The shadows were deepening when Esarhaddon led Goldwyn and her three sons back to the bustling camp. As the slaver clasped her arm firmly in his, the Southron's guards and slaves eyed them curiously as they walked past them. Behind the pair walked Goldwyn's three sons – Fródwine, with face set grimly; Frumgár, his eyes wide with curiosity at the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the section of the camp reserved for the slavers; and Fritha, hesitant, wishing in his consternation that he could hold his mother's hand. His lower lip trembled and he mashed his upper lip down hard on his lower, trying to stifle tears. Fródwine glared at the small boy, while Frumgár twisted his face in a silly look, hoping he could make his brother smile.

"Soon this ordeal will be over and the slaver will allow us to return to our own people," Goldwyn thought hopefully. "Surely no man, not even a Haradric slaver, is so base that he would attempt the seduction of a mother in the presence of her sons!" A sinking feeling hit her as she further reflected, "Perhaps he will dismiss the boys and order them to go back to the other captives while he has his way with me!" Obeying a sudden foolish urge, she looked about her for someone to rescue her and her sons, but her eyes met only with enemy faces who all seemed to be contorted in laughter or jeers. An uncontrollable shiver raced down her spine, and she commanded herself not to flee.

"Madame, you look strained," Esarhaddon's smooth, accented voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Sir, please let us return to the others." She hoped that she did not sound whining, but she knew that the tightness in her throat constricted her voice. "Long have we been without a bath, and our smell must be offensive to you."

He squeezed her elbow. "Madame, I am well aware of the unbathed condition of you and your sons. I had considered that before I issued my invitation."

"An invitation, sir? I had believed it to be a command." She met his gaze unflinchingly, but his eyes only smiled devilishly back into hers. Surely this man did not expect her sons and her to bathe in his presence!

"An invitation, an offer, a suggestion, a proposal, an expectation, a request, a command – call it what you wish – the fact that you will have dinner with me is already settled. While your bath is being prepared, the four of you join me inside my pavilion and have some refreshments."

"Sir, I cannot do that! I will not do that!" she cried angrily. "In any event, we are not supposed to bathe until tomorrow morning!"

"A trifling detail," Esarhaddon chuckled. "You all will be clean before you will be allowed to dine in my presence."

"Slaver, my mother is telling you that we do not choose to dine with you! Leave her alone! I warn you!" Fródwine exclaimed as he stepped in front of the man. How much more was there to be borne of the dregs of slavery? First defeat, then captivity. Now was his mother to be degraded by this greasy pig of a man?

"Move aside, boy!" Esarhaddon demanded, condescending amusement in his voice. "Remember your place as a slave!"

Fródwine eyes ran over the Southron's powerfully built body and paused, intimidated by the wicked scimitar that hung from his belt. For a moment, he felt fear, but the arrogant grin spread over the face of the slaver drove his anger into a rage. Esarhaddon's face smeared away in a thick screen of red that rushed over the boy's eyes. With an angry yell, Fródwine gave in to the blood fury and surged forward, striking at the slaver's face. The Southron was far more agile than he appeared, however, and quickly captured the boy's wrists. Holding them, he laughed in his face.

Frumgár stared at the scene in alarm. Then, taking a deep breath, he dived towards the backs of the Southron's legs, grunting as he tried to wrestle him to the ground, but was kicked backward on his haunches. Goldwyn's frightened, high-pitched scream broke the flood gates of Fritha's tears, and, wailing, he clung to her skirt.

"Lads, do not be fools!" Esarhaddon warned. "Never forget that I hold your lives and the life of your mother in my hands!"

Thwarted and frustrated, Fródwine's eyes narrowed to tight slits as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

Turning his attention momentarily away from the boy, Esarhaddon looked to the crowd of guards and slaves who had gathered at the first cries of alarm. Alert, their muscles tensing, they only waited for their master's command.

"Men, stay back! The boy will settle down when he realizes the futility of his situation!"

"Fródwine and Frumgár! Stop this!" Goldwyn ordered desperately.

"Stay out of this, Mother!" Fródwine turned his head and spat angrily. "Keep Fritha away or he will get himself hurt!"

