Preliminary skirmishes

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable, when using our forces, we must seem inactive, when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away, when far away, we must make him believe we are near.

(Ecthelion: On War)

Dol Amroth, Third Age 3019.

All her life she had been an obedient daughter, the gracious and accomplished Princess of Dol Amroth, chatelaine of Prince Imrahil’s castle.

Not any more, Lothiriel thought grimly, this time father’s gone too far.

She surveyed herself in the mirror, slowly running her hands across the stiff fabric of her gown. It was made from silk and heavily embroidered, but the most striking thing about it was its colour, a bright pink that was a credit to the skill of the local dyers’ guild if not its taste. In combination with the copious white frills the dress made her look like one of those confections made of spun sugar that the cooks of Dol Amroth sometimes stuck on cakes for special occasions. A slow smile spread across Lothiriel’s face. Where the vibrant colours she usually wore made her golden skin seem to glow, the pink only made it look sallow and sickly.

“Please, my lady, won’t you reconsider?”

Lothiriel had to suppress a quick twinge of guilt when she looked at her lady-in-waiting who was standing behind her, wringing her hands.

“Why, what’s wrong with this dress?” she asked deceptively mildly, “My aunt gave it to my for my last birthday.” She did not add that it had hung in the wardrobe ever since.

“Nothing,” Lady Idril said faintly, “but perhaps the green might be better suited to the occasion?”

With a hopeful look she lifted one of Lothiriel’s favourite dresses from where it was lying on the bed. For a moment Lothiriel eyed the rich green silk wistfully, but then she shook her head. As her brothers always said, if you did not care properly for your armour you could not expect to win the battle. It had to be the pink dress.

She turned back to the mirror and frowned. Her hair was still a problem. Glossy and black it fell nearly to the waist and she hadn’t been sure what to do with it, but at Lady Idril’s words an idea had formed in her head.

“Something green,” she murmured, “of course, how very fitting.”

Before the other woman could do more than give her a startled glance she had picked up a green veil and had thrown it over her hair, securing it with a white ribbon in that style at least half a century out of fashion like her aunt wore hers. Behind her, Lady Idril looked close to fainting and sat down heavily on the bed, startling Lothiriel’s dog that had been dozing there. The great deerhound stretched and gave a huge yawn, regarding its mistress sleepily. Lothiriel thought wryly that the dog with its long slender legs, dainty ears and gracefully curved tail was now the most elegant being in the room. Was she just imagining the surprise in Anca’s eyes?

The combination was really rather … unusual, Lothiriel mused with another look at the mirror and wondered if the courtiers of Dol Amroth would even recognize her dressed like this. Of course she would make a laughingstock of herself, but then there were always casualties in a fight and the first sacrifice in this one just happened to be her vanity. The girl she saw in the mirror bore no resemblance to the elegantly dressed princess that usually attended her father’s balls. The only features that reminded her of her old self were her eyes. These she had inherited from her mother, who had hailed from the south, and they were large and of the deepest black. Many a would-be suitor had remarked on their lustre and unusual colour. She would have to be careful to keep them lowered at all times, Lothiriel reminded herself.

Then she gave an inward sigh. In her heart of hearts she knew of course that it didn’t really matter even if she were ugly, bowlegged and bad tempered. The only important issue was whether she was young enough to bear children and at twenty years of age she unfortunately fulfilled that requirement.

There was a soft knock at the chamber door and with a last horrified look at her charge Lady Idril pulled herself together and went to answer it.

“Is she ready yet?”

Lothiriel recognized her father’s deep voice. So her guard of honour had arrived to escort her to the ball. Or was it to make sure she would not make a run for it? Giving her dog a last pat on the head, she went to join them at the door.

“Yes, I am ready,” she answered her father herself and swept past him into the corridor, “Let’s go.”

For a moment Prince Imrahil looked at her thunderstruck then an expression of deep disapproval crossed his features. He had never been slow and unlike poor Lady Idril realized at once what plan she had in mind.

“Lothiriel!” he exclaimed, “What have you done to yourself? You will change into something more suitable at once.”

By his side, her hapless lady-in-waiting was again wringing her hands. “She just wouldn’t listen to me, my Lord Prince!”

Prince Imrahil totally ignored her, his attention being focused on his uncustomarily recalcitrant daughter.

Lothiriel lifted her chin. “If you say so father, but Aunt Ivriniel won’t be pleased when I tell her I wasn’t allowed to wear the gown she gave me.”

That gave him pause. Even he did not take on her aunt without a really good reason.

“And more than that, we will be late,” Lothiriel added. She would make sure they were. Her eyes met her father’s and after a moment he pursed his lips in displeasure and gave a curt nod.

“Very well,” he said, offered her his arm and turned to lead the way, nearly forcing her to run to keep up with his long strides.

Thanks to the advantage of surprise she had won the first skirmish, but Lothiriel had no illusions that her father was beaten, he was far too canny a warrior not to regroup quickly. After a few steps he slowed down, in control of his temper again.

“Lothiriel,” he said warningly, “you will remember what you owe your station as a princess?”

“Of course, father,” Lothiriel answered with her eyes downcast, “I always do.” It wasn’t as if she was ever allowed to forget, was it.

“We owe the man our lives and the survival of Minas Tirith.”

“I know.” And she was grateful for it, she just did not want to be the one to have to pay the price.

Her father gave an exasperated sigh. “Please, Lothiriel, just give him a chance, I’m sure you will come to like him.”

They had covered this ground before; the battle lines had long since been drawn. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other if I like him, does it,” she shot back, “since you have already come to your decision.”

He looked pained at her words and usually she would have relented, but ever since he had returned from King Théoden’s funeral two months ago she had been seething with rage inside. It had been that or panic, so she had opted for the former. As if reading her mind, he stopped and took both her hands in his.

“I’m sorry that I was unable to consult you on this, daughter,” he said earnestly, “but I was just too far away.”

“There are fast couriers and the way under the mountains is open now,” she reminded him, “it would only have taken a few days for my answer to reach you.” And it would have consisted of a single word – no.

A shrewd tactician, he shifted his ground. “Surely you must have known this would happen one day, after all it’s hardly unusual in Gondor.”

“And is it so unnatural that I should have wanted a say in this decision?” she asked back, “After all it is my life we are talking about here.”

For a moment Prince Imrahil almost looked old and Lothiriel could feel a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t about to pass up an advantage however.

“I would have expected some consideration for my feelings after keeping our people safe during the war.” she said in a low tone, “I’m not a child anymore, you know.” Even if she sometimes felt like throwing a tantrum.

He caressed her cheek with one hand. “I know I had to ask a lot of you,” he sighed, “and I would have given anything to spare you that experience. I’m sorry.”

Lothiriel frowned, for that was not what she had meant. During the war she had been left in charge of the whole province of Belfalas all on her own because her father and brothers had been fighting in Minas Tirith. It had been proven to be the right decision, even though her father still blamed himself for putting such heavy responsibility on her shoulders. But while those dark days had been frightening and she had known they would not stand the slightest chance if the forces of Mordor attacked them, she had also felt truly useful and needed for the first time in her life.

Her father was still looking at her earnestly. “It’s truly unfortunate you could not join us at Cormallen,” he said, “that would have facilitated things considerably.”

