A few days after the dance, Galadwen's small party arrived at Sarn Esgar, a day's ride from Carandol's estate. The landlady at the Golden Eagle knew Lady Galadwen well, and organised a small room and a private parlour for her, and space in the bunkhouse behind the inn for her retinue. Galadwen made a point of going down to the main room to eat with her group of retainers. The man who had been lead cattle drover was a tenant farmer called Amlach (who had been delighted at the chance to earn some hard silver to pay for food through the winter) together with his teenage son Beleg. They had handled most of the work with the animals. One of her father's pikesmen, Othrondir, had come along to deal with any bandits they might encounter along the way, and the party had been rounded off by the presence of the elderly Malbeth, who was in charge of the draft animals which had carried their food on the way to Rohan (and now, augmented by a number of pack-horses bought cheaply on the basis that they were not good enough to count as riding horses, carried a number of neatly-bailed fleeces to be spun into yarn).
"Good stew, mum," said Beleg. He meant well, Galadwen thought, as once more she smiled at the fact that he didn't seem capable of stringing ma'am out to two syllables, and always referred to her as "mum" instead, which made her feel quite matronly.
She had first encountered Amlach and Beleg when, having freed the mysterious rider of Rohan caught poaching, her curiosity had been piqued by the poacher's throwaway comment about "It wasn't for me anyway. If your father didn't keep his peasants on the brink of starvation, there'd have been no need for any poaching."
Wondering what he had meant, she had started to ride out on an almost daily basis, accompanied by Othrondir, in order to find out more about the running of the estate. What she had discovered had shocked her; while her father planned dinners of swans to impress the neighbouring nobility, his peasantry were indeed starving. This was the most immediate problem. But there were others. The estate was being shockingly mismanaged. Quite aside from the shockingly small amounts the peasants received, the amount of time the peasants were contracted to work on the estate fields rather than their own small-holdings was out of all proportion to the amount of money the estate made. She had her suspicions that her father's factor, Celepharn, might have had something to do with this, but she was yet to gain access to the large bound volumes of accounts to confirm this suspicion.
However, not everything about her inspection of the estate had been disastrous. Since her early teens she had taken particular pride in her skill with a loom, and for about the last three years she had been experimenting with various techniques involving methods to lift the warp threads in patterns governed by wooden strips with notches cut in them, in order to produce patterned brocades. She had also developed a clever mechanism to "throw" the shuttle from side to side with the aid of a simple lever system operated with one's foot, which greatly speeded the rate at which cloth could be woven. Her tour of the local farmsteads and small-holdings had revealed that a fair number of the local women were skilled with ordinary hand-looms, so she had taken to bringing them up to the manor to learn how to use her looms. She had also taken one loom into Sarn Esgar, along with two necklaces, a tiara, several gold goblets and a silver platter. The valuables she had left with a local banker as collateral for a loan; the resulting silver she had taken to a carpenter with instructions to make as many copies of the original loom as possible before the money ran out. She had also taken the precaution of telling him that she had sent copies of the plans to be lodged with the magistrates' office in Minas Tirith, establishing herself as inventor of the mechanism. She was quite happy to licence the design for a modest and reasonable fee, plus a suitable percentage of the proceeds from any sales of the resulting cloth, but he was not to make additional copies without her say so.
The plan had been to install the looms in the houses of the women she had trained, and pay them a salary for weaving fabric. The plan would still happen. But unfortunately she hadn't yet put it into effect, because of what she thought of as the catastrophe.
"Wool gathering, my lady?" Othrondir's voice interrupted her reverie.
"Well yes," she said with a smile. "In fact, day dreaming about the wool we've bought and how best to spin and weave it to turn the maximum profit."
"You are a rum one, miss," said Malbeth. (His age gave him a certain latitude in how he addressed his betters, as Othrondir was wont to remind him Lady Galadwen was.) "All this talk of trade and profit and weaving engines. You should have been your father's son."
Galadwen's smile tightened and took on a fixed quality, and the amusement fled from her eyes. "Well, sadly, my father's son is no more, along with so many good men on that retreat from Osgiliath. So I am the best my father has."
Chastened, Malbeth took a swig of his beer and changed the subject.
