Part 2

“Taken,” said the March Warden. “What do you mean, taken?”

Sighard, already uncomfortable amongst the elves, felt his knees tremble. “Well, sir, I... Er...”

“Please sit down, Master Sighard,” said Legolas, taking him by the arm and guiding him to a chair. “Start at the beginning, and tell us everything you know.”

The young elf’s manner, at the same time gentle and commanding, seemed somehow made to restore a man’s confidence.

Sighard took a deep breath.

“I went there at first light, my Lord,” he said, referring to the clearing where the two wise women, Old Mother Cynwise and Young Mistress Ayleth, lived, “because someone’s been taking my chucks, and I wanted to know who. But the door was off its hinges, and the earth in front was all churned up like there’d been a struggle, and the women weren’t there. And I thought, ‘They’s been taken,’ my Lord, and I was about to ride home to get the lad, and follow the tracks, when I thought, ‘Fetch the March Warden,’—him being so friendly with Mistress Ayleth and all...”

Sighard saw the March Warden’s pale eyes harden, and realised what he appeared to be suggesting, and the rest of his words died in his throat.

“You did exactly the right thing,” said Legolas, reassuringly.

Sighard watched him cross to the door, call for a servant, and issue a few quiet orders.

The beautiful woman—Lady Eowyn, Sighard presumed—had meanwhile come closer. “You say that the ground was churned up, Master Sighard,” she said. “Did you see any claw marks, or—forgive me—any spittle, or any dung?”

Sighard felt himself blush. “No, my Lady.”

She turned to the March Warden. “It does not sound like Orcs, Haldir.”

Sighard noted the relief in her voice. “I think it was men, my Lady,” he said. “There was boot marks and hoof prints.”

Lady Eowyn grasped the March Warden’s arm. “Then whoever took her wants her help, Haldir,” she said, forcefully. “And that means he needs her alive and well.”

“I have sent Galathil down to the stables to ready the horses,” said Legolas, rejoining the others. “We will leave within the hour. Is there anything else you can tell us, Master Sighard?”

“Well... The fire was out, but the embers was still warm, my Lord.”

“Then she’s been gone no more than half a day!” said the March Warden, and the emotion in his voice so surprised Sighard, he almost missed Lord Legolas’ next question.

“Will you come with us, Master Sighard?”

“I will, my Lord.”

“Good man.”

...

Two hours later, Sighard was back in the clearing, standing beside the wise women’s crooked little dwelling, which sat, like a gyngerbrede house, at the foot of an ancient carantaur.

“You were right, Master Sighard,” said Legolas, examining the ground, “they were taken by men.” He rose and, hopping lightly over the tree roots, ducked through the hut’s open door.

The others followed.

Inside, the house was unexpectedly cosy—two curtained beds flanked a little table and, beyond the living area, a bench undulated round the tree trunk, loaded with bottles and jars, all carefully labelled; overhead, everywhere, bunches of sweet-smelling herbs and dried flowers hung from the roof beams.

The March Warden sat down heavily on one of the beds and, picking up a piece of crewel work and fingering its delicate stitchery, said, softly, “She was making this as a betrothal gift—”

Legolas suddenly raised his hand, and the other elf fell silent.

Sighard held his breath, closing his eyes and straining his ears until he found it—a faint, rhythmical scratching sound, which seemed to be coming from directly beneath his feet...