Much Ado about Mushrooms

Written By:Kara's Aunty
You can read the original here:
All Credit goes to the original author

Chapter 1

Farlibar was humming quietly to himself as he stood before a broad, squat bench in the cooks’ tent with his arms up to his elbows in a bucket of soapy water. Another large wooden bucket of warm water was beside it and a stack of drying towels lay next to that, ready to dry the clean dishes for deposit on the sturdy table nearby where they would be kept for use later that day. Other hobbit cooks and their apprentices milled about cleaning dishes and checking ingredients for the main meal later that afternoon.

It had been a morning of heady excitement with the arrival of the Big Folk on the Shire’s borders - Kings and Elves, Lords and Ladies - and the stocky hobbit cook from the Floating Log was surprised to have made it through the day so far without fainting dead away from the anxiety that he would be directly approached by one of the grand company. Although a confident cook, he was in general a shy hobbit and didn’t know if his poor nerves could take such excitement.

He had been reticent to come to the Brandywine Bridge to see so many Big Folk - happy to cook the food instead and send it on its way with the other very willing hobbits - but Mistress Goodenough had insisted that he should get out more and be more sociable-like. So he had, albeit reluctantly, carried the great platters of food to the field with the others in the hope he could blend into the background and not catch the attention of the rather intimidating (if well-dressed) giants currently occupying the field across the river.

Fortunately, he had managed to stay out of the way so far, other than delivering the delicious dishes to the long table the King himself would be eating at in the great pavilion which lay just outside the cooks‘ tent.

The King himself! The sturdy cook shook his dark head in awe. Never in all his life had he thought to be cooking for such a grand and important person! He wouldn’t even know how to greet such a one! Was it Your Lordship? Your Kingship? Your Worship? No matter, it wasn’t like he’d ever meet him.

Farlibar hadn’t really believed he existed at all until he showed up on the Brandywine Bridge and bowed at the Mayor of Michel Delving. Bowed at Mayor Sam! And the Queen and all those other important people doing likewise! What on earth had the Mayor done that a King from a foreign land would come all the way down here just to bow at him? What Great Deed could have inspired such admiration from such a lordly figure?

As he washed the never-ending stack of dirty plates he allowed himself to mull over what favour Sam could have performed for the King that would have procured such an honourable visit. He wasn’t possessed of a particularly vivid imagination (unless it had to do with the preparation of food) so his wonderings were rather limited in their scope to what little he knew of Master Gamgee. Had he helped with planting the Royal Gardens? No, you half-cooked sausage! They’ll have plenty of gardeners in their fine city, he admonished himself. It must’ve been more than that!

He knew that Mayor Sam had spent a while outside the Shire in the King’s company while on some kind of adventure, something which he’d always found quite odd. The respectable gardener did not strike him as the kind of flighty hobbit that would pack up and leave his homelands on some undercooked notion of exploring the outside world. He couldn’t imagine any sensible hobbit that would do anything of the sort.

Suddenly, an image of the uppity Master of Buckland flashed through his mind and Farlibar’s mouth thinned in annoyance, remembering how the well-dressed hobbit had slighted his fare the previous summer. Whereas he was not one to gainsay his betters and always tried to treat the insufferable Master with respect (hard as that was), the memory of their first encounter was still enough to irk the normally reasonable cook. To make things worse, on the (thankfully) rare occasions he had encountered him since, the young Master had still not shown the proper appreciation for his culinary skills!

He’d be exactly the kind of queer person I’d expect to drop everything and leave on some daft journey, he thought rather uncharitably, not our down-to-earth Mayor Gamgee!

Still, it could not be denied that the steady, sensible Master of Bag End had ‘done a Mad Baggins’ and left the borders of the Shire in his youth. And the previous Master of the Hill had gone with him. Farlibar was convinced that Bag End was cursed and hoped he never had reason to put even one hairy foot in it! Why, if he ever did who knew what could happen? If half of what that cheeky Buckland upstart spouted was true, he could be off riding Oliphaunts in the deserts of the Far Eastern Lands Where Night Never Falls before he knew what had happened to him - and all completely against his better judgement! He shuddered at the thought and returned to his contemplation of Mayor Sam‘s Great Deeds.

The most famous gardener in the Shire was also known by some to be a fair cook. He had heard the Thain himself mention it during one of his stop-overs in Frogmorton. Well that’s it then! He cooked for him on their travels! Great platefuls of mushrooms, tomatoes, bacon and sizzling fried potatoes! Proper hobbit food, the likes of which he never tasted before.

Rinsing a soapy platter in the bucket of warm water, Farlibar felt slightly more satisfied with this answer. He thought it highly plausible that some foreigner had survived on bread and cold meat all their life, waiting for the day a sensible hobbit would come to their rescue and introduce them to the culinary delights of the Shire. It was just the luck of the Mayor that the foreigner he found was a King in disguise! Why, he was probably so grateful to get a proper meal he’d’ve showered Sam with gifts and titles! He dried the plate and set it on the table.

Farlibar thought back to a few hours previously when the King had first arrived. He was a tall, dark man with regal features and an air of unspoken command. It was clear that all his company had great respect for him. Or maybe it was fear? Probably scared of him because of all that hair sprouting out his face. It’s not natural!

He dipped another dirty plate in the warm soapy water, scrubbing it to remove all the gravy remnants. For all the man’s grandeur he had been very thin, compared to a hobbit. He’d probably sought out Sam all the way to the Shire to get another decent meal! He’d noticed that the strange foreigners didn’t eat nearly a healthy amount of food - why, most of them didn’t even take second helpings! Farlibar was scandalised at such a thing. How could they live so long and grow so tall on one serving of food at meal times? Didn’t these Big Folk have enough sense to at least feed their King properly? He’d waste away to nothing and then what would they do?

Still, he mused, apart from their very odd eating habits, they seemed like a good enough sort of folk - if a bit too grandiose for his comfort. And some of the men as tall as trees! The cook suddenly shivered, feeling a bit ill at the thought of having his head so far away from the ground. That’s enough of that Farlibar Barleyburn, he told himself. Your head’s exactly where it should be, so just be grateful for it and pay no mind that these Men look like they’ve been stretched beyond all good reason!

Thankful for his own anatomical correctness and relieved at having stumbled over the cause of the King‘s gratitude, he continued with the repetitive, but surprisingly soothing, task of dip, scrub, rinse and the mountain of dishes began to dwindle as he lost himself to ruminations of over-stretched hobbits with hairless feet and no appetites.

So lost was he in thought, that he didn’t hear the approach of two hobbits until one of them practically coughed in his ear. With a yelp of surprise he stumbled back from the bucket of soapy water and the plate he held slipped from his wet grasp, bouncing off the packed grassy earth the cooks’ tent was pitched on and rolling under the bench. Whirling around, he spied two of the objects of his earlier musings standing in front of him - one of them not entirely welcome. That annoying Brandybuck!

And he was not trying very hard to wipe the smirk off his face, although Farlibar reined in his tongue when he saw that the Thain stood by him. The Thain! Of the Shire! Here, in the cooks’ tent! Farlibar had a sudden moment of unease. What would bring two such important hobbits (even though one of them was a blight on the landscape) here when the were Lords and Ladies outside waiting to hang off their every word? Was something wrong? He gulped. Had he done something wrong?

“Mr Thain, Mr Brandybuck, is everything in order sirs?”

The Thain was looking at him in such a solemn manner that Farlibar’s unease increased. Had he done something? Had he offended one of the Big Folk perhaps? He racked his brains trying to think what he may have said or done to cause offence, but found nothing. In fact, he had been so intimidated by the tall people roaming the field outside that he’d only left the cooks’ tent to deliver food to the King’s table before the Royal Party had been seated and had not encountered anyone other than a few guards. Had he managed to slight one of them?

The Thain’s green eyes seemed to bore hot holes through his skull and the smirk on the Bucklander’s face was not helping matters. Farlibar began to squirm on the spot and finally the head Took spoke.

“Are you the cook from the Inn at Frogmorton?” demanded the authoritative voice of the green-eyed Took.

“Why, yes sir. Farlibar. Farlibar Barleyburn at your service and your family’s,” he sputtered nervously.

“Hmmph,” replied the Thain and Farlibar thought he heard a note of disapproval in the tone.

“And are you responsible for the baked mushrooms served to the King’s table earlier this afternoon?”

The Frogmorton cook was thrown by this. His food? What was wrong with his food? He thought he’d offended one of the Royal Guards, but no! The Thain had found fault with his food. He was honestly puzzled by this. He’d prepared those mushrooms himself only an hour and a half before the Big Folk arrived and he’d stuffed them with cheese, chopped tomato and potato shavings before baking them. The had been soft, juicy and oozing with flavour and he’d topped them off with a sprinkling of black pepper. They were one of his better accompaniments!

He raised his head proudly, sure that the Thain could not possibly be here to complain about his superb mushroom dish and said: “ That I am Mr Thain, sir. Cooked mostly the meats, certainly, but I couldn’t not serve up my best mushroom dish for such a distinguished company.” It was amazing how confident he felt in his skill as a cook! Some hobbits found great acclaim in making tobacco or ales - but he, Farlibar Barleyburn, was the best cook in Frogmorton and no one could deny it!

Why, that tone of disapproval he thought he heard from the Thain only a moment ago must have been imagined! He was here to say that the King was greatly impressed by his culinary skills - maybe even more so than Mayor Sam’s! Farlibar lost himself temporarily to a wild fantasy of the King bowing before him in delirious gratitude, promising him fancy titles (maybe even one good enough to make that Bucklander buffoon mind his manners!) and Mayor Sam begging him for tips on food preparation, but before he could come to his good hobbit senses he heard a snort.

He recognised that snort.

Snapping out of his foolish daydreams, he saw the quaking shoulders of the Master of Brandy Hall and flushed at being caught in a flight of fancy by him of all people.

The Thain’s next words disconcerted him further. “Best mushroom dish, you say? Are you sure that was your best? And to have served it before Royalty?”

Farlibar’s self-assuredness was beginning to leak slowly away at the dubious tone of the Thain, a feeling compounded when the Bucklander added: “That poor, dear child. Sick all over the place.”

The cook went rigid at this. Poor, dear child? What poor, dear child? Whose poor, dear child had been sick all...

Suddenly he felt faint. Was the Bucklander referring to the King’s poor, dear child? Had he not cooked his mushrooms properly and made the little Prince ill? No! It couldn’t be! He mentally reviewed the process of baking the fungi and couldn’t see how he may have contaminated them. They were the very best from Farmer Maggots’ fields - special for the occasion - and he was always so careful when cooking! So lost was he in his temporary panic that he missed the sharp look the Thain threw his cousin and the Bucklander’s impudent answering wink.

“Er, who was sick, sir?” he asked in a slightly strangled voice, but the Master of Brandy Hall shook his head as if a great tragedy had just occurred mere metres away.

“The Queen had to rush him away to clean him up and lie him down! The King is in an uproar and has left the Royal Pavilion to hunt for the person responsible - he may even be on his way here as we speak.”

Farlibar knew a moment of sheer terror as the tent entrance flapped open, but it was not the imposing ruler seeking to vent his wrath for the plight of his heir, only another hobbit bringing a further stack of plates and utensils to be washed. Before the flap closed he tried to see if the King was still at the top of his table, for the pavilion he had dined at was straight across from the cooks’ tent and he had a partial sighting of it. But all he caught was a glimpse of Mayor Sam sitting alone and looking around the tent suspiciously, as if searching for a culprit, then the flap closed again leaving him to the attentions of the hobbit gentry and the chaotic tumbling of his suddenly fertile imagination.

The Prince was sick! He was responsible! And even if he wasn’t, the King himself thought he was and poor Farlibar was always in such a muddle around dignitaries that he lost the ability to form full sentences. He usually allowed his food to do the talking. But the King thought his food had poisoned his son! He’d never be able to gather his wits enough to convince him that something else must have caused the little Prince’s illness. He’d be arrested! Thrown in a dungeon! Hanged or run through with a sword before he could protest his innocence! Or maybe even have his head chopped off! He had heard stories from travellers about such punishments for displeasing Big Folk and was almost weak at the thought. He may not want his head further off the ground than was normal for a hobbit, but he didn’t want it rolling on the grass either! Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and he didn’t know whether to wipe them off or enjoy the sensation while he still could.

The Thain addressed him again and Farlibar tried to clear his head enough to listen. “Do you have reason to believe they may not have been up to standard?”

“No sir, Mr Thain sir! I baked them myself using a reliable recipe. Why, you’ve even had them before yourself, if you don’t my saying so sir, and you never got sick!”

The head Took paused at this, as if searching his memory for such an instance and Farlibar waited nervously for validation of his claim. The King couldn’t doubt his skills if the Thain himself vouched for him, surely?

But the Tuckborough native frowned. “I’ve eaten at many Inns over the years Master Farlibar. I don’t remember every dish I’ve ever been served by every cook I’ve ever encountered. I vaguely recall an apple crumble you have served on occasion that was quite delicious - served it with thick, smooth custard I believe, yes. It was nice and crunchy and creamy….oof!”

The Took was drawn from his dreamy-eyed digression of that particular dish by what seemed to be a poke in the ribs from the Bucklander. Really, that Brandybuck had no manners! What was he all about, disrespecting the Thain when he could have been searching for the very memory that would keep Farlibar’s head attached to his shoulders!

