Aeralhil won’t go so far as to call Robb Thornley a friend, but over the years, he and the gruff farmer have come to something of an understanding regarding the occupants of the little farmstead across the way. Without complaint, Robb and his wife Rose had agreed to look in on the children every week or so in exchange for favours of the frankly absurd variety whenever he happens to find himself again in Bree-land. It is merely the way of folk eking a hard living from a hard land, Aeralhil knows, but all the same, the steadfast simplicity of such kindness warms him.
But now the cost comes due, Aeralhil thinks drily, swinging down from Flindol’s tall back outside the Thornley home. He wonders what ills have come to plague the north Bree-fields in his absence. Perhaps a legion of rampaging bristlehides, or a mob of overzealous berry-pickers.
Flindol snorts and shakes his head.
“Behave,” Aeralhil chides, bending to loosen the cinch on the saddle.
When he straightens, it is to find Rose Thornley storming down the front walk, an egregiously large ladle in her hand. Perplexed and somewhat alarmed, Aeralhil raises a hand in both greeting and defense.
“Miss Thornley,” he says politely.
“Thank heavens you’re here,” Rose squawks, “Robb’s gone to warn off one of those squirrely sorts that have been cropping up hereabouts, and I don’t like it one bit.”
“‘Squirrely sorts’?” Aeralhil repeats.
“Them Rangers, like,” Rose clarifies with a short nod, “Those of them what skulks about and never speaks to you proper.”
“Ah,” Aeralhil says. Valiantly, he swallows his laughter. “Yes. I have met a few of them in my day. They are strange, certainly, but mean well.”
“I don’t like it one bit,” Rose repeats, shaking her ladle. It is porridge day in the Thornley household, it appears, and Aeralhil neatly smudges away a colorless glob from his chin with the corner of his sleeve.
“I will speak to them, if you wish, and ensure no harm comes of it,” he says, “Might you tell me where Robb has gone to meet this Ranger?”
Midday finds him ascending the steep rise that leads to the sprawling grounds of Hengstacer Farm, Flindol chuffing at the bit.
“Easy,” Aeralhil murmurs, one hand on the reins, the other resting upon the pommel of the saddle. Rose Thornely had endeavoured to send him careening clear across Bree-land to Nen Harn, but thinking such a journey rather beyond Robb’s old nag, he had remained on the Greenway until he’d picked up her trail just south of the village with the ramshackle mill. From there, he’d followed it north until it turned for the farm.
The sun is bright, his head throbs, and he hopes Robb Thornley hasn’t managed to do much more than grumble and growl at whichever unfortunate Ranger has been subjected to the Greenway patrol. All the same, he unslings his bow from across his back and settles it across his lap as they crest the rise, Flindol snorting his irritation at their uninspired pace.
“We are neither of us so young as we once were,” Aeralhil replies.
Flindol pins his ears back, and Aeralhil draws him to a halt beside the stables, whereupon a young man with artfully-arranged whisps of straw in his hair approaches with wide eyes.
“That there’s a fine horse you have there, sir,” he says as Aeralhil dismounts stiffly, “You looking to sell?”
Aeralhil looks at Flindol. “Have you any thoughts on the matter?” he says.
Flindol bares his teeth and cocks a powerful hind leg.
“Nay, not today,” Aeralhil says to the young man, whose eyes dart between man and horse so quickly it is a wonder he does not fall upon his face. From the stall nearest the tavern, Robb Thornley’s nag nickers a greeting. “What would you say my odds are of finding a seat at the tavern this time of day?” Aeralhil continues, ignoring her and scratching Flindol apologetically on the neck, “I find myself rather parched.”
“G-good, sir,” the young man stammers, “Weren’t but a few folk been coming and going all morning.”
Aeralhil conceals his wince with a smile. He returns his bow across his back.
“What is your name?” he says mildly.
“Cam, sir,” says the young man, “Cam Applewood.”
“Well-met, Cam Applewood,” Aeralhil replies, “This–” he hands over the reins, to Flindol’s rumbled irritation, “--is Flindol. Would you see to him while I am within?”
“Yes, sir,” Cam blurts, gingerly taking the reins, “I’ll have him watered and fed afore you know it.”
That is hardly necessary, but Aeralhil smiles again, indulgently, presses a silver into the young man’s hand, and turns for the tavern.
Once within, he pauses just inside the door, blinking quickly to adjust his eyes to the relative darkness. At this time of day, the roughly-hewn common space is, true to Cam’s report, largely empty, save for–
–Robb Thornley, seated at a table in the corner with a hooded man who most certainly is not a Ranger of the North, or the South, or anywhere at all.
Aeralhil swallows a groan. The brittle, bone-weary part him wishes to simply turn on his heel and leave a fool to his own fate, but his soft heart and weak will turn his feet to the bar instead, and he gestures vaguely for a pint.