Galadwen stayed to chat while the candle on the table burned down to about half its length, then made her excuses and bade them goodnight. The thought of the warm, peaceful parlour and her welcoming bed called to her. The landlady had just brought her a pot of camomile tea when she heard a knock at the door.
She went to the door and opened it, and her heart sank into her boots. There in front of her stood a tall, handsome man in early middle age. Or at least, he would have been handsome had she not known him, and his character flaws, these many years since.
"Lord Beldir." For once she was lost for words. She knew she should say "how nice to see you," but her lips would not form the words. Instead she settled on "Good evening."
Beldir raised her hand to his lips. "The pleasure is mine." Galadwen couldn't help but notice he had offered the formulaic response to an equally formulaic greeting she had not extended to him. She stood motionless in the doorway, and he gave a slight frown.
"Perhaps I could come in?"
"I have no chaperone, my lord," Galadwen said hastily, and wondered if he picked up on the slight quiver of fear in her response.
"I am your third cousin," Beldir said. "I am sure no-one would be at all shocked. And," he gave a smile that made Galadwen's stomach knot, "I can assure you that any attentions I have towards you are entirely honourable."
"Nonetheless," said Galadwen, "I am sure an honourable gentleman would have no problem understanding a woman's desire to entertain him in a more public place. There is a small side room off the main bar downstairs – I'm sure the room is sufficiently detached that we can have a private conversation there, while the landlady will be able to see through the entrance and effectively chaperone us."
Addressed so directly, Beldir had to give way, and he reluctantly gestured for her to lead the way back downstairs. Once they were settled in the small snug, Galadwen having taken the rather uncomfortable wooden chair rather than joining Beldir on the cushioned settle, the man wasted no time getting to the point.
"I am surprised not to see your father with you. When I went to call at Lord Carandol's manor and was told that he was not at home, I assumed he must have been the driving force behind this rather rash and ill-considered trip to Rohan."
Galadwen's response was tart. "My father was at home when I departed to represent his commercial interests; there is nothing 'rash' or 'ill-considered' about engaging in trade, establishing that there is a market for Anorien beef in Edoras, and gaining a contract for my craftswomen's fine weaving."
"I think I will be the judge of that, seeing as the estate is entailed on me, following the unfortunate demise of your brother. Those are my cattle and my looms and craftswomen, or at least will be in the future, so of course I have an interest in your hare-brained schemes."
Galadwen stood, making no effort to disguise her fury. "You are getting ahead of yourself in a most presumptuous and impertinent manner, sir. I think this conversation is at an end."
"On the contrary, madam, it is only just beginning." Beldir's face showed a rare flash of anger, then he schooled it instantly into the smooth, urbane expression he customarily wore. "The reason I was so disappointed not to find your father at home – where do you think he might have gone, do you suppose? - was that I intended to ask him for your hand in marriage. A very generous offer, I feell. Given that the estate is entailed on me, I personally stand to gain nothing from this offer – other, of course, from your delightful company. But since the entail is in no way your fault, I feel duty bound to ask for your hand."
"And I feel equally bound to refuse your offer." Galadwen's hand itched to slap Beldir's smooth-shaven, handsome, Numenorean face.
"Ah," said Beldir, his grey eyes glittering dangerously in the firelight. "But here's the thing: we are not in Minas Tirith, you know. The laws of Anorien are such that the only permission needed is your father's, not yours."
He too stood, and donned his cape and riding gloves. His tone of voice was low and level, and only the tightness of the muscles in his cheeks gave away his malice. "I am sure your father will not be gone for long. I shall call upon him in a week or so's time. After all, I gather from something your drover let slip that you have 'invested', or rather, profligately wasted, the profits from this trip on purchasing wool to weave panels of tapestry which you haven't a hope in Angband of completing in the necessary time. And, if I might remind you, your father owes me quite a considerable amount of money for the loan I advanced enabling him to rebuild his herds after the foot and mouth outbreak three years ago. So, you have no money to pay me back thanks to your spendthrift ways, you have depleted his herds, and he has no money. I do not think he, or you, will be able to negotiate from a position of strength."
He paused for a moment, seemingly savouring the look of horror on her face. "I shall give you a bit of time – though not too much time – to consider your position. I'm sure you will come to see things from my perspective." He sketched a rather ironic bow, then strode out into the night.