Dawn

Master Bawden hurried down the main walkway, ducked behind the screen that concealed the building site from passers by and, glancing upwards, walked out onto the half-finished flet. Thank the gods, he thought, the King’s curtains are still closed—

He felt something sticky beneath his feet, and looked down.

The body was lying on the beautifully carved porch, surrounded by a splash of dark blood that had dripped from step to step and pooled on the flet beneath.

“Oh, Béma!” Bawden swallowed hard.

But he had seen far too many deaths, both at Helm’s Deep and on Pelennor Field, to lose his stomach over this one and—quickly mastering himself—he stepped over the gore, crouched down beside the body, and touched its out-flung hand. “Stone cold,” he muttered.

He looked up at King Thranduil’s apartment.

Quickly, he rose, pulled a tarpaulin from the pile of planks stacked against the flet wall, and covered up the dead man, weighing down the cloth with blocks of wood at the feet, and at what was left of the head.

Now, he thought, to tell Captain Golradir. Oh, gods!

…

An hour later

Legolas climbed out of the warm, scented water, picked up his dressing robe and slipped it on. “Yes—what is it?”

“Captain Golradir to see you my Lord,” called his servant, through the closed door. “I told him that you were bathing, but he says that the matter cannot wait.”

Hearing the anxiety in the young elf’s voice, Legolas opened the door. “Do not look so worried, Galathil,” he said, smiling. “Show the Captain into the study, tell him that I will be with him in a few moments, and offer him a glass of cordial.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

…

Legolas entered his study to find the Captain of the Palace Guard pacing nervously to and fro. “It has happened again my Lord,” he said, with barely-controlled anger, “and I can only offer my most sincere apologies—”

“Please, Captain, calm down. What has happened again?”

“A death, my Lord—a murder—on the very eve of the Harvest Rite.”

Legolas swore softly. “Take a seat, Captain, and tell me everything you know.” He crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a cordial, and offered to refill the other’s glass. “Who is the victim?”

“One of the craftsman-builders, my Lord,” said Golradir, sitting down reluctantly. “Heral son of Eadfrid; a human. Master Bawden found him lying in the new building works—directly beneath his Majesty’s window—fortunately, Bawden had the presence of mind to cover him up.”

“Bawden is a good man.” Legolas frowned. “Could the death have been an accident?”

“No.” Golradir shook his head. “No, my Lord. I have examined the body myself. The man was stabbed through the heart, and would have fallen instantly, but there is no sign of the blade. Besides…”

Legolas waited.

The Captain sighed. “The body,” he said, quietly, “has been mutilated.”

“Mutilated? In what way?”

“His ears, my Lord. His ears have been cut from his head—and they are missing too.”

…

Haldir’s bedchamber

“Cyllien… Hûn velui.”

Haldir had never known an elleth sleep as much as she—but he supposed that it was the effect of the pipe weed, acting upon her elven constitution, which seemed more susceptible to intoxication than that of a dwarf, or even that of a hobbit.

He shook her, very gently. “Cyllien?”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, confused. “You don’t—usually wake me…”

“No, but…” He indicated that he wanted to sit down, and she moved over to give him room. “There is something I need to say.” He took hold of her hand. “I will always stand by you, Tithen Dúlinn. After all, I brought you here—”

“You did not force me.”

“No. No, but perhaps I did mislead you…”

For an instant, he thought he saw something—Jealousy? Anger?—flicker in her dark eyes. Then she pulled her hand from his grasp and turned her back on him.

“Cyllien… I just want you to know that you can rely on me.”

He waited, but the elleth did not reply and, after a few moments, he rose, and left the chamber.

…

Legolas stepped out onto the walkway.

The air was fresh—a strong breeze, carrying the scents of the Northern Forest, filled his lungs and, perversely, raised his spirits. On a day like this, he thought, crossing to Hentmirë’s house, it is hard to believe there can be such evil in the world.

He knocked on the door. “Good morning, Donatiya,” he said, greeting Hentmirë’s faithful companion with a polite bow, “I need to speak with your mistress, and with Lady Eowyn.”

“They’re both breaking their fast, Master Legolas,” said the old woman. “Come with me.”

He followed her into the breakfast room and, as he entered, he saw Eowyn look up from her honey cake, and smile at him. Valar, he thought, feeling his heart leap in response, whoever decreed these nights apart knew exactly what he was doing.

