Breathless by elfscribe

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Chapter 3 - Wasters and Rhymers

When members of Salgant’s House deliver a challenge to Glorfindel’s team, he learns that rumors are flying in Gondolin.

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The dusty field near the Lesser Market in Gondolin resounded with the dull clacks of the wasters—the wooden longswords used for practice.  Glorfindel stood on the edge of the ring watching his fourteen nearly naked trainees sparring with each other. Most of them were veterans of the King’s Games—trials that he and Turgon had established to create camaraderie among the combatants and healthy competition between Houses.  His team had six acknowledged champions who had acquitted themselves well, others that had nearly reached the champion level, and a few young hopefuls just starting out. Since the afternoon sun was hot, they had all stripped down to braes, helms, shin and arm guards. Their sweat-glistened limbs and rippling muscles were not an unpleasant sight. Not at all.

Glorfindel lifted his gaze to the encircling mountains and dearly wished for a breeze, but a fact of life in secluded Gondolin was that the winds didn’t often make it into the valley—which was good in winter, not so good in summer.  He glanced back at his charges. In the heat of the day, the team seemed grumpy and lethargic. Well, he wasn’t having it.  

“Ack! Cúrondil, don’t bring your feet together like that!” Glorfindel yelled. “Always turn your back foot at an angle to your front.”

The young man paused and lowered his waster. The point scraped the dust of the practice arena.  “I don’t see why,” he complained.

“Hah, greenling,” said Medlin, a burly fellow, but an expert swordsmen despite his bulk.

“Come here,” Glorfindel beckoned. “Halt, all of you and observe.” Through the metal bars of his face mask, he watched the sulky lad approaching.  Cúrondil was the son of Candoron, a member of Glorfindel’s house. Barely forty years old, handsome, and a bit full of himself, Cúrondil was a novice with much to learn.

“Guard!” Glorfindel snapped and the young man moved into Standing Oak position* with both hands on the handle of his practice longsword, held at his waist against his hip, blade tilted up. Glorfindel went to Swinging Gate posture, his waster blade lowered and held to the side. It was an open, inviting stance. “Now then, Cúrondil, come at me.”

The youth hesitated a moment and looked around.  By now the rest of them had formed a large semi-circle around them. The excitement had picked up.

“Ah, you can take him,” called Broneg.  He was Cúrondil’s older brother, a tall, lanky elf with buttery yellow hair, skilled with both sword and bow.

Medlin shook his head. “Hardly,” he said. “Our Lord Glorfindel is the best fighter in Gondolin.”

Broneg said, “I’ll wager Rog Camdring of the Hammer of Wrath would provide a challenge. I saw him at his forge the other day.  Frightening!”

“Enough speculation about my prowess,” Glorfindel said. “Cúrondil, I gave you an order.  Do you think an orc would stand around waiting for you to get up your nerve?”

Cúrondil used the back of his arm to wipe off his glistening forehead, settled into position and then came at Glorfindel with a yell. He raised his blade and swung at him with considerable power. Glorfindel met the blow and pushed it back, then quick-stepped to the side. Cúrondil tried to follow him. “Feet,” Glorfindel cried, as he engaged him again.  To his credit, the boy tried to change his stance, but not soon enough. Child’s play, Glorfindel thought as he whirled and landed a kick to Cúrondil’s stomach, which made the young man fly backwards onto his rear end.

“Ho!” the others laughed and some clapped.

Cúrondil sat stunned for a moment with the wind knocked out of him. He held his stomach and coughed. “Not fair,” he growled. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“So, you think there are rules in real combat?” Glorfindel said, standing over him. “Do you wish to learn something or not?”  He offered his hand, which the youth took, and Glorfindel hauled him to his feet.  As he did, he looked up and noticed eight of Salgant’s boys, the House of the Harp, heading towards them from the direction of the Lesser Market. No doubt they were come to deliver the formal challenge. Good.

“Stance!” Glorfindel ordered.  Cúrondil took the position and Glorfindel tapped his back foot to a greater angle so it was perpendicular to his forward foot.  “That’s it. Spread your legs wider.”  Glorfindel was aware of a titter coming from the Harp cadre, who steadily approached. “Aye, that’s it,” Glorfindel said to his youthful charge. Without warning, he shoved Cúrondil’s shoulder.  The lad wobbled, but stayed upright. Cúrondil’s expression of surprise turned into a grin.

“Now you know the reason to stand that way,” Glorfindel said. “Stability. With your front foot pointed forward and your back at an angle, ‘tis harder to upend you.  Do you have it now?”

