Although Mr. Clemo Bavour had arrived in Tregg in good spirits he had been tired by the journey; that night he slept soundly. The tiny chambermaid who tiptoed in with his jug of hot water failed to rouse him. So the morning was well advanced when he rose, dressed and came along the dark passage that led into the hall. A ray of sunlight fell across a tall, slowly ticking floor-clock. Mr. Bavour saw with surprise that it showed a quarter to ten. At the same time he heard loud, agitated voices from the direction of the tap-room. At once he made his way to the scene of the previous night’s embarrassment.
     Mr. Gough was standing in the middle of the room and shaking an angry forefinger. ‘’Twon’t do, ’twon’t do! I can’t be hearing such talk! Pay up, now, or I’ll send for the Beadle! …Have you found it?’
     A familiar pair of boots was sticking out from under one of the wide settles. They kicked and squirmed, and then a red-haired face appeared on the other side. The young Man heaved himself out.
     ‘Mr. Landlord, Goodwort son of Gough, worthy sir, cry you mercy, for it isn’t there, it is not to be discovered anywhere! I will solemnly promise, I will swear any oath you may require, by the thrones of Turmal and Thandor, by Dryghten or the gods of my folk, that I will pay you back abundantly, with much more silver and gold, whenever I shall pass through this town again…’
     The landlord struck the table. ‘Hold your tongue! I’ll not allow you to owe me!’
     ‘But, good sir –’
     ‘Shut up! You may be honest, Mr. Guma’s son, but I’d be nowhere in my business if I gave tick to all the bodies who pass under my roof! It’s the Beadle and the stocks for you!’
     The young Man stared back at him, white-faced, red-eyed and breathing hard. He looked very much the worse for wear; Clemo, coming forward, thought that he must have continued his carousing all night long. His clothes smelt strongly of beer as well as being covered in sawdust and ashes. Suddenly he burst into tears, disconcerting both Clemo and the innkeeper. Despite his open shame and grief, he had an oddly dignified bearing as he stood upright, holding out his hands with palms pressed together. Wordlessly, without cringing, he begged for mercy; the sunlight shone on his dirty face and the sawdust-motes danced all around him.
     The landlord snorted and was going to speak, but Clemo, who had as kindly a heart as any Punchkin who ever lived, now reached up to lay a hand on his arm.
     ‘One moment, sir. Now, lad, what’s the matter? Have you lost your purse?’
     Mr. Guma’s son, if that was his right name, nodded violently. Tears made tracks down his face.
     ‘How much does he owe?’
     ‘Sixpence for supper last night, and a fine trencher he had of it too. I won’t charge for sleeping on the bench here, but there’s twenty-seven mugs of ale on the slate, at a penny a mug, for him and all the boon-companions of Tregg, as it seemed like – well, I’ll call it half a crown, and that’s cheap, and I don’t want to see his face here ever again!’
     The young Man shook his head. Clemo perceived that the names of the current coins meant little to him. ‘Half a crown, that’s one of the silver ones – you’re from the South, sir, are you not? – Oh, well, I’m sure it wasn’t his fault. Here, Mr. Gough. And here’s for a very comfortable bed last night. And here. Come, sir, that’s for your forgiveness of him. I’m sure he ought to have it.’
     Mr. Gough weighed the pile of silver in his hand. The corners of his mouth drew down in a reluctant smile. ‘Well, thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘And what about breakfast for you?’
     ‘No: I don’t know what happened to nine o’clock sharp, but I must find my friends. Ah, Aldred!’
     Aldred Sherling, who had arrived in time to witness this scene, explained that the departure had been delayed by an argument with Mr. Yarnal; their friends were still at his house. Mr. Bavour exchanged courteous farewells with Mr. Gough, and then took a tentative step towards the young Man. The latter was now sitting with his head on his arms on the table, crying, and more than crying: bawling as heartily as any two-year-old. Mr. Bavour stepped back.