“Should you be in here, my dear?” asked Hentmirë, anxiously.

“Something is wrong,” said Eowyn.

“Yes,” replied Legolas. “I have bad news.”

Eowyn indicated the empty chair beside her.

The elf glanced briefly at Hentmirë, wondering whether he should spare her the horrific details of the murder by sending her on an errand; but then he remembered that—despite appearances—she had already proved herself brave and capable, so he sat down, and recounted what Captain Golradir had told him.

“The poor man…” said Hentmirë.

“Melmenya,” said Legolas, slowly, “Captain Golradir does not know how to proceed: the killer took the weapon, and cleaned up thoroughly. Golradir has asked whether you and I would be willing to oversee the investigation—he particularly asked for your help. Are you willing, Eowyn nín?”

“Of course, Lassui.” Eowyn did not hesitate for a moment. “I saw Heral, yesterday, when we were up in your father’s sitting room. He was fighting with one of the other workmen. Master Amdír called him a troublemaker; I wish I had paid more attention to the rest of what he was saying… Just let me fetch my wax tablet, and we will draw up a plan of action.” She hurried from the breakfast room and Legolas heard her open Hentmirë’s front door.

“Why do you think,” said the little woman, suddenly, “that the killer cut his ears off? I mean, I can understand why a person might kill someone,”—and Legolas remembered, then, how Hentmirë had (more by accident than intention, it was true), caused the death of Baalhanno in the caves beneath Kuri—“and I can see why they might attack the body afterwards, in anger,” she continued, “but why cut off his ears?”

Legolas shook his head.

“Unless…”

“Unless what, gwendithen?”

Hentmirë chewed her lip. “Well, elven ears are pointed, and so are dwarves’, a little, but human ears are round,” she said.

…

As Eowyn was crossing the walkway, she spotted a tall, dark figure approaching the main staircase, longbow in hand. “Good morning, blood brother,” she called.

Thorkell bogsveigir turned, smiling. “And good morning to you, blood sister.” He bowed theatrically. “May I trouble you for directions to the archery butts? I am told that they are somewhere—er—down there.” He waved his hand in the direction of the ground, far below.

“Yes,” said Eowyn. “When you reach the bottom of the stairs, turn left past the Banqueting Hall, follow the path through the rose gardens, and you will see the wall of the practice field straight ahead. You cannot miss it.” She looked up into his handsome face—and the weight of the tablet in her hand reminded her of the murder, and of the mysterious figure she had seen through her window the night before. “Thorkell,” she said, guardedly, “I noticed that you were making friends with Mistress Tóriel last night.”

“Lady Tóriel,” corrected the Beorning. “Her father was one of the dúnedhil, which makes him a prince among elves, apparently.”

“And did you learn that,” said Eowyn, “during the banquet—or after?”

“My Lady!”

“I was just—”

“A gentleman,” said the Beorning, “does not discuss such things, and especially not with another Lady.”

“Are you saying, then,” she persisted, ignoring his banter, “that you did escort Tóriel home last night?”

“Are you warning me off?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what?” Suddenly, he smiled his infuriating, know-it-all smile. “Is this a little sister being possessive about her big brother?”

“Do not flatter yourself! Gods, Thorkell, how do you do you get away with this nonsense with King Thranduil?”

“I have a permanent pardon.” He smiled at her look of disbelief. “It is true. When he asked me to join his household I insisted upon it. It is written upon parchment. If he threatens me with dismissal, I wave it at him.”

Despite herself, Eowyn laughed, shaking her head. “Well,” she said, knowing that she would get no more from him without revealing more than she should at present, “enjoy your practice.”

“Thank you. I shall.” He bowed. “My Lady.”

For a few moments, Eowyn watched him descend the stairs—fervently praying that her ‘blood brother’ had played no part in the previous night’s murder.

…

“Now,” said Legolas, clearing a space on the breakfast table for Eowyn’s wax tablet, “where do we start?”

“With the body,” said Eowyn.

“Good. Golradir has left it in place, and set guards at the entrance to the building site, so nothing will have been disturbed. After we have seen everything for ourselves, melmenya, we will ask Master Dínendal to move the body to the Healing Rooms, and carry out a thorough examination.”

Eowyn made notes: Dínendal—time, weapon, wound, etc.

“What then?” asked Legolas.

“You should talk to Master Bawden,” said Hentmirë.

“Yes,” said Eowyn. “What was he doing there this morning—after he told us that the work had been suspended?”