“No, sorry, I can’t remember any particular mushroom dishes you served,” finished the Thain and Farlibar was too vexed by this to catch the glare he threw at the other hobbit while rubbing his chest.

“But Mr Thain…I mean Mr Took…I mean…but sir! You know what a good cook I am! You’ve eaten at the Floating Log many times and no matter what I make you always like it, don’t you? It’s never made you ill, has it sir? And Mistress Goodenough can speak to that as well! I’ve never had any complaints before - you must talk to the King on my behalf sir! Tell him that I’m a decent hobbit! I only use good ingredients, sir, I cook them properly and I always wash my hands before and after! I don’t know how the little Prince could have fallen so sick sir, but I’m sure it wasn’t at my hand!”

“Be that as it may Master Barleyburn, the child is unwell and it was caused by something he ate,” interjected the stuffed dandy at the Thain’s side. “What’s more, the dishes you prepared were most in evidence. If it wasn’t the mushrooms, it must have been the roast pork.”

If Farlibar hadn’t been so alarmed, then - shy well-mannered hobbit that he normally was aside - he would gladly have stuck the crowing Bucklander’s empty head in the dishwater and given it a thorough scrubbing!

But he was alarmed. Very. He was now wringing a damp dish towel between his hands and hopping from one curly-haired foot to another wondering how a respectable hobbit like himself could have incurred the wrath of a King he’d first laid eyes on merely hours before. Mistress Goodenough would be very displeased that he had brought shame on her establishment in this way. He’d have to leave the Floating Log! No one would ever hire him as a cook again if they thought he was a poisoner of children - that is if he ever managed to survive this day with his body as whole as the day his mother had borne him! He’d have to find a position in some other trade - something unheard of for a hobbit almost of age. But he wasn’t good at anything other than cooking.

“Mr Thain, sir - what shall I do? How can I convince his Royal Kingship that I never hurt his son?”

The Thain looked uncomfortable at the heartfelt plea and Farlibar wished he didn’t sound so desperate, but his reputation - and maybe his very neck - was at stake.

But again, that blasted Bucklander answered before the green-eyed Took could open his mouth. “Perhaps we may be able to intervene for you in some way, if you were to do us a small service…”

“Yes sir, anything! Anything!” Farlibar was beyond caring that he was practically throwing himself at the mercy of his nemesis. He just wanted to make it out of this unfortunate situation in one piece. Never in all his years had his skills been in doubt and this was a very new (and worrying) position to find himself in.

“Well, in order to prove to the King that your mushroom dish is not the culprit, we shall have to test more of it. Do you have any remaining?”

The anxious cook shook his head. “No sir, I don’t. All we’ve got here is the beginnings of a spiced loaf for afternoon tea - we cooked most of the welcome feast before we came, you see.” Seeing the frown on both hobbits’ faces he hurriedly added: “But more mushrooms are being delivered for the dinner later on. I could see to it that they’re brought earlier and start preparing as soon as they get here.”

The Thain and the Master regarded him speculatively, then nodded in unison. “As long as you do it as quickly as possible. We shall try to appease His Majesty until you can produce the dish and prove your innocence.”

Just then, the tent flap opened again and Farlibar thought his heart would stop. He could see the King outside! He had found him! He was doomed! He was...

The great Man entered the tent and spoke to some of the other hobbits there and Farlibar swallowed the huge lump that had appeared in his throat. The gentlehobbits, noting his white complexion, turned to see the cause of his distress and their own faces paled slightly as they saw the King slowly making his way round the hobbits who were clearing the remnants of the feast and preparing a cooking area for the late afternoon meal.

Farlibar thought they were concerned on his behalf and would have been grateful if could see anything other than his life flashing before his eyes.

“Erm, perhaps we should leave you to it,” said the Thain suddenly and Farlibar snapped out of his stupor.

“No, sir! Don’t leave me! He’ll find me for sure and what’ll I say?” He felt somewhat betrayed by the Took’s willingness to abandon him to his fate (though nothing the Bucklander did would surprise him). But the Thain and the Master of Brandy Hall seemed reluctant to dawdle when their regent got closer and would have left the poor cook to his doom if the long legs of the King hadn’t delivered him to their company before they were able to depart.

Farlibar closed his eyes and awaited sentence from his executioner as the tall man stood before him. He couldn’t bear to look up at his accuser. If he had been one of those queer Bucklanders who wore boots, he’d be quaking in them right this very minute!

But instead of the harsh tones of a furious King, he heard the happy tones of a man greeting friends. He cracked open an eye and saw the dark-haired man grinning at the two hobbits who’d tried to warn him earlier. Why was he smiling? Did he enjoy executions? Was Farlibar's head rolling on the grass to be the afternoon’s entertainment, after which the Big Folk would retire for a nap before dinner?

“Oh, hello Strider,” he heard the Took say in an unnaturally high voice.

Deciding to meet his fate bravely and defend his honour like any decent hobbit should, he opened his other eye and pulled himself as straight as his knocking knees would allow. He saw a slight frown mar the King’s brow as he regarded the gentlehobbits and heard him ask if all was well. This confused Farlibar somewhat. Why was he being so unexpectedly civil when his son, the Prince, was coughing up mushrooms all over the place?

The Master of Buckland quickly replied. “Eh, yes. Everything’s fine. We were just discussing the menu for dinner and then Pippin and I were off to see Faramir.”

Farlibar gaped at this. What? What on earth was that foolish Bucklander about? They had been doing no such thing! But he had no time to comment on the mistake (nor would he have under the circumstances) because the King turned his steady, grey-eyed gaze upon him and he soon forgot about anything except how tight his collar suddenly was.

“Good day to you my good hobbit. I wanted to meet the cooks who had prepared the food for our welcoming feast and have been directed in particular to yourself by your fellow workers.”

Farlibar gulped loudly. Directed to him by his fellow workers, indeed! If everyone knew one of the hobbits had poisoned royalty, he'd bet his best Sunday roast the others couldn’t get the King to him fast enough! A curse on them all! He would haunt their kitchens and ruin their dishes after his execution. They would never find joy near a stove again! He would...

“...and to thank you for all the hard work and great effort you have made to make us all feel welcome here.”

What?

Had he heard right?

Had the King said 'thank you'? He hadn’t heard properly, lost in vengeful fantasies as he’d been. Perhaps the King didn’t know he was the chief suspect in poisoning his son? Should he remain quiet and hope to escape imminent exposure in order to redeem himself with producing examples of his mushroom masterpiece? Or should he do the decent thing and make himself known? Perhaps if he threw himself at the King’s mercy he’d give him a chance to prove himself?

“'Thank you', your Majesty sir? I’m not sure I understand your Royalness - is the little Prince recovered?”

The other two hobbits were trying to slink away quietly now that the King’s attention was fully focussed on Farlibar, but after the cook’s rather curious question the man suddenly placed a firm hand on a shoulder of each of them before replying to the cook, effectively halting their escape. “Recovered? He is in perfect health and has been all day. Indeed my son was in very high spirits when I left him last.”

Now Farlibar was really confused. Who was sick then? “Is everyone else in good health your Majesty, sir?”

“Your concern for my party is most kind, dear hobbit, but they are all in very good health. I believe I don‘t yet know your name, my friend.”

Farlibar blushed at his impropriety and bowed, stammering so much in his haste to apologise for his short sightedness that he could barely talk. “F.. F.. Farl… Farlibar! Farlibar Barleyburn at your service...”

“...and your family’s.” finished the King, smiling comfortingly at him. “Tell me, Master Barleyburn, where did you come upon the idea that my son or any other guest was taken ill?”

“You...you mean they’re not your Royal...eh...Royalness? stammered the cook.

“Not one.”

The cook from Frogmorton looked at Master and Thain with dawning comprehension. The two hobbits appeared rather guilty and the King’s knuckles paled as he tightened his grip on them.

He wasn’t about to meet his doom! His head would stay on his shoulders and he wouldn’t disgrace his kindly employer, Mistress Goodenough!

His eyes narrowed. They had been playing a trick on him! Trying to fool him into baking more of his magnificent mushrooms for them! Why of all the cheek! And the Thain in on it too? He’d expect no less from that plague of a Bucklander, but the Thain?

The King had appeared to take stock of the situation and realised his two friends had been up to some mischief. But instead of letting them go as Farlibar had expected due to their obvious bond, his hands remained gripped on their shoulders and his eyes twinkled at Farlibar before surveying the tent.

“Well Master Farlibar, it appears that you have your hands full with all those dishes. In fact, I would say that you have more than you can reasonably handle. Perhaps you would care for some assistance? I know my good friends Merry and Pippin here would be delighted to help you and the others in your efforts to clean up and prepare for afternoon tea?”

Merry and Pippin blanched at the idea of this, having spotted the hot glare the cook sent them. And so they should, he thought. Here’s me thinking I half-killed a royal lad, thinking my head’s not long for my own shoulders, imagining what grass tastes like and getting myself into a right flap about one of my best meals! His jaw set in determination as they eyed him warily.

“Now that you mention it I’d be glad of some help, your Royal Lordship.” His mind whirled as he thought about how he would punish them for their cheek and scaring years off his life.

And maligning his cooking! Again!!

“Splendid! Well my friends, I shall leave you all to your busy work for I must make haste to the Royal Tent. I await a meeting with a dear old friend and wish to see to some comforts for him before he arrives.” The cook watched as he turned to the gentry.

“Merry, Pippin, please see to it that you follow all of Master Barleyburn‘s directions for he is the King of this particular realm and you would do well not to cross him.” The two hobbits smiled uncertainly in reply and Farlibar felt a thrill of pure satisfaction.

As the King thanked him once more for his delicious repast - a King! Thanking him for his delicious repast! - and turned to leave, Farlibar bowed at him as best he could then straightened himself.

And he smiled evilly at the remaining hobbits...

Chapter 2

The tent flap closed as the King exited and Farlibar was left facing not one mischief-maker, but two. He eyed them hungrily as he imagined ways to punish them for the fright they’d given him. And he had the King’s permission to do so! He grinned again as he saw the Master and the Thain watching him nervously. They moved closer together, as if seeking the comfort of each other’s proximity.

Perhaps he should reprimand them smartly first, before dealing out the most unpleasant duties he could find?

This had a certain appeal - but he was conscious that it was the Master of Buckland (curse him!) and the Thain (curse him too!) who stood before him. It wouldn’t be proper for a mere cook to lecture gentry too severely. They could make his life very uncomfortable afterwards, if they had a mind to. And Mistress Goodenough would blush at the thought of him waggling his finger at dignitaries as if they were no more than naughty hobbit-lads.

Anyway, he should make some allowance for the fact that both culprits had spent time outside the borders of the Shire on their Many Dubious Adventures. It was entirely possible that some strange illness unknown to hobbits had played havoc with their brains, making them act more irresponsibly than their age (and social status) demanded. He fleetingly recalled that whilst serving the green-eyed Took at the Floating Log one afternoon he had heard him rabbitting on about dark forests and talking trees. Talking trees, indeed! Next he’d be saying that mushrooms could dance! And they’d allegedly drank some sort of magic elixir that had made them sprout up far too (unnaturally) tall for any decent hobbit!

Then again, he reflected, as he remembered he’d lost nearly half his body weight to nervous sweating (and other less savoury waste products) during their deception, he had been in fear for his life! Maybe that hadn’t been their intention, but it was a fact nonetheless. After all, there’s not a one that’s too grand for an earful when they deserve it, as his childhood neighbour Gammer Gummage used to say - wisdom she wholeheartedly adhered to herself after losing her teeth to an errant apple thrown by the local merchant’s lad. It had hit her square on the mouth and she’d had to bid her remaining dentistry a tearful goodbye later that day.

Actually, those words of wisdom were about the only intelligible sentence she could manage since that unfortunate accident...

He shook himself from his reverie of the ancient, but still formidable, matriarch and focussed once more on his enemies.

“So, Mr Brandybuck, Mr Took sirs. It’s right nice of you to offer your services like this.” He glared at them expectantly.

They smiled nervously at him - for they all knew that they’d not ’offered their services’ - but the pair appeared to be resigned to their fate and did not contradict the glowering cook.

Farlibar was slightly uncomfortable with this unexpected position of authority over the two, but a vision of his bodiless head rolling about the field outside and being kicked around for sport by Big Folk whilst his lifeless mouth magically tried to chew at the grass hardened his resolve. He would be strong! He would show these uncommon criminals that he, Farlibar Barleyburn, was not to be trifled with! He had a Royal Seal Of Approval to do so and he would take full advantage of it!

“Erm, well...” the Bucklander started and Farlibar was beside himself with glee to note the extreme discomfort on his once-smug face. “You see...”

“It’s our pleasure to help you Master Farlibar,” offered the Thain weakly when the other hobbit trailed off in an apparent loss for words.

Pleasure, scoffed the cook inwardly. That’ll be the last thing on his addled brain in a few moments. He looked to his left where a small barrel of onions had arrived for the stew which was planned for the later afternoon meal. Wonder how much pleasure he’ll find peeling and slicing that lot with nothing more than a spoon!

Then he had a moment of inspiration. He’d make the Thain do the peeling and the ghastly Bucklander could attempt the ‘slicing.’ Oh, yes! What a splendid idea! His mum always said he was brighter than a candle. He smiled fondly at the thought of her. His old dad had been a bit of a stern hobbit, but Dandelion Barleyburn was a jewel amongst mothers, despite her unflattering forename.

“Well, I’m right glad to hear that, your Thainship. There’s a lot to do and we need all the help we can get, ‘specially with all the cooking that’s planned for later.”