“I was rather busy at the time,” she replied with some heat. He seemed to have forgotten already that she had organized the supplies not only for their own troops from Dol Amroth, but in concert with Faramir for the whole Armies of the West.

“Yes I know, but still…” he made it sound as if it was her fault she had been unable to join the celebrations, when in reality she’d been deeply disappointed to miss them.

“Trust me on this one,” he told her, “just think of Elphir and Culwen and how they’ve come to love each other.”

Lothiriel knew it was no use arguing that her brother and his wife had liked each other tolerably well since they were children, quite apart from the fact that Culwen was such a sweet and amiable girl that no son as obliging as Elphir would have objected to the match.

Her father took her hand and put it back on his arm, giving it a light pat. “We have to go now or we’ll truly be late after all.”

She nodded and fell into step with him, feeling like a prisoner being escorted to her execution. Her father seemed to have recovered his equanimity and threw her an encouraging glance.

“Don’t look so downcast,” he said with a smile, “I’m sure you’ll like him. The ladies in Minas Tirith were extremely taken with him.”

She almost snorted, only her upbringing as a princess preventing her from doing so. So he was a ladies’ man as well. Was that supposed to be a recommendation for her? It was no use saying so to her father however.

“I’m sure I will,” she answered tonelessly and they walked on in silence, both preoccupied with their thoughts.

Long before they reached the Great Hall, they could hear the low humming sound of so many people talking. When they passed the great double doors flanked by guards, Lothiriel nearly laughed out loud. They faced a sea of green, seemingly all the unattached ladies having chosen to wear that colour tonight, and there were lots of them. For many years now, ever since her mother’s untimely death, Lothiriel had arranged all the great entertainments of her father’s court and she had made sure to invite all the prettiest women of Dol Amroth tonight - and also all the most predatory. It looked like every hopeful father of the province was here tonight, together with his equally hopeful offspring. Lothiriel wished them luck.

The Great Hall had been turned out to its full glory for the occasion. The great marble floor was polished to perfection, reflecting the light from the hundreds of lamps hanging on long chains from the vaulted ceiling and on the wall opposite hung the freshly dusted banners. Lothiriel’s heart swelled with pride when she beheld the brave swan-prowed ship in silver and blue, only to drop when she saw the banner hanging next to it. It was only polite to honour their guests after all, she reminded herself sternly. As her father kept telling her, they owed them an awful lot.

All along the wall were arranged sheaves of wheat as was traditional in Dol Amroth for the Harvest Festival, the province being the breadbasket of Gondor. Tonight was the first full moon after the autumn equinox and all across the country people would be gathering around bonfires and celebrate. As her father led her across the floor, past all the curious and covert glances thrown her way and she could hear the whispering starting in her wake, Lothiriel suddenly wished passionately to be just another peasant girl out there on a hillside dancing the night away.

She spotted them some way off, their height and colouring setting them apart, and took the opportunity to study them surreptitiously before being noticed on her part. They all sported the long flaxen hair she had been told about, worn either loose or plaited down the back. Some of her father’s Swan Knights were talking to their former comrades-in-arms, amongst them her youngest brother. One rider was at least a head taller than the rest and as she watched Amrothos say something to him she could tell from the deference in her brother’s face who this was. The man had his back to them, but when feeling her eyes on him he suddenly turned round in a startlingly swift movement and scanned the crowd almost as if he had felt the approach of an enemy and expected an orc to jump at him at any moment.

Lothiriel had seen that look before, on her brothers’ faces when they had returned from the war, unable and unwilling to tell her about the harrowing sights they had seen there. Fortunately they had soon lost it again in the familiar surroundings of their beloved home, but this man looked as if it had become so much second nature to him that he was unable to drop that unnatural vigilance for even a moment. He reminded her of a sword, honed again and again until its edge was so sharp it would cut air. A man not to be trifled with, shot through Lothiriel’s mind and a shiver ran down her back. Ice-cold blue eyes sought hers and she found herself unable to look away, feeling herself assessed as a threat and dismissed again in a single instant. For a moment she almost felt insulted at being discounted so quickly, but then reminded herself that it could only be to her advantage to be underestimated. Just let him think that surely nothing wearing pink could be a threat to him and his plans.

According to her father, who had sung his praises ever since returning from Minas Tirith, he was one of the most formidable warriors on Middle Earth and had survived the Ring War without a scratch. Not surprising really, for only a fool would take this man on. A fool or a princess?

He had spotted her father now and greeted him with a smile, stepping up to them. The transformation was remarkable, warming his eyes and making him seem years younger. He clapped Imrahil in an embrace, obviously pleased to see him, and Lothiriel wondered if she had imagined things, being so much on edge herself. Her father returned the embrace warmly and then turned to her.

“Éomer, let me introduce my daughter, Princess Lothiriel.”

She sank into a deep curtsey, but not before she had seen the surprise on his face, quickly wiped off to be replaced by a polite smile. So this was the King of Rohan, Gondor’s most important ally and one of the best friends of their own newly crowned king.

The man who tomorrow night would ask for her hand in marriage in front of all the nobles of Dol Amroth. And have it granted to him, unless she could make him change his mind.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said courteously, “you look lovely, Princess Lothiriel.”

“Thank you King Éomer, you flatter me.” Or you are colour blind. She was careful to keep her eyes lowered.

“That’s an eye-catching outfit you’re wearing today, sister.” It was her brother Amrothos who had come up on Éomer’s other side.

“I know. Thank you.”

She shot him a warning glance, only to see him grinning back at her widely. Amrothos had never been slow either and was obviously enjoying himself hugely. Easy to do, she thought, when it wasn’t his future at stake. After all he wasn’t the one who might end up spending the rest of his days in a cold barbarian country far away from home, knowing neither the language nor the customs and married to this block of ice.

As she saw it, tonight was her only chance to turn the tide in her favour and she was determined to do whatever it took. She was a warrior’s daughter, she would at least go down fighting.

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

P.S. The first reader to spot the (dead?) sea creature gets a round of applause!

First passage at arms

In all fighting, the direct method may be used for joining battle,

but indirect methods will be needed in order to secure victory.

(Mardil Voronwë: Tactics of Gondorian Warfare)

***

Lothiriel had to admit the King of Rohan was living up to his reputation as a hardy and tough warrior. This was the third time she had deliberately trod on his feet and apart from a slight wince he showed no other reaction. Still, that was to be expected. Compared to facing down all those orcs during the war, enduring a dance with a clumsy and bumbling girl would not tax him much. Somehow she did not think she quite measured up to a nazgûl or mûmak.

He had turned out to be a better dancer than she had expected, but not quite as accomplished as herself. Lothiriel fixed her eyes on the front of his tunic, as if hoping to find inspiration there what to do next. To her surprise he had chosen to wear blue tonight, instead of the traditional green of the Rohirrim. Not that it mattered, for the pink still clashed horribly with it, but she wondered if it was meant as a compliment to Dol Amroth. Probably just a coincidence, she decided in the end.

If the situation had been less grim she would have laughed at the picture they surely presented. He had dressed almost austerely, his tunic only sporting very modest embroidery along the hem and collar, whereas she could have supplied a whole village with fripperies. There was no doubt, however, who looked more regal. The question was if he noticed the fact.

Lothiriel had had several months to come up with a plan and had spent considerable thought on her strategy for tonight, in the end deciding on the traditional two-pronged attack. On one hand she wanted to make him see her as completely unsuitable for the role of his queen while at the same time presenting him with the most beautiful women of Gondor. The second part had met with success anyway. It was amazing what the prospect of a crown effected.

