Chapter 17. The Droll Trio

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BrogghaÂ’s Estate near Cameth Brin, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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As she always did, Malaneth was assisting Jarl Broggha in dressing that morning of October 23. Recently, he had ordered a complete new wardrobe that would reflect his rising prominence in Rhudaur. The tailor was Faron, who was said to be the best tailor in the city. One of the small boys who was apprenticed to Faron had delivered the garments only yesterday. Faron was also Broggha’s contact to the highly positioned Rhudaurian lord in the country’s government, the spy for the King of Angmar. Broggha did not know the identity of this lord, but he never questioned why this information had not been revealed to him. There were some questions better left unasked. Perhaps Broggha would be told in time if it were the will of his master, but he was not concerned about the matter.

He frowned at Malaneth as she touched the silver amulet that he wore on a chain about his neck. “Woman, I told you never to touch that!”

Averting her eyes, she quickly pulled her hand away. “My lord, my apologies, but the charm is quite lovely.”

His glance raked over her face as he slid the blue wool tunic over his head. “Since you are so fond of baubles, fetch the golden amulet from my box and drape it about my neck.”

“Aye, my lord.” She handed him the magnificent new cloak of stitched-together lynx pelts. The cloak was cream colored, speckled with large patches of umber and tan, and sported a furry ruff around the neck. She fastened the cloak at the neck with a jeweled brooch.

“I am displeased that Aewen did not attend me at my toilet this morning. Deliver the message to her that I am quite disappointed in her.”

Malaneth caught the Jarl’s gaze. “My lord, she was ill at her stomach, indisposed with the sickness that strikes in the morning,” she explained.

Scowling, Broggha said, “Go to the old midwife in the village today and purchase from her whatever elixirs might be needed to settle my ward’s distressed constitution.”

“Aye, my lord,” she replied.

Jarl Broggha reached out for Malaneth, and, clutching her in a tight grasp, he bent down and kissed her soft lips. Her arms clung to his neck.

“My lord, I will miss you today,” she sighed. “Will you be gone long?”

“That is a question I cannot answer. It all depends upon how reasonable I find King Tarnendur.”

***

As Jarl Broggha and his escort rode up the hill to the tower, the huge, red-bearded hillman reflected on the demands that he would make of King Tarnendur. Crown Prince Daurendil and his friend, Nauremir, had attempted to murder him at the feast. Broggha had considered killing young Daurendil then, but the bloody slaying of the crown prince in the capital city – no matter how good the reason – would cause too much of an uproar and perhaps earn the false sympathies of Cardolain and Arthedain. The prince would die in time, but from purely “natural” causes.

Actually, the assassination plot had worked to his advantage, costing him only a little of his own blood, and clearly putting him in the position of “wounded party.” The crown prince and his friends had been clearly wrong and, by every precept of civilized man, Broggha was totally in the right.

King Tarnendur was in a poor position to bargain with Broggha. The hillman had the undeniable support of his own army and of his clans and people. Broggha could ask almost anything he wished of the king, and the king would be hard put to deny him.

Upon arrival at the tower, grooms had led away the horses of Broggha and his men to the stables. He and his entourage walked up the flights of stairs until the fourth level of the tower. He nodded to the guards who opened the doors for him.

As he stood poised to enter, he thought to himself, “The public execution of Daurendil’s friend Nauremir and the exile of Daurendil himself to another country? Half the kingdom as wereguild? Or the hand of the maiden, Princess Tarniel, in marriage? What shall I demand of the decrepit old king?”

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Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis and Angmar
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The King looked around the Council table. Everyone was there: Daurendil, flushed and visibly nervous on his right, Gimilbeth, immobile like a wax figure on his left. And in the next chair, there sat Broggha, large, sumptuously dressed and confident.

The Hillman brigand had arrived early and with a great display of chivalry helped Gimilbeth into her chair, taking the one next to her. “It is my greatest pleasure to sit next to the fairest lady in the land,” Broggha said with a predatory smile addressed both to Gimilbeth and to the bewildered Curugil, whose place he had taken. The King saw all this but chose not to interfere. The question of precedence was a small matter in comparison with the problem of the attack on Broggha that the stupid youngsters had perpetrated, failing miserably and putting the crown in jeopardy.

Who knows what weregild, what blood money the Hillman would now demand? And what if, indeed, he would ask for more? This very morning, Gimilbeth had advised him to deliver poor young Nauremir, his sonÂ’s best friend, into BrogghaÂ’s hands to pacify the brigand! How could his own daughter be so heartless? Tarnendur was prepared to pay, to give away money, lands and titles, but he vowed not to waste Dunedain lives. “We have become so fewÂ…” Tarnendur thought grimly. “Every Dunedain life is a treasure and the lives of those of the House of Elendil even more so!”