He paused dramatically. “And what with you both offering to be of such a service, you’ll be able to keep an eye on me - see’s that I’m doing my job all proper-like. After all, I wouldn’t want to be accused of trying to poison anyone.”

He crossed his arms tightly and the two gentlehobbits took a step back at the vehemence behind his last statement.

“Poison? I can’t imagine anyone would think you capable of poisoning someone,” sputtered the boot loving Bucklander, anxiously tugging at his smart green and gold cloak.

Farlibar’s eyes boggled in disbelief. Why, that irresponsible, fanciful, cloud-hugging half-giant! He’d fooled him into thinking he’d made the little Prince ill with his magnificent mushrooms - and given poor Farlibar a very unwelcome near-death experience!

All his earlier thoughts of propriety fled as he seethed at the Brandybuck’s cheek. He took a bold step forward and the cowering pair blanched as his own face grew crimson. “Really? What was all that about a ‘poor, dear child’ earlier, then? And the bit about ‘… the dishes you prepared were most in evidence. If it wasn’t the mushrooms, it must have been the roast pork‘?”

This latter comment he threw at the Thain in a moment of wild abandonment. The head of Tuckborough flushed slightly and gave a nervous chuckle before shaking his head and pulling himself upright.

“Actually, Master Barleyburn, we never said you had made anyone ill. We were just pointing out how prolific your dishes were at the feast and admiring the great variety of food you produced.”

Farlibar almost gasped at the outrageous comment and the Beast of Brandy Hall took advantage of his momentary speechlessness to add his own nuggets of clarity.

“Absolutely! We never specifically stated that eating the mushrooms had made someone sick.”

The cook thought they were losing their minds for sure now. “Well then,” he said frostily, “what was all that about a poor, dear child being sick all over the place?”

“Er…well, actually… one of them was. We must have got a little mixed up when trying to explain it to you. One of the Fairbairn lads swallowed a glass of wine before his mum knew what he was up to and threw up half the Shire afterwards. He’d thought it was berry juice, you see…” The Master of Buckland shifted uncomfortably at the admission.

“Really?” fumed the cook. “And so you thought it would be a grand idea to use that to trick me out of my mushrooms?”

“Take it as a compliment, Master Farlibar!” said the Thain hastily. “Think of the lengths we were prepared to go to just to sample more of your excellent fare!”

Farlibar was almost puce at this point. Compliment? Mixed up? He should have listened to his mother when she’d told him to be wary of power-hungry Tooks taking advantage of their station! As for the Bucklander...

And the ’lengths’ they had been prepared to go to just to ‘sample more of his excellent fare’ had had him in such a panic he’d seriously considered visiting those blasted Far Eastern Lands just to save his own skin. Riding Oliphaunts had not been out of the question either!

He composed himself enough to give a civil answer. “In that case, sirs,” he said in a voice of false sweetness, “allow me to give you some instruction on the preparation of my ’excellent fare.’ That way, you won’t have to go to so much trouble next time to taste it - you can just take yourselves off to your own kitchens to make it yourselves! You do know where your own kitchens are, I hope? I’d hate to see you get lost in those grand houses of yours because you got mixed up!”

Farlibar couldn’t believe he was speaking to two extremely important gentlehobbits in such a manner, but, oh! The giddy heights of satisfaction he experienced when they agreed to his ’instruction’ (not that they had any choice). He truly was the King Of His Own Realm - and they were his to toy with! Maybe once they’d finished leaking onion tears from their eyes he’d sit back and order all the others to do likewise while the terrible twosome washed every last dish in the tent! He’d sit down and put his feet up while they scurried about dipping, scrubbing, rinsing…

And afterwards, maybe he’d get that preening Bucklander to make them all tea? And serve the remaining seedcake on the fine plates they had just washed? Have the Thain make some of that custard he was swooning over earlier and pour it over the cake! Make their freshly cleaned plates as mucky as possible so they’d have to clean them again! There were at least another two hours before afternoon tea would be served to the Big Folk and if he made them work right quick-like there’d be plenty of time to accomplish that and finish the main meal for later.

Oh, what an absolutely magnificent idea! His heart glowed with happiness at the appealing scenario. Him. Farlibar Barleyburn. Being waited on hand and foot by the Thain and the Master of Buckland! Having them scurry about like servants, desperate to fulfil his every command! It was a joy he had never expected in his lifetime. Why, this was better than any grand title that wonderful, honourable, blessed King could bestow on him (may he feast like a hobbit for the rest of his life!).

Enough of this dreaming! Time to make them do some honest work. Uncrossing his arms and smiling with genuine emotion, he picked up a couple of dish towels and passed them to the Blight of Buckland and the Bane of the Shire. “You might want to tie them over your nice clothes before you get started sirs. If you’ll just follow me then, I’ll show you where to begin.”

Leading the unhappy duo to the barrel of onions and presenting them with a small teaspoon and an empty bucket, he gave them ’instructions’ and left them to their task.

Farlibar had never felt so good in all his life!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Five minutes later found the Knight of Gondor peeling away crisp, golden-brown onion skins and passing the pale inner vegetables to the extremely red-eyed Knight of Rohan who was mutilating them into chunks with the ridiculously small utensilhe’d been presented with.

“Well, this is another fine mess you’ve got us into,” said Merry tightly as he wiped his streaming eyes with one edge of his tea towel.

“What are you talking about? It was your idea to come in here and pilfer mushrooms, not mine!” replied the affronted Pippin. “And your supposed to be slicing those onions, not mashing them!”

Merry eyed him with some annoyance. “If you think you can do a better job with this...this...”

“Spoon, Merry. It’s a spoon.”

“Yes, thank you Pippin, I know what it is! If you think you can do better with this spoon...” He spat the word out as if he was talking about the One Ring, “then you’re welcome to try!”

Pippin very wisely remained silent.

“As I was saying,” continued his irate cousin, “you could have tried to stop me from coming here, instead of acting like a tweenager and going along with it.”

“Me stop you? You’re having a laugh aren’t you Mer? When have I ever been able to stop you doing something when you didn’t want to?” Pippin exclaimed in disbelief.

But Merry paid him no heed, instead sneaking a glance over his left shoulder. The Frogmorton Fright was standing at the other table arranging what little ingredients were currently present for Pippin to make custard with later on. He was making a most peculiar noise…singing! The smug cook was actually singing! Merry gritted his teeth, then hastily returned his head to its former position when Farlibar looked up and threw him a cheery wave.

He nudged his cousin with an elbow. “Pip, he’s singing! The nerve! Can you hear him?”

Pippin strained his ear - without trying to look like he was straining his ear - to catch the words, but the stocky hobbit had taken pity on them and moved a little bit closer so they could hear what he was singing - without trying to make it look like he was moving forward so they could hear what he was singing.

.

A magnificent cook there was

With a very noble cause

When wicked pretence

Caused great offence

He gave culprits reason to pause!

.

He made them peel away

And chop and slice all day

With onion eye

Made them wash and dry

His every command obeyed!

.

Now with great respect they look

At Frogmorton’s best cook

Honour his name

And now his fame

Is spread by the great Took!

.

Pippin looked at Merry sympathetically. “You didn’t even get a mention,” he stated.

But his cousin was too flabbergasted at Farlibar’s impertinence to formulate an answer. He curled his fists so tightly that the helpless spoon was bent beyond recognition and he threw it in the bucket in disgust.

“His every command obeyed! Did you hear him Pip? Gloating, that’s what he’s doing. Gloating!”

Alarmed at the sight of the large vein in Merry’s neck throbbing away, Pippin attempted to soothe him. “Well, to be fair Merry, we did ask for it. Coming in here and scaring him half out his wits...”

“What wits?” fumed Merry. “You’re assuming he has any!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied his cousin as another verse from Farlibar drifted over. “It’s a rather interesting tune. Sounds like something Sam would make up if he were angry enough to be provoked into it.”

“Sam sings songs about Elves and fireworks! Not onions and Thains.”

“Mer, what I mean is that we may have went a step too far with him. We’re not tweenagers any more. We should be acting responsibly. He doesn’t know Strider, so goodness knows what he was imagining when we were going on about angry Kings seeking justice.”

Merry flushed slightly at that - except for his eyes which couldn’t get any redder. Perhaps Pippin had a point. He himself knew from experience that the cook was easy to provoke - that’s why coming here had seemed like such a good idea. But in retrospect, he should have just asked the cook nicely, like a well-brought-up Master of Buckland and respectable Knight of Rohan would be expected to. He had no idea why he had acted so immaturely. Pippin he could excuse because he followed wherever Merry led him, but his own behaviour? Could he excuse that?

But then Farlibar moved closer still - merely a metre away now - and Merry got the full benefit of a previously unheard verse of his self-made musical masterpiece.

.

They’re really not so grand

Those queer folk from Buck-land

No hobbit sense

It’s all pretence

Their heads are full of sand!

.

He whirled around furiously, all penitence forgotten and eyed the allegedly ‘shy’ cook with blazing eyes.

But the cheeky Frogmorton native just smiled innocently and moved away again, apparently still on his quest for Pippin’s ingredients.

Inhaling deeply through his nose he faced his cousin. “Right Pip, that’s it. We’re not staying here a moment longer!”

Pippin was trying unsuccessfully to control his laughter at the most recent verse they had been privy to. “Don’t be daft Mer,” he gasped. “Strider will banish us back over the Bridge if he finds out we deserted our duties - and disobeyed his direct orders.”

“It’ll be worth it!” declared Merry, annoyed at his cousin’s mirth. “And stop laughing, it wasn’t funny!”

“You’re right. It wasn’t funny. It was hysterical!” He lapsed into another peal of laughter which promptly stopped when Merry shoved a handful of devastated onion...bits...under his nose. The strong fumes made the Thain gasp again, but this time in disgust.

Feeling slightly better for it, Merry discarded the mashed vegetable into the bucket of skins (and spoon) and decided on his next move. There had to be a way of getting out of here!

Looking around the tent he spied a sack of flour a few feet away, no doubt needed for the highly anticipated spiced bread Master Farlibar talked of earlier. Master Farlibar, he scoffed, wiping at his streaming eyes with his hand and forgetting he‘d just held raw onion in it. He howled at the ensuing sting. “Pip, get me some water, quickly!”

Pippin jumped to comply with his kin’s plea and spotted a jug near the flour. “Hold on a minute,” he answered, walking quickly over and pouring a glass.

Handing it to Merry on his return, he was surprised when he poured it directly over his face, emitting a groan of relief at the soothing coolness. Shrugging, Pippin handed him his dish towel and the damp Brandybuck held it over his eyes, then scrubbed his face with it thoroughly.

“Oh, that felt good!” Merry declared and tried to hand the towel back.

“I don’t want it. You’ve had your leaking eyes and runny nose on that!”

The bucket received it with indifference as Merry glared first at Pippin, then Farlibar who was sniggering away behind a collection of plates at the other table.

“So, any thoughts on how we’re getting out of here?” piped the Thain.

“I thought you didn’t want to leave. You said we asked for it,” he replied disdainfully.

“I said we asked for it and that’s true. But I never said I wanted to stay. Really, Mer. Don’t you know me by now? Anyway, if we do stay here much longer, I can‘t vouch for the cook‘s continued good health - what with the way you‘re looking at him.”

“He’s supposed to be shy and anxious Pip. Look at him! Have you ever seen anyone more brimming with confidence and self-certainty?” Merry spat as he gave the now jolly cook the evil eye.

Pippin answered immediately. “Why, yes. Every time I look in the mirror.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and thrust his chest out proudly, fine Gondorian attire fully evident now that the dish towel languished in their bucket of discarded concerns.

Merry rolled his smarting eyes - something which caused a deal of discomfort - and then looked at what the Took had just pulled out his pocket. Was that an ant?

“Pip, what’s that?” he asked, curiosity temporarily overcoming his discomfort.

“Oh, that’s Faramir’s. A toy, Looks real, doesn’t it? He brought a fair amount of his wooden insects to show the Steward, but after they sent one of the Ladies of Gondor into a tizzy I took them off him.”

Merry grabbed the ‘toy’ and examined it. It was tiny, smooth and painted black. Very well crafted. Who on earth would create such a thing for a child to play with? Then he remembered his own childhood fascination with insects, butterflies and worms and decided it was a perfectly reasonable plaything for a hobbit-lad.

Pippin was blethering on about how his son loved to frighten the cook with them at the Great Smials, but Merry was struck with inspiration and thought they could be put to better use alarming the cook from Frogmorton. “Do you have any more of these Pip?”

He grinned when Pippin pulled out a handful of the minute objects. I think we just found our way out, Cousin.”

“Really? With these?” Pippin eyed the wooden ants dubiously. There were about a dozen or so huddled on his palm. “How?”

But Merry was scanning the preparation area desperately with his much-abused eyes. “If only we had a knife!” he muttered.

“Erm, actually we do.” Pippin bent down and discreetly removed a small, sharp knife from his shiny black boot.

The Master of Buckland was temporarily lost for words as a rather guilty looking Thain passed it to him. “Faramir brought that with him too. Don’t ask me why, I have no idea. I took it for safety’s sake or Diamond would have made sure he couldn’t sit down for a week.”

Merry was livid. “Do you mean to tell me you had that all this time, but let me cut onions with a SPOON!” he screeched as he snatched the offending knife from his cousin’s hand, not too bothered if he knicked him with it in the process.