Robb Thornley is no fool, he chides himself, He is merely a simple man caught beyond his depth.
Feigning nonchalance, he rests his hip against he high counter and turns to face the door, ears straining towards the conversation behind. Whatever it is that passed ere his arrival appears to be drawing swiftly to a close, if the strained tenor of Robb’s voice is to be any indication. Absently, he accepts his tankard from the barkeep and slides what he hopes is an acceptable amount of coin across the counter.
The tavern door squeals open again and admits three men Rose Thornley would no doubt also attribute to being of the “squirrely sort.” Hooded and masked, they look quickly about the tavern before the tallest and broadest of the three approaches the bar. The remaining two circle around the counter, no doubt to join their compatriot in suspect dealings. The barkeep scuttles into the kitchen. The bolt slides home. Aeralhil’s heart sinks.
“You’d best be on your way,” says the unfortunately burly man.
Aeralhil straightens slowly, angling his sword clear of the overhanging lip of the counter.
“It is a fine day for a drink,” he replies.
From the rear of the tavern, sounds of converse cease.
The burly man steps closer. He is tall for a Breelander, and though Aeralhil still has half a head on him, he knows himself to be outmatched at such close quarters.
“Fancy a pint?” Aeralhil says easily, slipping around the counter to survey the taps. In the corner, Robb Thornley, rather pale in the face, turns and stares. He is now flanked on either side by men the approximate size of small trees.
A ring of steel. A blade drawn. Aeralhil feels the threat of it prickle between his shoulder blades, but his hands are steady when he retrieves a tankard from the well.
“Leave,” commands a new voice from the rear of the tavern. The hooded man across the table from Robb Thornley rises. He is roughly Barliman’s height and twice his girth.
“Another pint, then,” Aeralhil says, filling one tankard and reaching for another, “Robb, lend me a hand here, will you? I’ve only the two, after all.”
Robb gawks. Just as Aeralhil begins an unfavorable revision of his opinion of Robb Thornley, the farmer pushes himself to his feet. The two masked men to either side of him shift and look to Barliman’s bloated cousin. The air of confusion is palpable.
Simple miscreants, then, Aeralhil thinks with relief.
In this moment of indecision, Robb manages to sidle his way across the common room to the bar. He is sweating profusely, but he still smells of Rose Thornley’s porridge. He is a simple man.
“Excellent,” Aeralhil says with a smile. Under his breath, eyes fixed on the burly man with the drawn sword, he adds, “Do not move.” He busies himself pulling another pint, the scent of malt barley rising crisply from the tankard. Robb twitches. “Now,” Aeralhil continues conversationally, voice pitched to carry, “What has brought you fine gentlemen to Hengstacer Farm?”
“Business,” grunts Barliman’s distended cousin.
“Of what sort?” Aeralhil replies, smiling over his shoulder, “I am something of a businessman myself. Textiles, in fact.”
Robb Thornley has seen him disembowel a flea-ridden splintertusk with rather more verve than a textile merchant might customarily be thought to possess, but blessedly, the farmer holds his tongue. He has not moved. Aeralhil wonders how much longer it will take for the burly man’s sword arm to tire.
“We aren’t interested in textiles,” the burly man growls.
“No?” Aeralhil replies, setting aside another full tankard and gesturing to the man as a whole, “That would account for the homespun, I suppose.”
Robb flinches, but beneath the counter, his broad hand slowly curls around a glass. He clenches the other around the hatchet hanging from his belt. He is a simple man.
“Your pint,” Aeralhil says quickly to the burly man, stepping in front of Robb and sliding a frothing tankard across the counter. From behind, he hears the two small trees shift, and then, ponderously, the slow, heavy tread of Barliman’s distant-but-rapidly-nearing cousin. “I hear there are better opportunities to be found down south a ways, in the town proper,” Aeralhil continues. The burly man’s sword does not waver. “Certainly, you might find your fellows there, rather than here about the crofts.”
“Who are you?” one of the trees demands.
“I am a businessman,” Aeralhil replies with a smile full of teeth. He worries the glass might shatter in Robb Thornley’s hand. “I’ve vested interest in the area.”
“We don’t take kindly to being threatened,” growls the burly man.
“I don’t expect many do,” Aeralhil says.
The bar is now surrounded by men and trees.
“Your name,” demands Barliman’s prodigious cousin.
“Amandil,” Aeralhil replies cheerfully, “Ranger of the North.”
“Forgive me, sir, you said you were a what?”
The junior watcher fiercely pinches the bridge of her nose. The slow-setting sun paints her face a bloody red. She looks tired.
