Chapter 2. Those Mysterious Women…

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Broggha’s Keep, October 19, 1347. Afternoon
Written by Angmar and Elfhild
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Except for the scuffle between the more rowdy elements of Jarl Broggha’s contingent and the king’s guardsmen, the trip to Jarl Broggha’s keep and land grant was uneventful. As the Jarl’s procession wound its way around an outcropping of rock, they could see lying before them, resting on a small knoll, a rather ignoble looking country house. Griss could tell by the way the Jarl set his lips into a stern line and clenched his jaw that the Jarl was not pleased by the sight before him.

In fact, the only thing that did seem to please the Jarl was that there was a good amount of land about the manor that would provide suitable places for his men to camp and construct a small village. Griss and the other captains were soon directing the placement of supply wagons, wains, tents, and the small herds of cattle and sheep that comprised the property of Broggha’s followers.

Beyond the house was a sizable forest of worthy timber. Broggha viewed this woodlot with favor, for wood from its acres would provide an ample supply of timber for building, and for the vital firewood that was needed to provide the manor’s fireplaces and huts for his men.

As they drew up to the stairway leading up to the manor house, they were greeted by a small group of servants headed by the chamberlain, Rachion, and the chief housekeeper, Mistress Aradien. After the hillmen’s mounts were led away by the stable boys, the pair proceeded to show Broggha and his party around the hall. Malaneth and Aewen followed silently behind the Jarl. Both Rachion and Mistress Aradien exchanged questioning glances between themselves, especially when they noted the bruises on Aewen’s face and the splint on her arm, but said nothing.

Broggha looked slightly disappointed that the structure was far too small to appeal to his developing tastes for the rich and lavish. As he walked through the rooms, he made notes to himself about which wall partitions could be torn out to increase the size of his hall and other rooms.

“And this is the Lord of the Manor’s bed chamber,” Rachion explained as he led them into a large room. “The room has been thoroughly aired in preparation for your arrival, and I am sure you will find all to your satisfaction. The lady of the manor’s bed chamber is to the right and connects to your room by a hall and a door. The room also has a most charming sitting room. However, since you are unmarried, we did not see the necessity of opening the room at this time. The young ladies Aewen and Malaneth – your wards, I believe you said – will have rooms down the hall. Perhaps they would like to go to their rooms so that they may refresh themselves.”

Broggha turned to the dignified, slightly graying man. “This is not satisfactory. My wards will share the lady’s bed chamber until I make other arrangements. Have that room and the sitting room aired immediately. Until then, we will use the chambers you have designated.”

“My lord, as you wish,” Rachion said in clipped, terse affirmation.

“This is most extraordinary,” Mistress Aradien’s eyebrows raised in disapproval at the notion that the chamber of two unmarried women and an unmarried man would be separated by only a hall and a door.

A fierce gaze on Broggha’s face, he turned to the woman. “Perhaps extraordinary to the Dunedain, but I am a hillman and our ways are somewhat different! Keep your long, thin nose out of my business, old woman, or you might find that it suffers some unfortunate accident!”

Aradien bowed to him. “My lord, accept my pardon. All will be done as you have wished.” How scandalous! she thought. Why, why, this is most inappropriate and is just not done! The very idea of his wards’ bedrooms connecting to his! Who knows what might go on! The thought was enough to make her heart palpitate!

Whatever might go on between the interconnecting doors would be a subject of gossip among the chambermaids and lackeys for weeks to come.

“Chamberlain Rachion and Mistress Aradien, I go now to my hall. When my captains have returned, send them in to me. In the meantime, bring out the best Dorwinion wine that is held in the wine cellars. I have a thirst.”

***

As Aewen followed Mistress Aradien to her new room, she looked around the corridor where they walked. On the walls, she could see marks where portraits once hung and places where the plaster had cracked. The waist-high geometric border of blue and green which edged the bottom half of the walls was somewhat faded. Obviously, the place was in need of a few repairs and was vacated in quite a hurry. It was so different from the hall of her father, the Count of Pennmorva.

Mistress Aradien’s voice broke Aewen’s concentration. “Here is your sitting room,” the old woman informed her, taking a key from her belt and unlocking the wooden door.

Stepping inside, Aewen saw that the chamber was a spacious one with ample room for entertaining guests. Mistress Aradien ushered her through another door, showing her the bed chamber.

“…And over there is the door which leads to the… lord’s chamber,” the housekeeper said, obvious disapproval in her voice.