“Now, calm down Mer! You don’t want to let Master Farlibar know we’re up to something do you? I’m sorry about the knife - I just forgot,” he said sheepishly. He threw a glance at the cook who was regarding them suspiciously.

The Knight of Rohan also caught the glare of the cook and managed to calm himself only with a concerted effort. He faced the table in an attempt to look like he was still ‘slicing’ away and Pippin resumed his seat to peel more onions. Farlibar seemed appeased by this and continued his hunt for a large bowl for the custard.

“What’s the plan, Mer?” he asked in a small voice, unsure of the reception he’d get.

“The plan,” stated Merry stiffly, “is to make that toad from the Floating Log think he has an insect problem.”

Pippin frowned. “You know, that would have sounded better if you’d said frog.”

Merry eyed him in confusion.

“Instead of toad.” he explained patiently. “As in: that frog from the Floating Log.” He looked very pleased with himself until Merry threw more onion at him.

“Focus, Pippin. Focus! Now, I’m going to go over to that sack of flour and - very casually - slit a whole in it. I’ll put these ’ants’ inside, then come back.”

Now Pippin was confused. “How’s that going to get us out of here?”

“Because, you annoying Fool of a Took, you’re going to go over afterwards for a glass of water and ’accidentally’ tip the sack over. The flour will spill out along with the ‘ants’ and we can escape in the uproar that’s caused by your alerting everyone else to the apparent infestation!”

The Fool of a Took ignored the slur to his character by asking what Merry’s excuse for going over would be.

“I’ll be getting more water for my eyes, of course!” explained the exasperated Merry.

“But won’t it look suspicious if you go for water first, then I go two minutes later?”

Merry seriously weighed Faramir-lad’s potential to be the youngest ever Thain in the history of the Shire at this question. “That won’t matter! He already thinks I’m a queer Bucklander, or didn’t you hear the last verse of that so-called song? He’ll think it’s perfectly normal that I have no manners, in fact, he’ll probably expect it!” he hissed.

Pippin wiped his cousin’s spittle off his face with the remaining dish towel (but did so cautiously, knowing where it had been). “Really, Merry. There’s no need to behave like a toothless old gammer, spraying all over me like that!” Upon regaining his dignity, he informed the elder hobbit he understood perfectly and was ready to act upon instruction.

Casually looking in the Frog from the Floating Log’s direction (curse Pippin for putting that in his head!), Merry saw he currently had his back to them while in conference with one of the apprentices, no doubt looking to procure the elusive bowl he still sought.

Taking advantage of this momentary distraction, he silently made his way to the large sack of flour and slipped the alarmingly sharp knife into the upper left corner, making a healthy rip in it and stuffing the ‘ants‘ inside. Satisfied with his handiwork, he poured another glass of water to keep the ruse realistic in case the cook turned around unexpectedly, then slipped back to his former position unnoticed by his foe whilst determining to have words with Pippin later on about leaving sharp objects lying about for curious little fingers to find.

Upon his arrival, he returned the knife to Pippin who hastily shoved it in his pocket, then stood up and loudly declared: “Oh, I’m thirsty! You could have got me a glass of water while you were there, you inconsiderate Bucklander,” and he promptly marched off to the jug, leaving Merry silently fuming at his remark.

His cousin was as subtle as a kick in the rear, but fortunately, the Stain on Frogmorton had ignored them and was still chatting to the apprentice cook.

That didn’t last very long.

There was a loud whump and all eyes in the tent turned to Pippin as he stood by the fallen flour sack which was disgorging its contents at a steady pace. “Sorry about that. I tripped and it fell over.” He bent over as if to lift it back up and came a very loud (and in Merry’s opinion, very theatrical) screech of disgust.

“Ants! Ants!” He straightened himself and pivoted to face the Farlibar. “There are ants in that flour! I hope you weren’t planning on using this for the afternoon tea?” he demanded.

Farlibar looked very suspicious and Merry had a sudden moment of unease. What if they couldn’t fool him a second time? But the cook marched up to flour and bent over the white powder, turning pale at the little black insects tumbling out of the hole in the sacking.

“Well good heavens Mr Thain, you’re quite right! They must have got in through that tear.” The cook scratched his head worriedly. “I didn’t know ants liked flour.”

Merry was feeling exceedingly pleased at the cook’s bafflement and the ensuing throng of hobbits who had converged around him to witness the spectacle. They were all muttering in disgust and despair. What would the fine people of Gondor think of the Shire if they thought its inhabitants let ants run loose in a kitchen?

He tried to motion Pippin to make a discreet exit while Farlibar was distracted, but Pippin was currently being so jostled about by the number of hobbits around him that it was difficult to catch his eye. When he finally did, it was to find him tripping over his feet in an effort to move away and then the Fool of a Took stumbled to the ground, the other hobbits moving out of his way before they were caught in his wake.

There was a distinct rrripp as he landed and Merry caught his breath. The knife! That idiot had put it in his pocket! He rose swiftly to check his cousin hadn’t injured himself but Farlibar was already helping him up again. Perhaps the cook wasn’t such an insufferable creature after all. He approached Pippin to check for any wounds that had escaped his notice.

“I’m fine, Mer. Just too many people and not enough space.” He was covered head to toe in the rapidly spilling flour and he attempted to dust it off.

The little black ants had emptied themselves onto the floor and everyone turned their attention back to them.

Farlibar bent down again and observed them in despair.

“I don’t know how this could’ve happened, Mr Thain, Master Brandybuck, sirs.” Merry smirked at the newfound tone of respect in the cook’s voice. Revenge was sweet! No, revenge was a bag of flour!

“No matter Master Barleyburn,” he said generously, trying hard not to crow. They may not be able to slink out anymore due to the crowd of hobbits, but he could still save the day using his wits. “These things sometimes happen when one cooks outside. Why, I once had an entire colony of ants march up to my picnic blanket and march back off carrying a bacon sandwich! You’re not to blame for it.”

Pippin looked at him as if he’d hit his head, but Farlibar’s face was shining with gratitude at the unexpected words. He put his hands in his pockets and puffed out his chest importantly, like he did when the local Shirriffs came to him for advice. “The King need never know about this, gentlehobbits. The Thain and I will pop over the Bridge and see to a new sack of flour while you clear this one away. How does that sound?”

Pippin looked impressed as the hobbits all slapped Merry on the back at his generosity and Farlibar grasped his hand, pumping it up and down as if they were the greatest of friends.

“Oh, thank you Mr Brandybuck, sir. That’s uncommonly kind of you! I take back everything I ever said of you.” (And it had been plentiful and unflattering, Merry was sure).

“Oh, no problem at all. It’s the least we can do after the little misunderstanding we had earlier,” said Merry in a rather patronising fashion, Pippin thought. “I’m not too proud a Brandybuck to make amends when they’re required,” he added. He pierced Farlibar with an unnervingly direct gaze and the cook flushed as if ashamed at his previous ditty.

The cook then looked to the Thain to express his gratitude to him also, but was distracted by a clang as something metallic slipped from a tear in the Took’s tunic and clattered on the floor. Merry turned towards the noise and blanched at the sight of the little knife lying on the floor, followed by the slight rattle of more coloured ‘insects’ tumbling from the torn pocket. It was too much to hope the cook hadn’t seen them and indeed, Farlibar’s expression was puzzled as he gazed at the knife and the seeming infestation of the Thain’s pockets.

But then he slowly turned crimson as he pieced the evidence together and arrived at the inevitable conclusion. Brushing none-too-gently passed Merry (and causing him to tumble head first into the pool of flour), Farlibar bent down and gathered the knife and a handful of the damning playthings, then scooped up some ‘ants’ from the flour.

Wood! Painted wood! Farlibar was visibly seething, turning a most unflattering shade of scarlet at a truly alarming rate.

Merry hauled himself up, looking remarkably like a snowhobbit, and together he and Pippin backed slowly away from the impending wrath of the cook.

“Not to proud a Brandybuck to make amends when they’re required,” parroted the furious hobbit sarcastically, giving them the full benefit of his (seemingly) endless wrath. “The least we can do after the little misunderstanding we had.”

He was closing in on the two hobbits fast and they increased their back peddling without realising they were backing into the large table.

With an enormous stack of plates perched near the edge.

The resulting CRASH was enough to stir a Balrog and every hobbit in the tent jumped a mile out of their skin. Merry and Pippin whirled around in dismay as the dozens - no hundreds, surely - of crockery shards continued to bounce off each other, reducing to smaller and smaller fragments until the last one had ceased its death throes.

They wondered if their own death throes would be as dramatic when Farlibar got his hands on them.

Together they raised their heads and stared guiltily at their potential executioner.

The dark-haired cook was staring at all his beautifully washed plates in shock. Then he looked at the Twin Evils of Eriador and said, very soflty: “Get out.”

Gulping audibly, they sidled cautiously past the cook, over the ’plates’ and made delicately for the exit.

“FASTER!” yelled Farlibar at the top of his lungs.

And they happily obliged…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 3

Several hours later

The warm Spring afternoon was a welcome relief after the bustle of the cooks’ tent, which Farlibar had just left to get some ‘fresh air’. Spotting a convenient rock near the edge of the field, he headed for it with his pipe and some Old Toby, not wanting to mix with anyone else - Man or Hobbit. He was alarmed at the thought of encountering the Big Folk (again) and his own kind made him want to throw plates at someone. (not that they had many plates left - curse those half-giants!).

After the Master of Disaster and the Pain of the Shire had left, his fellow cooks had regarded him - him! - with shock at his uncharacteristic tirade and had actually (he seethed at the thought) told him off for speaking to His Betters in such a manner - no matter what they’d done. He’d attempted to defend himself by explaining their disgraceful behaviour towards him earlier, but no! ‘Allowances had to be made‘! ‘Gentry could do what they liked as long as they didn’t hurt anyone’ and ‘those particular two were Friends of the King‘!

Farlibar lit his pipe and puffed away furiously, mentally cursing the idiots he had to work with. No wonder he kept himself to himself! ‘Gentry could do what they liked as long as they didn’t hurt anyone’ - what nonsense! Why, if gentlehobbits were allowed free rein, they’d eat all the food in the Shire and everyone else would have to make do with porridge! At least Gammer Gummage could finally be grateful for her toothless mouth - she’d not need gnashers to slurp on the bland foodstuff.

As for the so-called ’gentry’; they’d waddle through the streets hunting for renowned cooks like him to chain to a stove - and force them to produce endless dishes to appease their outrageous appetites on threat of banishment to the Outside! Perhaps even reopen those accursed Lockholes to imprison rebellious cooks until they relented!

He grimaced at the thought of leaving his dear, kind employer to slave away for some uppity landowner. Knowing his luck, the two horrors he’d been inflicted with earlier would squabble over him and he’d have to spend the rest of his life fulfilling their every culinary desire at either Brandy Hall or the Great Smials - while they lorded over him like overdressed Ruffians!

That his fellow workers could be so blind to the twin blights boggled his mind. They hadn’t even acknowledged it was their fault in smashing over twenty plates! Oh no, that was apparently his fault for provoking them! He fumed at the unfairness of it all.

And spotting the Shames of the Shire at the King’s table during afternoon tea (in pretty, new clothes), laughing and joking with Royalty while he delivered spiced loaf to the table had almost driven him over the edge (just like his doomed dishes).

Laughing and joking! Without a care in the world! He’d wondered absently how they’d managed to explain their unexpected freedom to the King, but had otherwise been so vexed at the sight, he’d seriously considered pouring their tea over their heads - despite the grand company - and would have done so too, if he hadn’t caught sight of the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld.

Farlibar’s tight grip on the pipe eased slightly as he remembered the vision of loveliness sitting to the King’s right at the top of the table. An Elf! He’d seen a real, live Elf! Beauty beyond even his best meringues! Glowing skin and ruby lips. Stars for eyes. Stars! And she was the Queen. No wonder the King was smiling!

Unfortunately, he’d been so caught up in his admiration for the Star Queen that he hadn’t paid attention to his footing and tripped over an errant Gamgee lad, sending his delicious loaf sailing through the air until it landed at the feet of the Steward. Farlibar’s face burned as he remembered the shame of it. When he’d picked himself up (although he would have preferred to remain forever stuck to the grass - he was mortified at having made a spectacle of himself before such grand folk!), the Buffoon of Buckland and the Great Crook had been rocking with laughter - even the King had been hard pressed to hide his amusement!

Only the kindly Steward had taken pity on him, rescuing the loaf and returning it to its creator. But Farlibar had been so embarrassed he’d just grabbed it and ran out the Royal Pavilion before thanking him. What must the Great Man think of him?

It seemed to be his lot in life to suffer and he was feeling exceptionally sorry for himself as he dwelled on one of the worst days he’d ever lived through: a lonely figure sitting on a rock at the edge of the field, shunned by the other cooks and isolated by his own shame. He was so lost in his reverie that he didn’t hear the approach of two sets of feet until they were upon him and nearly coughed up his lungs on the pipe-smoke when a friendly voice bid him hello.

Recovering his breath he stood up hastily and almost collapsed at the sight of the Great Steward Who Must Think Him Ungrateful and the Hobbit That Kings Bowed Before.

“Oh! Eh, your...your erm...” He panicked. How did one address a Steward? “Your Royal Stewardness, Mayor Sam, sir... He wanted to disappear! The Steward had probably been hunting for him for the last hour to tell him off because he didn’t show proper gratitude for his assistance! Running off like a naughty hobbit-lad! What had he been thinking? But that was exactly the problem: he hadn’t been thinking. He’d just wanted to get away from the grand company he’d made a fool of himself in front of and nothing else had mattered!