Cúrondil nodded.

“I want you to run in proper position, three steps forward, three back, in Standing Oak guard.  Do it forty times,” Glorfindel said. “Like this.”  He executed the step.  “Do it until it feels second nature to you.”

As Cúrondil began the exercise, some of the others laughed. 

“Oh ho,” Glorfindel grinned at them. “Do you think you’re immune?  All of you will do the same after practice—just before you take a lap around the city.”  The laughter turned to groans.

“Hail Lord Glorfindel.” He turned.  It was Talagand, Salgant’s oldest son.  He was a broad shouldered youth with silvery eyes, short like his father, but he had a powerful arm and often won at javelin toss. He favored them with a short bow, just enough to show the respect Glorfindel was due, but bordering on insolence.

“Talagand,” Glorfindel replied, with a slight inclination of his head. “How fares your father?”

“Well enough to beat you at the upcoming Games,” Talagand said. “Along with all these greenstick warriors who don’t know a proper stance.”  The other seven members of Salgant’s House smirked.

At this Glorfindel’s cadre moved closer.

Glorfindel folded his arms. “Well, my friends, that has yet to be determined, doesn’t it?”

“It does. We came to issue the challenge.”  Talagand reached to his belt, unhooked a leather-bound baton painted in the colors of the Harp, and threw it in the dust at Glorfindel’s feet.

Glorfindel’s men murmured angrily as they closed the ring about him, adopting a protective maneuver. Normally, the baton of challenge was presented with a formal bow. Talagand’s action was completely arrogant.

Everyone grew silent as the elves on both sides waited to see what Glorfindel would do. 

Stifling his own anger, Glorfindel inserted the tip of his waster into the leather loop on the baton,  picked it up, and held it dangling in the air in front of Talagand as if it were a dead rat. “The House of the Golden Flower accepts the challenge,” he said in cold tones, “in the name of our most honorable King.”

“Honorable!” sneered one of Talagand’s companions, his cousin, a large copper-haired elf named Tavorion. He spat in the dust.

There was a collective intake of breath, then shouts erupted from both sides.

“Take that back!” Medlin roared as he tossed his sword away, and then hauled back and punched Tavorion squarely in the nose. Tavorion’s head snapped backwards.  He staggered and Medlin leapt upon him. The next instant they were rolling in the dust, pummeling each other.

“Hold!” Glorfindel cried in a commanding voice.  Broneg pulled Medlin off Tavorion, who glowered as he wiped a smear of blood from his nose.  Glorfindel wheeled upon Talagand.  “What is this outrage?  You will tell your boy to apologize for his insult!”

Talagand straightened, tilted his chin up.  “We’ve heard . . . things . . .  rumors that dispute the King’s honor.  And yours. Do you deny them?”

“I know nothing of rumors,” Glorfindel replied scornfully. But he felt a pang in his heart, as if a bowstring had snapped. 

“Go to the Silver Flute this evening,” Talagand said. “And listen to the Bard.  There you’ll learn what is being said, and may the Valar help you if it’s true.” He turned on his heel and sauntered off with his troop following in his wake.  A short distance away, several of them began whistling a tune, while the others laughed.

“Filthy pig! I’ll kill him!” Medlin declared, making a lunge in direction of the departing elves, stopped only by Cúrondil and Broneg hauling back on his arms.

“Kill him in another four days at the Games,” Glorfindel replied. “I’ll help you do it.”  He rounded on his team. “Do any of you know about this?”

They shook their heads, all but Broneg, who regarded Glorfindel sheepishly.  “I heard . . . something about a song the Bard was singing.  I’m sure it’s just malicious falsehood.”

Glorfindel felt sick to his stomach. “What song?”

Broneg scuffed his toe in the dirt.  “It insinuates something unsavory, all in sly and coded words. I daren’t say more, not wishing to spread untruths. We, of course, all know it to be lies, my Lord.  We’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”  

“I thank you for your loyalty,” Glorfindel said. “And I appreciate your right hook, Medlin, although I doubt Tavorion did.” He clapped Medlin on the shoulder.  One at a time, he held the eyes of each of his team members.  “Well, then is that enough incentive to beat the hubris out of the House of the Harp?”

“Aye!” they shouted.

“Then back to practice,” Glorfindel said.

The steady clacks of the wooden swords took up again with greater alacrity than before. Soon the smells of dust and sweat permeated the air. Glorfindel looked across the city towards the King’s tower.  He’d warned Turgon about this very thing.  After practice, he would pay the Silver Flute a visit to assess the situation for himself.  If true, then he’d have to determine what to do about it.