The King rose wearily to his feet. Deadly silence hung in the room. His own voice sounded hollow and remote like that of a ghost when he opened the Council with a few customary words. He greeted the new member of the Council, Broggha, Count of Pennmorva, expressed his regrets on the matter of the unfortunate occurrences at the feast and promised to punish all the instigators of the fight, starting with the man who brought in the dogs that attacked the bear and started all the commotion.

BrogghaÂ’s face visibly darkened. He rose to his feet and waited till the King finished his lame speech and sat down. Then the Hillman started talking in a powerful, commanding voice. Tarnendur felt all the blood drain from his heart. It was much worse than he ever supposed it to beÂ…

***

Broggha’s cold blue eyes roamed over the council chamber before settling on Daurendil briefly. Perceiving the nervous tension written on the young man’s face, Broggha smiled disdainfully at Daurendil and then directed his attention to King Tarnendur. Relishing the power he knew he held over these descendants of the arrogant Númenóreans, he stood for a time as though in meditation before he spoke. Then when his great, deep voice boomed out across the hall, there was a tinge of sorrowful regret in his words.

“My lords and ladies and august members of this council, I take my place here today as a representative of my people. Realizing the great significance of this event, I had prepared a speech of conciliation, calling for unity among our peoples. However, the events that have transpired recently have made my planned words moot.” Pausing, Broggha waited for the impact of his words to sink in. He noted with satisfaction that the king’s face was slightly paler than it had been before. Daurendil appeared even more nervous than he had before, while Princess Gimilbeth had a look of resignation as though she had expected that Broggha’s speech would take this turn.

“A few nights past, I came here as a guest, fully expecting hospitality to be extended to me as would any invited guest in a civilized land. What did I find? Instead of the proffered hand of friendship, I found the dagger of the assassin!” At this point, Broggha looked directly at Daurendil, who seemed to sink into his chair.

“How can there ever be peace in a land where such enmity and perfidy exist?” Broggha’s voice rose even louder and he slammed his fist upon the table for emphasis. “Though I came here that night with only the purest motives – that of uniting our peoples for the common good – I met pure villainy! Sorely wounded by the hand of Prince Daurendil’s friend and cup companion, Nauremir, I barely escaped with my life!”

Broggha noted with satisfaction that King Tarnendur had a bleak, defeated expression upon his face. His eyes bored into the old man’s dull ones. “Your Majesty, as a man of honor and integrity, surely you cannot allow such heinous offenses to be perpetuated in the capital city of this country upon a man who wishes only peace!” Mock sorrow on his face, Broggha looked down at the table before continuing.

“Surely, Your Majesty, you would grant to me as the offended party, a man whose honor has been insulted and whose life has been threatened by your young son and his friends, a proof that my life will not be in danger from the very Crown Prince himself?”

King Tarnendur nodded his head weakly in agreement. “Aye.”

“Your Majesty,” Broggha’s tone was conciliatory, “I know you are a man of honor and integrity. Therefore, I do hereby claim – as the injured party – the right of weregild as reparation for the damages inflicted upon me. I also claim that you should offer some guarantee that my life will not be in continual jeopardy from your own court!” Broggha was satisfied that his delivery was infused with the proper amount of righteous indignation, offended dignity, and firm resolution.

“I would wish there were some other way that I could realize satisfaction, but my people have taken this as an insult not only to me, but to themselves. Should you refuse, Your Majesty, to pay this debt in good faith, I cannot guarantee that peace can be maintained!”

His face grim and somber, Broggha waited for the king to speak.

***

Every word that fell from the red-headed cheftain’s lips only enraged Daurendil the more. And then he heard his father’s weak, ‘Aye,’ agreement if you will, to whatever the hillman was saying. And then, the thinly veiled threat… I cannot guarantee that peace can be maintained… that set him off.

He did not wait for his father to speak, but got up. “Weregild? You dare come here, claiming injuries, Broggha? You are not a welcome guest, and I do not hold that you deserve anything more than the point of a sword!”

Gasps swept the room. Broggha looked almost satisfied at the Prince’s outburst for a moment, his lip curling in obvious disdain – Tarnendur had risen, and Daurendil found his own hand had crept to his sword-hilt.

Then, from outside came the most dreadful hammering. The door was rattling, and shaking, and could not be ignored. Someone got up, and pulled back the bolts, and pushed the door open. There was a crash, a muffled oath from outside, and when all the dust had cleared, they saw, sprawled upon the floor, Prince Amantir, and the Princesses Tarniel and Odaragariel.