The dance had come to an end and she started fanning herself with one hand, as if that little exercise had exhausted her already. He took the hint.

“Would you care for a break?” he asked her solicitously. Was there a hint of relief in his voice?

“That would be nice,” she replied, glad to have the dancing done with. Stepping on his feet was a bit like kicking an opponent that was down already and could not defend himself.

“We could go for a turn in the garden,” she suggested, “but you would have to ask my aunt for permission first.”

Of course just meeting Princess Ivriniel had put many a potential suitor off completely and she would never allow her niece to walk in the garden with a man she had only just met and who was a barbarian to boot. So it was with considerable hidden glee that Lothiriel introduced King Éomer to her aunt.

“My favourite aunt,” she added in an aside to him, not thinking it necessary to point out that she was also the only living one.

He took one startled look at the figure facing him in her gown encrusted with silver and gold, her ample chest covered in necklaces of every precious stone imaginable, and gave a deep bow.

Ivriniel ignored him, looking over her niece in satisfaction instead. “I see you’re finally wearing that gown I gave you,” she said.

“I was keeping it for a special occasion,” Lothiriel replied and her aunt gave her a surprised look, not used to such meekness.

“Well, niece, it’s nice seeing you finally wear something so maidenly and becoming,” she pronounced, causing King Éomer to suffer from a sudden coughing fit.

Ivriniel fixed him with a haughty stare. “And you are the King of Rohan?” she asked, “Aren’t you rather young?”

If he was taken aback at the accusatory tone he did not show it. “I am twenty-eight years old my lady,” he replied evenly, “in my country that is considered a good age.”

She looked dubious. “I dare say it’s different amongst barbarians, but here in Gondor a stripling like you would hardly be considered old enough to rule.”

Lothiriel had watched the exchange attentively and had noticed the tension in the King of Rohan at being called a barbarian. His eyes had gone hard again and she was suddenly glad she wasn’t at the receiving end of that steely glare.

“I came to my kingship on the battlefield,” he bit off, “I had no choice in the matter.”

Ivriniel nodded. “I suppose that’s not your fault,” she conceded grudgingly, somehow still managing to make it sound like carelessness on his part, “At least you speak our language well.”

King Éomer had recovered his temper and gave another bow. “You flatter me,” he echoed Lothiriel’s own earlier words, “My grandmother hailed from Lossarnach and the language of Gondor was spoken at my uncle’s court.”

“I knew Lady Morwen of Lossarnach, you know,” Ivriniel answered.

“You have the advantage of me then, my lady,” he said, “I never met her. She moved back to Gondor after her husband’s death, leaving her son behind to rule the Mark.”

Aunt Ivriniel seemed to hear some hidden disapproval in his voice for she gave him that look of hers that could have withered a nazgûl on the spot. “It seems only reasonable to me that she wanted to spend her last years in her native country.”

“Of course,” he agreed blandly.

Lothiriel had to admit King Éomer was bearing up better than she had expected. Most men would have wilted under the icy glare Aunt Ivriniel now threw him. But then she had always known he was tough, he had to be, to survive the war unscathed.

“Éomer, my friend, I see you’ve made my sister’s acquaintance,” it was her father who had come up behind them unnoticed.

If the King of Rohan was relieved at this rescue, he did not show it. “I’ve just had the pleasure,” he confirmed, “I was going to ask if it would be all right to take Princess Lothiriel for a walk in the garden.”

“Certainly not!” Ivriniel exclaimed, but Prince Imrahil cut right across her. “Of course you may.”

When his sister looked thoroughly scandalized and started to remonstrate with him, he took her by the arm and firmly led her away. Lothiriel had no doubt her father knew perfectly well what she’d had in mind when introducing the King of Rohan to this most formidable member of their family. Apparently he wasn’t put off so easily, though, for before she knew it she found herself bundled through a side door and in the gardens.

This part of them was very formal, with carefully laid out flowerbeds lined with low hedges. They were not the only couple having chosen to go for a stroll and torches were set at intervals all along the gravel paths to light their way. Also the full moon had risen by now, casting its silvery light over them.

Lothiriel made no attempt to break the uncomfortable silence that had descended between her and the King of Rohan, valiantly suppressing the urge to be a good hostess. She stole a quick look at him and marked with satisfaction that he seemed ill at ease. Finally he cleared his throat.

“We do not have anything like these gardens in the Mark,” he said, “they’re very pretty.”

“Yes,” Lothiriel contented herself with saying.

He searched for another thing to say. “Do you often walk here?”

“Yes.” She almost began to feel sorry for him.

“I suppose it must take a lot of gardeners to look after them?”

“Yes.”

Another silence descended, even more strained than the one before, and only broken by the gravel crunching under their steps. They had reached a small pool glinting serenely in the moonlight and he settled her on one of the stone benches overlooking it. In the summer the water would be covered in water lilies, but now the plants were half dormant already, their leaves brown and sere in anticipation of the coming winter. There was a light breeze and Lothiriel wondered what it would be like to live in a country so far removed from the seashore that she would never again smell the tang of the ocean.

She had half expected the King of Rohan to join her on the bench, but instead he stood with one foot on the paved rim of the pool, looking out over it with a frown. Lothiriel took the opportunity to observe him covertly. His features were handsome, but seemed distant and cold in the pale moonlight, and she wondered what the ladies of Minas Tirith had seen in him, apart from his crown. A warrior born and bred, she judged him, but he also had that unconscious air of command about him that marked him as a natural leader of men. She had in fact made a study of him and his people, gathering whatever information she could find, and even sending for copies of books on Rohan from the Great Library in Minas Tirith. It always paid to know as much as possible about your opponent in advance, especially when said opponent didn’t even know he was in the middle of a battle.

King Éomer turned towards her and she suddenly found her gaze caught by his blue eyes. For a long moment he looked down at her as if searching for something in her face, then he gave her a slow smile. Abruptly Lothiriel realized just what the ladies of Minas Tirith had seen in this king, for his smile was warm and open and seemed to draw her in like the lure of a light drew a moth. Not ice but rather fire! She smiled back impulsively and then belatedly cursed herself for having dropped her guard.

Still holding her eyes, he took a step towards her and her stomach flipped over in the most alarming fashion.

“You have such extraordinary eyes, Princess Lothiriel.” His voice was low, almost a purr.

That was in fact the wrong thing to say, for she had been complimented on them far too often. The spell broken, Lothiriel found herself able to breathe and think again.

“Yes, I know,” she replied.

He looked taken-aback. I’m not snared that easily, she thought savagely.

“Most of my admirers compare them to limpid pools of midnight black,” she added, “or was it a starless night mirrored in a forest pool?”

She frowned as if trying to remember, while he stared at her nonplussed.

“Do you have many admirers?” By the tone of his voice he rather doubted it.

“Of course,” she replied, “after all I’m a princess.”

“Of course,” he agreed, no doubt thinking she did not notice the hint of irony.

Again she had underestimated him, however, for he at once changed his approach.

“Princess Lothiriel,” he began, “I am no courtier, so I hope you will forgive me my plain speaking.”

She was wary by now. “What do you mean?”

He spread his hands. “Your father has told me he has spoken to you, so you know why I am here.”

