The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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Cameth Brin Tower, evening of October 19, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Serenoli and Angmar
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Algeirr felt happy as he made his way up the winding road to the castle. He eyed his new respectable clothes and the plump redhead woman trotting merrily alongside him. All his dreams seemed to have come true.

Algeirr had been sent to Tanoth Brin two days before Broggha’s party and succeeded in appearing to be a lone wanderer, returning to his land after many years abroad. No one knew he was the chief of Broggha’s spies, and he did his job well: sitting in various taverns and inns he managed to spread a score of favourable rumours about the Jarl and the new, better life awaiting all the Hillmen when Broggha came to power.

Wandering from tavern to tavern, Algeirr had a stroke of good fortune: he got acquainted with a comely, plump widow who ran the best inn in the town - "The Sword of Elendil"- by the market place. Her name was Gudhrun; she was in her late thirties, but still fresh and rosy-cheeked.

Gudhrun was widowed for a year, since her husband the innkeeper was killed in a drunken brawl between Cardolani mercenaries and the King’s guards. She had two unmarried daughters, tasty morsels both of them, but Algeirr was wise and understood where his fortune lay, so he started courting the widow, who proved to be readily amenable to his advances. Now he had the best inn in Tanoth Brin, as well as the widow and all her late husband’s clothes at his disposal.

To his own surprise, Algeirr found himself quite fond of Gudhrun. The two nights they spent together were most pleasurable. Sure, the woman never closed her mouth, but she did the talking for both sides, and was not in the least hindered by Algeirr’s non-committal grunts.

"Perhaps I should marry her," thought Algeirr, " that is, if I don’t find anything better. Perhaps I am destined to marry a noble Tark lady - who knows?"

A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to seize the grand opportunity to become a rich, respectable innkeeper, but now, with the Jarl’s quick rise, everything seemed possible.

Algeirr turned his head to look at Gudhrun’s freckled, rosy cheeks and her funny upturned nose sandwiched between them. She was out of breath while they climbed to the city gates, but once recovered, she resumed her chat about the Royal family, the King and the Queen, the ladies Gimilbeth and Tarniel and the third one with impossibly long name whom the townspeople nicknamed "Lady Oddie." Gudhrun was looking forward to the entertainment after the feast, which the townspeople were allowed to watch. There were rumours of a trained bear that danced and wore clothes!

Nodding and bowing to numerous acquaintances whom they met along the way, Algeirr and Gudhrun joined the crowd at the doors of the tower.

***

After an hour or two of peaceful slumber, Gimilbeth stepped into the delicate dress held out for her, admiring it even as it was fastened. Silver bodice, and the skirts of silver foam over purple silk. She slipped on silver shoes and a necklace of diamonds and rubies, a parting present from her grandmother. Her hair was up, but she wore no crown or circlet. Scattered through her hair were a number of gems like stars in the night sky.

Gimilbeth made her way to the tower, two pages following her with torches. She was a bit late, but she knew the advantage of dramatic appearances. She straightened her back, and with small, slow steps walked up the hall to the dais, oblivious to the gasps she provoked amongst the assemblage, the envy in the eyes of the women, and the raw lust in those of the men.

The feast was prepared in a large hall occupying all the first floor of the Old Tower. Myriad candles burned in silver sconces on the long table in the lower hall, and on the three tables on the dais. King Tarnendur sat in the middle of the main table, his Queen on his right, and Gimilbeth's chair on his left. On the right of the Queen sat Daurendil the Heir with his sister Tarniel on his other side. Next to Gimilbeth sat Amantir, the youngest son of the King, with Odaragariel of Mitheithel at his left elbow.

At the lower table on the King's right sat the most prominent nobles of Cameth Brin with their ladies, while the table opposite them was reserved for Broggha and his captains. Broggha was there, his giant figure clad in rich but too-bright-to-be-fashionable clothes. There were two ladies at his side, noticed Gimilbeth with surprise, both looking like Dunedain. The pale one with delicate features on Broggha's left, the one clad in a high-necked gown, even seemed slightly familiar. Gimilbeth wondered about her while she took her place on the King's left. Only when she was seated and took a good look at the woman did realization dawn on her: the daughter of the Count of Pennmorva, Aewen, a distant relation of the King himself!

Some of her shock must have been evident in Gimilbeth's eyes, as the woman flushed and lowered her eyes as if in fright and shame. Was she Broggha's wife now, Gimilbeth wondered, or just a mistress? And what about another one? This one seemed unfamiliar, though.

Gimilbeth noticed that Broggha's eyes were on her, his blue gaze fierce and intense. Gimilbeh looked back steadily, a mocking smile touching her ruby lips. The brigand could not intimidate her. A woman she may be, but her will was of adamant; no one had ever been able to bear her gaze unflinching. Neither would this lowly brigand. He should know his place, and it was time to show it to him.