     ‘A turn at your pump, and a towel, and a good hot bowl of porridge if he feels like breakfast. That’s what he needs, wouldn’t you agree?’
     ‘Very good, Mr. Bavour. Very good of you indeed,’ said the defeated innkeeper, and the two Punchkins issued from the inn.
     It was the beginning of March. The sky was blue, though lightly filmed with cloud, and the wind was cool and fresh. The great mass of Tregg-hill was all covered with white, but the branches of the trees were dripping, the drainpipes gurgling under the eaves and the gutters chuckling alongside the brown, rutted, slushy road. Golden daffodils shook their heads lightly, dislodging small caps of snow. Tregg went about its morning business. A horse and dray went splashing down the road; women with shawls and baskets stepped carefully on pattens; the clink of a hammer came from the smithy in the village square; a line of brown ducks went paddling through the snow. Above the post-house, the weathercock pointed to the West. Clemo and Aldred turned down the lane that led, between high hedges, to Yarnal Wick.
     They had seen Caradoc’s homestead yesterday, on their arrival, but then by the last light of evening;  they could now judge better, nor without a twinge of envy, how prosperous he was. The Yarnals were an offshoot of the Greenbelt family and newcomers to these parts – newcomers, that is, as such matters were then reckoned, the family having been established there for less than two hundred and fifty years. During this time they had shared in the rising fortune of the village, which was the great crossroads of the whole region of southern Athenor. Through it goods and messengers had passed from the expanding realm of Thandor to the great markets of the South, from the new dwarf-colonies of Kibilgathol and the Black Mountains to the ancient caves of Tingrod; and in more recent times the Punchkins who lived in Tregg had escaped much of the hardship that had befallen the Punchkins of the Demesne. Aldred and Clemo passed through the gateway, patted the barking dogs that had run out to greet them, turned the corner of Caradoc’s large wagon-shed and knocked on the yellow door of the low-built, spacious farmhouse.
     It was promptly opened by Mrs. Amaranth Yarnal, the eldest of Caradoc’s four daughters-in-law. The newcomers followed her into the front parlour where, despite the pleasant morning light, and despite the eggs and bacon and mushrooms and toast and honey, a feeling of suppressed acrimony filled the air and a tense discussion was still in progress.
     The Punchkins of the embassy, all except Clemo, had awakened from sleep with a strong conviction of Hodgekin Dyer’s unreliability. They were inclined to dismiss what he had said. Dunbury, or Dunbury Down, or Emynos, was surely one and the same as Vinyards or Vinya-Ruminas. The stubbornness with which they clung to this conviction was more than remarkable – to Mr. Yarnal it was really strange, positively weird. It had been difficult for him in his turn to comprehend that these Demesne-folk, adult and reasonable as they evidently were, should be capable of harbouring and insisting on such a ludicrous piece of misinformation. He had produced maps, he had sent a servant along to the post-house to ask for witnesses, he had had to confess that neither he nor any other of the Tregg-punchkins had ever visited the North-kingdom, so far as he knew, apart of course from the mysterious Hodgekin; but a couple of off-duty post-riders (of the Big Folk, naturally) had come, and in the face of their plain testimony the conviction of the others, now including Aldred and Clemo, must recede. But not of Egwise. He alone still adhered to the traditional doctrine of Dunbury and Vinyards being known to be the same place. Yet he acknowledged that he might be outvoted, though the official leader of the company. As the company must stay together, the question then resolved itself into: which way to go? The City Road was the only road from Tregg to the Northern Realm. Dunbury was forty leagues away, and Vinyards, the capital, if such it truly was, about one-and-a-half times as far again, to the east of Dunbury – at the opposite diagonal from Tregg, on the map, of a rough rectangle whose other corners were Dunbury and Middleton. While Egwise refused to look at the maps, his followers now appreciated Hodgekin’s advising them that it would be better to go straight back home, then north from Middleton. For some reason, however, these maps, clear and admirable as they were, failed to show either the settlement of Bigginton or the Wainroad. The three sides of the rectangle were shown as red lines, like all the other roads; but the fourth side was missing. A set of steep-sided curves suggested the intervening North Downs.