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Cameth Brin Tower, AmantirÂ’s rooms just below the Council Chamber, morning of October 23
Written by Serenoli
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There was a knock on the door. Amantir, who had been pacing around his room, deciding the exact words he would say at the Council meeting, shouted, “Come in!”

Tarniel came in, saying “Amantir, have you seen Odar- Â… oh, there you are!” she stopped, surprised to see her friend sitting cross-legged on Amantir’s bed.

“Shut the door! What are you doing here, Tarniel?”

“Looking for you – the healer sent me to get you, you know it’s only the first day since you got out of bed, he says you shouldn’t over-exert yourself.” Then, pausing slightly, “What are you two doing here alone?”

“Nothing. I’m coming,” said Odare, slightly impatient. Outside, the clock chimed the hour, and Amantir and she exchanged glances. Already they could hear the soft thuds of footsteps on the staircase outside, meaning the Council-members were arriving. “When should we go, do you think?”

Amantir sent a repressive look at Tarniel, meant to convey that this was something he and Odare wanted to discuss without her present. When she didn’t budge, he replied in a low voice, “We don’t want to go at the very start, they’ll just try to make us leave. As I see it, we should interrupt them just when Daur is talking, and say… what we have to say.”

“And how do we know when he’s talking? You want me to eavesdrop? It is not ladylike to stoop at keyholes-”

“That is not a problem, you can hear everything from my window if you lean out far enough, they’re only a floor above, you know.” Amantir moved to his window and sat down on the wide window sill, leaning his head out. “Hmm… doesn’t sound like it started yet.” Then catching sight of Tarniel again, he put on an elder-brotherly tone and said commandingly, “Tarniel, why are you still here? Odare will come when she’s ready, you can rest assured.”

Tarniel looked puzzled and indignant at the two of them, especially Odare, who was staring intently at a bit of lacework on her dress. Then, folding her arms, she sat down on the nearest chair and asked, “What are you two plotting? Odare, you’ll get into trouble again!”

“We’re not plotting anything! We’re doing something very important… anyway, I’d’ve told you, but it’s not just some fun scheme, and besides, you’re too-”

“Too young. Scamper off, little sis,” said Amantir, now straining to hear the murmured words coming from above, and proving that the most cowardly of men can still be royal with younger sisters.

“I am not scampering! And what are you trying to listen to? Where are you going?”

“Shhh!” Odare put a warning finger on her lips. She was now leaning over Amantir’s shoulders, and they could now make out the King’s voice. A few words and phrases came floating down to them – esteemed guests… unfortunate occurences… decisions to take…

Then, then there was a scraping of chairs, and Broggha’s voice, deeper and rougher than the King’s, came floating down. This time they could hear more clearly, and as they listened, it was obvious from both Odaragariel and Amantir’s faces that they did not like what they were hearing. Even Tarniel, still puzzled, did not interrupt them anymore. None of them were puzzled to hear Broggha’s speech interrupted before long by Daurendil’s angry voice. Amantir and Odare nodded to each other, and Odare whispered, “Time to go.”

And they slunk out of his room, and up the stairs, with Tarniel following them. She had now realised what they were about to do, and was pulling vainly at them, whispering warnings of what would happen to them if they interrupted the Council.

They came running up the stairs, and immediately encountered their first obstacles, two guards on duty outside the door. Quick as thought, Odare shouted in a frightened, broken voice, “Guards! We’re being pursued, downstairs-”

She didn’t need to say more. The two guards looked at each other, and then pounded down the stairs, and the three ran to the door.

“Good acting!” Amantir said fervently. He grabbed the door and pulled. It didnt budge. He rattled it some more, scarcely aware that the noise inside had died. Odare grabbed the door and pulled, and at the same moment, Tarniel grabbed both their cloaks, and pulled.

Someone from inside unbolted and opened the door, and unprepared, all three tumbled backwards and fell on top of each other. They got up to find the entire Council staring at them.

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then, Amantir shakily began, “Um, Good morning, I thought I’d just, um…”

Odare poked him with her elbow, and he went on, “Come up here to lend support to Prince Daurendil. I agree with him,” he finished rather lamely, and waited to see what would happen.

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Cameth Brin Tower, Council Chamber, late morning of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis, Serenoli and Elfhild
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The sight of the droll trio at the door lessened somehow the tension in the room. Old Nimruzir of Fennas Drunin slapped his thigh and laughed aloud approvingly, while the younger counselors, Elured and Belzagar smirked quietly. Gimilbeth arched her brows in disapproval, striving to remain non-committal. Broggha kept a morose silence, biding his time.

