli declared. "Aragorn ordered it for you himself, but he has been detained, and Éomer with him."

Pippin clapped his hands together in delight that was not entirely feigned. "See?" he said to Merry. "I told you he'd teach them about second breakfast in the end."

They settled down to eat it, spreading it out upon the floor, as they had eaten so many scant meals during the journey of the Fellowship. It was good fare: bacon and sausages and eggs cooked just so, not enough to dry out, but not so little that their whites stayed horrible and runny. They spoke little as they ate, and when they did so, they spoke about memories. "Do you remember…?" and, "This reminds me of…"

It felt too much like a farewell.

"When do you ride?" Pippin asked, when the last of the breakfast had been finished, and there was nothing left to mop up with the final scraps of bread.

"Aragorn rides out this evening," Legolas said. "The army is mustering on the far side of Osgiliath, across the Anduin. Most will be arriving today, some of them coming by river. I intend to ride out this afternoon, to bring a small force of my kinsfolk from Ithilien to meet Aragorn's host on the road."

"There are no dwarves close enough to heed my call," said Gimli, "so I ride with Aragorn alone, along with Éomer and his thirty men. We will join the muster tonight, ready to depart at dawn tomorrow."

"So there will be no ceremonial leaving," Merry said, "if the army's gathering across the river."

"That is how he wishes it," said Legolas.

"But the men of Gondor are well aware of the departure," Gimli said. "It is hard for them to forgive these Easterlings for the attempt on Aragorn's life. They are glad that he is taking arms against them."

"Which is stupid," Pippin said hotly, "because by sending him to war, they might be sending him to his death."

"They are not sending him to war, Pippin," said Gimli, "for he has chosen this course himself," but Pippin turned away from him, blinking fiercely. It seemed that everybody knew more about this business than he and Merry did.

The hours raced on apace. The sun rose to its highest point, and began to sink down towards the western horizon. He had no time, and soon, always too soon, there came the time to say farewell to Arwen.

There was no time for a long leavetaking. They could not retire to a private chamber to hold each other and speak long words of farewell. After so many years apart, they never tired of each other, and never ran out of things to say. But for the most important things, they needed few words.

"It is right," Arwen said, when the messenger for Dol Amroth had left.

Other messengers stood waiting, alongside lords and officials wanting their final commands. Aragorn raised his hand, ordering them to wait, and led Arwen away from them, into the courtyard. From there, they walked into the Queen's Garden, where every plant had been chosen by Arwen herself. They had first met beneath the trees, and they had plighted their troth on Cerin Amroth. It was only right to say their farewell here, surrounded by the scent of flowers.

"It is right," Arwen said again, "this course that you have chosen."

"Yes," Aragorn said, then gave a wry smile. "Or so I hope."

The trees cast long shadows, and some of the flowers were already beginning to close their petals for the night. But where the sun still shone, the light was glorious, and bees still flocked around the open flowers. Birds swooped low from the branches, surrounding them with liquid song. They were never afraid of Arwen, and when he was with her, hand in hand, they had no fear of him.

"If I have chosen wrongly…" Aragorn said. "If I have misjudged this, then…"

"The kingdom will not fall," Arwen said.

"No," Aragorn agreed, "but it will be weakened. Many will die, and it may be that this hope of ours, this dream of a golden age, will come to nothing. In time, the Reunified Kingdom will seem no more than a petty princedom that flourished for a while, and then faded away."

"It will not," Arwen assured him. A butterfly rested briefly on her sleeve. Smiling, she watched it as it flew away, but then turned grave again. "You will return safely," she said, turning so that she was in his arms, her face just inches from his own. "Ere too many weeks have passed, you will return."

A lord of Gondor, more forward than the others, appeared at the entrance to the garden. Aragorn waved him away.

Let them have this moment together. It was only a few snatched minutes, but let them have it alone.

For a moment, Pippin thought he was seeing Strider the Ranger again, preparing to head out into the wilds. "It's the grey cloak," he murmured. "He's wearing his old grey cloak again." But even as he said it, he knew that this was not the only reason why he had been reminded so strongly of the past.

It's because I'm not a knight of Gondor, watching my king ride away to war. I'm Peregrin Took, watching my friend Strider heading off into all manner of dangers, and there's nothing I can do.