     ‘Where were these maps made?’ asked Fortinbras with a frown.
     ‘Vinyards,’ said Mr. Yarnal thoughtfully. ‘My lord Melohtar’s office. The King’s surveyors.’
     ‘Ah yes, we’ve seen them on our own borders,’ said Fortinbras, ‘And the Reevers do mapping work for ’em. But you may know that we aren’t allowed on the Wainroad at all. The Reeve doesn’t like us to go near it. And here it is, conspicuously left off the map. Do you think that someone – I mean, there’s a strange shadow on our minds, if what you say is true – but it almost might seem that someone wants us kept in shadow.’
     And indeed at that moment a cloud came over the sun, and the room grew darker.
     ‘I hope you’re not going to accuse Lord Melohtar of anything,’ said Mr. Yarnal non-commitally. ‘We think the world of him round here.’
     ‘Be that as it may, my good Fortinbras,’ said Egwise Proudfoot coldly, ‘the question lies before us: which way do we go? If we return to the Demesne, the course you seem to prefer, Heaven only knows what I’m going to say to the Aldermoot. “Please excuse us, gentle punchkins – we’re just passing through”? In fact I decline the task. You and Mr. Bavour can do the explaining. Then we still have a long journey north, by your own showing, either on the Wainroad or off it, to a place which none of us has ever heard of before! I simply won’t be a party to this – this shameful insubordination of my own authority, and of the Moot’s. I’d resign as your leader; I’d return with you, but I’d go no further.’
     He paused. He glanced around, seeing that the others had felt the weight of his words.
     ‘Whereas,’ he continued, ‘there is only one other alternative, and it is the same alternative, whether we make for Dunbury or try to swing round before we get there and aim for this Vinya-place. Again, by your own showing, now we are here, it’s the same distance. Even if you are right, we lose no time and we keep our own credit if we take the North-road. As for the dangers, we’ll be a band of seven, we’ll keep our eyes open and if any bandits molest us we’ll give ’em a taste of our arrows. But I don’t believe in bandits neither. The City Road is the King’s Highway. Now let us vote. Oh, Mr. Bavour, have you something to add?’
     ‘Yes,’ said Clemo mildly. ‘What you say makes excellent sense, Egwise, and I must say I don’t like the idea of facing the Moot before we’ve even spoken to the King. But I’ve a thought to add, and it’s this. We felt pretty silly last night. I felt as foolish as I’ve ever done. It’s bad to be in ignorance. We find we’re deep in shadow, in darkness, in deception, perhaps, if Fortinbras means what I take him to mean: we and all the Demesne: darker than we dreamed. So our errand has become greater than it was. We need to know more, although we don’t know yet just what it is we need to know. And the farther we travel in the North, the more we see, the more dangers we encounter, even, the greater our chance of discovering the truth.’
     There was another short silence.
     ‘Well said,’ said Caradoc Yarnal.
     ‘Have you anything else to say?’ Mr. Proudfoot asked him.
     ‘Well, there is the matter of the royal wedding.’
     They all looked at him.
     ‘Yes, you people certainly are kept in the dark, aren’t you? It’s the King’s daughter, the Princess Nometh, who’s being married in three weeks, the bridegroom being our own Lord Melohtar himself. I’d have mentioned it long ago, but this crazy wrangling drove it clean out of my head. The wedding’s to be held in Vinyards, so we can be sure that the King himself will be there.’
     ‘Perhaps he’ll be busy with the wedding-preparations,’ said Fortinbras dubiously.
     ‘Perhaps. I feel in my bones that we’ve no time to waste.’
     ‘Well then,’ Mr. Proudfoot concluded, ‘let’s put it to the vote. All in favour of returning to the Demesne, please show.’
     No-one stirred.
     ‘All in favour of setting off towards Dunbury, in the first instance, please show.’
     Six punchkins raised their hands. They looked at one another, and all smiled.