"A proud little peacock!" Esarhaddon jeered as he winked at his laughing men.

Enraged, Fródwine twisted his right hand savagely and broke the Southron's grasp. The youth's fist slashed forward, aiming for the slaver's jaw, but the powerful man was too fast for him yet again. Bringing up his left forearm, he deflected the boy's wrist away from his face. Grabbing Fródwine's left arm, Esarhaddon then seized the boy's right wrist with his left hand, holding the glaring boy who trembled in angry frustration.

"Seize the other boy before he does something foolish!" came the shouted command of the slaver.

Regaining his feet, Frumgár lunged forward, trying to tackle the slaver, but found himself grasped by a guard's strong arms and quickly hauled back. The grinning Haradian held the struggling, crimson-faced Frumgár about the arms and chest, dodging his feet as the boy tried to smash down on him with his shoes.

"Madame," Esarhaddon laughed as he restrained a glowering Fródwine's arms, "with their flowing blond locks, fair faces and strong muscles, these two older demons of yours would both fetch a high price upon the auction block as prospective fighters in the pits! If you do not exercise control over them, I will sell them to a trainer of gladiators!"

Fródwine and Frumgár gave their mother questioning looks, while Fritha clung more tightly to her hand and howled louder, refusing to look up from her skirt.

A sick feeling hit Goldwyn deep in the pit of her stomach, and, trembling, she sucked in a shaky breath. "Sir, not for such uses would you sell my sons! The thought is too abhorrent for civilized folk! I apologize for their behavior, but they were only trying to protect me! I beg you to give them another chance! I will vouchsafe their behavior!" She shuddered at the thought of her children's fighting in pits against who knows what fierce man or strange monster from the depths of Mordor. With her eyes, she begged her sons to behave.

"Madame, have no fear on that score. Still, your sons must learn control. I do not want to feel a knife between my ribs some night when I am sleeping upon my couch."

"Sir, they will give you no more trouble. Just please let us go back with the others!" Goldwyn would fall upon her knees, degrade herself, give him anything, beg him if necessary, if only he would spare them such a cruel fate.

"Nay, Madame, I will not release you just yet, for I am growing fond of your company. And lest they try to sink their spurs into me again, your little cockerels will be given a period of time in which they may cool their tempers." Releasing his wrists, Esarhaddon pushed an infuriated Fródwine back into the waiting grasp of a guard, who pinned his arms at his sides. "Men, cage these little roosters in one of the wains reserved for troublemakers and then set a guard over them! When they have calmed themselves sufficiently and given their word that they will not grow violent again, I will permit them to enter my presence!"

"Aye, Shakh, they will learn to be good lads," the guard laughed as he and two others marched the glaring older boys away.

"Sons, please do as he says!" Goldwyn urged them as they disappeared from her sight.

"So much dissension over a simple bath," the slaver shook his head and looked at her questioningly. "Do your people prefer to remain filthy?"

"Sir," Goldwyn blushed a modest shade of pink which Esarhaddon found delightful, "my sons sought to protect my honor, as any man of the Mark would surely do."

"Madame, you do not know what I plan for you, but I have no desire to continue discussing this matter in the middle of my camp. You will go with me into my pavilion now." He claimed her arm once again and guided her between the two large eunuchs who guarded the entrance and into the interior of the tent.

"Madame, you and your sons need to remove your shoes and place them near the entrance. Yours at least will be replaced by soft slippers, but unfortunately your sons must remain barefooted."

"Sir, is it necessary to remove our shoes? They are not that grimy with trail dust," Goldwyn politely explained, with only a trace of defiance.

"The removal of shoes when indoors is the custom in many parts of the South and East. You will abide by this protocol," the slaver explained in a patient voice. "Now you and your son are to seat yourselves over by the low table while I give my servants directions." He waited until she had nodded, and then with a slight squeeze to her elbow, he released her arm.

Glancing about the tent uncertainly, Goldwyn and Fritha walked to the low table to which he had gestured. Spread over the ground was a cream-colored carpet adorned with golden vines which twirled and twined across the heavy fabric. Cushions and pillows of a variety of colors, textures and brocades were scattered about the table.