Aewen inwardly winced. She, once the daughter of a petty noble, did not wish to be reminded of her shame by this servant woman. She already knew everyone would be talking about the advent of the Hillman, his entourage, and the scandal of the two women who lived with him. The gossip-mongers would have even more fuel to stoke their fires if she was indeed with Broggha’s child. She bit her lower lip, contemplating on how she would inform him of these tidings, and worrying about how he would take them.

“Thank you,” she said blandly, her thoughts remaining secret as she dismissed the housekeeper. “That will be all.”

Left alone to her thoughts, Aewen wondered what would become of her, and the baby. Perhaps the Jarl would treat her kindly, for he was the father of the child. Or would he lose interest in her and treat her worse than he did already? That is, if the baby even lived to see childhood… so many died in childhood, along with their mothers. Would the Jarl love his child, or would he hurt the little boy or girl just as he did the mother?

Some time had passed when the door flew open, and Broggha stormed inside.

“Do you not have a kiss for your lord?”

Dutifully, Aewen kissed the man, neither love nor lust, or even affection in the kiss.

“Not much enthusiasm?” he asked sarcastically. “Harder!”

Shaking her head, she looked to him fearfully. “I have news to tell you, my lord, that you might not find welcome.”

“What is it?” he asked as he stroked her hair.

“I… I think that I am with child…”

“Whose is it?” Broggha exclaimed angrily.

“Yours, lord!” Aewen cried, attempting to rid him of all doubt. “Whose else would it be?”

“Anyone’s,” he laughed grimly. “How far along is it?”

“Going on two months, I think.”

“You little fool, why did you not tell me sooner? At least you are not showing, so no one will be able to tell.”

“A – a woman cannot always be sure… Did you not notice that lately I am often sick in the mornings?”

“You are always ill with something, Aewen! I thought the vomiting was but a reflection of your frail constitution! And sometimes in the mornings, Malaneth occupies my attention! This is all your fault!”

Aewen stared at him in disbelief. “What did I do?”

He ignored her question. “Remember that both you and Malaneth are thought to be my wards and under my protection since her family had been slain by orcs and your father’s untimely demise! To acknowledge this child would subject me to censure and ridicule! I cannot have it known in court that I have sired a bastard! You must get rid of it!”

“Oh, please, no!” she gasped in dismay.

Ignoring her again, Broggha went on. “I have heard that there is a woman in camp who can take care of things such as this. I will find out – you can be sure of that – and when I do, this minor problem will trouble me no more!”

“You cannot make me kill the child – your child! How could you be so heartless? You are the father!”

“I can make you do anything, Aewen.” His hand went to her splinted arm. “Anything!”

Falling to her knees, she began weeping. “Please, no, not this!”

“Your talk is useless because the matter is settled! It is time for you to prepare for the feast tonight… and do something about your face. You look like an old hag!”

Wailing, Aewen clung to the edge of Broggha’s tunic. “Please do not make me kill the baby! I can say that I was raped by one of your men… or one of my father’s men… or that I betrayed you…”

Broggha laughed coldly. “Can I trust your lips to silence?”

“Yes!” she sobbed.

“Then you must swear to all that an unfortunate affair of the heart with one of your father’s guardsmen brought this shame upon you.”

Her shoulders quivering, Aewen wailed out the words, “I swear!”

Broggha pulled her to her feet and his blue eyes held a look of triumph. “I will never acknowledge this child as mine. Be grateful to me, Aewen, for I am providing succor to my old friend’s wanton daughter and her bastard child.”

Closing her eyes, Aewen nodded. Hot teardrops slid from beneath her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. Her honor was already tarnished beyond repair, so whatever lies Broggha commanded her to tell mattered little. At least the baby would be safe.

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Carn Dum, October 19, 1347.
Written by Angmar
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“My lord, the page brought me a message that you wished to see me.” Alassar closed the door quietly behind him and felt that inevitable shudder go up his spine as he faced his master.

The King was silent, the only sound in the room being the scraping of the ebony chair as he pushed it across the stone floor as he stood to his feet. Alassar raised his head slightly, awed as ever by the man’s massive height of over seven feet.

“I should not feel apprehensive,” Alassar thought, “but I cannot help myself in His Majesty’s presence.” In spite of the chill in the room, Alassar felt the perspiration dampening his robes.

The King walked to the tall, narrow window and peered out. The drapes were always open at night, but seldom in the day. The King preferred it that way.

“Aye, I summoned you,” the King replied, not turning from his position at the window.

“You have only to say, Your Majesty, and it will be done.”

The King laughed, that chilling, echoing melancholic sound that was mirthless – more a mockery of a laugh than true laughter.