Surprised by this frontal attack, all she could do was nod cautiously.

“I seek a wife and a queen for the Riddermark and feel we could deal together very well.”

Lothiriel was secretly fuming. Couldn’t he see how completely unsuitable she was? Instead he was trying to find common ground!

“I would try to be a good husband to you,” he added earnestly and gave her another smile.

It dawned on her then that here was a very dangerous opponent, indeed, a master fencer. For an instant she was again caught by his magnetic charm and was overcome with the desire to tell him the truth, but then she ruthlessly suppressed that impulse. She could not afford to throw away her only advantage. With a start she became aware of the fact that he was waiting for some kind of answer from her.

“You will?” was all she could think of and he looked slightly disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm.

“Faramir has told me that you have already shown considerable interest in the history and customs of the Mark.”

Lothiriel had applied to Faramir for those copies of books from the Great Library and now silently cursed herself for not remembering that he was of course betrothed to King Éomer’s sister and as such sure to be in communication with him.

“Yes, that’s true,” she had to admit, but tried to regain her advantage at once, “I have to say, though, that I found the histories rather confusing. I’m not much of a scholar.”

He did not look surprised at this confession and she quickly hid her hands under her full skirts, lest he notice she had balled them into fists. She was by far the most well read of Prince Imrahil’s children.

“Don’t worry about that,” he consoled her, “I’m sure one of my bards would be delighted to instruct you.”

“I also can’t make head nor tail of your language,” she added, “but then you won’t expect me to learn it, will you?”

One of the interesting points those books had mentioned was the fact that his grandmother Morwen of Lossarnach had been criticized for insisting the language of Gondor be spoken at her husband’s court and Lothiriel hoped he remembered that fact.

Apparently he did, for he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Rohirric is not all that difficult, I’m sure you would find it easy to learn.”

She acted as if she hadn’t heard his concern. “Well, I’m sure all the important people in Rohan speak Westron anyway, don’t they.”

For a moment he looked as if he had to bite back a sharp retort, but then he mastered his temper and again changed track. It looked like he was one of those people who just couldn’t see when they were beaten.

“Your father has told me you are an excellent rider,” he said, “you would like it in the Mark.”

Her whole family seemed absolutely determined to betray her. The thing was, she would have liked to see Rohan and its famous horses, but as a visitor not as a bride.

“Father said that?” she did her best to act surprised.

“Yes, when he was in Edoras for my uncle’s funeral.” King Éomer hesitated, “I sent you a horse as a gift, does she suit you?”

Now he had caught her neatly. The mare her father had brought back from Rohan was simply beautiful, gentle yet spirited, and Lothiriel had fallen in love with her the moment she had set eyes on her. Thinking of Snowflake she for a moment forgot all about the role she was playing.

“Oh, she’s marvellous!” she exclaimed involuntarily and then bit her lip. He was looking at her with real approval for the first time and she could have kicked herself for ruining all her previous hard work. Feeling like an animal caught in a trap and struggling against the nets inexorably tightening, she did her best to undo her careless words.

“That is … I like to pet her,” she explained, “She’s rather big.”

“Pet her!” It looked like she had recovered all her lost ground in one fell swoop.

“She has such a soft coat,” Lothiriel followed up her advantage, “but for riding I really prefer ponies.”

He looked like he was sorry he had given her the horse and she could not blame him. A sudden fury at being reduced to lying and playacting in this way swept through her and she had to take a tight grip on herself to keep from simply blurting everything out. Why did these two men think they could order her life for her? She quickly lowered her eyes, lest he read her true feelings in them.

He sat down next to her on the bench and gently took hold of one of her hands, her slim fingers being completely swallowed up in his big capable warrior’s hand.

“I could teach you to ride your mare,” he said softly and Lothiriel stared at him. Didn’t the man ever give up? This close, the force of his personality was almost overwhelming. She saw herself forced to fall back on her last line of defence.

“Oh, that’s all right,” she tried for her most nonchalant tone, “I don’t expect my husband to dance attendance on me all the time.”

The mood was broken again. “You don’t?”

“Certainly not. I’m sure you will be an indulgent husband.”

“Indulgent? What do you mean?” He was frowning now.

Ruthlessly she moved in for the kill. “Well, discreet arrangements on the side are quite common in Gondor. I think it’s much better to have such matters cleared up before getting married, don’t you?”

For the longest moment he stared down at her uncomprehendingly, then he jumped up in one violent motion, letting go of her hand as if it was something vile. Lothiriel suddenly remembered his famous temper and caught her breath.

“Not in the Riddermark, my lady,” he spat out, “I expect my wife to be faithful to me.”

Lothiriel was more unnerved by his reaction than she had expected, but she wasn’t about to pass up an advantage.

“Such arrangements can be reciprocal,” she replied innocently, secretly wondering at her own daring. Surely this was the way he looked at an orc in battle, just before running it through with his sword.

“Are you telling me I could have a mistress?” he asked in disbelief.

Lothiriel lowered her eyes and blushed furiously despite herself. This was plain speaking indeed. Well, she had just burnt all her bridges behind her, there was nothing left but to proceed with her plan. She nodded, not quite trusting her voice, and a heavy silence once more descended between them.

His voice was cold and icily polite when he asked her whether she would like to return to the Great Hall and she assented quietly. On the way back she prattled on about the history of Dol Amroth, but he did not look as if he heard a thing. Lothiriel knew she should congratulate herself on her plans having worked out so well, but instead she felt downcast and unaccountably besmirched.

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

I’m sorry about all the confusion engendered by the dead sea creature! It was just meant as a little joke, but has generated a considerable amount of email traffic. The solution to the riddle lies in her dog’s name: Anca = Jaws…

Suspension of hostilities

He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be called an exceptional captain. For it is precisely when a force has fallen into harm's way that it is capable of striking a blow for victory.

(Thorongil: The Way of Strategy)

***

Lothiriel woke up early the next morning after a night not restful at all. She had retired soon after returning to the Great Hall with King Éomer, her headache not entirely feigned, but sleep had been a long time coming and had been troubled by confused dreams.

With a groan she rolled over and buried her head underneath her pillow. She didn’t really want to face a new day. Her brilliant plan, so well thought out and almost foolproof, looked a lot less convincing now that it had been put to the test. She still didn’t know what had possessed her to utter those last fateful words to the King of Rohan. What sort of woman he now imagined her to be she did not even want to consider and she shuddered at the thought of what her father would have to say if he ever found out about her appalling behaviour.

In fact it might be wise to consider a tactical retreat and make herself scarce this morning, just in case King Éomer did talk to her father. She sat up and cast a look out her window. The first pale fingers of dawn were only just stretching across the sky and if she made haste she could have her mare saddled and be on her way before the stables truly woke up.

A few minutes later she had dressed in one of her simple riding habits consisting of a pair of soft leather trousers and an unadorned linen tunic, had braided up her hair and slipped out of her rooms, a sleepy but faithful dog at her heels. To her surprise when she reached the stables she nearly ran into old Hathol, the head groom, who was just latching the door behind him. They both jumped.

“My lady!” he exclaimed, “you’re up early.”

“You are up early yourself,” she replied, “is something the matter?”

He slowly shook his head, “Everything’s fine. Just one of the guests going for a ride.”

Lothiriel had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Which one?” she asked, trying for a nonchalant tone and not succeeding.