     ‘Carried!’
     Mr. Yarnal, who was to accompany the embassy as Tregg’s representative, had made all his own preparations. He went out into the front yard and the whole household assembled to witness his departure: some thirty Punchkins, men, women and children, together with half-a-dozen of the Big Folk. He embraced his sons in order, kissed their wives and picked up his grandchildren one by one. Meanwhile Tim Bottlebanks and Waltrot Hardedge, a farmhand who was to go with Mr. Yarnal as his servant, had been transferring baggage into the small cart that Mr. Yarnal intended to drive. The other travellers all mounted. He got into the driving-seat, gathered up the reins and touched the two ponies lightly with his whip.
     It was a proud cavalcade that trotted back towards the village green, past the market square and The King’s Head, and then down the wide paved road that skirted Tregg-hill. They clattered past a row of shops and a number of large stone houses, and under the old wooden gate; then past cottages and gardens, and so at last through the new iron gate. The four younger punchkins now openly wore helmets and mail-shirts, bright in the intermittent sunshine; several had short swords in their belts and colourful shields slung on the saddle-bow; and all had bows and full quivers at their backs. Their faces were cheerful. Hooves and wheels resounded under the heavy battlemented arch that was bright with window-boxes filled with gold and purple crocus. Caradoc exchanged a shout and a friendly wave with the gatekeeper. From here the road fell downward beside the hill, into a valley where a swollen stream raced among rocks and pebbles, and beeches and cherry-trees were thick with pink and white blossoms. Even beyond the expanded town-limit the holdings of the peasants were still numerous amid the woodland: small houses of wood or brick, with pigsties and rows of shooting beans visible beyond neat fences, and more ducks and chickens pecking in the wet grass beside the road. Mr. Proudfoot glanced back. ‘Bother!’ said he. ‘You forgot the flag, Tim!’
     ‘I didn’t forget it, sir, I was hoping as you’d forgot it,’ said Tim plaintively.
     ‘Come, lad, get it out. There’s folk still to take notice.’
     With a long face Tim undid the thongs which tied the furled flagpole to the side of his saddle.
     ‘Awkward to manage on horseback, I see,’ observed Mr. Yarnal. ‘Why not fix it to the side of the cart?’ Tim’s face brightened. ‘Walt, you help him.’
     The company halted. Walt Hardedge climbed into the cart and held the pole upright while Tim passed the leather strips through the slatted sides of the cart.
     ‘A new thing, eh?’ said Mr. Yarnal.
     ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘The Demesne has never had its own emblem before, but why not? It was my own idea.’
     The others looked at the green banner as it fluttered in the breeze.
     ‘Very fine,’ said Mr. Yarnal. ‘But, excuse me: pray what are the things on it meant to be?’
     The Mayor coughed. He then said gravely: ‘The produce of the Demesne. Two yellow wheatsheaves over a red cabbage.’
     ‘Admirable!’
     ‘Master,’ said Walt Hardedge, a broad-shouldered punchkin with plenty of thick dark hair on his forearms and hands to make up for his bald crown, ‘we’re here for Tregg, that means Tregg’s here too. What about a flag for us?’
     ‘Certainly, if you’ll provide one.’
     ‘But what device should it have?’ Walt pondered while Tim cinched the last knot. ‘What about a cross-roads? No, too obvious. Or a pipe?’ He continued in a tone of wooden earnestness: ‘Yeah! Tregg is the home of smoking. A pair of crossed pipes on a blue background, over a mug of ale!’
     ‘Stop it, you rogue!’
     Mr. Proudfoot was frowning at Walt in bemusement, Mr. Bavour was grinning and Tim had covered his mouth with his hand. But then Fortinbras said quietly, ‘Look out, friends.’
     The grey wall of the town was still visible in the distance. A figure had emerged from the gate and was now running towards them. A dark cloak streamed behind it and a helmet twinkled in the sun.
     Mr. Proudfoot stared at the figure intently. His eyesight was excellent. ‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘I fancy it’s our good friend from last night. Armed. All right. Tim and Fortinbras, arrows on string please.’
