The Feast
And so it was that Rhavanielle was introduced to the serving girls of the mead hall of Stoke and clad in a linen dress with a wool apron skirt over. She was given a knotted kerchief to wrap round her hair which suited her as she worried her ears might be noticed without her floppy leather hat.
Her battered travel garments were sent to be mended and she was shown the kitchens where she gladly helped with preparation of a feast to honor a company of warriors who had returned from rendering personal service to the King. The presence of the traveling dwarves and their unusual attendant
Rhavanielle found the company of the other girls pleasing after being alone or surrounded by men for so long. She knew a fair amount about the habits of the the Anduin folk from her travels and the Rohirrim ladies knew naught but children's tales left from the days of migrations long past, so she made free with amusing tales and exaggerated accounts of improbable adventures, not fearing that any should gainsay her in such company.
It is a truth that the elves do not worry themselves that their station in society should be compromised by certain forms of labor. A great Lord of the Quendi might be found laboring in a mine if he wished to procure ore for his own craft and none should think to question it. Likewise, a miner of coal or a worker of leather would find a place at the King's table and join in the merry making. So for Rhavanielle the ancient, scholar and gadfly to busy herself making honeycakes and dumplings was no source of shame.
Sfeithi and Gorm were shown around the village by the son of one of the Thegn's household, a gangly lad named Averel who was still beardless, but possessed of a noble bearing all the same. It struck Sfeithi that the Rohirrim were much like the dwarves, only tall as elves. They spoke their own language when dealing with one another, though some gave greetings in Westron to the guests. The Rohirrim had a distrust of dwarves that was uneven and while some gave the pair a merry welcome, others merely nodded and went about their daily work while still others pointedly ignored them.
Averel led the dwarves at last to the dwelling of the blacksmith, Ceawlin. For a blacksmith, Ceawlin was a tall, lean and rangy sort with a long brown beard and huge spade like hands that seemed to flex of their own according to his moods. The dwarves gave greeting after the manner of the Naugrim and at once felt at home when Ceawlin favored them with a wide toothy grin. “Greetings, fellows. I was told you would come and that you are accounted great smiths among the dwarven folk.”
“You shall have to judge for yourself how great we are,” Sfeithi laughed. I have worked metals of all kinds for most of my life. Yea, even mithril I have given shape to. Though only to repair works of our fathers made in olden times. Your good people have given us refuge for the night and we plan to make ourselves useful before the feast tonight. Is there aught we can do to help in your work? Our own mail coats are in tatters after many trials and we would help you gladly if you would let us make use of your forge.”
Ceawlin smiled all the wider at the offer unlooked for. The dwarves helped one another off with their mail hauberks and lay them on a table near the forge. “I weave such coats for the Thegn's men oft enough,” said the blacksmith. “But to repair such damage is a good days work. Do you say you leave on the morrow?”
“We shall take leave when we have duly repaid the hospitality granted us,” said Gorm. “And you shall find that we might accomplish in a day what might take you three day's time. We three working together as one!”
With that, it was agreed that they should meet on the morrow and the dwarves returned with Averel to the Mead Hall.
As the gloaming turned to night, the Thegn's men gathered in the hall and took up their benches each according to their rank. Ale horns were passed by the serving maidens, Rhavanielle among them, followed by many an eye, for she was as comely as any daughter of the Rohirrim and many times as graceful. She had learnt from the other girls forms of greeting and pleasantries in their own tongue, passing from warrior to lady delivering the bounty of the kitchens as the feasting was taken up in earnest. As she was held to be thrall to guests of the Thegn, she did not have to endure much in the way of unwanted groping and what there was she ignored with good cheer. She knew the menfolk of such rustic people were more forward in their appreciation of the feminine form but there were hard lines that would not be crossed.
As the servants cleared the wreckage of the feasting, the Thegn stood and held aloft his ale-horn. His ceorls and fyrdsmen at once rose on unsteady legs and banged palms sword hilts and empty wooden bowls loudly on the long tables. The two dwarves, having lost their caution and indulged in many a horn draining contest hailed the Thegn as boisterously as any of the Rohirrim. With foam flecked beards, wild hair and ruddy faces they were unremarkable in the tumult, save for their stature. Rhavanielle, accustomed to the quiet contemplation of the library or the gentle tones of the deep forest or the buzz of conversation in elven halls found the outburst of enthusiastic commotion an assault on her senses but forced herself to smile as she bustled about filling horns. When at last there was a calm and the Thegn spoke, using a clear Westron.
“Wolf battening warriors! Heroes of the Eorlingas! Tonight we gather to celebrate the return of Bjorstige and Hereward from Meduseld where they brought great honor to our town. Now we will hear them account for themselves. I have it that they rode in the company of Eomund and slew many orcs away in the east. They won for themselves gold rings from the Lord of Aldburg's hand and wear them tonight! Let Hereward speak now.”