"Mother, where are the benches and chairs?" Fritha whispered as he wiped his eyes with his hand and then hiccupped loudly.

"Aeffe, who had to eat with the Southron last night, says that these people are too slovenly to sit upon chairs or benches and instead lie down upon the floor when they sup. Do not mention it to this man, lest you make him angry," Goldwyn whispered as she sat down gracefully, drawing her legs under her skirt.

Fritha sniffed and sat down cross-legged beside his mother, his attention now drawn to the sight of the servant bowing before Esarhaddon.

Esarhaddon's gaze turned to the eunuch who stood before him, his hands clasped respectfully before his waist. "Carnation, my men will not be dining with me tonight, but rather this woman and her three sons shall be my guests. The meal does not have to be so ample, but see that something is prepared that would tantalize the palate of the young. See that a bath is prepared for this woman and her three sons. The boys are to have fresh clothing drawn from the supply master's store. Go to the tent of my slave Kishi. She and this woman should be approximately the same size, at least in the breasts and the hips, although Kishi is not so tall. Inform her that she is to send some garment that would display the Northern woman's beauty to the best advantage."

After the eunuch had departed from the tent, Esarhaddon strode over to the table where Goldwyn and Fritha were sitting. "I would be most delighted to join you in the tub, I will honor your request for privacy... at least for now." His dark eyes flashed a sensuous promise to her as he inclined his head slightly and then strode from the tent.

Blushing and shivering in revulsion, Goldwyn sagged against a brocaded cushion behind her. Soon, she and her son heard a commotion at the entryway as servants brought a large tub and pails of water into the tent. Carrying soap, cloths and towels, more slaves filed in behind them, placing these supplies upon the low table. Others carried mounds of clothing and put these items upon one of the divans that lined the room. Then, bowing silently, all the servants left, closing the tent flap behind them.

"Mother, now that the evil people have left, are we going to rescue Fródwine and Frumgár and then all of us escape?"

"No, my son. There are too many guards and we would be quickly caught. Tonight we shall escape, but not right now. Make haste, Fritha. Undress and get in the tub before that terrible man comes back!"

Both mother and son had already bathed and dressed when they heard the voice of Fródwine at the closed tent flap. "Mother, may we come in?" The boy looked around behind him, expecting to see the slaver, scimitar in hand, charging down the pathway between the lines of tents.

"Aye, come in, son. We have finished our baths." Scowling at the servants outside the tent, the two boys waited as the guards drew the curtains open for them.

"Mother!" came the combined exclamations of the two boys.

"Those clothes! Never have we seen the like of them!" came the shocked voice of Fródwine as he beheld his mother, whose bosom almost fell out of the plunging neck of a long red frock. Embarrassed, Goldwyn put her hand to her chest as she observed her sons regarding her with startled eyes. The low-necked gown resembled a long coat which was cinched in at the middle by a decorative sash. Beneath the dress was a cream-colored chemise which peaked out around the edges of the scandalous neckline. The dress hit just below her knees, revealing a pair of light blue pantaloons and soft brown slippers upon her feet.

"Our people would never wear such outlandish garb!" Goldwyn replied apologetically as she lowered her eyes in abashment.

"Mother, did they steal your other clothing?" Frumgár asked uncertainly.

"No," she snapped. "I have put these on because I knew there would be no use in arguing with the slaver over his wishes. Now take your baths quickly. I know the water is filthy, but I doubt they would give us more, and I do not want to ask. The slaver has provided fresh clothing for all of you, and though they are naught but the tunics of slaves, they are fresh and clean."

When the slaver returned sometime later, he found Goldwyn nervously pacing about the tent. Frumgár entertained Fritha by piling pillows around him into a high mound. Fródwine rose to his feet and hurled a stormy glance of warning at the slaver.

"My guests, please be seated." A broad smile lit the slaver's face. "The supper will soon be served. My Lady Goldwyn, you look charming in that most alluring dress. You will take your seat beside me, and your sons will sit on the other side of the table. Now enjoy yourselves!"

NOTES

Angmar and Elfhild imagine that the clothing styles in Harad and Khand would be similiar to the ones depicted in this illustration.

"Ghawazee of Cairo" by David Robert