“The King of Rohan himself,” Hathol replied, speculation filling his eyes. Lothiriel had no doubt that by now rumours would be flying thick as to the real reason for King Éomer’s visit to Dol Amroth.

“Which way did he go?” she asked.

“Down to the beach I believe,” the groom answered and Lothiriel hesitated, unsure what to do. Éomer was truly the last person she wanted to run into, on the other hand she felt like she very much needed a bit of solitude to order her thoughts.

“Lady Lothiriel?” Hathol asked questioningly and she made up her mind.

“Saddle Snowflake for me, please,” she ordered him.

There were many paths along the shore and if she took one of the lesser-travelled ones along the cliff top it would be highly unlikely that she would meet him. No doubt he wanted to have a look at the sea close hand, almost all their visitors did.

Her mare already had her head turned their way when they entered the stables and gave a pleased whicker in welcome. Lothiriel stroked her soft white coat and felt comforted by the familiar smells of horse and hay.

“King Éomer had a look at her this morning, he was pleased with her condition,” Hathol said proudly, smoothing out the saddlecloth.

Lothiriel froze. “He did?”

The groom nodded and heaved the saddle on. “He asked who exercised her. As if you’d let anybody else ride her!”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Why, yes, of course I did.”

Lothiriel could almost picture the scene of the old man proudly telling the King of Rohan of her equestrian skills. Hathol had known her since she first learnt to ride and had consoled her more than once when she had taken a painful fall. She bit her lip. So now King Éomer knew her for a liar as well. Why had she panicked like that and told him all those ill-advised tales?

Silently she helped the groom get Snowflake ready and then led her out the stables, where her dog was waiting, jumping around in excitement. The mare gave a snort at Anca’s antics, but it was more for form’s sake, she had long since gotten used to the great deerhound following her mistress along everywhere. Hathol gave her a leg up and then patted Snowflake’s neck as Lothiriel gathered up the reins.

“You’ll stay close to the castle?”

Lothiriel nodded. She had always found close quite an elastic term. “Don’t expect me back for a while, though,” she replied and with a last backward wave urged her horse out the back gate of the castle and down the path that would eventually lead to the sea.

The sun had just risen behind the hills to the east and the walls cast long shadows across the fields bordering the castle. Further along were meadows of grass cropped short by sheep and bordered by low stonewalls. The wind was blowing inland today and as she neared the ocean the tang of salt intensified. The main path led down to the beach and then along the seashore towards the town of Dol Amroth, but about halfway down Lothiriel stopped and dismounted. There was a narrow trail leading off in the opposite direction here, but it was so little used that it was nearly invisible if you did not know where exactly to look. She examined the ground as she led her horse through the low growing bushes either side and was satisfied that nobody had passed this way for a long time, certainly not today.

Anca ran ahead, sniffing down rabbits’ burrows, and Lothiriel mounted her horse again and followed more slowly, quite happy to let Snowflake pick her own pace. The ground was rough at first, but when they reached the cliff tops again the going got easier. Quite apart from being very pretty, her mare was also surefooted and had a lovely smooth gait. A gift worthy of a king, Lothiriel thought guiltily.

Now that there was no more danger of meeting the King of Rohan she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the view over the ocean. It promised to be a lovely sunny day and when a little later she happened on a sheltered grassy dell she dismounted again and turned the horse loose to graze while she sat with her back against a stone and watched the gulls diving over the edge of the cliff. Panting heavily, Anca flopped down next to her and she absentmindedly stroked the rough grey fur.

“I’ve landed myself in a fine pickle, you know,” she said with a sigh and the dog put its head on one side as if earnestly considering her words.

If she was very, very lucky King Éomer would simply tell her father that he had changed his mind and take his leave soon after. If she was not quite so lucky he would tell Prince Imrahil just why he had changed his mind. And if she was really unlucky he would not change his mind after all and still ask for her hand in marriage.

Lothiriel groaned and hid her face between her hands. Had she really said those words last night – she, the serene and always controlled Princess of Dol Amroth? He had looked so utterly disgusted with her that she had wanted to tell him the truth at once, only that would have ruined all her carefully laid plans.

“It was a stupid plan anyway,” she muttered in disgust and Anca wagged her tail as if agreeing with her.

When they had got back to the Great Hall she had introduced King Éomer to Lady Eilinel who was as witty as she was beautiful and he had spent the rest of the evening dancing with one pretty woman after the other. Her father had looked on worriedly, but had said nothing when she had retired soon after. Well, it seemed like the second part of her strategy had worked at least, but for some reason she could feel no triumph at her success.

She looked out over the sandy tidal flats stretching below her, noticing absentmindedly that the tide had turned some while ago and was coming in again. This part of the coast was well known for its dangerous currents and rip tides and people tended to stay off it even when the water was low. So it was with some surprise that she noticed a lonely rider ambling along towards the open sea as if he had all the time in the world. Wasn’t he aware this whole part of the beach would be submerged at high tide and he had to make his way back as quickly as possible?

With a sickening feeling she realized just who it had to be out there, taking a solitary morning ride completely oblivious to the deadly danger he was in. What would be the consequences if the King of Rohan drowned in Dol Amroth without leaving an heir? Hadn’t Hathol warned him not to come this way? But maybe the old man just had not remembered that not everybody was as conversant with the rise and fall of the tides as those dwelling on the seashore.

She jumped up and started shouting at him to come back, but her words were simply blown away by the rising wind and he did not seem to notice her frantic waving. Lothiriel hesitated, unsure what to do next. She could ride back to the castle and raise the alarm, but it would take considerable time to do so and by then it might already be too late. She checked the cliffs either side to see if there was a path leading down to the beach, but all she could see was the very faintest footpath, much too steep and narrow to attempt while riding a horse, even one as surefooted as Snowflake.

Down below King Éomer was still riding steadily out towards the sea, seemingly deep in thought and Lothiriel realized she had only one choice left. Turning towards her horse she grabbed the reins and quickly shortened them with a knot so they would not get tangled in the low bushes lining the path.

“Go home, Snowflake,” she shouted, startling the mare, “quick now!” And when she gave her a hard slap across the rump the horse took off down the path in surprise. Lothiriel herself turned to the faint footpath leading down the cliffs, her heart in her mouth, Anca close behind her.

She never after knew how she made it down that treacherous path all in one piece. At one place she slipped on a tuft of grass and slid down several yards on her backside before she could grab hold of a scrawny bush to stop her slide turning into a fall. By the time she reached the beach she was out of breath, her arms were scratched from the thorny scrub and she was bleeding from several shallow cuts along her legs, but she considered herself fortunate not to have broken anything. Looking back at the hardly perceivable path she abruptly wondered how they would make it back up there again, for she’d had to jump down the last bit. And what about his horse?

No time to consider that now, she told herself firmly and started to run towards the distant rider. The beach was sandy at first, but she had to look out for hidden stones and pools filled with water that threatened to trip her. Already the tide was coming in with deceptively gentle waves, and having spent her whole life near the ocean, she knew just how quickly the water could rise, especially when it was so near to the full moon.

Anca went racing ahead, no doubt thinking the whole thing an excellent adventure and barking wildly, but this at last succeeded at attracting the rider’s attention. He turned his horse round in one smooth motion and his hand went for the hilt of his sword, only to stop when he spotted them, no doubt thinking them not much of a threat. In fact he did not seem to recognise her when she finally drew to a stop in front of him, thoroughly winded.