“I said I was a Ranger,” Aeralhil replies amiably, “A Ranger of the North.” He is seated on a prickly bale of hay, hands folded neatly in his lap. Again, he adds, “But I am not, in fact, a Ranger. It was only that they refused to reason, and I had hoped that–”
“--saying such a thing might frighten them off, yes,” the junior watcher–Leta Willowsmead–sighs, “And how was it that you happened to come upon these ruffians?”
“I’d decided on a bit of a holiday to Nen Harn,” Aeralhil replies, “But my niece has been asking after a pony of her own for some time now, and so I thought I might–”
“--stop in and have a gander, alright,” Junior Watcher Willowsmead sighs. It is a deep sigh. She shuts her ledger with a snap. “Sir,” she says, wearily looking him up and down, “Thank you for your report. While I am glad no blood was shed here today, I would discourage you from future attempts to reason with bandits. There’ve been a growing number of them hereabouts, and you ought to count yourself lucky that the lot here today knew just enough of the Rangers to scarper, but not enough to laugh themselves sick.” She sighs again. Were her lungs bellows, the entirety of Hengstacer Farm would undoubtedly now be aflame. “Will you find your way home alright?” she says.
For a moment, Aeralhil wonders just how infirm he appears that a Watcher might be concerned for his well-being, but then he recalls that he is in Bree-land, that his armaments are buried in Flindol’s stall, and that Robb Thornley is substantially broader around the chest than he. Self-consciously, he tugs the bracers of his borrowed coveralls back onto his shoulders.
“I expect I will find my way,” Aeralhil replies with a winning smile.
Junior Watcher Willowsmead nods doubtfully but makes good her departure. Not until she is little more than a speck on the distant Greenway does Aeralhil heave a sigh of his own and rub a hand across his face.
“Robb,” he calls over his shoulder as he hauls himself to his feet.
Robb Thornley ducks around the corner of the stable, Aeralhil’s mail and leathers bundled under his arm.
“It is not too long a return to your wife’s loving arms,” Aeralhil says, shedding the guise of the beleaguered, somewhat sickly farmer. He hands Robb his coveralls. “All the same,” he continues firmly, “We must speak.”
The sun has long set by the time the tall frame house at the dusty heart of the Thornley farmstead looms into view.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Robb says. He has been almost gentle in his insistence: Grateful for his deliverance, yes, but adamant in his belief that he had acted rightly. “When the barn catches fire,” he gestures across the empty, moonlit fields, “Who’s going to haul water from the well?”
“You needn’t have gone alone,” Aeralhil protests.
“If I’d known you were back, ‘course I’d’ve sent you instead,” Robb snorts.
“Certainly, but it was foolish to–”
“--we’re all just simple folk to you, aren’t we?” Robb interrupts. His voice is hard and hoarse. “We don’t know hardly anything.”
They trot along in silence for some time. There is a lamp on outside the Thornley house, burning brightly through leagues of darkness.
“A milk cow goes missing here, a few chickens there. The cabbage turns up blighted. Lottie Nettlebottom’s girl slips in the creek.” Robb shakes his head. “It’s a hard life hereabouts, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do ‘bout it most times. But if you can, when you can, wouldn’t you?”
“Only young men are so rash in speech and action,” Aeralhil replies.
Robb laughs. “Son,” he says, “I reckon I’m old enough to be your father.” He shakes his head again, chuckling. “The things you say.”
The jingling of bit and bridle lilts softly over the quiet clatter of hooves. The moon, nearly full, hangs heavily overhead, casting wavering shadows in the dust as they drift away from the Greenway.
“I will remain through the harvest season,” Aeralhil says at last, easing Flindol to a halt before the Thornley home, “I would ask only that you do not hesitate to call on me, no matter the cause. Bandits of any sort are not to be trifled with.”
The front door is ajar so that the cool of the night might sigh away the heat of the day. The gate is unlatched. Robb Thornley dismounts, and Rose appears on the stoop as if summoned by a scent on the wind.
“Speak with your wife,” Aeralhil continues quietly, “She sent me after you this morning under the illusion that you had gone to speak with a Ranger. I would have not wished her so poorly informed should matters have gone awry.”
Robb looks up at him, and his weathered face creases in a smile. “So far’s I know, I did speak to a Ranger today,” he replies.
Aeralhil watches him kiss his wife and lead his horse around to the stable. He raises a hand in farewell, and Aeralhil responds in kind, nodding to Rose before turning Flindol for the Greenway and giving him his head.
Perhaps Robb Thornley is not a simple man, Aeralhil thinks as he bends low over Flindol’s neck, the wind thundering in his ears. Perhaps his estimation has been clouded by the dust of too many long roads. When the barn catches fire, when the cabbage turns up blighted, when his wife kisses him hello and goodbye and welcome home, what simple man might wish still for more? Aeralhil smiles into the darkness. No, no, he’d been mistaken. Robb Thornley is not a simple man.
He is only–simply–a man.