****************

It was dusk when Glorfindel finally returned to his house.  He entered, hot, sweaty, and worried, and was met by Ferindil who offered him a wet towel on a tray.  “Lord Ecthelion awaits you in the withdrawing room,” he said.

“Oh does he, indeed?” Glorfindel replied as he took the towel, wiped his face, neck, and arms, then put it back on the tray. “Bring a pitcher of water. I’ll see what he wants.”  No doubt his old sparring partner had heard the news as well. 

Glorfindel found Ecthelion happily ensconced in an armchair drinking a tankard of wine. As always, he appeared self-assured and cocky. He was dressed in evening clothes of richly died fabric, a dark green tunic, light green breeches, and wearing a filigreed circlet upon his brow, which sparkled like dew in his dark hair.  

When Glorfindel entered the room, Ecthelion raised his brilliant azure-shaded eyes and smiled broadly at him, revealing the dimple in his left cheek.

"May I ask what brings you here?” Glorfindel asked. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Ecthelion said.  He took a sip of his wine. 

“Forgive me.”  Glorfindel inclined his head as he settled into a nearby chair.  “But this has not been a good day.” 

“So, I hear.”

“You hear.  Is it all over Gondolin then?”

“For the most part, aye.”

Glorfindel thumped his fist on the table. “Not good at all. Thank you, Ferindil.”  He accepted the tankard of water from his manservant and proceeded to empty it in long swallows.

“How was practice?” Ecthelion said.  “Should I wager on your team or Salgant’s.”

Glorfindel paused, breathing heavily.  He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Mine, of course. Practice was good. The House of the Harp showed up and gave my men an incentive to beat the snot out of them at the Games.  Medlin took a practice swing at that imp Tavorion.  Might have broken his nose.”

“Huh, well ‘tis hot out, not good for tempers,” Ecthelion said.  “But hotter in here.  I was thinking of taking a walk.”

“Were you?” Glorfindel said. “Where did you think of going, as if I didn’t know.”

“I’ve developed a fancy to go to a tavern and listen to a harpist.  He’s said to be quite good and they say he’s composed new material.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel said, “May not be wise—I hear that Lord Glorfindel has a temper.”

“I’ve seen it,” Ecthelion chuckled. “Many a time.  Might I suggest that the Lord Glorfindel curb his temper, take a bath, use sweet oil—and dress in something . . . impressive.”  

“Not necessary,” Glorfindel said.  “Why not walk into this saucepot of a tavern, bedewed in sweat and dust, right off the practice field.  They should remember who they are dealing with.”

“My prince of diplomacy,” Ecthelion said.  “Bathe. Dress.  I’ll come along and keep you company if you wish.”

“I’m only going to dump a bucket over my head a few times,” Glorfindel said. “No time for a full bath. Ferindil?”

“Amarthiel and I will see to it,” Ferindil said.

***************

Shortly thereafter, Glorfindel stood in his bath sluicing water over his body, while Ferindil was poised with more pitchers.

Ecthelion sat in a nearby chair, gave him a quick glance and then pretended not to look further.  “I see all this training has been good for the muscle tone,” he said. “And that you still sport some hefty bruises.”

“I daresay you might still have a few of your own from battling spiders the size of a bloody  oliphaunt while chasing after the King’s headstrong sister.”

“Well do I remember,” Ecthelion said. “I would not feel so downhearted about that.  It was clear where she wanted to go.  I don’t blame her.  What was there for someone of her mettle and drive here in Gondolin — especially after the King’s edict?  She wouldn’t have found a husband here in any event.  Not someone of her equal.”

“You were suggested as a proper match for her, Ecthelion.  I wonder why you didn’t jump at the chance.”

Ecthelion laughed. “I heard that said of you as well.”  He turned to Ferindil. “You should have heard the talk when the King sent us both out into the wild with her.  He affected a high pitched voice, ‘Why should Lady Aredhel have a chance all alone in the wild to woo the most likely bachelors in Gondolin when the King has forbidden the rest of us from enjoying them?’”

Ferindil covered a laugh.

“I wonder how poor Egalmoth fit in with those theories?” Glorfindel chuckled. “His wife still won’t talk to me.”

“She has naught to complain of,” Ecthelion said. “She got him back in nearly one piece.  There now, are you clean?”

“As much as possible,” Glorfindel said as Ferindil toweled him down. “Unless you count the invisible mud being thrown at me as we speak.” 