     In a moment two bows had been bent, two arrows made ready. Rapidly the running Man drew closer. Then Mr. Proudfoot called in his penetrating voice: ‘Halt!’
     The figure stopped dead, thirty yards away.
     ‘If it’s us you want, come forward slowly! Keep your hands off your weapons!’
     The young red-haired Man, for it was he, spread his hands wide as he came up.
     ‘Stand! And now tell us your business.’
     ‘Gentle Punchkins, I give you most respectful greetings; there are three words I desire to say to you.’ Without any encouragement he continued as volubly as ever. ‘First I beg you to forgive my uncouth, insulting behaviour last night. Good folk, I am so very sorry about dancing on your table and upsetting it and embarrassing you and spilling your drink. I plead no excuse save the oldest and poorest one in the world, that of being in my cups. Again, pray forgive me. Now I do believe that that is Mr. Clemo Bavour whom I see amongst you, and to him I owe such especial gratitude as cannot readily be expressed in words. Dear sir, if you would allow me to embrace and kiss your knees, as we of Doroech do to our own lords on such occasions, the feelings of an over-full heart would be somewhat relieved. May I?’
     He walked forward again, and the Punchkins made no move to prevent him him; but Fortinbras and Tim followed him with their arrow-points. Clemo Bavour swung a leg over his pony’s back and sat side-saddle. The Man knelt before him, clasped his legs tightly and then did indeed kiss the woolly breeches that covered Clemo’s knees, one after the other.
     ‘Such noble kindness as you showed to me,’ he continued with a tear in his eye, ‘was no less than might have been expected from one of your famous name. In which I have the advantage of you, which I desire not, and hasten to correct.’
     He stood up, laid a hand on his breast and bowed deeply. ‘Eofor son of Guma, eternally grateful to you, and henceforth at your service, and your friends’, and your family’s.’
     Clemo opened his mouth, but even he, a Punchkin mature in years and social experience, was at a loss for words to match this expansive greeting. The young Man, however, was no whit disconcerted; he stepped back to address the whole company, bowed deeply a second time, and spoke thus:
     ‘Now, gentle Punchkins, the third thing that I have to say to you is this: will you accept me as a companion on the road? For I am tired of walking alone. As for the rank of my companionship, your wisdom shall determine it. If as a groom or follower, then I will serve you gladly, deeming myself more than amply paid by your forgiveness: if as a friend or equal, as my heart desires, then I will come with you under a sterner sense of obligation, the which, however, I shall in either case endeavour to discharge, whether by my sword – ’ He swept his cloak aside, revealing the jewelled hilts and the leathern scabbard – ‘or by my harp.’ A small glittering harp had appeared between his two hands. He struck it, and a strong sweet chord filled the air. Slowly it faded behind the twitter of the birds and the voice of the flowing stream. The Punchkins gazed at him round-eyed. Tall and handsome and shining he stood before them now, while their ears strove after the musical sound that seemed still to continue, sweetly and elvishly present beyond the limits of bodily hearing.
     Waltrot Hardedge broke the spell. ‘Blimey!’ he said. ‘Looks like we ain’t got much choice, eh, masters? How are you going to say No to that?’
     ‘Thank you,’ responded Eofor. ‘A servant’s recommendation is worth having! Your name, worthy fellow?’
     ‘Walt, sir. Waltrot Hardedge.’
     The others gave their names, and before the introductions were complete it had been settled, somehow, that he would join their company. Only Clemo seemed to resist, a little, the force of his charm.
     ‘Young man,’ said he, ‘what I did was little, and what you are proposing to do for us will be, I think, much. Tell me two things. Are you really a Man, or are you an Elf? Or is there at least some elvish blood in you?’
     The other laughed. ‘No, good sir, I am mortal through and through, although an uncle of mine did once marry an elvish lady, or so the family tell. It’s a compliment to the sound of my poor harp that you should have been prompted to ask such a question. But – well, did you ever hear of an Elf getting pissed in a pub, sleeping it off under a bench and then waking up with his purse pinched?’
