Deeper Waters

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DEEPER WATERS
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Chapter 3

The first draught of cool, foamy beer was enough to clear Celaeren’s head and ease the tension between his shoulder blades. He drank deep, and finished with a contented siwipiwiping his hand across his mouth as he returned the tankard to the table. Settling into the high-backed wooden bench, he looked around curiously before raising the drink to his lips once more.

One inn may be much like any other in some respects, but a glance was enough to make it clear that this was no small-town hostelry in a remote coastal kingdom. The mix of clientele was more varied, more exotic, than any gathering Celaeren had seen before this visit to Faramir’s burgeoning city. Emyn Arnen seemed to be a magnet for entrepreneurs, displaced folk and opportunists of all races; and most of them were represented in the White Tree that night.n ofn of all colours there were, from the haughty blue-eyed Rohirrim to the short and swarthy people of the South. A group of dwarves were growing increasingly noisy at a long table near the bar, and Celaeren had even noticed three elves conversing softly in a partially enclosed booth near the door. If a troupe of Halflings had entered and ordered s ofs of ale all round, he would not have been surprised.

In spite of the unfamiliarity of the scene, Celaeren felt perfectly relaxed in his shadowy corner of the room. Of course, he always felt at home with a drink in his hand, but it was more than that. There was truly a sense that all were equally welcome here, and that no unnecessary curiosity would be shown towards one such as himself, who sought only a quiet place to sit, and a glass of good beer to soothe both mind and body.

Faramir’s court itself was no less accepting of all the peoples of Middle Earth, and Celaeren felt quite comfortable there. He had always liked and respected his cousin, but the man was a father now, and when not engaged in matters of governance he was understandably preoccupied with his wife and child. The formal meals and meetings had been pleasant enough, but hardly exciting; it had come as something of a relief when the opportunity to slip away for an evening had presented itself. Losing the hangers-on that his father always insisted on burdening him with had not been easy; but the result was definitely worth the effort. The ale was as good as any Dol Amroth could offer, and by the time the last drop had slid easily down his throat, Celaeren felt utterly contented.

He was half way through his second pint when the goings-on at a nearby table caught his eye. A group of men, Northerners by their appearance, sat with a much younger boy, whose rangy blond looks proclaimed him to be a son of Rohan. They were playing cards for money, and as Celaeren watched, the boy laid out his hand with a smile, and began to collect his winnings amidst much ribald laughter from the others. Despite their protests, the boy stood and made a mock bow before heading across to the serving area.

There was plenty of noise and activity around the room to seize his attention, but for some reason Celaeren found his eyes being drawn, over and again, to the cloaked figure at the bar. The lad did not return to the table once his transaction was finished, but rested against the long, rough counter, talking quietly to the barmaid who had taken his money. Eyeing the slim youngster speculatively, Celaeren found himself wondering exactly who he was, and what one of his age was doing, apparently alone, and far from his homeland in a place such as this.

At last he shook his head and laughed to himself, ‘I am becoming as bad as my father and brother,’ then turned his gaze away to concentrate on his drink for a while. The barmaid’s coarse laugh soon pulled his eyes back to their original target, however. She and the lad were sharing a joke of some sort, and the youth was gesticulating flamboyantly with one hand. Something about the expressive movement registered in Celaeren’s mind, and his own arm suddenly stopped with his ale half-way to his mouth as he watched, transfixed.

Every detail that he saw now seemed to confirm his suspicions about the boy, but there was only one way to be sure. Downing the remainder of his pint in one swallow, Celaeren got to his feet and strode across the room. The barmaid caught his eye before he reached the counter, and half-turned towards him. Celaeren smiled back at her, and kept his eyes on her rosy face as he stepped up, approaching, as if accidentally, rather too close to the blond youngster. As his hand casually brushed the other’s thigh through layers of clothing, he noted the flinch and smiled to himself. At such close proximity, it was clear that he was right.

The proud young Rohir barely moved to glance over one shoulder at Celaeren.

“Touch me again like that, sir, and I shall call you outside, to teach you some respect!”

Celaeren grinned, and waited until the barmaid moved along the counter to speak to another customer, before replying in a quiet tone, “And I should be most intrigued, my friend, to discover just what weapon you might have at your disposal, to bring to bear in such an encounter.”

The young body visibly stiffened, and although not a word was said, Celaeren knew that the innuendo behind his words had not been missed. As he waited for a response, he glanced down at the youngster’s hands and saw that the knuckles were white where they clutched a worn leather coin pouch.

At once, he relented. “Come, drink a glass of ale with me, and I shall say nothing of your secret.”

There was a pause, and then a reluctant nod.

“Two pints of ale, then, unless you prefer something a little more . . . delicate?” Celaeren raised an eyebrow.

“Ale suits me well, and I could match you glass for glass if I so chose.”