There was no fancy escort, and no kingly panoply. Éomer was already down at the stable, and Pippin and Merry had already said farewell to him. Legolas had departed in the afternoon. Gimli came hurrying out, catching Aragorn up, and they exchanged a few words, and laughed. Pippin couldn't hear what they were saying, though. He couldn't think why they would be laughing at a time like this. It was the hobbit way, to say light-hearted things at serious moments, but Pippin couldn't think of anything light-hearted to say.

He found himself hurrying forward. "I want to go with you," he said. "You've got so few. Legolas told us earlier. Only five thousand! Oh, it seems a lot to us hobbits, because an army of five thousand would squash us completely, but you had more than that when you rode out to the Black Gate, and I know you were worried you didn't have enough. I want…"

His words ran out. The courtyard seemed dreadfully silent. As always, the Citadel guards surrounded the white tree, and they were utterly impassive. And Pippin was one of them, although Aragorn had never made him take up his duties, and here he was, babbling away! Merry hadn't even come forward to join him. He must… But, no, here was Merry now, striding up stoutly behind him. Good old Merry, always backing him up, no matter how silly he was being.

"No more could be gathered in haste," Aragorn said, "and above all, haste is needed." He went down on one knee, and placed one hand on Pippin's shoulder and the other on Merry's. "I have enough for my needs, I hope. Don't worry about that." And he even sounded like Strider again, and that just made it worse.

"We probably can't do anything useful," Pippin said. "I know that. We'd just be two out of five thousand, and the two smallest, at that. But…"

"You are still my guests," Aragorn said. "It's quite shocking behaviour for a host to up and leave, I know that, but Arwen is still here, and Faramir acts in my stead. We would not ask our guests to fight, but I am leaving Faramir with something of a poisoned chalice, I fear. It may be that those left behind will have battles of their own to fight: battles of a different kind."

"And can we help with those battles?" Pippin asked. "Can we?"

"It may be," Strider said gently, and he pulled them into an embrace, first Merry with one arm, and then Pippin with the other.

And then he stood up, and then he walked away, his grey cloak fading into the twilight until he wasn't there at all.

For a very long time, nobody spoke. Daylight faded. Far below them, the cluster of horsemen passed out of sight, swallowed up by the approaching dark.

"So that's that, then," said Merry. "They've gone."

Éowyn knew that she should speak some words of comfort to the hobbits. Instead, she reached for Faramir's hand, and held it tight. Throughout her life, she had stood in halls and palaces, and watched men ride away. If anything, Aragorn had seemed more sensitive to her feelings than Éomer had been. The king had found a moment for a quiet word, and had told her that Faramir would need her in the weeks to come. This, this, was what she needed to hear. Éomer had just embraced her and jumped into the saddle, a joyous warrior riding proudly to war, leaving his womenfolk behind.

"Come on, Pippin," Merry said, at last. "I'm sure that supper's waiting."

He saw much, did Sir Holdwine. Éowyn smiled at him, as the wind blew the hair across her face. As she pushed it back with her spare hand, the hobbits left the battlements. Merry led the way. Pippin walked more slowly, and often looked back.

Éowyn wondered where the queen was. Watching from some high tower, perhaps. Or maybe she needed no window to watch over the king. She was an elf, the daughter of Elrond, and although she and Éowyn had become friends, there were differences between them that Éowyn could never forget.

"Faramir," Éowyn said, when the distant door had opened, and the hobbits had vanished inside. "Would you have me return to Emyn Arnen?"

Faramir stiffened. "Do you want to?"

"No!" It came out fiercely, and thickened with unshed tears. "Not while you're here, wrestling with all this. But it's our home, and I am with child. Certain ladies have been telling me…"

She broke off, finally seeing the yearning misery on Faramir's face. Faramir wanted to be riding out with his king. He stayed because of duty. When the king was away, the Steward ruled, and Faramir accepted the need for that, no matter what his heart said. Although Faramir was a gifted captain and a skilled warrior, he disliked war. Of the two of them, it was Éowyn, not Faramir, who had spent her younger days yearning for battle. There had been reasons for her longing, of course, and some of those reasons had passed, but…

No, she thought. Enough of her own fears. Faramir will have need of you, the king had said. Faramir disliked war, but when war came to Gondor, he wanted to be part of it. He wanted to ride out with his king, the captain of his heart. And yet he could not.

"I am here," she said. "I am here with you."