“Would that it were that simple! For there are many things that I would do that will never come to realization!”

“As much as possible, my lord.” The perspiration was drenching Alassar’s robes now, and he felt very, very cold. He always felt a failure, for no matter what his efforts, he was only mortal! He had his doubts about the King.

The King turned around so quickly that Alassar was startled. “I only pray that he is not angry with me. I cannot sustain it when his eyes take on that reddish tint!”

“You have attained some small degree in magic over the years, Alassar.”

“Aye, my lord, I would like to think that I have.” Did that sound too boastful? He dreaded to hear any more of the King’s laughter, for it was almost as terrible as his eyes when they were angry.

“And what have you read in the entrails of sheep this night? How have the drops of blood fallen into the ashes? What secrets have you seen written there?”

Alassar gulped and felt miserable for it. How craven a coward was he in truth? He had faced men in fighting far better in skill than he, and though sometimes he had been afraid, he had fought on in spite of his fear. At times he had been employed as an assassin by the King, and he had long ago lost his fear of slitting jugular veins and strangling his victims. That was all part of his work for the King, and he took it in his stride. But the man himself? There was nothing that he feared more upon Arda than the anger of the King.

“My lord,” he replied quietly, trying to gain control of his old fear, “the king grows deeper in his dotage by the day.” He looked towards the King, hoping for some sign of approval, but there was nothing but mystery in those strange eyes. “I see a tumult in Cameth Brin, a smell of smoke, a clashing of steel.”

The King threw back his head and laughed. “There is always a tumult in Rhudaur! You have told me nothing of note! Is that all that you could see in the severed intestines of sheep and the dripping of blood upon the ashes?”

“There is only so much that mortals can delve in the skill of haruspicy. I have done my best, Your Majesty. Though you slay me, there is no more that my magick can show me.”

“I have no desire to slay you, Alassar, for you often prove valuable to me in my efforts. You know that I reward my successful servants quite well.”

With a shudder, Alassar remembered those who had failed the King. Strong men, powerful and mighty… he did not want to think about the stench of the burning flesh that still filled his nostrils with only a thought of it.

“My agents reported to me some time ago that there would be a great feast this night to honor my servant Broggha. Your divinations were correct in some regards, but you see only a part. But that is unimportant.” The King waved his hand dismissively, as though he were brushing away an insignificant gnat. The King’s forefinger on his left hand touched his ring. “There are other methods for reaching what we want to know. If you have fully achieved a level in the workings of magic, you could sense far deeper things.”

“I take it, Your Majesty, that once again you have obtained far more information than I ever could by my means.”

“Aye, Alassar, far more. Now I know the identity of the one who tried to kill Broggha. Before I could see her only darkly. Now I can see her in full clarity as though I were looking at her portrait before me.”

“Obviously the wench is far too dangerous to allow her to live, Your Majesty.”

“A wench?” the King asked curiously. “Not a wench, a common peasant, but far higher – a princess, the King’s eldest daughter, Gimilbeth. She thinks she is quite wise and clever. Her wings must be clipped soon enough, but not now. Let her deceive herself for a while longer, but she is not the only meddler close to the king. There is magic awork this night! Can you not feel it as I can? They turn now our own weapons against us. Ahhh,” the King lifted up his head and gave a deep sigh that seemed to come from his inner being, “how the Númenóreans sink deeper into corruption by the day! They will destroy themselves! They are close, they are close! I feel them at the tips of my fingers, so close, so close!”

The sweat was running down Alassar’s forehead, and he felt deeply embarrassed that the King could see his fear so openly. He knew he could smell the increasing apprehension in his sweat.

“Peace, Alassar. You have nothing to fear from me. I am pleased. You have done well, but I have done better.”

While the King could cause great fear, through his magic, he could bring about a great calm, an almost addling of the senses. Alassar was grateful to His Majesty for this soothing feeling that he felt coming over him. The King always expected his servants to do their best for him, and when he encouraged them, it was an overwhelming boon.

“The Princess… when do you wish her to be slain?”

The King chuckled. “Did I say that I wanted the woman killed? Nay, Alassar, you think too small.”

“Then what would you wish, Your Majesty?”

“I want her kidnapped and brought to Carn Dum! I understand that she is quite fair, and remarkably intelligent for a woman.”

“When, Your Majesty, when do you wish her brought to you?” Alassar could barely contain the surprise in his voice.

“Soon, soon, before the winter snows begin to fall.”

Alassar could almost feel sorry for the poor woman. He often wondered how the King’s mistresses could abide him, but somehow, they always seemed to be more than fond of him. Ah, women. Who could understand them?