Celaeren smiled again at the fiery scorn behind these words, but turned his head to one side so as not to be thought to be laughing. Moments later, he lhe whe way through the room with a tankard in each hand, which he placed carefully on the table in the corner before settling himself back into his original seat. His companion glanced around before choosing the stool across from the prince, and pulling the grey cloak closed, as if for concealment. But there was no attempt to avoid Celaeren’s gaze; the proud blue eyes met his own over the table, and gave him cause to wonder at the fear written there.

“Relax,” the prince said softly. “I mean you no harm.”

“And what proof do I have of that?”

“None, I admit, save this: if you choose, walk from here now, and I shall say not a word to anyone of our meeting.”

There was no answer, nor did the other make a move, so he carried on.

“I only wish to talk, and will ask no more of you. Will you not indulge a lonely stranger?” The words sounded melodramatic to his own ears, but they seemed to give his companion pause for thought.

It was not a face designed for keeping secrets, he mused, watching a succession of emotions crossing the spare, youthful countenance. He could almost hear the internal dialogue; the urge to flee struggling with the longing for a moment of company in which the pretence could be dropped. Celaeren suddenly knew that of the two at the table, he was not the lonely one. It seemed imperative to keep the conversation going.

He dismissed the idea of keeping his own identsecrsecret. Even if news of the royal delegation from Dol Amroth had reached the city’s inns, he had nothing to lose by declaring himself.

“My name is Celaeren, and I am a visitor from the coast. What shall I call you?”

There was no recognition in the icy stare that regarded him.

“I am Beremund,” came the reply.

Celaeren smiled. “Little do I know of the ways of the Rohirrim, but I doubt very much that your parents gave you a boy’s name as you lay in your crib.”

“It is the only name I have here,” his companion hissed, eyes narrowed. “Do not ask me for another!”

The prince shifted on the bench and spread his arms along its back, in what he hoped was a placatory gesture.

“Beremund, then. But surely I am not the first one to question the aptness of the name?”

She gazed at him for a moment, then shrugged, relaxing a little. “You would be surprised. It seems to me tmostmost folk only see what they want – or expect – to see. I have met few as perceptive as you.”

“Still, there are those here who would know the truth at once, I am sure.” He nodded his head towards the booth by the door. “Our woodland friends, for instance. They miss very little.”

“Elves?” she snorted dismissively. “What would I want with their sort? Cold creatures.”

He laughed. “Do not be fooled by the masks they wear. I have good reason to believe that elves can oth oth deadly and passionate when roused.”

“You have?” She said no more, but raising an eyebrow, she forgot herself for a moment and grinned. Celaeren felt a sudden shock run through him as he recognised the wit and humour in her sharp-featured face.

“Indeed.” He declined to comment further, and waited for her to continue.

“No, elves are not much good to me.” She seemed thoughtful, leaning onto her arms as they rested on the table, and speaking almost as if to herself. “They must carry gold, to pay their way when they walk amongst men, but I doubt that I should ever see it. A dwarf, on the other hand, loves to gamble, but even in his cups he is not easily swindled. Men, though, they are easy to deal with. Ass oss of ale, an eager lad with a pack of cards, and there are few who can resist the challenge.”

Celaeren nodded. “So that is what you are about; I thought as much. Do you not know that it is a dangerous game?”

“I know the danger and can defend myself. Besides, I am careful never to win too much. But you presume a great deal by suggesting that this is a game to me.”

“If not a game, what is it?”

“A means to live, of course. What else is a woman to doshe she will not give up her honour or throw herself upon the mercy of some man in order to feed and clothe herself?”

Startled by the vehemence of her reply, Celaeren could think of no witty response. He longed to know just how she had come to be fending for herself – it was clear from her manner and voice that she was no child of a poor and humble background – but sensed that it would not be a good idea to ask. None the less, he could not drop the subject completely.

“How long have you been living this way?” he asked, his voice serious.

She avoided his gaze as she replied, “Long enough to know what I am doing.”

Celaeren looked at her, her frank, intelligent eyes cast down, her long, nervous fingers grasping the edge of the table, and wondered why the sight of her should move him so. She was not beautiful, by any means, and would not be so even if her hair was to grow out of its current lank state, and be dressed in a woman’s style. Her face would still be a little too long, her nose a little too sharp, her frame still boyish in its tall angularity. Yet there was something arresting about her, proud, defiant and vulnerable as she was. He had to admit that he was thoroughly intrigued; she was like no woman he had met before.

“I imagine this city is a good place to become invisible,” he said.

“Aye, a place full of strangers, and opportunities for all,” she replied, with bitterness in her tone.

He leaned forward and stared openly into her eyes, impressed once again by her ability to meet his look without wavering.

“I long to ask you what you are hiding from,” he said, “But I fear you would not wish to tell me, and might flee from my questions.”