“What is it girl,” he asked sharply, “do you need help? Were you attacked?”

She shook her head, still too much out of breath to gasp out more than a few words. “You have to turn round at once,” she panted, “the tide…”

As a matter of fact out here the water had already risen to her knees and Anca had found it difficult to keep up with her for the last part of their frantic run. Much to her annoyance he just stared down at her uncomprehendingly.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Thoroughly exasperated and close to panic she tried to grab the reins of his horse to get it going in the right direction, but that was of course a silly thing to do with one of the Rohirrim. She comprehended that fact the moment the big stallion reared up above her, those deadly hooves missing her by a hair’s breadth as they came down again.

“What are you doing, you fool!” Éomer cursed, “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

“No, I’m trying to keep you from being killed,” she exclaimed, “and we have to get going at once, King Éomer.” Couldn’t he see the water was rising all the time?

He had his horse under control again and now examined her sharply. “You know my name?” His brows drew together as he took another look at her.

“Princess Lothiriel?” he asked in complete disbelief after a moment.

“The same,” she confirmed, “and now can we please continue this conversation when we’ve reached dry land?”

He ignored that last statement. “What are you doing here?” his voice was chilly.

“We haven’t got time for that!” she burst out.

“Oh yes we have. I’ve found out you were lying to me last night about not being able to ride. What exactly are you up to?”

The water had now risen to her thighs and she had to grab hold of Anca to keep her from being swept away. Even his stallion was starting to get nervous, but he calmed the grey horse with no more than a quick word in Rohirric.

“Please King Éomer,” she pleaded, “I’ll explain everything, but we have to get back to the shore at once.” If it wasn’t too late already.

He stared down at her for a moment longer, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Up with you,” he ordered and stretched out a hand.

Lothiriel hesitated. “What about my dog?” she asked anxiously.

He looked resigned. “Hand it up.”

When she heaved Anca up, glad that the deerhound was so thin it didn’t weigh much, he settled the wet dog across his saddle in front of him. His stallion wasn’t too pleased about the dripping addition, but calmed down at another word from his master and allowed her to clamber onto his back behind Éomer. He turned the horse around and they set out for the shore at what was to Lothiriel a dismayingly slow pace.

“Can’t you go faster?” she asked.

“I’m not going to risk breaking one of Firefoot’s legs,” he rebuked her, “There’s no need to panic, it’s not as if it is very far to the shore, anyway.”

“Panic?” Lothiriel was thoroughly annoyed with him by now. “Don’t you realize this whole beach is going to be completely submerged in a little while and we will be lucky if we can make it up the cliffs, never mind about your horse.”

“Surely not!” But for the first time he sounded worried and picked up his horse’s pace slightly. The water was now lapping against her feet.

“Surely yes!” she snapped back and her heart sank when she saw how far they still had to go.

After several minutes of this careful wading through the steadily rising waves and a near spill when Firefoot trod into one of the holes now hidden under the surface of the water it dawned on her that they were not going to make it. She couldn’t even spot the place where she had clambered down the cliff face anymore and they had no time to search for it. Éomer seemed to realize the same thing, for he began to curse steadily under his breath. She wrapped her arms tighter around his waist and felt oddly comforted by his presence despite their hopeless plight. Then he suddenly changed direction, going parallel to the shore instead of towards it.

“What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

“We won’t make the shore,” he sounded grim, “but there’s a small island there, that we might be able to reach.”

She peered past him and spotted a small outcropping of rock with a few scraggly bushes growing on top of it. While it was true it was closer than the cliffs, the incoming waves now threatened to sweep Firefoot’s feet away from under him and the big stallion was struggling visibly and was only kept from panicking completely by the iron control his master exerted over him. He was murmuring encouragements in Rohirric as they drew closer to their only hope of survival.

Indeed they were within a few paces of the island and Lothiriel was already breathing a sigh of relief when a freak wave hit them, sweeping the dog away like a piece of flotsam.

“Anca!” Lothiriel shouted, tried to grab her dog and was thrown as the horse faltered beneath them. With an icy shock the waters closed over her head.

Flailing about wildly, she somehow made it back to the surface, only to feel herself being pulled under again by the vicious currents. Seawater filled her nose and she choked violently, now panicking in earnest. There was so much sand in the water she lost all sense of up and down. In her rising panic she struck out her hands to grab anything at all and felt one of them connect with something soft, but it was no use, she was sinking, being pulled down by the weight of her wet clothes.

What a stupid way to die so close to safety, was her last thought before darkness claimed her.

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’

Pitched battle

To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.

(Mardil Voronwë: Tactics of Gondorian Warfare)

***

Lothiriel retched and retched until there was nothing left in her stomach. Her throat was burning and the taste of bile and salt water in her mouth made her want to gag. She was feeling so miserable, it was this that convinced her she was unfortunately still alive, even before she opened her eyes to the pale sunlight. Surely being dead was more comfortable than this. Somebody was bending over her, helping her to sit up, and she gave a low moan.

“Just let me die.”

There was a soft chuckle. “Too late for that now, I’m afraid, unless you want to jump back in.”

She squinted up at him, the events of the past minutes slowly coming back. “King Éomer?”

“The same,” he grinned, only to add more seriously, “now can you sit on your own for a moment? I have to check Firefoot.”

Lothiriel nodded, careful not send her head spinning again and he let go of her and got up. There was a loud bark and then her dog jumped at her, nearly bowling her over in the process.

“Anca!” Lothiriel exclaimed and threw her arms around the wet bundle of fur, “you are all right!”

“Well, your dog is a better swimmer than yourself,” Éomer remarked dryly from behind them, “whatever possessed you jump in after it? That was a silly thing to do.”

“I didn’t jump, I fell,” she turned round and glared at him.

“Can’t you swim?”

“No,” she answered curtly, not wanting to go into details, for this had long been a sore point with her. Maybe now her father would finally allow her to learn, but more likely he would instead forbid her to go riding on her own again.

She rested her head in her hands, still feeling slightly nauseous, and took stock of herself. Her clothes were absolutely soaked and were clinging to her, but at least she didn’t have any broken limbs, although all the little cuts and abrasions from her climb down the cliff face were stinging from the saltwater. There was one slightly deeper gash on her left leg where she must have cut herself on a submerged rock, but even that had only bled sluggishly and the blood was already clotting. All in all it could have been much worse. Just how much worse she was fully aware of, for it was rather an unwelcome thought that she owed her life to the King of Rohan.

Looking up, she realized with a sinking feeling how small their refuge was, no more than a rocky island littered with some big boulders, a couple of bushes bent by the constant wind and some grass. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had got his horse up here, quite apart from rescuing her as well. She shuddered as she looked at the angry waters now covering the whole beach and breaking against the cliffs in white foam.

Turning round she saw that Éomer was checking his stallion’s legs, carefully running a hand along them. He gave a sigh when he took off the saddle and saddlecloth, both thoroughly soaked, and set them out to dry. Lothiriel could sympathize, for she knew what salt water did to leather. He then pulled up some grass and started to rub the stallion down as best as he could. After a moment Lothiriel got up, staggered over and gave him a hand, after all the gallant animal had probably saved both their lives.

When they were finished she sank down to the ground again, completely exhausted by this little exertion, and after a moment he joined her.