***

Aewen sat down at the great feasting table. The sounds of talking and laughing created a lively hum about her, but she was tense, every nerve on edge. She had been to the tower before, but as the daughter of a count, not the mistress of a Hillman.

As she looked nervously about herself, her eyes landed upon the Lady Gimilbeth. Though she had seen the woman before at court events, a jolt of recognition ripped through her very being, as though she had been struck by lightning. A sudden palpitation made her heart lurch, and her vision slid from side to side. Greatly abashed, she dropped her gaze down to the table.

Oh, truly Broggha was cruel, by forcing her to accompany him to this feast! She longed to run away and hide from the probing eyes and curious minds of everyone around her. Instead, she swallowed hard, forcing the urge to pass, and sat as still and calm as a marble statue of a sitting lady.

***

The feast would have been a grand event, Tarniel thought, had not the hillmen been in attendance. Their presence rubbed salt in the wounds of Rhudaur's pride. Somehow, it would have seemed more honorable had they conquered the country in war, but this peaceful defeat seemed unreal, otherworldly. A triumphal entry without a siege, the king's capitulation. Tarniel found herself plunged into the midst of history being made, and it swirled around her at a dizzying rate. No, there could be little enjoyment while the hillmen were around, only superficial happiness, distractions from the troubled times.

So she tried to pretend for a time that the hillmen were not even there. To be sad and woeful would only make them feel they were victorious. Instead, Tarniel thought about those who were dear to her, the delicious food, the lavish clothing of the guests. She felt pretty in her deep blue dress, with its low, oval shaped neckline which skimmed over her shoulders. A band of delicate white embroidery and pearls decorated the neckline of the gown and its hem, as well as the borders of her sleeves, which were wide and hung down, revealing the pale white sleeves of her underdress. Pearls were woven through the braids of her long, dark hair.

She looked about the table, smiling to her family and those among the families of the nobles with whom she was friends. Looking past her brother, Daurendil, her gaze fell upon her mother, the queen, who was dressed in a dark brown and rust colored gown, and she smiled tenderly. She knew how hard her mother had worked to prepare a wonderful feast. She wondered if the hillmen even had wit enough to appreciate the fine foods and splendidly decorated table.

Glancing over to them, Tarniel thought they looked an unsavory lot indeed. Many were clad in furs, not the ermine of nobles, but common buckskin, the dress of hunters and trappers. Their table manners were not too good, either, and they gobbled up their food in a slovenly fashion. Their leader, Broggha, was a giant of a man, with flaming red hair and cold blue eyes. Not one to be reckoned with, definitely. Tarniel subconsciously inched closer to her brother and glanced at the armed guards posted around the hall, taking comfort in their presence. She wondered at the identities of the two women at Broggha's side. One looked like Aewen, the daughter of the Count of Pennmorva... the fate of his family had indeed been tragic, and if that were indeed Aewen, then Tarniel's heart went out to her.


***

Her yellow hair was pinned up with innumerable jewelled pins... though Odare could not suppress the thought that if only her hair had been darker, they would actually have been visible... Her dress, a large, fluffy green affair, full of lace and trimmings, made her look slightly moldy, and the fact that she kept tripping over the hem now and then hardly helped. But she was reasonably pleased; especially as Tarniel had let her borrow a truly beautiful emerald piece, which she now wore on her neck.

She went to the feasting hall, and found herself beside Amantir, and Tarniel on the very other end of the table. Bugger! she thought silently. Amantir was only a year younger than her, and they should have found plenty to talk about; but Odare silently subscribed to the opinion that Amantir was insipid and weak. She had barely seated herself when she saw Gimilbeth enter; a surge of sudden envy passed through her at the sight of Gimilbeth's perfect dark hair, the sea of star-like jewels embedded in it. With a sigh, she turned to talk with Amantir. Out of a corner of her eye, she watched everyone... Tarniel, silent and sweet in the corner; Broggha, the infamous hillman, who kept shooting glances at both Gimilbeth and Tarniel... and the two wards of Broggha. One of them looked so sad, so piteously embarrassed that she couldn't help but pity her.


***

Broggha had been looking forward to this night for some years. Now everything was as his mentor had promised him. By one means or another, Broggha had amassed power and supporters. His kinship with many of the lesser hillmen chieftains had been greatly to his advantage, for his kinsmen were eager to have a powerful man of their own blood who could lead them against the Dunedain.

Now King Tarnendur had given into his demands and appointed him to the Council of Rhudaur. "Look at the old man now," Broggha mused with satisfaction. "His manner lacks confidence and his eyes show fear! His hand is shaking so much that he looks as though he might drop his goblet of wine. His sons look like weaklings, the last of a line of insipid fops. The king is in his dotage, while I am at the height of my power and virility," Broggha thought with malicious glee.