“I do not know, melmenya,” said Legolas. “I cannot believe he had anything to do with Heral’s death, though I am sure that he will be able to tell us whether the man had any enemies.”

“He had lots,” said Eowyn, making more notes, “at least, according to Master Amdír—many of them husbands he had cuckolded. We should speak to Amdír third. And then, Legolas…” She looked up from the tablet. “I think we must also speak to Haldir.”

“Haldir?” Legolas frowned. “What do you mean?”

Eowyn described how she had seen the big elf the day before, watching Heral from behind the foliage.

“Perhaps,” said Hentmirë, “the March Warden was concerned for his safety.” Legolas patted her hand.

“Even to me,” said Eowyn, “it looked suspicious, so we must clear it up as quickly as possible. Did Haldir say anything last night, on the archery practice field?”

“No.” Legolas shook his head. “No, in the end, I decided to go there alone, melmenya, so I did not see him.”

“Pity.” Eowyn made a note. “There is also Thorkell bogsveigir,” she said. “I cannot be sure, but I think I saw him late last night, creeping past my window. He says—well, he implies—that he had been with Mistress Tóriel, but I—” She suddenly looked up from her wax tablet. “Lassui! You must tell your father what has happened!”

“I know.” Legolas sighed. “I should do it by myself, melmenya—and the sooner the better. I will go straight away.” He rose from the table.

“And I will fetch Master Dínendal,” said Eowyn. “We will meet you at the building site.” She carefully closed her tablet, sliding the stylus into its holder.

“Well,” said Hentmirë, also rising, “whilst you two are doing that, I shall drive over to the stone quarry, and fetch Gimli back.”

Legolas and Eowyn exchanged puzzled looks. “Why gwendithen?”

“Because a dwarf always sees things differently,” she said.

“I cannot argue with that,” said Legolas.

…

King Thranduil’s apartment

“And that is the body?”

“Yes, Ada.” Legolas joined his father beside the wide, curving window. Directly below them, the roofless chambers of the guest quarters, completely open to view, looked like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle—and Heral’s body, still wrapped in Bawden’s tarpaulin, lay like a stain upon their pale, carved wood.

“Ada,” said Legolas, thoughtfully, “are you sure you did you not hear anything last night? Or see anything strange?”

“Strange?” Thranduil shook his head. “No.”

“At what time did you draw these curtains?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“No, of course not!”

“Good,” said Thranduil. “Ah—there is Eowyn and that healer of yours.”

Through the window, Legolas watched Eowyn and Master Dínendal carefully uncover the body. I must join them. He turned to his father. “Of course I am not accusing you of anything, Ada; but if you had been looking out of here last night—or if one of your servants had, perhaps—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the sitting room door.

“Come in,” called Thranduil. “Mistress Cyllien! Maer aur, hiril vain.” He swept across the room and, bowing slightly, offered the elleth his arm.

Cyllien, looking pale but seductive in a low-cut gown of vivid red, smiled up at him, and placed her hand in his.

Legolas frowned. “Ada…”

“A moment, Lassui.” Thranduil guided Cyllien to the sitting area and waited until she was comfortably settled before returning to his son. “Was there anything else, ion nín?”

“What is she doing here?” asked Legolas quietly.

“Mistress Cyllien has promised to sing for me—Nargothrond, Beren and Luthien, the Song of Nimrodel—all the old lays.”

“And since when have you been interested in music, Ada?”

“I have always loved music, Lassui. Did I not encourage your talent for singing?”

“No.” Legolas glanced at Cyllien. She appeared to be examining the Rohirric carvings on the fireplace but he had no doubt that she was overhearing every word they said. “Haldir is a good elf, Ada,” he said, raising his voice a little, “and a very good friend. Please do not forget that.” He bowed, formally. “Until supper.”

He was halfway to the building site before another thought occurred to him: when he had escorted his father back to his apartment at the end of the previous night’s banquet, the Elvenking had hinted that he would like the opportunity to get to know Cyllien better—

“So when, exactly,” sighed Legolas, “did she promise to sing for you, Ada?”

The woman with hair like midday sun holds the dead man’s hand.

Does she grieve for him?

She would not, if she knew what I know.