“Are you all right?” he asked in alarm and hunkered down next to her.

She nodded and then got her first good look at him. Like her, he was soaked to the skin, his blond hair plastered to his skull, but that was not what made her jaw drop in surprise.

The King of Rohan was sporting a black eye.

It was a beauty, the left eye swollen half shut already and she could only point at it in stupefaction. “What happened to you?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “You happened to me.”

When she continued to stare at him in shock he added, “You hit me when I tried to fish you out of the water. I have to commend you, it’s been a long time since anybody managed to slip under my guard. A masterful punch.”

What would her father think? shot through Lothiriel’s mind at once. Here she was marooned on an island with a comparative stranger, her clothes so soaked they might as well be transparent and he sported a black eye. Oh, she knew exactly what Prince Imrahil and everybody else would think. Quite without intending to, she had just landed the perfect, decisive blow in this battle and her father would never give her away to King Éomer now. She could not help an expression of sheer triumph crossing her face.

When she looked up again all amusement had been swept from the King of Rohan’s face and he suddenly grabbed her by the arms.

“What are you so terribly pleased about?” he snarled, “I’ve had enough of your lies, woman. Is this whole thing some elaborate way to set me up?”

Beside her, Anca sat up, her hackles raised, and gave a low threatening growl. He shot a quelling look at the dog, not much impressed at all, but he did let go of her arms after a moment. Well, it wasn’t as if she could run away anywhere.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she answered stoutly and rubbed her arms where he had grabbed her.

He watched her closely. “If it was any other woman I would consider this an attempt to force me to marry you.”

This was too much. “Marry you?” she exclaimed and jumped up, “you stubborn, self-centred lout! How dare you intimate I tried to trap you into marriage. When all this time I’ve done everything I possibly could to put that idea out of your head!”

He rocked back on his heels. “You don’t want to marry me?”

“No!” she shouted, “I do not.” Never in her entire life had she lost her temper like this. It felt good.

He got up and stared at her. “Then all that talk of wanting an indulgent husband was a pack of lies?”

“Exactly!” she snapped, “Its sole purpose was to put you off, just like all the other things I said!”

His face darkened. “I came here in good faith, my lady, why did you set me up like this?”

She felt like spitting fire. “Maybe you should take this up with my father. I made my feelings clear from the beginning, but then nobody was ever interested in them, including you.”

“That’s not true,” he protested.

“Oh no?” she asked, not caring for the consequences anymore, “All you tried to do last night was to dazzle me with pretty words, just like all the other men. Extraordinary eyes indeed!”

For a moment he looked taken-aback, then he took a step towards her. “And all you did was to make me as disgusted with you as possible. I never met a more conniving and deceitful woman in my entire life. You deserve a good hiding!”

By his side, his hands curled into fists. Lothiriel stared at him. He wouldn’t dare, would he? It dawned on her just how small and lonely their little island was and that nobody knew where they were. Anca by her side somehow seemed a rather inadequate protector, after all the man had battled wargs and survived. And there was still his famous temper…

“I just saved your life!” she admonished him, trying not to show her growing alarm.

“I just saved yours.”

He took another step closer, seeming to loom over her, and for a moment something unsettling flashed across his face, a mix of annoyance, rage and hunger? All of a sudden Lothiriel felt vulnerable and exposed in her wet clothes and it took all the courage she possessed to stand her ground. He took one look at her face and gave a nasty laugh.

“Well you needn’t worry, I’ve never hit a woman yet and I won’t start now. But the moment these damned waters recede I’m off home, let me tell you.”

He stalked off to the other side of their little island and sat down with his back turned towards her, pointedly ignoring her, and after a moment drew his sword and started drying it with a handful of grass. Lothiriel flopped down ungracefully on the ground again and drew her dog into her lap. She felt thoroughly shaken by their argument and put her arms around the animal seeking comfort. Anca was shivering slightly and smelt of wet fur, but she gave a small wag of her tail and licked her mistress’s hand.

Lothiriel shook her head. The King of Rohan somehow seemed to have the ability to bring out the worst in her. First those ill-advised words last night and now she’d just lost her temper like never before. What was more she had enjoyed it. It had been nice to finally vent all the anger and hurt accumulated over the last months, although the target had probably been the wrong one. Looking at things dispassionately it was really her father who deserved her anger and Éomer had just been in the wrong place at the wrong moment.

Speaking of the wrong place… She took another look around their small refuge or rather prison as it seemed to her now. The tide was still rising, although much slower by now and it would be a long while yet before they could leave it again. She tried to calculate whether Snowflake might have reached the castle yet, but even if the search was underway already they had no idea where to find her. Her stomach growled. She had left this morning without eating any breakfast, only pocketing some apples on the way, but unfortunately even those were in the saddlebags of her horse.

Now that the heat of her anger was wearing off she also once more became aware of the soaked state of her clothing and tried to wring out the sleeves of her tunic and her trousers, but without much success. Next she undid her braid and with her fingers brushed through her tangled hair in the vain hope that it would dry quicker like that. The wind was blowing steadily and she had started to shiver in her wet clothes. Why didn’t I just leave the wretched man to drown, she thought and drew her knees up to her chest.

In her silent misery she had not paid any attention to what King Éomer was doing and now was considerably startled when suddenly something was dropped on her. It was a thick cloak and to her surprise it was no more than slightly damp.

“What is this?” she asked, untangling herself from its folds.

“My cloak. It was wrapped up in oilcloth for travelling. You look like you need it.”

He did not seem cold at all, she noted enviously as she pulled the dark green fabric around her.

“Thank you.” Even in her own ears she sounded sullen and ungrateful.

He nodded at her curt words and she stole a quick sideways look at him. He seemed to have recovered his equanimity and now stared at the shore.

“How long do you think until we can leave here?” he asked her stiffly.

Lothiriel considered the still rising waters. “At least another three to four hours,” she said at last and he cursed in Rohirric as if he had feared as much.

A strained silence descended between them until he gave a sigh.

“Look here,” he said, “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you.”

She shrugged mutely and he seemed to feel constrained to explain himself. “Believe me, I really don’t enjoy threatening defenceless women. Let me assure you, Princess Lothiriel, you have nothing to fear from me.”

He touched her lightly on one shoulder, causing her to flinch involuntarily. “Please don’t look so frightened.”

She nodded and after a moment he went to rummage some more in his saddlebags. Lothiriel drew the folds of the cloak closer around herself and nearly jumped when her stomach rumbled loudly.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

At Lothiriel’s affirmative nod he dropped something into her lap. Beside her Anca sat up straighter. It was a short, brownish looking bar of some kind of substance and she picked it up and turned it round to examine dubiously.

“What is this?”

“Dried meat. Unfortunately the rest of the travel rations didn’t survive the soaking.”

He had a piece himself and started to chew it, so she followed suit, only to nearly choke on it. The meat was as hard as stone and had a faintly rancid taste. Valiantly she continued chewing, only to give up after a while and surreptitiously feed the rest to her dog. She wasn’t all that hungry after all. At least Anca looked happy with her prize, which she swallowed in one bite.

Éomer had a couple of apples along as well, but those he fed to his horse. Lothiriel didn’t protest, the stallion had certainly earned them and probably needed the fluids. In fact she was starting to feel thirsty herself. As if reading her thoughts Éomer produced a wine skin from among his things and wordlessly handed it to her. The wine tasted slightly sour, but after a big gulp she felt considerably better.