And the man had now brought Mayor Sam along - in his position as a Shire Dignitary no doubt - to make sure he was properly reprimanded! Farlibar had a sudden urgent need to visit a privy...

“Do you mind if we join you, Master Farlibar?” came the gentle request of the Steward.

What? He knew his name? The cook swallowed hard.

“Erm…no, your Royal Magnificence.” He looked at the rock and cringed at the thought of such a lordly figure being offered a seat on it, but the Great Man and the Princely Hobbit Who Inspired Kings merely said ‘thank you’ and took a place to each side of him.

He was trapped! They had hunted him down and trapped him on a rock far from the rest of the company and were going to give him A Telling Off He’d Never Forget! If Mistress Goodenough got wind of this, she’d die of the shame of it! She’d given him particular instructions to be a good - what was that word she used? Amassaber? Ambadoser? - a Very Good Hobbit, and he’d gone and ruined it all; brought disrepute to the good name of the Floating Log and its proprietress by fleeing from his rescuer, like the two Dark Lords had fled from the cooks’ tent!

Mayor Sam took out his own pipe and began to stuff it with Longbottom Leaf as the dark-haired Steward surveyed all the busy happenings on the field before them. Hobbit children were playing, Big Folk were sitting with Shirefolk listening to songs and tales of derring-do from Fatty Bolger (who was jumping about wildly for a hobbit of such girth) and soldiers were discreetly patrolling the edge of the field (or it would have been discreetly if young Faramir-lad - trust a Took! - hadn’t been chasing after them with some of the Mayor’s sons).

And then, inevitably, the Steward spoke. “I have been most anxious to meet you, Master Farlibar, for I have heard much of you this day.”

Farlibar almost swooned with dread. Anxious to meet him? Heard much of him? He’d bet his most tender loin of pork he’d ‘heard much of him’! A plague on those Bucklanders and Tooks! May their ventures fail and their hair fall out!

The Steward continued. “My good friend Sam here has informed me you are one of the finest cooks in the Shire - and from what I have tasted so far, I would have to agree with him.”

The only child of Dandelion Barleyburn looked up in surprise to find the smiling countenance of the visitor facing him. What? Where was the reprimand he was expecting? He turned to look at the Mayor, who was nodding his head as if in agreement with his lordly friend.

“I particularly enjoyed the spiced loaf,” continued the Steward With Excellent Taste and Farlibar turned crimson as he recalled their last encounter.

He knew it was too good to be true! The Great Man was just too honourable to come right out and tell him off proper-like, so he went about it in a round-about way - waiting for Farlibar’s good manners to take hold and apologise first, instead of waggling his finger at him like Better Folk normally do. Farlibar didn’t know whether to start bowing and scraping or thank him for being so generous.

He decided to go with the former. “I’m...eh...I’m right sorry-like, your Magnificent Greatness, for...I mean for running off like that. I oughtn’t to’ve been so silly about it - I meant no offence, your Worship, sir! I was just...that is, I‘m not very good with folks normally and then I fell and they were laughing so hard...” In his agitation to apologise properly (and therefore save his kind employer’s fine reputation) he had stood up, dropping his lit pipe on the grass, and was currently hopping about on his feet. But the Steward placed a hand on his shoulder (while the Mayor hastily retrieved his pipe) and Farlibar looked up to see sparkling grey eyes regard him with definite warmth.

“Be at peace, Master Farlibar. I meant no slight on your earlier behaviour. I was merely attempting to lighten your concerns but alas! I see I have only compounded them.”

Farlibar stopped hopping and stared at the Kindest Person He’d Ever Met (except for Mistress Goodenough) hopefully. “You mean you’re not here to tell me off, your Highliness?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

“’Course he’s not,” came the solid, comforting hobbit tone of the Second Best Cook In The Shire. Farlibar was so relieved he could have hugged them both! But that wouldn’t’ve been seemly, so he controlled himself and accepted his pipe back from Mayor Sam.

“Please, do sit down and enjoy your pipe, my good hobbit,” said the Steward and Farlibar resumed his seat. He didn’t smoke his pipe though, it didn’t seem right for him to do so with such grand company - even though Mayor Sam carried on puffing away without a care in the world.

“I myself have never been enamoured of pipes, but the King has been known to enjoy some Old Toby now and again,” offered the Steward when he caught Farlibar extinguishing his.

“That’s because old Strider has good taste, for a Man,” replied the Mayor and Farlibar wondered who ‘old Strider’ was while the Prince Among Men laughed at his friend’s remark.

He may have been relieved at not being in any bother, but he was still aware of who exactly was sitting with him and wondered what would bring such important people out to see a simple cook, if it wasn‘t to tell him off. Surely not just to say they enjoyed their afternoon tea? So he sat quietly while they enjoyed the good weather and the happy sound of hobbit children laughing for a few minutes more.

“We understand that you have had a rather adventurous afternoon with Masters Brandybuck and Took?” began the Steward and Farlibar’s face darkened at the mention of their names. But he knew the gentlehobbits were friends to his present companions and didn’t want to incur their wrath by speaking badly of them, so he tried to compose himself before speaking.

Mayor Sam, however, spoke first. Or rather, snorted. “’Adventurous‘, my hat! I’ll bet they were making his life a misery! I‘ll bet that most of what the cooks told us was their fault. Ruining a perfectly good sack of flour and smashing good dishes!”

What??

Farlibar looked at the Mayor in astonishment. He knew they were scoundrels as well! The cook was not alone in thinking them the spawn of a Bree-lander! The Shire’s Best Mayor Ever had the courage to expose the unpleasant baggage! He was fearless! No wonder the King loved him!

The much-admired gardener caught Farlibar’s wide-eyed gaze and grinned at him. “Don’t misunderstand me now, Master Farlibar. They’re like me own family to me. But I know as they can be a right pair of rascals at times.”

But Farlibar wasn’t paying full attention. He’d focussed on one word and temporarily forgot the rest. He was vindicated! Rascals - yes, that’s exactly what they were. Oh, but Mayor Sam had a right good way with words!

All at once he felt very much better in the grand company he was keeping, especially when the grey-eyed Man voiced his agreement.

“Yes, indeed. They may be two of the best hobbits I know, but they can be rather…mischievous, when the mood takes them.”

Farlibar was speechless with emotion. Hah! The Finest Man He’d Ever Known agreed as well. He said they were mischievous! He said...

Best Hobbits? The cook frowned as he contemplated this surprising statement. And had Mayor Sam said they were like his own family?

The Gondorian dignitary caught his look of confusion and asked: “Are you familiar with the history of the two gentlehobbits?”

The Frogmorton cook shook his head. Familiar with their history? How would he, a simple cook, be familiar with the history of two such annoying creatures? He was just glad of his modest station in life! If he were some grand hobbit himself, he might have to see them more often! It was not an appealing thought.

Mayor Sam finished his pipe and started a new one while he spoke to him. “Let me tell you a story of what they did on our travels outside the Shire.”

Farlibar had no choice but to remain where he was and listen to a narrative on some of the (truly alarming) travels and grand (if they were to be believed) deeds of his foes. Surely they hadn’t actually talked to trees? And fought with goblins (obviously mistaken for their own reflections)? Slew a Troll?

And his greatest enemy - that water-loving Brandybuck - had apparently helped to finish off a Witchking! Farlibar wasn’t entirely surprised at the Bucklander’s impudence in facing a King, but he was somewhat puzzled by part of this tale. How could a King be a Witch? Kings were lads and Witches were lasses. It must have been a Wizardking that Mayor Sam was talking about. But the Mayor was on his third pipe by this time, so Farlibar shrugged it off as too much leaf going to his head and listened with (albeit grudging) fascination as the Steward took up the tale at this point.

“My own beloved wife was in much danger at the time,” he began, but Farlibar (much to his own surprise) dared to ask:

“Your wife, sir? I thought the Master of Buckland was on a battlefield outside your city?”

The Steward nodded. “That he was. But the White Lady - we had not met at that time - was dressed as a soldier of her people, the noble Riders of Rohan, and fought as one of them on the Pelennor Field next to her kin.”

Farlibar was astonished. A lass? In breeches! Fighting like a lad, with a sword and everything! Whoever heard tell of such a thing? He made a mental note that if he ever did a Mad Baggins, he would avoid this wild Rohan country. Lasses in breeches! He blushed at the thought.

But he was beginning to see that perhaps there was more to the two miscreants than he’d encountered: saving the good Steward (may he feast like a hobbit for the rest of his life) and coming to the aid of a Rohan Lass That Dressed All Queer-Like (obviously Brandybuck blood flowed somewhere in the land of the mighty warrior-race).

Perhaps they weren’t so bad if they were willing to go to such lengths to make the foreign skies turn blue again? And they had been leaders in routing those horrible Ruffians when he was a lad (though he hadn’t recognised them for that, being too young at the time to have witnessed it).

The Great Man continued with his fascinating tale. “She stood before the Witchking (the Steward called him Witchking too?) as he told her that no man could slay him. And he raised his mighty weapon to smite her when Merry plunged his sword into the creature’s leg - distracting him long enough for Eowyn to declare that no man was she! Then she raised her own weapon and forever rid Middle Earth of the Curse of Angmar!”

Against his better judgement, Farlibar was impressed. The Brandybuck and a lass slaying a terrible King! Good heavens! He’d never have believed that dandy Bucklander would do such a thing!

Of course, maybe the Scary Lady With The Sword hadn’t been aiming at the Wizardking at all (he would not give a lad a lass’s title, no matter how naughty he‘d been)? Perhaps the bothersome Brandybuck (he couldn’t forgive him entirely just because of a few impressive stories) had been pestering her like he’d pestered him and she’d had enough? Perhaps she’d meant to separate his head from his shoulders (he knew how fond Big Folk were of that particular punishment) and had swung too high (even the cloud-hugging Bucklander was still only a hobbit), hitting the unfortunate Wizardking by mistake?

That sounded highly plausible to Farlibar, who saw the lovestruck Steward’s face shining with pride and adoration. But he didn’t want to upset the kindly Lord with this theory so he held his tongue.

Suddenly, he felt a very strong kinship with the Bravest Lass He’d Never Met. Why, that was probably why she never cleared up the misunderstanding! She’d met her handsome Prince soon afterwards and didn’t want to ruin his good opinion of her! So she went along with everyone’s explanation (and Farlibar did not dispute the fact that she’d been exceedingly courageous to slay the terrible creature - whether she’d meant to or not) and had refrained from hacking at the cheeky Master ever since, seeing as how her husband was so fond of him and all!

He might be able to find it in his good heart to forgive both of them for some of their actions after hearing these astonishing stories from such decent people (even if one of them wasn’t a hobbit). After all, if the Thain could slay a Troll ten times his size and the Bucklander rescued such a fine (if fierce and queer) maiden, they must truly be decent hobbits at heart!

It must be just him they can’t abide!

No matter. He could live with their dislike if they would at least mind their manners from now on. He’d do it for his new friends, the Steward and Mayor Sam.

“So, you see, Master Farlibar, although they can be right terrors when they’ve a mind to, they’re actually good at heart,” finished Mayor Sam. “They don’t mean to be nasty or such - they just sometimes forget to act their age.”

“If you say so Mayor Sam, sir,” he responded thoughtfully. “Even if they did give me the fright of my life - twice - I’ll take you and the good Steward at your words ‘cos I know your both honourable gentry, sirs.”

“In what manner did they give you such frights, Master Farlibar?” queried the Steward with a touch of concern.

Farlibar squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting to tell tales on his Betters, especially after hearing of their Great Deeds (and despite the fact he’d surely be fertilising the flowers of Frogmorton five years before his natural time because of them). It wasn’t seemly.

But Mayor Sam recognised his reticence to talk and wouldn’t have him remaining silent, so he really had no choice but to explain the incident with the mushrooms (including his fear of an early grave), the flour, the ’ants’, the knife tumbling from the Took’s tunic and the loss of so many of Mistress Goodenough’s lovely plates.

He was hobbit enough to own up to his own part, for if he’d not made them chop onions with a spoon (the Steward grunted with laughter at this) or sang that shameful song (Mayor Sam was keen to learn the lyrics and made him repeat it twice), then the incidents with the flour and plates may have been avoided. He hoped his new friends didn’t think less of him for it, but the Steward merely said:

“Emotions were high, Master Farlibar and - as often happens when such is the case - we do things that we later regret. Do not trouble yourself over it now, for it is done and you are the wiser for it.”

Oh, but he was surely the Most Generous Man In All Middle Earth! The cook could not believe that such a wondrous person had made his particular acquaintance. Mistress Goodenough would be delighted! Dandelion-mum would be so proud! Gammer Gummage would...

Well, Gammer Gummage would only be impressed if the Steward didn’t run about throwing apples at folk!

“Well, Mr Faramir. I think it’s high time we had a word with old Strider, don’t you sir?” stated Mayor Sam after finishing his last pipe. “After all: brave or not, we can’t have those two running about causing mischief at their ages. We need to teach them a lesson!”

Farlibar was astounded! That Mayor Sam would see the light and punish the Rampaging Rapscallions even though they were his friends was a gift! He knew he shouldn’t take such delight at the misfortune of others (especially what with them being so brave and helping to Save Middle Earth and all), but, oh! His heart was beginning to feel so light and happy it was a good thing it was trapped in his chest or it might have flown off and deserted him.