     ‘Where are you from, Mr., er, son of Guma?’
     He flung out his hand, pointing to the South. ‘The Knife is my country, which you call Doroech, many, many leagues away from here; though I hail from its north-easternmost tip, beyond the Wizard’s Valley on this side of the Grey Mountains. Guma the Marchwarden is he whom I call father: he is lord of many men and guards the Gap of Undor, although we expect no invasion since Undor has been empty of people for many generations now. Garholt is the name of his house and seat. From there I set out twenty-one days ago. Vinya-Ruminas of Thandor is my destination. The cause of my journey I will willingly tell, but first, Mr. Bavour, I beseech you to address me after the manner of my own folk, for no mister or master or other title have I, Eofor Guma’s son. Or if you will, you may use the nickname I have at home.’
     ‘That is –?’
     ‘Swin.’
     ‘Swin?’ said Clemo Bavour. ‘A name not bestowed in kindness, surely. It sounds like “swine”.’
     ‘Yes, but eofor means that in our language also. And see, I carry one on my head.’
     He took off his bronze helmet and handed it to Mr. Bavour, allowing him to inspect the small shining figure, a gilt boar with silver bristles, that surmounted the dome. The Punchkins passed it from hand to hand, murmuring appreciatively.
     ‘Dwarf-made, is it, sir – er, Swin?’ asked Mr. Proudfoot.
     ‘Yes: from Tingrod.’
     Mr. Proudfoot returned the helmet to its owner. ‘Very well, Swin: you may join us. Although you have no horse.’
     Swin smiled. ‘Shanks’s pony will be able to keep up, I think.’
     So they set off again, now eight in number. The question of Swin’s ‘rank’ in the company had not been touched on; he was so obviously an equal, and far more than an equal; and in no heart did any mistrust arise, despite the unfortunate beginning of their friendship with him.
     The road now began to slope upward, though the stream still flowed alongside in a deepening bed. The dwellings clustered around Tregg seemed all to have been left behind, and the woods grew thicker. There were a few black-budded ashes and many massive oaks with tender little green-brown leaf-fingers. A last cottage was seen, and its inhabitant, an old white-haired Woman: she was washing clothes, and wringing them vigorously, in a tub set down on a flat stump. She waved to the party and gave them a merry ‘Good-day!’ At this, Mr. Yarnal and Walt exchanged looks – silent glances of the raised-eyebrow kind – but whatever comment was in their minds, it remained unspoken. The road dipped and climbed away from the stream. Swin paced easily among the trotting ponies, his head almost on a level with the Punchkins’. They came out of the wood and rose slowly into moorland and the broad light of early afternoon. Sheep wandered among the snow-patched heather and stiff wet grass, and a lark bravely sang in the large, wide-open sky. The moors rolled into the distance, blue and then darker blue. Always the rutted, puddled road stretched ahead. Now a smaller track ran up to join it and a signpost came in sight. It pointed three weathered fingers. It also suggested thoughts of stopping, and lunch.

 

TREGG        -  8 miles
CARR          -  17 miles
DUNBURY  -  98 miles

 

     ‘What does it say?’ asked Swin, seemingly amused, as the Punchkins dismounted.
     ‘Can’t you read it?’ asked Mr. Proudfoot with surprise.
     ‘No.’
Mr. Proudfoot read out the sign, but Swin, stretching out his legs on the damp turf, received the information as if it meant little. The company had not talked while in the wood, but now a lively discussion began, as Mr. Proudfoot and Mr. Yarnal endeavoured to persuade Swin of the advantages of being able to read and write. He heard their remonstrances with lazy good-humour. 
     ‘But we can count numbers, and judges distances, and remember things perfectly well without making little signs for ourselves,’ he said.
     ‘Barbarian!’ said Clemo Bavour. 

 

 

 

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 Continue to Chapter Three