Ecthelion rose, went over to Glorfindel’s wardrobe, and drew open the doors. As he bent over to examine clothes folded on the shelves, Glorfindel couldn’t help but admire the tight fit of his breeches.  Ecthelion straightened up, put his palms together and raised them to his lips.  “Now then, we want the effect to be both sophisticated and intimidating.  I think the short-sleeved tunic in deep blue with the silver stars embroidered about the neck and borders, evokes Cuiviénen, don’t you think Glorfindel?  Wear it without a shirt underneath—along with the moleskin braes in dun. Dark grey hose in cotton, ‘tis too hot for anything else. We’ll gird your wrists with silver guards and your loins with a silver belt. Upon your brow, the circlet with sapphires. Hair braided back as if going into battle. A matching blue hooded cape overall, good for a bit of discretion. This one is light enough for summer.”  He held it out. “That should do it.”

“Good choices, Lord Ecthelion,” Glorfindel said.  “Are you sure you haven’t experience as a manservant?”

“Nay, I merely have fine taste, don’t you think, Ferindil?” Ecthelion said, as he winked at Glorfindel.

“Unquestionably,” Ferindil replied.

****************

Once arrayed, Glorfindel and Ecthelion set off down the avenues towards the Great Market area.

“I fail to see why we need to dress like princes going to a summer festival,” Glorfindel grumbled.

“Come now, you are a good strategist, so think like one. We need to impress Pengolodh with our wealth and power.”

“Already too late for that.  He saw me creeping out of the palace this morning when my aspect wasn’t terribly impressive.”

“This morning?  What happened?” Ecthelion bumped against Glorfindel’s arm, as another group of elves crowded past.

“Nothing to tell.  I was up late last night, drinking with the King.  Passed out.  I was leaving early in the morn when I ran into Pengolodh in the southern garden. He must have been crafting his song even then.”

“Was there anything especially noteworthy about your appearance?” Ecthelion asked with the rise of an eyebrow.

“My shirt was on inside out. I plead an excess of drink and insufficient lighting.”

“Huh,” Ecthelion smiled.  “On the contrary, Pengolodh appears to have been most impressed with your fashion sense. I haven’t heard this song yet, but it mentions a mouse who turns his skin inside out after a randy night with an eagle.  I wonder why he would want to risk directing slander at the King?  He’s not in such high favor that he would be immune to Turgon’s wrath.”

“He’s the Loremaster of Gondolin.  If Turgon desires a noble account of himself and his actions, he’d best not anger Pengolodh, something the King is well aware of.  Pengolodh has tweaked his nose on other occasions and my Lord chose to look the other way.  Turgon confided that if he said anything, it would simply call attention to the man’s cheek. However, if what you’re hearing is true, this marks a new level of arrogance.”

Ecthelion was striding along so close that Glorfindel caught a whiff of his natural scent, warm, pleasing, and familiar. Comforting.

“Apparently, Pengolodh has a daughter he wants to marry to Rog Camdring’s son, Megildan, and the King’s edict prevents this,” Ecthelion said. 

“The King’s edict has caused much unrest. I told the Council that this was not a good idea. Rather we should rely on self-control to prevent an increase in Gondolin’s population. Elves in love should still be able to marry and enjoy themselves in bed. There are ways to prevent conception.”

“Huh,” Ecthelion said. “Self-control you say. Granted the Quendi have more of it than the Atani, but in truth, not much more.”

There were several strides of silence as they passed darkened houses.  Around them rose the ever-present smell of peat fires and simmering dinners. 

Ecthelion came to a stop, turned and put his hands on Glorfindel’s shoulders. “My good and dear friend,” he said softly. “Tell me, are the rumors true?”

Glorfindel opened his mouth, hesitated, then looked away.

“Ah,” Ecthelion said. “I’ve thought so, for many a year now. This complicates our response.  It wasn’t so bad, I guess before the Edict, but afterwards . . . Well, neither Noldor nor Sindar are much for hypocrisy in their rulers.  Nor do we care for same-gender relations, although I fail to see why that offends anyone. As you know, I’ve indulged that penchant myself.  But some adamantly oppose it and yammer on about how it’s against the natural order of things.  Pengolodh is one of them. No doubt he feels justified in exposing a double standard.”

“No doubt,” said Glorfindel miserably. “What shall I do, Ecthelion?”

“Ride it out — like a boat through rapids,” Ecthelion said.  “We’ll talk more later about the wisdom of continuing this affair. For now, are you planning to deny it?”