A feeling which increased exponentially when the Steward voiced his agreement. “I quite agree, Master Gamgee. Do you have any particular lesson in mind?”

“Oh, I have an idea or two that Mr Strider might be interested in. Master Farlibar, you’ll need to come with us to the Royal Tent. I think the King would be very interested to have a nice, long chat with you.”

Farlibar nearly fainted at the thought of standing before the King again and admitting he’d not been able to keep the Scoundrels of the Shire under control. He’d met far too many dignitaries today as it was - enough for a lifetime. And if he met any more, his lifetime might be very short indeed if his nerves got the better of him!

But the other two had already risen and were staring at his pale, trembling form expectantly.

“Come, Master Farlibar. There is no need for apprehension. We shall be with you during your stay. His Majesty is a kind and wise King, he will not be too harsh with you - or them. He is aware of their rather adventurous natures and knows that they must be checked, when appropriate. And I, for one, am most curious to hear what our dear friend Sam’s ‘idea or two’ entails, are you not?”

Farlibar took great comfort from his words. Great comfort. Our dear friend! He’d said our dear friend. He was sure that the Steward was just being gentlemanly, but his kind words had made him feel like he may follow his own heart into flight!

He stood up, slightly more confident and nodded his head. “All right then, sirs. As long as he doesn’t punish them too badly, mind you. My old Dandelion-mum would not be pleased to know I got gentry into such bother - even if they are Bucklanders and Tooks.”

The Greatest Steward In The Land covered his mouth to cough (very polite he is!) and the Mayor Whose Wisdom Was Endless answered for his friend.

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout that. It’ll not be any more or less harsh than they deserve, you have my word on that - or my name’s not Sam Gamgee!”

Farlibar did not think it polite to point out that he’d often heard him referred to as Sam Gardner, so held his tongue at that as together the three made their way to the Royal Tent. The Royal Tent!

He suddenly remembered something that made his previous happiness pale in comparison - he was going to see the Star Queen!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 4

.

One hour later

.

Merry and Pippin made their way to the Royal Tent for a visit with Aragorn before dinner was served. After the disaster in the cooks’ tent with Farlibar, they had decided to keep a low profile and had been on their best behaviour ever since.

It hadn’t seemed at first that they would be successful in this venture, when they’d fled from Farlibar - and had immediately encountered Sam and Faramir. Merry grimaced as he remembered the gardener’s threat to investigate the cooks’ tent. His relief had been boundless when Faramir had deflected their friend’s attention to his own impending meeting with Aragorn.

But apart from skirting danger with the Shire‘s most famous gardener, they‘d had no further problems.

Honestly, Sam was as disturbingly suspicious as a Baggins when it came to Brandybucks and Tooks!

Although, he thought (with a moment of rare pity for the Frogmorton cook), his suspicion had been warranted in this case.

But they hadn’t meant to ruin all those plates - it was an accident. And if that foolish cousin of his hadn’t put that blasted knife in his pocket, the unfortunate incident may not have occurred at all.

He glared at the blissfully ignorant countenance of the Thain, who - unaware of his cousin’s thoughts - was happily munching on an apple he’d ‘confiscated’ from Faramir-lad (claiming it was too close to dinner for him to be spoiling his appetite with the treat).

Merry eyed the sweet juice dribbling down his chin with some annoyance. “Really, Pippin, have you no shame at all, stealing food from a five year old? Your own son!”

Pippin swallowed a mouthful of the fruit and wiped at his sticky face. “I didn’t steal it - I confiscated it!” he declared, surprised at his cousin‘s spontaneous rebuke. “And anyway, my son is almost six, I‘ll have you know!”

The Master of Buckland rolled his eyes (which were thankfully much improved after their earlier ordeal) and said: “A typical Took excuse. You know, one of these days, your stomach will explode like the Deeping wall.”

“I don’t think so Cousin,” came the cheeky retort. “At least, not before yours. Or haven’t you noticed that your stomach is swelling like the Brandywine in a storm? You’re much more likely to pop first!”

Merry was offended at the slight to his physique and put his hands over it defensively, as if to protect it from further insult, which made Pippin feel justified enough to add:

“See? Look at it! Why, you look just like Rose a few months before she produces the latest addition to Bag End!”

If looks could kill, Pippin would have dropped on the spot. But the impudent Took continued to polish off the rapidly dwindling apple and Merry decided to change the subject. Sometimes, it just wasn’t worth arguing with his cousin.

“I wonder if the new plates have arrived yet,” he said, still silently fuming at Pippin’s cheek.

“Oh, yes. They did,” replied Pippin.

“How do you know that?”

“I saw them being delivered half an hour ago when Diamond and I rescued the guards from Faramir-lad and our Gamgee namesakes.”

“Thank goodness for that! Imagine the trouble we’d be in if there weren’t enough plates for dinner?” Merry felt uncomfortable at the thought of Aragorn realising they’d caused more mischief after the punishment he’d dealt them than before he’d first arrived to the Frogmorton cook’s rescue.

“Don’t worry, Mer. It was a good thing we met Mistress Goodenough and…eh… ’explained’ the situation. She was very impressed with your offer to replace the dishes we broke.”

Merry grinned. They’d come upon the kindly matron an hour after fleeing the scene of their crime and, feeling very guilty for all the trouble they’d caused the good proprietress, he’d quickly explained that they’d accidentally stumbled into the table on a ‘visit’ to see if there were any mushrooms left and doomed her dishes to a shattering demise. Fortunately, he’d already sent word to Brandy Hall to have them replaced in time for dinner and she’d been delighted to be the recipient of crockery of such fine quality.

“That’s right kind of you Master Brandybuck, Mister Thain, sirs. I’ll keep them to be used for special occasions when we get back to the Floating Log. Imagine, dishes from Brandy Hall itself!”

And she’d left them beaming with pride at their own cleverness.

So now the Frogmorton cook had nothing to complain about!

Not really.

He probably wouldn’t say anything anyway, after mooning over Arwen in front of the assembled crowds during afternoon tea and sending his spiced loaf flying directly at the Steward as a result. He sniggered at the memory and thought of the ‘song’ he’d been composing because of that.

“What’s so funny,” asked Pippin, always keen to be included in a joke.

“Just thinking about my own musical masterpiece. A sort of tribute to Master Farlibar after the kindness he showed me with that Buckland song.”

Pippin grinned, and Merry wasn’t sure if it was at the thought of the cook’s song or his own. “Let’s hear it then.”

Encouraged by his cousin’s curiosity (not that he needed much encouragement), Merry gave him a rendition of the as yet solitary verse.

.

There was once a hobbit called Farlibar

Who fell deep in love with the Evenstar

But the beauteous Queen

Had never been keen

On anyone other than Elessar

.

Pippin laughed heartily at the amusing verse and Merry felt very good about himself. The annoying cook was not the only hobbit in the Shire with a talent for songs! And if he ever tried to repeat the scandalous slur on his Buckland brethren that he’d so arrogantly composed, then Merry would see to it that his little ditty made the rounds of Frogmorton’s good folk!

With this happy thought, Merry put a little spring in his step and he and Pippin came upon the Royal Tent in very good moods indeed.

“Hullo there!” Pippin greeted the guards with a smile. “We’re here to see Stri...I mean, the King. He’s expecting us, you know.”

“Of course, my Lords. We have instructions to give you both immediate entry,” stated one of the guards, bowing in acknowledgement to the merry duo.

Both hobbits puffed out their chests at being called ‘My Lords’. It was always pleasant to be admired.

Thanking the two regal guards for the ‘splendid work’ they were doing in seeing to their friend’s welfare (after all, it didn’t hurt to be nice to others), they entered the large tent to find that Aragorn already had some company - Sam and Faramir.

“Hullo Sam, hullo Faramir. We didn’t expect to see you here,” declared Merry in surprise.

Aragorn rose and his other two guests did likewise. “Merry, Pippin, I thought we could all take a breath of ‘fresh air’ before dinner, if that is acceptable.”

They were, naturally, delighted to take some ‘fresh air’ with their friends. Estella and Diamond both frowned on pipe-smoking before meals, saying the smell could ruin the appetite of any hungry hobbit, and so had banned them from doing it in front of the Gondorian visitors.

But if the King himself had asked them, well, what could they really say to that? Their wives would understand.

The five left the tent and Aragorn motioned to the guards to give them privacy, which they reluctantly complied with. Heading to the same large rock that (unknown to the cousins) Farlibar had visited earlier, they sat down and drew out their pipes, stuffing them with Old Toby and Longbottom Leaf as was each individual’s wont.

“So, my friends,” said Aragorn casually as everyone except Faramir puffed away on their pipe. “Have you been enjoying your day thus far?”

“Oh, very much, Strider!” declared Pippin.

Merry concurred wholeheartedly. “Good food, good company - what more can a hobbit ask for?”

Faramir smiled. “I hope you have not stated these wonders in order of preference?”

The Master of Buckland grinned back at him. “That depends.”

“Really? On what?” Both former rangers and Sam looked at him curiously.

“On the company we’re keeping at any given time, of course!”

Sam shook his head in embarrassment as Aragorn and Faramir laughed. Pippin was nodding his head at his cousin’s answer.

“Well, Merry. We must endeavour to raise the standard of company you keep - or lower the standard of food you consume,” said Aragorn - with a rather alarming twinkle in his eye, actually, Merry thought.

“Er, no. That’s all right Strider. You and Faramir are both grand enough. You too, Sam,” he added hastily at the gardener’s affronted glare.

“I should think so too!” huffed Sam and took another puff of his pipe.

“And where are your Lady wives?” asked Aragorn

“They’re helping to get all the children washed and ready for dinner,” replied Merry.

All the hobbit wives had returned to Rose and Sam’s tent for this mammoth undertaking, with Eowyn kindly accompanying them to assist, given the alarming number of Gamgee offspring Rose had to contend with. Arwen had also offered to help and she once again took possession of baby Primrose (whom she was reluctant to part with) while Eldarion and Elboron followed their mothers in kind.

“Young Faramir-lad is quite taken with you, you know,” Merry said, looking at the Steward. “He was talking about all the stories you told him of your childhood with Boromir and didn’t want to leave you after lunch ended.”

The Steward grinned in a very smug manner, a look Merry never thought he‘d see on him. “He is a delightful child indeed. One cannot question his impeccable taste.”

Pippin snorted at this, producing a violent fit of coughing that turned his face berry-red before he wheezed out: “I’m fine, don’t panic.”

On seeing the surprised look of the Steward, Merry thought he should explain the Took’s reaction. “We might not be able to question the lad’s impeccable taste, but the same can’t be said for his impeccable timing.”

“Indeed? I am curious to know what my namesake has done that would elicit such a comment from his favourite Brandybuck cousin.”

“Well, before we left the tent to meet Strider, he asked if he could sit next to you at dinner to hear more stories of you and Boromir, and Pippin said he’d see what he could do. Then he demanded of his mum and dad - in front of the Queen and the Princess of Ithilien, no less - that they ‘get him a brother too, like Boromir the Fearless’...

Pippin groaned at the upcoming revelation, which made the others grin widely and only encouraged his cousin to continue.

“...and poor Diamond blushed to her very roots when Pippin told him that they were already trying their very best to see to that.”

The small company laughed aloud at Pippin’s expense and Merry felt very pleased with himself.

Not so Pippin, though. He had received a scolding from his wife for the indelicate remark that still made his ears ring. And she would not be happy that it was now known to the King, the Steward and the Mayor as well.

He glared at Merry, who ignored him.

Merry was still grinning at the memory. “Watching Arwen and Eowyn trying to keep a straight face was even more fun than trying to get Sam into one of those ‘dandy outfits’ he hates wearing to the Free Fair.”

He smiled wickedly as Sam frowned and another wave of mirth swept the small company, but this time at the gardener‘s expense.

“Yes,” agreed Pippin, eager to divert attention from himself. “Do you remember what he said the year before last when we appeared at Bag End and tried to convince him to put on the those smart brown trousers with the red coat?”

The Master of Buckland wracked his brains for a moment, then smiled fondly. “Oh, yes, I remember that!” Putting on his best ’Sam’ voice, to the great amusement of the company (except the Mayor) he said, “’If you two think I’m setting one toe out that door looking like no more’n a rose sprouting out of a pot, then you’re both cracked in the head!’”

More laughter erupted as Sam now blushed, declaring: “I don’t talk like that.”

“Oh, yes you do!” the cousins chorused together while he glowered at them. Merry was enjoying his reaction to the friendly teasing so much that he continued with it - much to Sam’s annoyance.

“When Sam and Rose come to Buckland for a visit later this summer we’re going to teach the children to swim and they’re very excited about it. We talked about it when they visited Brandy Hall a few weeks ago. Estella suggested that it might be a good idea if Sam composed a song about the Brandywine River for them to learn.” His eyes gleamed with mischief as Sam squirmed. “But he just shuddered and said ‘I’d just as soon write a love song about the Dark Lord!’”

All the friends were now laughing in earnest as poor Sam sputtered on his pipe. Pippin’s eyes were wet with tears and he shook his head, repeating “A love song about the Dark Lord!” in amused disbelief.

“My dear Sam,” said Aragorn, clapping the unhappy Master of Bag End on the back. “If you ever compose that song, I think we would all be very interested to hear it!”

But Sam was now giving Merry (and Pippin) a Look. One which they’d learned to treat with respect…and caution.