“Good morning, Master Dínendal.” Legolas crouched down beside the healer. “Thank you for agreeing to help us again—I know that this is an unpleasant task, but if you can tell us anything that might help us find the murderer…”

“Well,” said the healer, gravely, “the unfortunate man was stabbed through the heart. I can examine the wound more thoroughly in the Healing Room but, at first sight, I would say that the blade was long and narrow with a trailing point, and that the bolster,”—he pulled back the man’s torn shirt—“was angled—you can see how it has dug more deeply into the flesh at the lower edge of the wound…”

“Something like this?” asked Legolas, drawing one of his own white knives and handing it to the other elf.

Dínendal examined the blade. “Yes…” He held the point against the wound. “Yes, that is a good match.” He gave the knife back to Legolas.

“Thank you.”

“The attack,” continued the healer, “does not appear frenzied. The killer struck once, withdrew the knife, and his victim’s lifeblood flowed out from the hole in his heart. The killer then used the same blade to cut off the ears.” Respectfully, he closed the dead man’s shirt, smoothing the bloody cloth over the broad chest.

“He does seem to have fought, though,” said Eowyn. “Look,”—she lifted Heral’s left hand—“his knuckles are grazed and the blood is fresh, so the murderer may well have a black eye, or a swollen nose.”

“Are there any footprints?” asked Legolas, glancing across the flet.

“One on the porch,” said Eowyn, “but that is Heral’s own: there is a crack across the sole,”—she looked up—“he slipped on his own blood, Lassui. There is another one, down there,”—she pointed to the floor of the flet—“but Master Bawden says that is his—he is waiting to speak to us in the workmen’s pavilion. I cannot see any others.”

Legolas nodded. “You and I will have another look before we question Bawden, melmenya,” he said. “Master Dínendal, I think that now would be a good time for you to move the body to the Healing Room.”

…

The stone quarry

Hentmirë’s carriage (recently shipped from Carhilivren) glided into the clearing. “Whoa,” called Rimush, and the horses drew to a halt.

Sitting on the driver’s seat, beside her former slave, Hentmirë surveyed the scene. Directly ahead, a curving wall of rock, crisscrossed by sloping pathways and peppered with holes, swarmed with dwarves cutting, and men hauling, and elves carving the smooth, white stone to every shape and size.

“Look, there he is,” cried Hentmirë. “Gimli!” She waved to the dwarf. “Gimli!”

By the time she had climbed down to the ground, Gimli, wearing a leather cap and apron, and covered from head to foot in stone dust, was there to meet her. Hentmirë explained what had happened. “And it is only two days until that dreadful Ceremony,” she said.

Without a word, Gimli walked over to one of the barrels standing beside the supply tent, scooped up a large ladle of water, poured it over his head, and shook himself like a dog. Then he rejoined Hentmirë. “Let us go and help the lad,” he said.

…

Having found nothing further at the building site, Legolas and Eowyn crossed the main walkway, turned onto a narrow side path, and followed it, snaking between the tree trunks, until they came to a long, open-sided shelter where tables, chairs and a simple kitchen had been arranged to provide a place where the craftsmen-builders might rest.

As they approached the pavilion they could see Bawden, hunched over at one of the tables, staring at his hands but, the moment he became aware of them, he leapt to his feet—“My Lord, my Lady,”—and bowed, respectfully.

“Please sit down, Master Bawden,” said Legolas. He pulled out a chair for Eowyn, then sat down beside her. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Eowyn began. “Why were you on the building site this morning?” she asked, opening up her wax tablet and extracting the stylus. “You told us that work had stopped.”

“It has, my Lady. But I…” The man sighed. “The thing is, my Lady, I had a dream.”

Eowyn looked up from her note-taking.

Legolas frowned. “A dream?”

“Yes, my Lord. It didn’t make much sense—as is usually the case with dreams—but I woke up convinced that something was wrong.” The man blushed. “I wouldn’t normally have taken it seriously but, today, I just wanted to make sure that everything was sound before the servants opened the curtains and his Majesty saw—well—I was expecting to find something that needed repairing. Instead, I found…” His voice trailed away.

“A body,” said Legolas.

“Yes, my Lord. Heral son of Eadfrid.” The man sighed. “Luckily, his Majesty’s curtains were still closed, so I covered up him up with a tarp and went to find Captain Golradir.”

“Yesterday morning,” said Eowyn, “I saw you break up a fight between Heral and another man.”

“Lyell son of Aubour,” said Bawden.

Eowyn noted the name. “What was it about?”

The man frowned. “To tell the truth, my Lady, I’ve no idea. Lyell’s not married, so…” He stopped, mid-sentence.