“I’ll try neither to confirm nor deny,” Glorfindel said. “I do not wish to add falsehoods to my sins.  And I have told myself everything you might say about the folly of my actions.  But the King will never confess, not to anyone. He’s consumed with guilt.”

“I’m at your back,” Ecthelion said. “In all things.”

“As ever, my friend,” Glorfindel said. “Let us confront the singing Balrog.”

“Hah!” Ecthelion grinned.  “A fitting moniker.”

********************

The Silver Flute was a popular drinking establishment located just off the Great Market of Gondolin.  Ecthelion and Glorfindel watched it for a while from across the street and noted that it appeared to be doing a brisk business. “A group approaches,” Ecthelion said. “Appears to be of Duilin’s House. They should be sympathetic at least. Let us mingle with them so that we aren’t noticed. Hoods up.”

They both raised their hoods and pulled them low over their faces so that they were somewhat disguised, then sauntered across the street to blend in with a group of young men and women from the House of the Swallow. Duilin, the head of the House, was one of Glorfindel’s friends. A tall young woman standing next to them also had her hood drawn low over her face.  She looked familiar. Moving close, Glorfindel nudged her. She looked up at him, startled.

“Shhh,” she put her finger to her lips and gave him a tentative smile.  It was Idril, the King’s daughter.  No doubt she’d heard the rumors as well.

Glorfindel had great admiration and respect for her. She was not only beautiful, but wise and kind. At one point, there had been talk in Gondolin of Idril as a possible match for him, but given Glorfindel’s relationship with her father, not to mention his sexual proclivities, and the fact that Idril had never shown an interest in him, it was out of the question. He was secretly relieved that the King’s edict took him out of the marriage market.

The tavern was built about an open courtyard with a large firepit in the center, which was burning real hardwood — hickory, by the smell.  Next to the fire was a red settee. On the tiles next to it stood Pengolodh’s great harp. 

Pengolodh was leaning against the bar along with his sycophants, a raucous group of elves. The Loremaster wore a dark red robe, embroidered in golden dragons and his river of brown hair was braided into three long plaits twined with gold thread. He was drinking deeply from a mug.

The place was packed with Gondolindrim from all walks of life and the din was formidable. Already the patrons seemed well on their way to liquid insensibility.  Across the room, Glorfindel noticed Salgant sitting with his son, Talagand, and his nephew Tavorion, surrounded by others of their house.  Tavorion seemed to have developed a well-deserved black eye.

“D’ye see the House of the Harp over there?” Ecthelion whispered.

Glorfindel nodded. “This does not bode well. Keep a watch on them.”

Elves jostled each other as they sought tables.  Ecthelion and Glorfindel squeezed into benches at a table located slightly behind the singer, and then called for ale, salted wheat cakes, and pickled mushrooms. 

Quietly, Idril squeezed in next to him.  “Lord Glorfindel, Lord Ecthelion,” she acknowledged them softly in her deep, musical voice.

“Milady,” Glorfindel murmured. “How fares the King today?”

“Well enough, but for a sore head from last night.  Truly Lord Glorfindel, you both should temper your appetites.” Idril’s tone was sharp. Did she also suspect?

“You are right, it was a mistake,” Glorfindel said.

“As for this latest bit of rumor-mongering, most distressing,” Idril continued. “We heard this afternoon. I’ve come to discover if the gossip was true.”

“For that reason we have come as well,” Glorfindel said. 

“I cannot believe Pengolodh would make such an accusation,” Idril said. “Father will not stand to see his name . . . and yours dragged in the dust. But let us see if ‘tis true.”

“If so, then what?” Glorfindel murmured.  Ecthelion glanced at him. His face was troubled. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.

The Loremaster returned to his place in the courtyard and seated himself upon the bench behind the harp. He put his hand to his breast. “’Tis highly gratifying to see so many of our fair citizens here tonight. Perhaps attributable to the fine ale brewed by the owner, Baimeldir himself. May I introduce my piper, Mornael, and my drummer, Glamhir, who will accompany my next song.”  Pengolodh gestured at a woman holding a flute and a hefty man with a drum strapped over his shoulder.  “I switch now from the somber mood of my epic, ‘The Seagull’s Cry’ to something light.  This next song is a new bit of whimsy in a humorous vein, which already seems to have gained a certain amount of fame, or may I say notoriety, since my first performance this afternoon.  I call it the ‘Eagle and the Mouse’ and dedicate it most humbly to our beloved Lord and Sovereign.” 