“Talking about composing songs,” began Sam, and Merry suddenly felt uncomfortable. Pippin had obviously caught the mood as well, for the other three had stopped laughing and were regarding them a little too innocently.

“We learned a right interesting one earlier.” Sam was saying as Merry threw Pippin an alarmed glance.

“Oh, really?” he asked. Sam couldn’t possibly be talking about that odious song from the Terror in the Tent, could he? Any earlier sympathy he’d felt for Farlibar fled as quickly as he and Pippin had fled from the hobbit himself.

“Indeed,” nodded Aragorn thoughtfully. “If only we could remember the tune...”

Merry and Pippin both broke out in a light sweat as their three companions appeared to hunt their memories for the elusive tune.

Strider knew it! He’d been told by the Frogmorton Fright and was now going to sing it to them - which of course meant…

Merry gulped very loudly.

Pippin started to giggle nervously.

“Oh, you don’t have to sing for us, Strider, we already know you have a very nice voice,” squeaked the Thain and Merry almost rolled his eyes. Squeaking! Honestly! If that wasn’t an admission of guilt before the charges had even been laid at their feet!

“But Peregrin, my friend, I absolutely insist on treating you both to this delightful song!”

Peregrin?

Delightful song?

Merry was so annoyed he almost forgot to be nervous - a situation which rectified itself immediately when the other three began to chorus in unison:

.

A magnificent cook there was

With a very noble cause

When wicked pretence

Caused great offence

He gave culprits reason to pause!

.

“Oh, you’ve heard that, have you?” Merry now squeaked. There was no point in trying to bluster their way out of it now.

Aragorn was looking at them in a very...kingly...manner and the Brandybuck realised this did not bode well for them both. Pippin had moved closer to him.

He must have realised it too.

“I heard it from the very hobbit who composed it. An excellent song! Do you not agree, my Steward?”

Aragorn turned to Faramir who had obviously been very amused by the verse.

And Merry and Pippin’s expressions turned to horror as their friend replied: “I think it a very fine tune, my Lord. Perhaps we should have it committed to parchment?”

What?

“They can’t do that, can they?” whispered Pippin in Merry’s ear.

Merry didn’t answer.

“I’ve a better idea, Mister Faramir, begging your pardon, sir.”

No! Not Sam too. Merry’s throat was feeling somewhat constricted as he and Pippin waited with bated breath for Sam’s ‘better idea’.

“How about we put it on lots of parchment, then send it to every corner of Gondor and Arnor, so’s all Strider’s folks can have a right good laugh at it.”

The cousins gasped at this. That was a terrible idea!

But the King and the Steward were apparently quite taken with it.

“I bow to your superior wisdom, Master Samwise,” conceded Faramir in (apparently great) admiration.

“It is a most excellent idea!” said the King. “Samwise Gamgee, your wisdom is boundless. Truly, you are the very best of Counsellors!”

And the very worst of friends, thought Merry miserably as he and Pippin absorbed Sam’s bashful smile with a feeling of great betrayal.

He didn’t doubt they would do it either. No more would he or Pippin walk the circles of Minas Anor with their heads held high. Every time they entered one of the many fine establishments the city boasted for a mug of ale, they’d no doubt be treated to a rendition of it from any Gondorian drunk enough to remember the words (and brave enough to dare sing them, which they would if they were drunk)!

And Pippin would hear it from the Tower Guards whenever he gave them cheek (which was, surprisingly, very infrequent - Pip took his position as a Guard of the Citadel very seriously).

Nevertheless, they’d be the laughing stock of Gondor. And Arnor. Merry made a mental note never to visit Annúminas.

He was at least thankful that the Rohirrim were largely unable to read or write.

Until he remembered that the mighty people of Rohan told their history and stories through song.

“So, Meriadoc, Peregrin. What have you to say for yourselves?” demanded Aragorn.

Oh dear. Now he was calling them both by their full names. Merry cursed the day he ever laid eyes on Farlibar Barleyburn.

“Well,...eh...you see...it was like this...” He was unfortunately unable to continue due to the intense stares of Aragorn, Faramir and their former friend, the Mayor.

“What Merry’s trying to say...” Pippin started and Merry was thankful to have three pairs of eyes transfer their glares to the Thain.

“...is that we all had a small, erm, misunderstanding.”

“A small misunderstanding!” snorted Sam. “And I have a small family.”

Merry thought this was very unfair. Sam had the largest family on Bagshot Row - everyone knew that. And it was still growing.

Of course, Pippin just had to say: “Well, technically, yes. Most of them are very small, what with being under ten years old…”

Four sets of eyes now glared at the Took and he wisely discontinued uttering his particular brand of nonsense.

“Let me make this easier for you both,” stated Aragorn (in his King voice again, Merry noted bitterly). “I had a meeting with Master Barleyburn within the last hour.”

Merry was too nervous to seethe, but something must have shown on his face for Sam said:

“There’s no use looking like that, Meriadoc Brandybuck. He wouldn’t have dared come to the King himself had me and Mister Faramir here not half-dragged him. Even then he wasn’t too keen on the idea of telling tales on his ‘betters‘.”

Feeling further betrayed, Merry also lowered Faramir’s status to former friend - and Sam’s to potential enemy.

And why had he used that disapproving tone when he said betters? Merry didn’t think he was better than anyone! Except the very dead Dark Lord. And the equally deceased Saruman. Maybe Wormtongue. Definitely orcs. And Uruk-hai. Most of the population of Bree. All Sackville-Bagginses (not that he imagined there were any left, unless Otho had a guilty secret somewhere). Cooks from Frogmorton.

Well, perhaps Sam was right to use that disapproving tone.

“Master Barleyburn was indeed reluctant to be forced into explaining all the day’s happenings since he encountered you both, but conceded when I ordered him too.” revealed Aragorn.

Apparently, Merry was losing all his friends today.

“When I came upon you first in the cooks tent and you squeaked in reply to my greeting...”

Squeaked? He glared at Pippin.

“...I was naturally suspicious of what you had been doing to act in such a guilty manner - especially when Master Barleyburn asked if my son was ‘recovered‘. This was why I recommended your assistance to him in the first place.”

Both cousins gulped.

“Imagine my surprise,” continued Aragorn, “ to be visited later in the afternoon and be informed that you had caused further upset to the good cook. Enough to be asked to leave - but not before causing devastation in your wake...”

He trailed off at the last sentence and looked at them in some disappointment.

Faramir was also looking slightly disappointed and their new enemy, the Mayor - well, oddly enough, he didn’t look too surprised.

“I had thought you too old for such foolishness, my friends,” said the King. “Are you aware that Master Barleyburn was in fear for his life at the perceived slight to his Royal guests?”

Merry and Pippin looked up in surprise, then looked back down in shame.

“No, your Majesty. We didn’t know that,” said Pippin in a very contrite voice. Merry, too, was sorry to hear it. Sort of.

“Didn’t he say something about running off to Far Eastern Lands to escape beheadings and the taste of grass?” queried Sam innocently.

Merry further dropped his status to ‘mortal’ enemy.

But then he remembered the look of fright in the cook’s eyes as he and Pippin had been having the time of their lives with their little deception, and felt genuinely sorry for the fear they’d instilled. He knew the cook wasn’t a very sociable hobbit and added to the fact he was an excellent cook who’d made a really quite spectacular mushroom dish for the welcoming feast...well he’d been an easy target to bluff out of a few more.

He hadn’t expected him to take it to heart so. But he should have.

The Master of Buckland looked up and stared Aragorn directly in the eye. “We really are sorry for that. We didn’t mean to scare him to death. It was just a ruse to get more...”

“Mushrooms,” finished Pippin with shame in his voice as his cousin trailed off. “If it’s any consolation, we did send for new plates for him.” He eyed Aragorn hopefully.

“And that, my friends, is your only saving grace.”

Saving grace?

Now Merry looked up in hope.

“Your gift of new dishes to the cook shows at least that you are aware of some of your transgressions and regret them.” Aragorn had finished his pipe and was currently knocking it against the rock in order to clear it.

Merry and Pippin waited anxiously for their (new) punishment, hoping their moment of reticence earlier would make it more lenient.

“However,” he continued as both hobbits gave s sigh of defeat (and Sam gave very smug grin) I cannot, in all good conscience, allow you to go unpunished.”

“Therefore...”

They listened meekly to their sentence - and then gave a gasp of horror at the revelation of what they were expected to do as contrition for their crimes.

And when both Aragorn and Faramir credited their punishment to Sam, both hobbits glared at him accusingly, and Merry wondered if there was a level of enemy worse than ‘mortal‘.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 5

Merry and Pippin listened meekly to their sentence - and then gave a gasp of horror at the revelation of what they were expected to do as contrition for their crimes.

He and Pippin would have to report to Master Barleyburn each morning in the cooks’ tent for the duration of the Gondorians’ visit to carry out any and all tasks required of them by the cook - no matter how menial.

They would be responsible (under the strict supervision of Sam) for all the mushroom dishes that were to be served: they would cook them as Farlibar instructed, he would deem if they were fit to be consumed and dispose of them according to his own preferences if they were not.

But they were not allowed to eat any of them.

Ever.

Or else.

Merry almost cried.

Pippin actually stifled a sob.

The following afternoon, they were to report to Faramir, who would supply them with parchment and ink and supervise them while they wrote a copy of that blasted song to be sent to Minas Anor (Uncle Imrahil would love it, the Steward assured them), Dol Amroth (the Steward‘s cousins would apparently love it too), Rohan (Merry was very upset to hear this) and the Steward in the North Kingdom.

Pippin was foolish enough to ask what the point of that was, as he didn’t even know them.

But Strider just smiled wickedly and said: “Yet.”

Both hobbits were not too pleased to learn that they would be expected to visit during the King’s sojourn by Lake Evendim.

So much for avoiding Annúminas.

But at least he hadn't mentioned anything about sending a copy to Rivendell. Or Legolas and Gimli.

"I suspect that my brothers and the elves of Eryn Lasgalen may also enjoy a song from the Shire. And let us not forget our trusty Dwarven friends," he added.

Oh, but this was dreadful!

"And if you cause any further mischief to unsuspecting cooks - or indeed, anyone else - this song shall not be kept solely for our friends' amusement, for I will gladly give permission to any who ask to have it spread throughout their lands."

Aragorn was rapidly plummeting through various levels of Merry's esteem and had now joined Sam as a mortal enemy.

"I would also hope that both of you are contrite enough to apologise to Master Barleyburn for your poor treatment of him,” said Aragorn a little more gravely. “But I shall not force you to do this.”

Merry and Pippin looked up at him in surprise.

“I shall leave it to your own good conscience to lead you to that end.”

He gave them both a look of such disappointment that Merry would have gladly sought out the cook and grovelled at his feet that very moment, if it would wipe it off his face.

“As for your final punishment - Sam?” Aragorn turned to the Mayor.

“Well, seeing as how your behaviour reflects on your whole family and all…”

No! He hadn’t!

“…I thought it only fair…”

Merry and Pippin cringed.

“…to send for your wives, so’s you could tell ’em how responsible you’ve both been, as head of your families and all.”

The cousins glowered at him, but Sam just put his hands behind his back and puffed out his chest, obviously very pleased with himself.

And when both Aragorn and Faramir credited their punishment to Sam, both hobbits glared at him accusingly, and Merry wondered if there was a level of enemy worse than ‘mortal‘.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The following morning

Farlibar Barleyburn hummed a merry tune as he prepared a cooking area for his new assistants and reflected with wonder on the previous evening.

For he’d been a special guest - a special guest - of the King at dinner, and (once he’d conquered his quailing nerves with a few glasses of Mistress Goodenough‘s fine brandy wine - she would understand) had had the time of his life listening to all the grand folk in the pavilion compliment his good cooking!

But the best part had been when the Bucklander was ordered by the King to attend to his every need during the meal. Him! Farlibar Barleyburn! Attended on by the Master of Buckland! It had been the most satisfying moment of the entire day: having a plate of his own stuffed mushrooms delivered to him by one of the very people who’d tried to trick him out of them!

And sitting next to all those grand folks!

The Steward had introduced him to his beautiful wife, the Lady Eowyn, saying she was quite eager to learn some culinary tips from him (although Farlibar wasn‘t too sure about that claim - she‘d looked at her husband very queer-like at his ‘keen to learn some culinary tips‘ remark). Luckily, it was her husband she glared at, and not poor Farlibar, for he wasn’t sure that she didn’t have a sword concealed somewhere in her flowing dress after all the wild tales he’d heard of her (although he was secretly grateful it was a dress she was wearing and not breeches).

Farlibar sighed as he remembered the other beautiful lady he’d seen at dinner. The Star Queen. Oh, but she was magnificent! He’d composed a song in her honour (not intending to repeat it of course) and sang it to himself when he thought he was alone in the Gamgees tent (Mayor Sam had kindly given him the loan of a right smart pair of brown trousers and a nice red jacket for dinner seeing as he hadn’t brought anything nearly as fine with him for such an occasion).

Unfortunately, he’d not been as alone as he’d thought and almost perished with embarrassment when Merry-lad Gamgee declared (during dinner, no less) that he knew a good song about jam roly-poly and started to sing the (thankfully) single verse he’d heard the cook reciting earlier.

