Part 1: Rising Winds

Buckland, October 21, 1432

The sky held a sickly green tinge and there was an ominous moan building in the wind. A storm was in the making and a wry grin momentarily chased the pained grimace from the old hobbit’s face. After all, ill weather had presaged every other change in his life, good or bad.

“I know you enjoy such poetic parallels, but this borders on the ridiculous,” he muttered, gazing vaguely at the whipping branches above.

The distant baying of hounds was joined by the clear call of a horn, and for an instant it seemed imperative that he rise to answer its questioning echo. Pain streaked through him, mirrored by the crackle of lightning crossing the sky, reminding him that he would do no such thing.

“Ah, my boy… I do hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t wait too long for you. This looks to be the mother of all storms, the sort that opens up the heavens every now and again…”

A drenching rain loosed over the countryside, still lush in the first half of autumn, and Saradoc moved one shivering arm to shield his face from the downpour, his mind turning to the memory of sweeter harvests from past storms…

*****

Chapter 1: A Chance of Rain

May 1374

The hounds bounded on ahead, racing to corner the fox that lurked the Green Hills near Pincup. Saradoc tightened his crouch over Mischance’s back as branches whipped by in his haste to follow. His people rarely mounted such hunts, but then, most small predators that yet inhabited these woods fled at a mere shout, or at worst after a thrown stone. This fox had turned vicious and clever, attacking several farmers and eluding all attempts at capture, and so he had been called out from Buckland with his hounds. This sleek, brown pair were the finest trackers he had ever seen, and he would bet his life upon their skill. He had in fact done so many times, following their sure noses back to the Shire in his tweenaged explorations, even from the trackless depths of the Old Forest.

But there was little thrill in this hunt, only grim determination to safeguard hobbits from the tainted animal whose scent they now pursued. Jester and Roam bayed once more somewhere nearby, even as the rumble of thunder announced the arrival of the storm the sky had threatened all through the day. Seconds later, drenching rain descended upon him, forcing him to a walk until he reached his dogs as they turned this way and that, searching for the scent stolen by the weather. Dismounting, he called to them and they obeyed, heads low and tails tucked in apology.

“It’s alright, dears,” he soothed, gesturing for them to join him in the shelter of a split oak.

The two hounds bounded in, bumping wetly against him in friendly consolation for the disappointment they shared. His pony looked longingly at them, hardly protected from the rain by the scant protection of the leafy branches above. Saradoc quickly relieved him of his saddle and spread the blanket over his back, wishing he could offer more. He returned within to sit upon the dry leaves that had accumulated in the hollowed base of the trunk, and Jester pillowed next to him. Roam nestled her soft brown head upon his lap, where they had once both comfortably fit together. They were fine and trusty companions, a perfect team he had raised from pups, and he hoped to get many fine litters from them in time as well.

But for today, their hunt was done; it had been a wet spring and he knew that the rain could continue for hours this way. Saradoc started to unpack the few provisions he carried when the sudden distressed cry of a pony shredded the rainy quiet of the wood. Leaping to his feet, he rushed into the downpour, listening intently. The sound came again, very near, and he sprinted in its direction; saddling Mischance would simply take too long. Hounds jogging at his heels, he splashed across a wide, but shallow stream that babbled down the low shoulder of a hill. The high bark of a fox and a hobbitess’s angry shout guided him into a small clearing and to witness dire happenings. His quarry, still marked by the ruddy score of a farmer’s pitchfork along one flank, had squared off with a bedraggled and mud-spattered lass brandishing a slender staff, which she swung with more force than skill. Her efforts had nonetheless kept the rabid creature at bay, but she was tiring, and the fox no longer knew natural fear. The fallen pony, screaming and kicking the air, had stumbled into a morass of watery mud and soft clay, a hidden mess fed by the Spring-swollen stream and concealed by the greening shoots and blossoms that peeked above the few inches of water.

In the few seconds of observation Saradoc allowed himself, the hounds had spotted their lost prey and leaped forward with a howl, turning the marauder’s attention from the hobbitess. He hurried close, missing for a moment the bow he had foolishly left behind, but it seemed that the momentary distraction was all that the cornered lass required, for she now seemed to pull all her fear and anger together, and the staff whipped down upon the fox’s head with a resounding crack.