Pengolodh pulled the harp onto his shoulder and opened with a full glissando across the strings, then began plucking a sprightly melody, which was joined by the drum and the pipe.  It was indeed a dance tune in a comedic mode, which meant that it wasn’t to be taken seriously. Glorfindel frowned.

There was once an eagle, a scion of kings

Who flew ‘cross the sea, western wind on his wings.

His virtue was great; his leadership strong

He’d never done anything venal or wrong.

Until he was tempted by one in his house

An innocent-seeming golden-haired mouse.

Who hied from a valley ablossom with flowers

And played with his waster to while ’way the hours.

With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle

With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho!

 

The eagle went flying o’er a valley so deep

To search out a bed upon which he might sleep.

He laid himself upon the fragrant ground

Amidst the blossoms, golden and round.

Then late that night into this cosy bower

There crept the mouse of the golden flower.

‘Awake, my friend, your appetite prod

And together we will diddle my rod.’ 

With a diddle hey diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle

With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho!

 

‘You play the fiddle while I rosin your bow

If you wax it sufficiently well, it will grow.’

‘We can’t,’ said the eagle, ‘we’re not of a kind.’

‘No matter,’ said mousie, ‘a hole we will find.’

With a squeak and a squawk they practiced all night

“Til morning dawned fair on a disagreeable plight

‘I’m stuck,’ cried the eagle, ‘this hole is too small,

I fear this wasn’t a good plan at all.’

With a diddle hey diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle

With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho!

A chorus of shocked gasps and titters erupted around the courtyard.  Across the way, Salgant’s many chins jiggled with laughter. Glorfindel felt heat creep over his face.  He had to admit the tune was catchy and the poetry, while a far cry from Pengolodh’s best, had a certain sly humor to it.  He might have even enjoyed it if he and his sovereign were not the target. 

“It’s clever,” Ecthelion whispered to him. His mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. Glorfindel snorted, and Ecthelion said, “Nay, I don’t mean it’s good, because it’s not, but how can anyone get mad at him for a dodgy bit of doggerel like this?”

“He’s making a mockery of me and the King and everyone knows it,” Glorfindel whispered. “I don’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the mouth.”

“It’s disgusting,” Idril said on his other side. “And outrageously disrespectful.”

At this, Glorfindel pulled back his hood and sat there with his arms folded.  He heard murmurs as people in the vicinity noticed him.  Looking behind him, he saw Medlin, Cúrondil, and Broneg.  Medlin caught his eye and nodded at him.  Glorfindel felt better knowing they were on his side.

With great difficulty, he kept his temper in check and listened to the entire song, all ten verses, short for one of Pengolodh’s creations, but long enough to establish that the mouse and eagle’s exertions made them so hot that the mouse removed his fur coat, and then when a snake entered the nest to eat the eagle’s sister, the mouse escaped with his coat inside out, with a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho.  The intimation that he allowed the King’s sister to perish, rather than be caught himself, was the final slap.  Glorfindel felt anger boiling up inside and could barely keep his seat.

When the song was over, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of clapping, and boos. Many patrons stalked out in a huff. The tension had ratcheted up tremendously in the room. 

Glorfindel thunked down his mug and rose deliberately.  Followed by Ecthelion, Medlin, Cúrondil, Broneg, and Idril, with her hood still drawn low, Glorfindel made his way over to the firepit. There was a general scramble while the rest of the audience moved out of his way.  From his seat, Salgant gestured and Talagand and Tavorion sauntered over with their thumbs in their belts.  Glorfindel glanced around at tense faces waiting for what might follow.

Pengolodh’s lips curled.  “Hail and well met, Lord Glorfindel.  I didn’t see you over there—with your various intimates.”

“Apparently I can hide — just like a mouse,” Glorfindel said. 

“What a coincidence, there was a mouse in my song,” Pengolodh said. “This is the second time you’ve crept out of hiding today. I see you managed to don your clothes correctly this time.”

“Your song was an amusing fairy tale,” said Glorfindel. “But others seem to be taking it for something other than that. I’m sure that was not your intention.”

“I have no power over what others might glean from a bit of whimsy,” Pengolodh said with an airy wave of his hands.

“Loremaster Pengolodh, may I respectively suggest that you are full of shite,” Ecthelion said from just behind Glorfindel.  There was a sputter of voices and laughter from all sides.

“Greetings Lord Ecthelion, the second of the three miscreants who lost the King’s sister.”

Ecthelion’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t there, Pengolodh. I doubt you would have fared any better.” 

