The Worthies of Bree

The Prancing Pony, Bree, July 20 F.A.

King Strider, entering the common room of the Prancing Pony, knew immediately that all was not well. Standing behind the bar, his arms folded and his lips pursed, was Bedwig, old Barley's son, now owner of the inn. Four of his cronies were loitering with him at the counter, casting dark looks at the far end of the room. There, sitting quietly by himself, and entirely oblivious to the opprobrium he was earning, was the Prince of Ithilien.

"Well," said Strider, nodding at their half-empty tankards, "and what are we all drinking this evening?"

"We," said Bedwig, tightly, "are drinking beer. He," he nodded towards the Prince, "is drinking wine."

Wine. Did the Pony even stock wine?

"He said," added Tom Appledore, ominously, "as how he knows the vineyard it come from."

"You know," said Bob Rushlight, slowly, "now I think about it, what I think he meant was that he owns the vineyard it come from."

"And I said," said Bedwig, approaching high dudgeon, "that I might know naught about vitty-culture, but I did know as how my old dad had kept this barrel for a special occasion, and so he took a glass." He glared meaningfully at the King. "I opened the barrel, and he took – a glass."

Strider saw their tankards filled, which mollified them slightly, and he also paid for the barrel, which had Bedwig tipping his forehead and noting to his fellows as how the King was a decent and fair-minded man when all was said and done. This diplomatic incident averted, Aragorn went to join his Steward. Faramir had a journal open on the table in front of him, in which he was writing notes. Ah. His second mistake.

"You're drinking wine," the King remarked, as he sat down.

Faramir, smiling, put down his pen. "Yes, and it's very good. Do you know, it was made in Ithilien? Before Ithilien was abandoned, I mean, not recently. It's been maturing here this whole time!" He was plainly and sincerely delighted. "Do you want to try some?"

Strider tapped his tankard. "This'll do."

"Yes, of course." Carefully, he began to collect his notes and papers together.

"You're also writing," observed the King. "In a book."

"My travel journal," said Faramir. "I've been keeping it since Tharbad."

"I'd noticed," said the King, although the habit had not stood out so much in Rivendell or Annúminas. "Any thoughts on the north?"

"It's colder. It's wetter."

Strider coughed.

"It's very beautiful. And it's not Gondor."

"Is that in its favour," asked the King, "or not?"

"I pass no judgement," said the Steward. "I merely observe the differences." He took on a dreamy and reflective look. "And I shall never forget my first sight of Lake Evendim, and the city that rises there, nor shall I forget eagles on the hillside at Midsummer, and hearing the Erulaitalë said..." His eyes went sharp. "I miss home, intensely, but I am not sorry that I came. If that is what you're asking."

Aragorn smiled at him, fondly. "Have you always kept a journal?"

"Oh, I did for many years. I stopped around… the year thirteen."

"What happened in the year thirteen?"

"I turned thirty. And I realised there are only so many ways to write, This week I slept in a ditch.'

Aragorn laughed out loud. Behind him, he heard the sound of breath being collectively drawn in. Ah, a misstep… But this was all very strange. He had paid for the wine; he had got the book put away… What else could be bothering them?

He waved to the maid, Bed's daughter, to come over, to ask her to fill the men's tankards once again. When she arrived, she blushed pink and cast her eyes down. Strider thought, What's got into the girl? And then he caught the shy glances she was throwing at the Prince. He did nothing more than smile at her and speak to her with exquisite yet very natural courtesy. Half the court of Minas Tirith would fall over itself for less: the man had considerable charm, even if he didn't realise it. How long, after all, had it taken to win Éowyn's hand? Bed's daughter, hurrying back to join the other maids, stood and sighed with them in a corner. Ah, thought Strider, glancing at their furious fathers. Yes, that would do it.

Later, after Faramir went off to bed, to the towering regret of half of the company and the righteous indignation of the other half, Strider joined the men.

"Wherever," said Bed Butterbur, "did you dig him up?"

"Down south," explained Strider, and the worthies of Bree sighed their sympathy, and shook their heads.

Altariel, 30th December 2019