"Stay," Faramir said, his voice thick. "Don't go to Emyn Arnen until…" He pulled her close.

"Stay," he said, and she said, "I will."

He had no lord, and the captain he had served under for the last two years was dead, killed by raiders from the east. Faramir was the captain who still held his deepest loyalty, but Faramir was Steward of Gondor, and was not going to war.

"I want to go with them," Mablung had said to the healers who were tending him in Osgiliath. They had shaken their heads and tutted, saying things about his wounds still needing a few days yet, and here, have a drink, and what about a nice strengthening bite to eat?

"I want to go with them," he had said to the door warden of the healing halls. That was after he had risen from his bed and dressed himself without the healers' leave. He had paused in the doorway, though, his legs protesting the sudden burst of movement.

"I don't," the door warden had said gruffly. He was an old soldier, heavily scarred. "I got this at the Black Gate," he had said, pointing to the worst scar, which twisted his mouth upwards into his cheek. "It's a quiet life for me now. I've earned it. From what I hear, you have, too."

"I want to go with you," he said now, but he had no lord and he had no captain. Everyone served under someone else; that was the way of things. The lords had their levies of knights, and the knights brought spearmen from their households and foot soldiers from their fields. Three companies of volunteers came from the city itself - citizens burning with righteous fury - but even they had been assigned to captains.

"I was a Ranger of Ithilien," he said, but Ithilien was at peace now, no longer a frontier between Gondor and Mordor. "I was there!" he shouted, and then he almost wept, because he knew that he wasn't recovered after all, or he wouldn't be carrying on so.

"Where?" asked a captain from Lossarnach, pausing briefly in his work.

But he couldn't say. Captain Faramir had commanded him to keep his tidings quiet. Of course, they were sending an army northwards, so the news was probably out by now, but Mablung had never disobeyed a captain's command. His captain had bound him to silence, so silent he would stay.

"I just want to go with them," he murmured quietly, as he turned away. All around him, men were bustling, busy preparing for the morning departure. Some had already settled down around their campfires for the evening, and songs rang out from every side. "I just…"

"Mablung." A voice spoke his name.

Mablung looked up, and the king was there, riding through the camp with no more ceremony than a minor lord returning from a visit to the city. Mablung fell to his knees. "My lord," he said. "Sire, please let me be assigned to a command. I need to go with you. I can be useful. I was there."

"Are you recovered from your wounds?" asked the king. "Things are not so dire that we should drag a wounded man from his sick bed, and you have well earned your rest."

"I'm fully healed, my lord," Mablung declared, but it was a lie, and the king surely knew it. Like Captain Faramir, he knew the secrets of men's hearts. "I'm not," he admitted, "but I will be soon. I can keep up!"

The king looked at him for a long while, then nodded. "March with the levies from Minas Tirith. See how you fare on the first day's march. If you are well enough after the second day, come to me. I may have a task for you."

"Thank you. Thank you, my lord," Mablung gasped, almost weeping with the force of his relief. But the king was riding on by then, and if he saw this sign of Mablung's continuing weakness, he gave no sign.

It was just days before Midsummer, and dawn came early. Aragorn woke even before the sun had cleared the mountains. Emerging from his tent, he stood with his back to the rising sun, and watched instead the daylight spreading across the towers of Osgiliath. All around him, men were stirring. "Get up, you lazy slug-a-bed!" he heard, and, "I need more water!" Cooking fires were lit, and the Riders of Rohan strode out together to tend to their horses.

He had given them two hours from dawn until the time of their leaving. Two hours to eat and to stow the tents in the waggons. Two hours to accustom themselves to the life of a soldier on the march.

In Minas Tirith, the hobbits would be beginning to stir, eager for breakfast. Eldarion would be playing with his cats, or pestering his nurse for honey cakes. Arwen was in the window, looking east; he knew that suddenly, beyond all doubt.

"So it is time," said Éomer, when the first hour had passed, and the second hour was hastening to its end.

Aragorn would ride at the front, with Éomer alongside him. The horsemen would go first, and the bulk of the army would follow on foot. There were scouts and outriders, of course, but it would be days before they needed to fear ambush or enemies. It would be a faster march than their journey to the Black Gate. In a week, perhaps, or maybe ten days…

"Yes," Aragorn said. "It is time."

He gave the command, and the trumpets sounded.

It was time.