“And stay down!” she screamed at it, dropping the splintered length of wood and wobbling slightly just as Saradoc reached her side.

“Steady, there, lass,” he cautioned, putting a supporting hand under her elbow as he ordered the growling hounds away from the fallen animal.

She nodded shakily, taking a deep gulping breath and putting a trembling hand to her heart. He drew her slowly away from the scene, calling Jester and Roam to follow. He doubted very much the unconscious fox would escape them now, assuming it ever woke again.

“Let’s get you out of the rain a little, Miss…” he said, steering her beneath the thick cover of two interlaced trees. He draped his light coat over her shoulders, for though it was slightly damp, it might at least keep her from further drenching.

“Esmeralda Took,” she said, introducing herself with a small curtsey. “Thank you. I am deeply in your debt.” Though she was fast recovering her composure, her hand still shook against his arm.

“Saradoc Brandybuck, at your service,” he replied. “Though it must be said I had little to do with your rescue. You wield a staff rather nicely,” he added with a slight grin as he gently chaffed her hands.

“And like as not cracked it beyond repair! I’ll hang none of my work upon it today…” she said with a nervous chuckle. “Not that that is likely to matter much any more…”

She looked over his shoulder at her struggling mount and he could see imminent tears standing in her eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do about that later, Miss,” he nodded towards the animal. “Right now there’s a more pressing duty before us.”

With a last pat on her hand, Saradoc walked briskly towards the fallen pony, discretely drawing the hunting knife he carried. He saw clearly, beneath the concealing mud, the unnatural bend in the unhappy mare’s foreleg and the rolling eyes, desperate with pain. He did his grim work quickly, with soothing words and hands, and a careful flick of the sharp blade, and she quieted into final rest. He saw to the fox in similar fashion, though with far less affection, and far more careful for his own skin; folk clawed or bit by such animals often fell deathly ill and he had no intention on being this one’s posthumous victim. For that reason, he buried the carcass as deeply as he could, save for the distinctive tail, which would serve to prove his task complete. Saradoc busied himself stacking the canvas wrapped rolls the pony had carried for her mistress beneath the trees. Politely ignoring the tears the lass was trying to hide, he left his dogs to offer their wet comfort while he set to worry free the saddle and bridle. Though much mended and presently filthy, he could easily see the quality of the leather, almost too fine for the tired old mount that had worn the tack.

“Well, Miss, I don’t believe the rain is going to let up, but there is a bit of shelter uphill a ways, if you would care to follow me,” he said, offering his hand to help her to her feet.

She looked up at him from her inspection of the befouled packages, as if considering alternatives to his proposal.

“I need to reach the Pincup Faire by day’s end, Master, though it may serve little purpose given the state of my work,” she finally replied, gesturing towards them. “But I must make a showing or face the derision of my rivals ever after.”

“It will take longer than the few hours we’ve left to reach Pincup on foot, I’m afraid.”

“I will pay you well for use of your mount,” she countered, grey-blue eyes glinting with a return of the will that had guided her to stand against the fox rather than flee.

Saradoc strongly suspected that this was not someone to be lightly crossed. Fondling Roam’s soft ears, he calculated the time it would take him, unburdened, to reach the village on foot. It was feasible; uncomfortable, to be sure, but certainly possible. Not that he needed the money, or more incentive than gentle manners to give the intrepid hobbitess aid, but he would hate to miss out on whatever confrontation she expected upon her arrival. Curiosity decided him, and he returned her frank gaze with a smile.

“Mischance waits upstream, and Pincup two hours beyond him,” Saradoc said, shifting the saddle’s weight against his shoulder.

“I think I’ve found plentiful mischance hereabouts, Master Saradoc,” she muttered, picking up three of the least spattered packages. Nonetheless, she turned to him, clearly waiting to be lead onward.

Saradoc grinned. “Well, that’s the trick in a name of that sort, Miss. I’ve found he’s only unlucky for others; he takes good care of his riders, I promise.”

TBC