“Would that distress you?” Her direct enquiry took him aback, and for a moment he knew not how to answer.

“I am not sure,” he managed eventually.

They stared at each other for a while. The noises of the inn swirled around them – dwarven song, human laughter, the clank and rattle of bottle and glass – but Celaeren paid no heed. It was as if the two of them existed in some other place, untouched by the smoke and heat of the busy room.

‘Beremund’ broke the silence between them at last with a lengthy sigh. “Why does a woman ever run from a good home?” she said sorrowfully. “I would not marry a man who disgusts me, and spend my life in a cage of discontent, for the sake of my family’s name.”

“And your father would force you?”

“Not my father. He died nearly two years ago. He loved me truly, and would never have driven me into a marriage I did not choose. It is my older brother who would rule my life now, and he is all too ready to listen to those who speak of alliances, of matches well made.”

Celaeren experienced an urge to console her, but it soon passed; the ale was strong, and the devil was already in him. The words that fell from his lips, as if of their own accord, had naught to do with comfort. Something about the way she had leaned towards the serving girl led him to say it.

“And was it the thought of your suitor, in particular, that disgusted you? Or is it perhaps a more general condition?”

“What do you imply?” she whispered fiercely, her cheeks reddening.

He had his answer, just by looking at her flushed face, but he kept on.

“I am no innocent,” he told her, “and I would think none the less of you. There are other types of love, I know.”

She drank deeply of her beer then , and stared at him defiantly. “I know not why I should answer your impertinent questions!” she said. “And yet . . .” another swig, “there was a woman. A fair, proud, woman. But she has another life now, and there is no room in it for me.”

Celaeren was not disposed towards flashes of visionary intuition, but the image that unexpectedly entered his mind was hard to dismiss. His cousin’s wife, the lady Eowyn, haughtily beautiful warrior maiden of Rohan. . . he watched his companion as she averted her eyes from his, and felt sure that he knew the truth. This, however, was one question he could not put to her, not so early in the evening, at least.

“And now?” he asked, leaning towards her across the table.

“How should I know? I have no time for such thoughts. I exist from day to day, just trying to stay alive, stay out of sight.”

“I would help you, if I could,” he said suddenly, surprising himself.

“I neither need nor want your help, Prince Celaeren,” she snapped at him viciously. “Yes, I know who you are; your reputation precedes you.”

She raised her glass and clinked it against his, before tipping it back and draining it rapidly.

“Wait!” He placed a hand on her arm as she began to rise from her seat. “I am sorry if I offended you. I meant only . . . to buy you a hearty meal, perhaps, next time we meet here?” He was backtracking furiously, and knew it; unsure why it was so important that she should not run from him, but certain that he would be bitterly angry with himself if she did. “We may meet again?”

Once more she seemed to weigh up the possibilities before replying.

“Not here,” she said at last. “I cannot come back here for a while; I have already played too many hands with too many canny customers.” So saying, she scanned the room warily. “At the Golden Oliphaunt, perhaps, near the West gate?”

Celaeren nd.
d.

“But know this,” she went on, in an low, urgent voice, “Should you speak of this meeting to anyone at court, I shall find you, and have my revenge.”

“Well do I know of the valour of the shield-maids of Rohan, and I doubt not that you would be true to your word.” He tried to ignore the frisson of excitement he felt at the thought of meeting her with swords drawn, and continued seriously, “I have nothing to gain by calling attention to you; I seek merely to continue our conversation, and to learn of you only that which you choose to reveal.”

She shook her head. “Truly, I still do not know why I should trust you. We shall s But But now I have to thank you for ther anr and bid you goodnight; for I must go and lose some money.”

“Wait – what do you . . .” he held out a hand to her again, but she had already left the table, and set off across the room to join the group of Northerners once more.

Left nursing his own drink and regarding her empty tankard on the table before him, Celaeren could only grimace to himself at his own discomfort. In his colourful career there had been hundreds of unexpected encounters in dozens of inns, but none had unsettled him like this one. She may be no beauty, but there was something about her, an energy, that drew him to her. And knowing she had an eye for other women did nothing to dampen his interest; in fact, as his racing pulse could testify, quite the reverse was true. Maybe the ale was finally turning him into a fool, but however far gone he was, he would not sit and wait for her after she had made it so plain that the interview was over.

So the prince rose, his pride almost intact, and headed for the door without so much as a glance at the mysterious woman in boy’s clothing. The night air was good, refreshing and pure in his lungs after the dense fug inside the inn. He decided to walk a while, down to one of the taverns by the market square. He badly needed another drink; and surely somebody there would be able to tell him the whereabouts of the Golden Oliphaunt.

Imagining the taste of the next glass of beer, Celaeren dismissed Beremund from his mind, and set off down the cobbled street.

To be continued…