Glorfindel had enough. “Leaving the question about our competence in guiding Lady Aredhel, I think the King might have something to say about your bit of whimsy.”

“And what would he do?”  Pengolodh narrowed his eyes.  “Forbid it? Pray tell me exactly why he might object to this?”

“As you well know, it references certain Houses in Gondolin. Very powerful houses.”

“Is that what you think?” Pengolodh laughed.  “I wonder why?  Could it have to do with a guilty conscience?”

“Nay, my dear Loremaster—rather that it amounts to treasonous slander,” Glorfindel said.

“It’s not slander if it is true, Lord Glorfindel.  So, tell me why were you an overnight guest of the King when your house is little more than a quarter hour’s jog away?  And why have you been observed many times over the years in similar circumstances, always after a late night of hard drinking?”

“I do not have to explain my innocent associations,” Glorfindel declared.

“If they are so innocent then do now swear an oath that you and the King are not conducting an illegal and tawdry liaison!”

Glorfindel had a terrible urge to pound the Loremaster’s sharp nose into his face.  He stepped forward and seized Pengolodh’s robe, while behind him he heard a thump of moving feet. No doubt his men were in position to tackle their antagonists.

The Bard cried out, “You dare not assault me!”   

Ecthelion pried Pengolodh’s robe from Glorfindel’s fingers and said, “He shall do nothing of the kind, Pengolodh. However, I suggest you modify your song posthaste, so that members of this fair city won’t take the wrong meaning from it.” 

“I require an oath.  Failing that, I cry a challenge,” Pengolodh said.  He stepped back, looking rather pale, but determined. “Until then, I’ll continue to exercise my prerogative to sing what I wish.”

“You’re crying challenge on Lord Glorfindel?” Ecthelion asked incredulously.  “He’d kill you in a heartbeat.”

“I have a champion,” Pengolodh said.  “All here in witness, I cry challenge upon Lord Glorfindel to meet my champion in two days time in the arena at three hours past noon.  Winner to submit to the loser’s demands.”

“Who’s your champion?” Glorfindel asked.

“I am,” said a deeply resonant voice behind them. 

Glorfindel and Ecthelion turned as Rog Camdring, chief of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, and a tower of sinewy muscle, slowly rose and clapped his monstrous hands on the table.

“Valar,” Ecthelion said in Glorfindel’s ear.  “This is not good.”

Staring at the immensity that was Lord Rog, Glorfindel recalled being matched with him several times in the Games. Lord Rog Camdring was immensely strong as well as skilled, and likely the only warrior in Gondolin who could beat him. Well, and Ecthelion, if his friend was having a particularly good day. 

At this point Glorfindel was reeling from the public exposure of his darkest secret; the need  to pretend it was not so and now the news he’d have to fight a formidable warrior to prove it.  A fight he might well lose.

Idril stepped up and pulled off her hood. Several elves gasped and bowed their heads to her. 

“Lady Idril,” Pengolodh said.  Nervously, he licked his lips.

She shook her finger at him.“You should be ashamed of yourself, purveying such falsehoods and damaging the reputations of our great King and our faithful Lord Glorfindel!”

“If Lord Glorfindel is so virtuous, Milady, he should have no problem swearing an oath that what I’ve said is wrong,” Pengolodh returned.  “However, I believe I have solid evidence.  I’ve spoken to witnesses.”

He must have bribed some of Turgon’s servants, Glorfindel thought, furiously.  It gets worse and worse.

“Witnesses!” Idril said scornfully. “I must have their names and talk to them myself. Who are you, Pengolodh, to demand an oath on a personal matter like this?  You’ve made yourself the judge. . . .”

“He’s a liar!” Broneg shouted. He lunged at Pengolodh.  Talagand stuck out a foot and tripped him. Broneg went flying to the floor. Medlin shoved Talagand back into a table, knocking mugs over and splashing wine onto the elves seated there. With alarmed cries, they jumped to their feet.

Tavorion leapt on Medlin’s back, and Medlin whirled in a circle to shake him off. Idril picked up a jug and cracked it over Tavorion’s head. He dropped off Medlin’s back and lay dazed on the floor.  In an instant there was a melee of flying crockery and swinging fists. Glorfindel held his arm out to protect Idril, but was shoved back against another table and into a crowd of elves who caught him and pushed him forward.

Pengolodh had retreated behind his harp, surrounded by his astonished musicians.

Talagand cried out, “Kingfucker,” and kicked Glorfindel in the groin, causing him to bend over in pain and suck in a breath, while Cúrondil elbowed Talagand, who punched Ecthelion. 