“We already know that Heral had a reputation,” said Legolas.

“That, he did, my Lord.” The man glanced uneasily at Eowyn.

“You may speak freely in front of me, Master Bawden.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Bawden cleared his throat. “They were always coming for him: the women would pester him—afterwards I mean, for he did all the chasing beforehand—and the men would threaten.”

“Can you give us any names?” asked Legolas.

“I’d have to give it some thought, my Lord,” said Bawden, “and ask some of the other men, but I could probably draw up a list… Heral couldn’t walk from here to the privy without spotting some pretty girl and swaggering up to her, and then,”—he shrugged—“then he’d boast about it afterwards.”

“Had he boasted about anyone recently?” asked Eowyn.

“An elf-lady,” said Bawden. “He didn’t mention her name—I don’t think he knew their names half the time—he just said that her husband couldn’t—well—make her happy. And I think he said that she had dark hair.”

“She did not visit him on the site?” asked Legolas.

“No my Lord.”

“Did her husband?” asked Eowyn.

“Not that I know of, my Lady. But there was a woman—who came recently, that is—walked right out onto the beams, brave as you please, handed him a bag, and—well, I didn’t hear what she said, but it made him angry—he would have hit her if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“Can you describe her?” asked Legolas.

“Oh, she was beautiful, my Lord,” said Bawden. “A real womanly woman, if you know what I mean—too worldly wise to have been taken in by Heral—lovely, long brown hair, coiled at the back of her neck,”—Bawden waved a hand behind his head as he described the elaborate hairstyle. “She was wearing a fur mantle. Oh—and she had an elf with her. One of the border guards.”

“Arinna,” said Eowyn. She made a note. “You say that Heral threatened her, Master Bawden. Why did you not report that to Captain Golradir?”

“Well, my Lady—it was something and nothing.” He thought for a moment. “You see, we craftsman-builders,” he said, “we’re like soldiers—we deal with our own. Those of us who saw it, we got together, and we fined Heral half a day’s pay. Anywhere else, the money would have gone to the poor but, here in the colony, where there are no poor, it went to Dunston’s widow and children.”

“Dunston. The man who fell from the flet wall?”

“Yes, my Lord. Terrible loss.” Bawden turned back to Eowyn. “It’s the way we’ve always done things, my Lady.”

“I understand that,” said Eowyn, “but you are no longer itinerant workers, Master Bawden, you are members of this colony and subject to its laws.”

“And, if we’d judged that the law had been broken, my Lady, we would have reported it to Captain Golradir straight away. But when it’s a matter of discipline, we have to deal with it ourselves. A foreman who calls out the Palace Guard to settle every little disturbance will soon lose the men’s respect.”

“We will discuss this again, Master Bawden,” said Legolas, “at length, when we have the leisure to do so. In the meantime, do you have any more questions, melmenya?”

“I can think of none at present.”

“Then we will bid you Good Morning, Master Bawden,” said Legolas, rising. “Thank you for your time. That list of names you mentioned would be most helpful and, if you should remember anything else—”

“There is one thing, my Lord,” said the man. “It may not be anything to do with this, of course, but there’s a plank missing—a short length, that’s why I noticed it. When I took the tarpaulin off to cover up the body, it wasn’t on the pile.”

…

Legolas and Eowyn returned to the main walkway, lingering upon a small garden flet to gaze out across the city whilst they gathered their thoughts. A cool breeze was stirring the foliage around them. Legolas took a deep breath of fresh air. “What are you thinking, melmenya?” he asked.

“That Arinna did not kill Heral,” said Eowyn.

“No,” said Legolas. “No, I do not believe her capable of murder, either. But—”

“It is not that, Lassui.” She turned to face him. “A woman like Arinna would not have cut off his ears. She would have cut off…” She waved a hand in front of the elf’s groin.

“Ceryn Manwë,” said Legolas, “of course she would! But why did she come to see him?”

Eowyn shrugged. “And what did she say, to make him so angry? What was in the bag?”

“We need to talk to her, melmenya.”

“Yes. She is our first important witness. I think we should go and see her next.”

Legolas gave Eowyn his arm and they walked back through the palace, then followed the winding thoroughfare, through the clusters of houses, to where Arinna lived with her two elves, Camthalion and Orodreth.

“It is such a lovely day,” said Eowyn.

“Glorious.”

“I feel guilty.”