Ale horns were raised and drained again and again as the local champions related their aventures and spoke of the feasting in the great hall of Meduseld, which almost no one in Stoke had ever seen, but loomed large in local lore as nearly a shrine to martial glory. At last the Sfeithi and Gorm were called on to relate their own tales and a hush came over the room as they spoke of the vast tomb that was Moria and the perils within and how they lost their companions. When they finished, questions were shouted from various quarters. Where would they go now? Is it true dwarves grew out of the very rock of the mountains? Was it true that Béma had cursed the dwarves to have short legs so that they could not ride on horseback? Sfeithi and Gorm answered these question in good humor, even though most such were plainly disingenuous. For it was the local habit at such feasts to ask needling questions to test the patience of a guest. At last someone thought to chime with a cheeky grin, “Why do you have such a tall serving girl? How can you make use of one such? You should have to carry a stool!” The ribald innuendo caught Rhavanielle off her guard. Those privy to the mysteries of love and its tawdry lesser cousin, lust erupted in a storm of laughter as her emerald eyes popped wide and her features flushed burning red. An open hand swatted her behind and she almost dropped the ale urn she carried.
“She's a fair one! Have her sing us a song, dwarf! Or dance for us!” Hereward shouted. The returned shielding was deep in his cups and never one inclined to mince words to spare a maiden's feelings of propriety. There was a murmur of agreement and all eyes focused on the girl in the plain nut brown dress. Rhavanielle set down her burden and strode before the central hearth were the orange firelight played on her auburn hair as she faced Hereward and Bjorstige who sat in a place of honor left of the Thegn himself and his wife.
A silence settled over the crowded hall as Rhavanielle cocked a hip and struck a pose at once sensuous and commanding. Sfeithi swallowed hard. Was she going to overdo it with some elven ballad? As they gazed on the lone figure, most men and not a few women felt a singular and unaccountable sensation of longing. A voice that carried with it hints of some forgotten summer night began to sing in the tongue of the Eorlingas:
They brought the beast to Westfold, And drove him with a stick, And all the girls in Westfold Paid a farthing to see his --- Oh! Maybe you don't believe me, Maybe you think it's a lie, If you'd been down to Westfold You'd seen the same as I! The legs upon this monster, They grew so far apart, That all the girls in Westfold Could hear him when he --- The hair upon this monster, It grew so very thick, That none of the girls in Westfold Could see the head of his --- The horns upon this monster, They grew up solid brass. One grew out of his forehead And the other grew out of his ---
Inspired by the silky voice singing such bawdy and hilariously absurd verse, the lyrists and pipers and hand drummers picked up the tune, which was simple enough but which they played with such subtlety they could hardly believe they were producing the music. Each was astonished at his or her newfound skill and ever after that night, it was held that the Thegn of Stoke had the best troupe of musicans in the Westfold.
As Rhavanielle sang, she rolled her eyes and tossed the skirts of her dress about. Taking up an ale horn from a warrior as she finished her song, she tossed it off in one go, letting out a tremendous burp, which the musicians gamely answered with a cheer.
The result was pandemonium. All rose amidst a cacaphony of approval, wolf whistles from the young men and self conscious laughter from maidens and wives alike. The Thegn stood and roared with laughter.
“Come here, lass!” he said through a broad grin. The Thegn was a massive man and though Rhavanielle was easily taller than most of the Rohirrim ladies, the man stood a head higher and with his massive chest, doubly broad.. His arms were like great cords of wood and though he had a paunch from too much ale and good food, there was steel beneath the soft shell of old age. As Rhavanielle stood nervously before Aethelwald, the comrade in arms of King Theoden himself, he clapped his hands on her shoulders and patted her cheek.
“We must have more of this! You shall sing at my table again each night until your masters have finished their business here and I shall see to it that they hear of you in Edoras...” At this he laughed. “Though in Meduseld, I would say that you might sing of less earthy things. They like to try to impress the folk of Gondor with their good manners. It isn't at all like the old days, I'm afraid. But well done, lass! Be back about your work.” And with that, he swatted her on the behind as she turned to make her way back to the kitchens and a breath of clean air outside. All eyes turned to an old veteran who had news from the Fenmarch of bands of raiding orcs.
Sfeithi caught up with Rhavanielle as she stood bracing her back against the wall outside. The stars were resplendent, like a box of adamants had been spilled on a sable carpet. “That was magnificent, my friend!” he said breathlessly. She looked down.
“Perhaps a little too magnificent. He is going to want you for a pet, I'm afraid,” grunted the dwarf warily.
“Then let us see to it the work is done quickly. The good side of this is that we shall certainly eat well 'tween now and then.”
Sfeithi smiled and nodded. Rhavanielle ducked back into the imposing mead hall, leaving him alone with the stars in his turn. He looked up and felt very small suddenly. Maybe this was why his people delved beneath rock and stone, hewing their homes into mountains. The stars belonged to the elves and lovely as they were, staring up at them made him feel insignificant indeed.