“Children,” chided the King, “enough of this foolishness! You are a grown man, Amantir, but still you indulge in silly pranks. It is the Council of Rhudaur here and you have no call to attend it, as you know yourself full well. But you have even brought Odaragariel and your young sister here!”

“But that’s because we want to help!” Odaragariel piped in.

Tarniel remained silent, close to tears, her cheeks pink from embarassment. When Tarniel had landed in a heap with Odaragariel and Amantir in the council chamber, she had wanted to disappear right then and there. She had tried to stop them, but now, from all appearances, it looked as though she was an accomplice to their little adventure. Her face flushed crimson as she listened to her father’s condemnation of their actions, and she wished she was someplace far, far away. She felt the eyes of the Barbarian upon her, imagining that her dress was gone and she appeared before him naked.

“Yes, we want to second Daurendil’s voice!” Amantir finally warmed to the subject and now spoke in a clear young voice that carried easily beyond the open doors up to the guards on the roof.

“I’m a prince of this country, and I deserve a say, be I a Council member or not. Nobody likes to see the barbarian here, it is a hypocrisy to pretend otherwise!”

Odare nodded fiercely in approval. Broggha’s face visibly darkened, but he didn’t deign to argue with the children. He addressed Tarnendur instead.

“Strange hospitality do I find under your roof, my King. You call us “barbarians,” but what has become of the famed Dunedain nobility? First your guest is greeted by the assassin’s dagger, then his name gets defamed by a young cur who never learned proper manners as a Prince should! I appeal to your Majesty, stop them now before I endeavor to stop them myself!”

“Don’t hearken to him, Father!” Daurendil cried, clutching the hilt of his sword with such force that his knuckles went white. He swallowed and continued in a rush.

“At the feast, the Hillman only got what he deserved, the vile brigand and murderer he is! How many homesteads did he burn before coming here? How many Dunedain lives are on his hands? Gibbet is the only weregild he really deserves!”

“We second that!!!” cried Amantir and Odare. Tarniel brought her cold hands to her burning cheeks and remained silent, wishing she were leagues away from this room. She prayed that no violence would come from the meeting. She shuddered to think of another explosive confrontation like the one which had happened at the feast.

Tarnendur’s pent-up frustration suddenly resurfaced. He brought his fist down on the table with a crash. “Get out of here! Now! Don’t you dare to meddle uninvited into the affairs of State! Get out and close the doors.”

The faces around the table visibly paled. Most of those present knew the King only in his late middle years and didn’t even suspect he could produce such a powerful roar. Even Broggha seemed impressed and nodded in approval.

Hearing her father’s roar, Tarniel was taken aback, for the king was usually gentle and mild-mannered. He must certainly be incredibly wroth! Tarniel grabbed Odaragariel’s hand and began desperately trying to pull her away.

Odare winced, and felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. For a moment, just for a moment, she felt just like a child being remanded for trying to be older than it was. She looked at Amantir, and saw his face, crushed. Then after an eloquent look at his father, who was now trembling with rage, he said, “If you insist, father. But I shall speak more on this later!” he ended defiantly, and finally turned away. And then, Odare obeyed TarnielÂ’s whispered urgings and the pressure on her hand, and after a final nod at Daurendil, she too, moved away.

The three of them walked off, past the two bewildered guards who questioned them as to their assailants, and Tarniel waved them away. There was such an air of defeat that none of them dared speak to each other.

Behind them, they could once again hear raised voices in the Council-chamber, but they no longer bothered to hear who was speaking or what they were saying. It didn’t seem worth it.

Amantir went off to his room alone, with a brooding look on his face, and an awkward silence passed between Tarniel and Odaragariel. “Her pride has probably taken a blow, for no doubt she realizes just what a foolish idea sneaking into the council chamber was,” Tarniel thought to herself somewhat smugly, for she had tried to persuade Odaragariel and Amantir not to follow through with their plan to eavesdrop.

To break the silence, Tarniel said, “Umm, do you want to come with me to see how Hurgon’s painting is going?” It would be a pleasant distraction, she thought, much needed after the excitement of earlier. They might as well enjoy themselves before the king had words with them.

Odaragariel was aware that Tarniel was resisting the urge to say ‘I told you so’ and trying to divert her thoughts from what had happened. So, with a half-smile, she replied, “Yes, let’s do that,” and soon the two were walking down the stairs of the tower, heading for the painter’s studio in the palace.