Aewen and Malaneth sat to either side of the Jarl. "Little Aewen seems tense tonight, while Malaneth hides her true feelings from all, including me." He had had them introduced as his wards whom he had taken into his household when unfortunate circumstances had befallen their families. Now he had pledged to protect and care for the both of them as if they were his own blood. Of course, he laughed to himself, Aewen's bastard was of his blood.

He looked towards Griss, who, in his new finery, was cutting quite a dashing figure and was eying several lords' daughters across the way. Perhaps Broggha would see about arranging a marriage between his up-and-coming young lieutenant and one of the lord's daughters. This could not help but improve the Rhudaurian lord's stature in the hillmen's eyes. Then should the noble suffer 'an unfortunate accident' in the future, Broggha would offer his protection and assistance to his young lieutenant and his new family. The Jarl had received nibbles from nervous lords who inquired about the possibility of marital alliances between their daughters and his other promising young men. There were some who were blessed with the perception to see when both tide and history were turning, and wise men knew that history was now running in favor of the hillmen.

Broggha owed much to the secret alliance with the Northern King, who had backed him with both promises of power and good advice. Truly Broggha was grateful, though perhaps, he thought dryly, gratitude was not quite the word. He thought back to that day years ago when he had first agreed to meet the Angmarian king. That was when Broggha's power was first growing in Rhudaur, and he actually had thought that the king would be impressed with his rapidly growing prestige and influence among the tribesmen.

On the contrary, Broggha had been far more impressed with the king than the king had ever been with him. The man actually inspired Broggha, for he had sensed that the king possessed something far greater than finite power, something he wished to obtain. While Broggha was not quite sure what this strange quality about the man was, Broggha had felt it to his very core. Then when Broggha had proudly sealed his fealty in a pledge made in his own blood, he had felt that the King and he had been tied together spiritually, far beyond anything that could be seen visually, and Broggha was his man from that time on.

Malaneth tapped his arm to direct his attention to her, and when he looked in her direction, he noticed her eyes were shining. She was much more pleasant tonight, he noted with satisfaction. "Perhaps she finally realizes that her future lies with me and not with these accursed Dunedain who are her kinsmen." She whispered a promise to him for later that night, and a knowing expression came into his eyes. "Perhaps I have not been paying her as much attention as I should have been. That will change."

He looked away from her face into the cold eyes of Princess Gimilbeth, who was regarding him with what he took to be a disdainful condemnation. He raised his goblet high into the air in her direction and gave her a mocking toast. He was satisfied when he caught the look of consternation on her face. He must put his mind to thinking of ways to get rid of this woman. His plans for his future were grandiose, and they did not include this cold princess. He looked over to Tarniel and smiled.


***

"Blasted Hillman!" Gimilbeth blushed slightly and bit her lip when Broggha, not in the least intimidated by her piercing stare, lifted his goblet to her in mock salute.

The Hillman had more willpower than she had supposed. Gimilbeth frowned, searching for the right word to describe him. "Formidable." That was it, as strange as it sounded when referring to a Hillman.

Gimilbeth studied the brigand, her former disdain forgotten. It would be a bad mistake to underestimate her enemy. The man had big, bright, piercing blue eyes that she could have liked, were they set in a nobler face; a beaky nose and revolting, sensuous lips half-hidden by the red mustache.

Gimilbeth narrowed her eyes. "I will have this head on a golden platter when I strike my deal with the Northern King. It will be my reward for Rhudaur's allegiance."

Back in Umbar, she used to admire human heads stuffed and dried and painted in Haradian fashion, with bright jewels replacing the eyes and elaborate gold jewelry decorating the ears and nostrils. The Men from the East Harad prepared the heads of their enemies in such a way and kept them on display as heirlooms of their houses to be shown proudly to generations to come. Some rare samples found their way to Umbar.

She would ask for Broggha's head to be prepared this way: she was ready to pay an expert embalmer from Harad to do the job skillfully. "Yes, sapphires will do fine to render the color of his eyes." Gimilbeth smiled at the thought.

Heartened, she turned her attention back to the young woman on the Jarl's side, Aewen of Pennmorva. Why was she looking so unsettled and trembling whenever Gimilbeth looked at her? Gimilbeth concentrated and willed the woman to look up. Aewen shuddered and glanced up fearfully, eyes full of anguish, the anguish which felt somehow so familiar...

Gimilbeth felt a cold wave of fear running along her spine. An echo of the pain she had felt after the failed attempt to kill Broggha returned. The flesh between her breasts was burning again. Aewen seemed to be similarly affected, as she gasped and pressed her hand to her breast. Gimilbeth's eyes widened, she noticed that Aewen was the only lady at the party who wore a high-necked gown.

"It was she..." thought Gimilbeth with certainty. "It was she who had attempted to kill Broggha at my urging and suffered for it. So my spell didn't go wrong as I have thought; only the brigand had somehow survived!"