“Why?”

“Because you should be closeted in the study with Lady Lessien, preparing for the Rite. And, instead, we are using the murder as an excuse to spend time together.”

“I sent Lessien a note this morning,” said Legolas, “explaining what had happened, and she replied that, in her opinion, I am already fully prepared.”

“That does not excuse the way I am feeling,” said Eowyn. “Like a child who has been let out of her lessons early.”

Legolas drew her over to the flet wall. “Do you know why the Rite calls for celibacy, melmenya?”

“So that you will be pure when—”

“No.” Legolas raised her hands to his lips, and kissed them tenderly. “It is not that. When I saw you this morning, I understood—it is so that we have the opportunity to remember what it was like to be apart—the opportunity to appreciate what a gift we have been given.” He smiled down at her. “The Valar will not condemn us for enjoying each other’s company.”

…

“Legolas!”

The couple turned: Haldir was hurrying towards them.

“Eowyn!” He gave them each a hasty greeting, hand on heart. “I have just heard of the death—and Golradir tells me that you have decided to investigate it personally. What can I do?”

Eowyn gave Legolas’ hand a warning squeeze. “Did you know him, Haldir?” she asked.

“The dead man?” The big elf shrugged. “Only by reputation,” he said. “Why?”

“Eowyn thinks she saw you watching him,” said Legolas, ignoring another squeeze, “yesterday morning.”

“I did see you, Haldir. What were you doing?”

“Eowyn! You cannot think—”

“Of course not! But you were hiding in the branches, and you did look angry!”

Haldir hesitated for just a moment, then he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out a square of parchment, and handed it to her. “Read it.”

Eowyn unfolded the note, scanned it, and handed it to Legolas.

“Valar,” whispered Legolas.

“Please do not look at me like that,” said Haldir. “I cannot pretend to be an innocent victim. But Cyllien and I, we are together in this, for better or for worse, and I wanted to see him. I wanted to understand. I did not kill him.”

“Where were you last night,” asked Eowyn, quietly, “during the banquet?”

“Walking,” replied the big elf. “I had much to think about, so I went to Eryn Dholt, where the water cascades down the Gynd Vyrn, and I walked. All night—”

…

A sudden commotion errupted somewhere near the palace, and a young woman, part-dressed and with her hair in wild disarray, crying, “My Lady! My Lady!” came running along the the walkway pursued by Captain Golradir.

Eowyn reached out and caught the woman by the hands. “What is it?”

“She insists on speaking to you, my Lady,” said Golradir. “She says that someone has stolen her baby.”

“It was his father!” cried the woman. “His father took him, my Lady—Heral son of Eadfrid!

“Son of an Orc,” muttered Haldir.

“What is your name?” asked Eowyn, gently encouraging the distraught woman to sit down on the bench that ran along the flet wall.

“Godith,” the woman sobbed. “I’m Godith.”

“And how do you know that it was Heral who took your baby, Godith?”

“Because he said he would. He said that Little Godwin was his by law. He said a mother that’s not married has no rights in this colony.”

Haldir swore under his breath. “He was lying to you, Mistress Godith.”

The woman looked up at him. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Quite sure.”

“When did you last see Little Godwin, Godith?” asked Eowyn.

“Yesterday afternoon, my Lady,”—the woman sniffed, trying hard to control her tears—“when I got back from hop picking—my mother gave him back to me, and I fed him, and put him to bed—and he waved to me, my Lady. And this morning, he was gone.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks. “Little Godwin waved to me!” She broke down.

Eowyn wrapped an arm around her.

“Where do you live, Mistress Godith?” asked Legolas.

“Eryn Valen,” she sobbed. “It’s a long way, my Lord. I just took a horse from Master Eral’s stable, because I needed to get here—he doesn’t know—but I’m sure he would have let me if he’d been there…”

“We will make it right with him,” said Eowyn.

Legolas beckoned Haldir aside. “There was no sign of a baby with Heral’s body,” he said, quietly, “and we have only Godith’s suspicion that he had anything to do with the child’s disappearance. I suggest that we go to Eryn Valen, search her house and the immediate neighbourhood and then, if we have not found the child, spread out into the surrounding forest.”

Haldir nodded. “I will have a search party ready in half an hour.”

Legolas knelt down before the weeping woman. “We are going to take you back home, Mistress Godith,” he said. “And then Lady Eowyn and I, and our Border Guards, will find your baby.”