Of course, the Disaster of Buckland had somehow known it was Farlibar’s creation (probably because the cook had sprayed his ale all over the table at the first line) and had taken great delight in announcing that Frogmorton’s ’finest cook’ was also a talented poet - before remembering (no doubt) that one of his 'poems' had been about him and promptly flushing as red as his best strawberry tarts! But the glorious Star Queen was delighted to have been (he’d burned the words into his memory) ‘the inspiration for such a delicious creation’! After which, the King had ordered the offensive Bucklander to replenish the cook’s ale!

All in all, a truly wonderful meal.

Smiling happily, Farlibar placed a spoon next to the half-empty barrel of onions and patted it fondly. He’d fished it out of the bucket of onion skins yesterday afternoon after his meeting with the King, the Steward and the Best Hobbit The Shire Had Ever Known. It had taken him several minutes to bend it back into shape, but no matter. It was worth it. His little ‘friend’ would be put to use again before this very hour was done!

As if the thought had conjured them up, the tent flap opened and Mayor Sam delivered the Master of Buckland and the Thain into his ’care’.

“Master Farlibar, Merry and Pippin here are right keen to get started on those mushrooms dishes we talked about yesterday, so I’ll be happy to watch over them if you want to carry on with preparing your other courses.”

Of course, any fool could see that the two hobbits were anything but ’keen’ to work with the delicious fungi and not be allowed to eat any. They glowered at the Mayor and Farlibar shook his head at their lack of respect.

“Well, thank you kindly, sir. But I thought we’d start off with some unfinished business first of all.” He indicated the barrel of onions and the gentlehobbits’ faces lost all colour.

“That’s a very sensible idea Master Farlibar! Waste not, want not, after all.” The Mayor walked over to the table and appeared to admire the solitary spoon, then turned to him.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, though, you might need another spoon. Wouldn’t want them to start fighting over who gets the honour of…ahem…slicing these fine onions.”

Farlibar thought that was a right clever idea - and told Mayor Sam so too, as he retrieved a second spoon and placed it next to its kin on the table.

But the Master and the Thain obviously did not agree. The Took, in particular, looked very upset and he’d not even touched an onion yet! But Farlibar would not feel pity for him, oh no! He’d been generous enough to let the Thain off lightly yesterday with just peeling them - and look at the thanks that got him! So perhaps it was time to let the Knight (no, the Fright) of Gondor realise that the cook’s generosity was not to be spurned!

Still, he might go easier on them once they’d apologised, something they had yet to do. But no apology was forthcoming.

So, looking at the unhappy duo with a broad smile, he casually waved a hand at the table of onions, and - with a final glare at the Mayor (really, someone should teach them some manners!) - they reluctantly plodded towards their fate.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

3 hours later

Merry and Pippin had just endured the worst morning of their lives since before the fall of Sauron.

And the day was not over yet.

Now they walked (as slowly as possible) across the field to report to the Steward’s tent after finishing their luncheon duties.

Upon fleeing their wives yesterday, he and Pippin had agreed to apologise to Master Farlibar before dinner started, but had experienced some difficulty in locating him for he was not in the cooks' tent. The other cooks had no idea where he'd 'hidden himself' and they had spent another ten minutes wandering the field in the vain hope of spotting him. When they’d finally given up the search and arrived for their duties at the late afternoon meal, they found him sitting next to Eowyn, dressed in Sam’s brown trousers and red coat (the very ones he’d teased the Mayor about an hour earlier) and having the time of his life! Merry had been expected to serve the smiling cook for the rest of the evening, and he and Pippin never got the chance to speak with him alone to offer their sincere apologies.

So they had decided to try again this morning, before their ‘cooking lessons’ and ‘other menial tasks’ commenced. But that idea hadn’t worked out any better when Farlibar (who Merry was rapidly losing sympathy with) and Sam (he still hadn’t thought of a level of enemy worse than ’mortal’) had joined forces against them before they even had the chance to open their mouths!

After spending an hour peeling and mashing onions under their mortal enemy’s supervision, they’d suffered the torture of trying to cook mushrooms through a haze of tears (not all of which were caused by the onions) and had burnt several due to their visual incapacitation. The Frog from the Floating Log had been so annoyed that he’d ordered them out of the way and told them to bathe their eyes while he finished the job.

And then he and Sam had shared a plate of the delicious, fragrant, tempting fried mushrooms in batter while he and Pippin were forced to watch! The smell of their hobbity goodness had gone through his skin and round his heart as they watched the evil duo scoff the whole lot.

His poor abused eyes had begun leaking again at that point (and Pippin had actually started to sniffle). Merry hadn’t cried so much since Frodo sailed into the West…

“Mer, my eyes are still stinging,” moaned Pippin as they reluctantly made their way to Faramir’s tent.

“Mine, too Pip. Maybe we won’t have to stay too long if we tell Faramir that we had to slice onions all morning…with a spoon.” He couldn’t believe they’d been forced to do that again. It had taken most of yesterday afternoon for his eyes to calm down after just five minutes of the task - it would be several days at least before he could see properly after this morning’s humiliation.

Pippin snorted. “I don’t think so! He wasn’t too sympathetic yesterday afternoon when Strider was listing all our punishments.”

Merry groaned. His cousin had a point.

“Still, at least we don’t need to see Sam until afternoon tea,” said Pippin, in an attempt to raise their spirits.

“I suppose so. It was bad enough we had to see him stuffing his face with mushrooms this morning,” he replied.

Pippin's comments had done little to cheer the elder hobbit, though. He was still upset that Sam had sent for Estella and Diamond while they were having their breath of ‘fresh air’ at the rock (and would bet that one of the guards they had been so nice to before meeting Strider had taken care of that). After being sentenced by the King, he and Pippin had been marched back to his tent to find two very curious hobbit wives waiting. Upon seeing their husbands’ guilty faces, though, that curiosity had fled - to be replaced by growing suspicion. And it only got worse after that...

“But let’s not forget that Estella and Diamond still aren’t talking to us because of him, Pip, so it doesn't matter that we won't see him until afternoon tea - he can still cause plenty of havoc in his absence.”

“Well, strictly speaking, that’s our own fault, Mer. If we hadn’t tried to trick the cook we wouldn’t be in this mess,” stated Pippin and ignored the glare his cousin gave him.

“Besides, what he did is nothing compared to Diamond and Estella’s punishment.”

The Master of Buckland couldn’t argue with that when he remembered what had happened when they’d arrive back at Aragorn’s tent…

~*~*~*~

The previous afternoon

Merry and Pippin cringed as they entered Aragorn’s tent and found their wives there.

Estella and Diamond had no idea why they were invited to the King’s tent and were more than a little curious when the small party arrived back.

But that quickly changed after Strider explained that their husbands had something to tell them.

Perhaps it had been the tone in his voice when he said ‘something to tell them’ that had turned the pretty hobbit wives’ expressions so swiftly to suspicion.

And their three tormentors stayed long enough to make sure they told them everything (sometimes filling in missing bits of information they had heard from the cook himself).

Estella and Diamond folded their arms (in unison) and raised their eyebrows (also in unison) while the very guilty duo confessed their crimes.

Only then did their one former friend and two mortal enemies excuse themselves, giving the ladies use of the tent until they had ‘seen to their husbands as they deemed fit’. But Merry had seen them hovering outside the tent flap and making very little effort to be discreet about it.

Really, he fumed, would it have been too much to allow them the dignity of having their tellings-off in private?

Apparently so.

Merry thought friends were highly overrated anyway, as the cousins cowered before the wrath of their spouses.

And then the Mistress of Buckland and the Thain’s wife duly ‘saw to their husbands as they deemed fit’.

Estella was mortified that he’d treated a good fellow like the cook in such a way - and dragging the Thain into the whole sorry affair too!

But Diamond declared (with a very alarming glare at Pippin) that the Thain’s foolishness was not to be underestimated, and that anyone who didn’t inform the mother of a five year old that her son had been carrying around sharp instruments was capable of all sorts of stupidity without outside influence.

Pippin was quite put-out at this and very unwisely chose to open his mouth in his own defence, but quickly changed his mind when his furious wife stuck one hand on her hip and waved a finger at him with the other.

“Don’t you even dare try to defend yourself, Peregrin Took! It’s bad enough you frightened the life out of Master Barleyburn, but not to let me know when Faramir-lad leaves the Smials carrying such things? He could have accidentally hurt himself - or someone else!”

Taking in her battle-ready stance, his cousin remained silent.

Merry was relieved his own, sweet Estella had none of the famous Long-Cleeve temper.

Until she advanced on him.

“What in the name of the Shire were you both thinking? Acting like rascals! You are the Master of Buckland and the Thain of the Shire, not a pair of naughty hobbit-lads! And shaming your families and the entire Shire in front of guests - Royalty, no less! What must they think of us!”

The Master of Buckland wondered whether his wife really ought be reprimanding the Thain as well - but Diamond didn’t seem to mind at all. Oh, no. She was nodding her head in agreement!

“’Stell…” he began, but was harshly cut off.

“Don’t you ‘Stell’ me Meriadoc Brandybuck! That is a name used by the responsible adult that is my husband - not some ageing tween!”

Ageing tween? Oh, that hurt!

Pippin sniggered beside him, but Diamond was at his side in an instant.

“She was referring to you as well when she said that. And I completely agree with her.”

The Took instantly regained his composure at this and eyed his glowering wife cautiously, knowing she would either pronounce sentence soon - or thump him.

Privately, Merry hoped she opted for the latter.

“So, Diamond, what do you think we ought to do with them?” queried Estella in a very ominous tone.

“Well, ‘Stell (Merry flinched at this), I think that if they want to act like tweenagers, we ought to treat them as such!”

The cousins gulped - in unison.

“I don’t know what His Majesty has planned for you both, but when you get back to Tuckborough, Peregrin Took, it’ll be separate bedrooms for a start, until you can learn to act your age!”

Merry winced at his cousin’s misfortune - it looked like Faramir-lad could forget about that brother he wanted for the foreseeable future.

“That goes for you too, Meriadoc Brandybuck!” declared Estella.

And he could forget about an heir.

But that was only the beginning. Before they were allowed to scurry out the tent in shame, they had been issued with enough punishments to keep them occupied for the rest of their natural lives - including a ban on mushroom consumption for the next month, starting immediately (both nearly fainted at this), a week of scrubbing the stables (which Merry didn’t mind too much, but Pippin was horrified - the Great Smials had a great deal more ponies than Brandy Hall) and - as recompense for their treatment of him - a two-week long visit to each of their households by none other than Master Farlibar Barleyburn.

~*~*~*~

Merry shuddered at the recollection. He didn’t mind the unexpected summer visitor, he was sure he could put up with cook if he really tried (and after all, he wasn’t such a bad fellow, apart from his annoying talent with songs), but what had really riled him was his wife’s parting shot.

“And you had better be sure you treat him with nothing but respect or I’ll be sending for the local Shirriffs to throw you out of the Shire quicker than you can say ‘Horn of the Mark’,”she’d threatened, as she’d loomed over him (a feat in itself as he was several inches taller than her).

He and Pippin had quickly fled the tent afterwards, passing the sniggering forms of Aragorn, Faramir and Sam on the way.

What had she meant by that anyway? Anyone would think he walked around Buckland with it swinging from his neck and waiting for the first opportunity to make use of it!

Pippin was regarding him curiously and (not comprehending the danger he was in) chose to ask: “Where did you put the Horn, Mer? It’s not like you to leave it lying around instead of having it swinging from your neck wherever you go.”

Merry thumped him.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?” cried the very surprised Thain, rubbing his arm.

“Because I’m hungry!” he seethed in annoyance. “You do realise we’ve not had any mushrooms for a day now, don‘t you?”

“What’s that got to do with the Horn?” asked the mystified Thain. “And anyway, you’d better get used to not eating mushrooms. We’ve an entire month of that particular trial to get through. Not to mention the fact that Diamond has thrown me out, so I’ve had to ask the Captain of the Guard if I can sleep in the soldiers‘ tent.”

His cousin looked so forlorn (and he so completely understood his pain - Estella had done the same to him) that Merry placed an arm around him.

“Sorry, Pip. You’re right. We Brandybucks and Tooks have to stick together; face the evils of the world side by side; show our enemies that we laugh in the face of despair; carry our burdens so graciously that any Baggins would be proud to be related to us!”

Pippin felt his courage rise with every magnificent word his cousin uttered - until he heard the latter ones.

“Merry?” he ventured hesitantly.

“Yes, Pip?”

“I think that Bilbo and Frodo would be more proud to be related to Sam. After all, even they couldn‘t have thought of such terrible punishments.”

Merry almost thumped him again, but the Thain had cautiously darted out of the way.

“If it’s any consolation, though, I’ve thought of a new name for him,” said the younger hobbit.

“What is it then?” huffed Merry, not fully placated.

“Peregrin’s Peril.”

The Master of Buckland rolled his eyes (which - for the second day in a row - caused him some discomfort) and looked at his cousin in despair. “That’s not nearly good enough Pippin! We need something much better than that! Something which accurately describes the fear, eh, I mean caution that he should be treated with.”

Pippin looked affronted at having his colourful title for Sam trounced by his cousin. But he was the bigger hobbit (figuratively and literally, regardless of the Master of Buckland’s wild claims to the contrary), so he would listen to any alternatives offered. “All right, then. What do you think we should call him?”

“Brandybuck’s Bane!” Merry was quite pleased with himself.

“Well, that’s not fair! Why is your name better for him than mine? I am the Thain, you know!”

And they squabbled the rest of the way to Faramir’s tent.

THE END