At this point Glorfindel’s temper, already bubbling like a pot on the stove, boiled over.  He straightened, hauled back, and slugged Talagand in the face so hard that the elf’s head snapped to the side, and he fell to the floor, out cold.  Suddenly his father, Salgant was in the fray.  He took a swing at Glorfindel who ducked and Salgant instead hit Ecthelion in the ribs. Ecthelion put a foot onto Salgant’s ample stomach and sent him flying up against the wall, where he fell back onto the floor.

Glorfindel could no longer see Idril, but he didn’t have time to look for her as Rog threw Cúrondil half way across the room and then, with a furious scowl on his craggy face, headed towards Glorfindel. Salgant shook his head, and launched himself back at Glorfindel, while Rog towered over both of them.

There was a disturbance at the back of the tavern and Idril appeared leading six of Turgon’s personal guard, who pushed their way through the crowd. Carrying fighting staffs, they clanked into the courtyard—impressive in chain mail and their surcoats of white, gold, and red, emblazoned with the King’s emblems of sun, moon, and the scarlet heart.

“Desist at once!” cried a great voice. It was Morgil, Captain of the King’s guard.

Glorfindel had hold of Salgant’s tunic and was just lifting a fist to punch him.  Instead, he threw Salgant back into Rog’s arms.

Morgil and his men were suddenly amidst the combatants with their fighting staffs held ready. Morgil advanced to the firepit where the musicians stood huddled. He shouted, “By the order of the King, Loremaster Pengolodh has been instructed to appear at the palace immediately to answer charges of sedition.”

“Nay, I’ll not answer to tyrants who break their own laws,” Pengolodh said, lifting his chin.  Glorfindel had to credit him for audacity.

“Leave. All of you,” Captain Morgil said with a sweep of his hand indicating the crowd. “This kind of fighting is strictly forbidden. The tavern is closed for a week. If I encounter any further resistance from anyone, you'll spend a month on nightsoil collection duty.”

More shouting ensued, much of it from Baimeldir, the owner of the Silver Flute.

Morgil raised his hands for silence. “The rest of you, I’m willing to forgive this breach of the law if you disperse immediately.” Quietly, Morgil said to his men, “Clear them out.  Pengolodh, you will come, willing or unwilling.  Your choice.”  Two of the guards took hold of Pengolodh’s arms.  Morgil turned to Glorfindel. “The King requires you there as well.  He wishes to get to the bottom of this matter.”

“My Lord?” Medlin said, with a raised eyebrow.  His nose was bleeding, his shirt torn, and his genial face looked grim. 

Glorfindel put a hand on his arm.  “Take them all home,” he said. “This does not concern you.”

“But . . .”

“Do as I say,” Glorfindel growled.  He turned to Idril.  “I thank you, Milady, for your timely aid.”

“Father is furious,” Idril said.  Her face was pale, and her grey eyes glittered.  “I do not know what the outcome of this will be.”

I fear it will not be good, Glorfindel thought.

“I’ll meet you later at your house to discuss . . . tactics,” Ecthelion said. 

Glorfindel nodded.  “Assuming I am free to return home.”

Shortly afterward, Glorfindel and Pengolodh were professionally hussled out of the Silver Flute by four of the guards, while two more stayed to push out the patrons.  Pengolodh blustered furiously at this treatment until Morgil threatened him with indefinite detainment in the palace keep. Idril came along at Glorfindel’s side. As they marched through the streets which by now were full of curious onlookers, Glorfindel’s fiery ire cooled sufficiently for him to wonder what he and Turgon could possibly say to one another at this point.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Re:  Names for guard stances in longsword fighting. I’ve invented elvish terms for two standard guard stances.  The one I've named Standing Oak is commonly termed the Plough and the Swinging Gate is my name for the Iron Door.

*Note on Talagand’s name.  It means harper.  Tolkien considered changing Salgant’s name to Talagand, so I’ve given it to his OC son.  

Atani (Q) The Second born, Men.

Baimeldir (S) fair friend (bain+meldir)

Broneg (S) enduring thorn  (bron +eg)

Candoron (S) bold oak  (can + doron)

Camdring (S) Hammerhand (cam +dring)

Cúrondil  S)crescent moon friend

Glamhir (S) noise-master

Medlin  (S) bear-like (honey-eater)

Megildan (S)Sword wright (megil + tan)

Mornael (S) black pool

Tavorion (S)woodpeaker’s son  (tavor +ion)