“You are very well equipped,” she said.

The King of Rohan shrugged. “A habit of mine that has saved my life more than once.”

He sat down nearby and stared morosely at the shore, so close yet quite unreachable.

“May I ask you something?” he said after a while.

Here it comes, Lothiriel thought and nodded in resignation. No doubt he would want an explanation of her abominable behaviour. His next words surprised her, however.

“Why can’t you swim?”

“Swim?” she replied, “I wanted to learn, but it wasn’t considered suitable for a princess.”

He shook his head. “What rank stupidity! To live on the seashore and not be able to swim. You nearly drowned back there.”

“I know,” she said in a small voice, “And I never even thanked you for rescuing me, either. I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier on.”

Éomer gave a sigh. “I’m sorry, too. Like I said, I don’t usually lose my temper like that, at least not with women. If it weren’t for your warning I would have drowned, so it’s really me who is in your debt.”

He brushed a strand of damp hair out of his face and winced slightly when he accidentally touched his swollen eye.

“Does it hurt very much?” Lothiriel asked, feeling thoroughly guilty.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve had much worse,” he replied with a shrug, “You don’t pull your punches, though, do you! And that in more than one way.”

She hung her head.

“So everything was deliberate? Your talk about not wanting to learn Rohirric, the lies about not being able to ride?”

Lothiriel nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “I didn’t enjoy lying, but it was a matter of survival. I really like the horse you gave me and go riding every day.”

He sighed. “Well, that’s something at least. I would hate to think of Snowflake not being properly appreciated and having to spend all her time in the stables. I trained her myself, you know.”

“You did?” It seemed a strange thing to do for a king.

He seemed to read her mind. “I like doing it, it’s a nice break from my royal duties, and something I’m good at for a change.”

Lothiriel wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “She’s got lovely manners,” she offered, “but do you want her back now?”

He shook his head. “She’s a gift to you.”

“I feel like I don’t deserve it.”

“A gift is a gift.” He hesitated. “May I ask you something else?”

“What exactly?” Lothiriel asked back warily.

“Is Princess Ivriniel truly your favourite aunt?”

Lothiriel was startled into a laugh. “Well, she is my only aunt,” she defended herself, “but in fact we don’t get along all that well. That awful gown was her birthday gift.”

“The gown?” he stared at her, “Don’t tell me that was part of your plan as well?”

“It was,” she admitted, “you don’t think I would voluntarily wear something like that, do you?”

“How should I know?” he asked, “No wonder I felt as if I was talking to two different women, only I couldn’t get through to the one I liked.”

The one he liked? Lothiriel wasn’t sure if she cared for the direction this conversation was taking.

He shook his head in bemusement. “I still can’t understand what you were thinking of to disgust me like that. Discreet arrangements on the side!”

She hung her head. “I suppose it wasn’t really very seemly conduct.”

“Definitely not!” he said crushingly, “Let me tell you, my Lady Princess, you sounded like a complete slut.”

Her temper flared up again. “Well, it’s not my fault you cannot take a hint. I just panicked!”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “And what if I had persevered? A nice start to our marriage that would have made.”

“I didn’t really think of that possibility. To contemplate defeat is to invite it.”

He blinked; at a guess he had not had many women quoting Hyarmendacil’s ‘The Art of War’ at him.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked.

“Do they teach that in Rohan, too?” she asked back, “I grew up with three brothers and two cousins all destined to be leaders of men, so I somehow ended up reading all their books.”

“And what did your father think of this?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t mind, after all I was always meant to be a warrior’s wife.”

He was altogether too perceptive. “Anyone in particular?”

“Boromir was the logical choice.” Her heart grew heavy when she remembered her poor doomed cousin, the idol of her childhood.

“Were you in love?” his voice was soft.

She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“And would you have put up a similar fight with him?”

Lothiriel stared at the King of Rohan at this question and tried to imagine last night’s scene in Minas Tirith. The Great Hall of Feasts filled with illustrious guests, her uncle receiving them with gracious words and then catching sight of her in Ivriniel’s dress – it simply boggled the imagination.

“Well with Boromir it would have been easy,“ she grinned, “Lord Denethor was always convinced nothing was good enough for his son anyway. The gown alone would have done the trick.“

“I’m not surprised,” Éomer commented dryly, “That pink monstrosity nearly bowled me over.” They both burst out laughing. He really had quite a nice smile.

“You said I looked lovely,” she reminded him between helpless bouts of giggles. Last night suddenly seemed absolutely hilarious, although it had felt deadly serious at the time.

“It just goes to show I’m finally learning to be diplomatic.”

Lothiriel was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “I’m sorry I caused you to have such an uncomfortable evening.”

“Uncomfortable?” he grinned, “Harrowing would be a much better description! But at least it was truly memorable and not just another insipid dance.”

“You think so?”

“Well you certainly know how to stand out in a crowd.”

“Oh!”

Lothiriel had not looked at it this way before and now felt deeply chagrined to discover this weakness in her strategy. Somehow nothing had worked out quite according to plan ever since she had met the King of Rohan. Also she was not at all sure what to make of the small smile that had accompanied that last statement.

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

Many thanks to ‘the lady scribe of Avandell’ for giving me the idea of the black eye that inspired the title. In her story ‘The moon may draw the sea’ it’s Lothiriel who gets it however…

Parley

If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.

(Ecthelion: On War)

***

Lothiriel judged that the high tide mark had been reached by now, but it would still be a long time until the water was low enough for them to make it back safely to the shore. She had settled down where she had a good view of the cliffs, just in case their rescuers arrived. Now she leant back against the big sun-warmed boulder at her back, hoping that some of its heat would transfer itself to her. While her teeth had stopped chattering she was still chilled to the bone and only warming up slowly. The October sun was weak and it didn’t help either that the wind had started to pick up.

Éomer was staring at the sea as if he could force it to recede by willpower alone. After a moment he took off his tunic and wrung it out before hanging it up on one of the bushes to dry. Lothiriel quickly dropped her gaze at the sight of his bare chest, but not before noticing his well-defined muscles and the tracery of long healed scars criss-crossing them. A warrior indeed.

“You should do the same, you know,” he remarked conversationally, “it dries much quicker this way.”

Lothiriel stared at him. Was he serious? It was true that her clothes were cold and clammy against her skin, but to take them off when she was all alone with him? On the other hand she somehow knew without question that he was an honourable man, even if he had threatened her with violence earlier on. It came as a bit of a surprise to discover that she felt absolutely safe with him. She still hesitated, however.

“I can’t,” she explained, “it wouldn’t be suitable.”

“Why not?” he asked, “You’re still shivering and your lips have started to turn blue. You’ll end up catching your death, you know.”

In a way it made sense and anyway, his cloak covered her completely, being much too large for her, but at the same time she knew what her aunt would have to say on this idea. However, Aunt Ivriniel wasn’t here.

“Turn your back,” she ordered him imperiously and he complied with an ironic grin.

As quickly as she could manage, she stripped off her trousers and tunic and hung them up to dry, after a brief hesitation adding her silken chemise as well. It felt strange to have nothing but the rough cloth of his cloak against her skin and she had the feeling she was blushing furiously by the time she was finished. Making sure even her bare toes were covered she sat down on the ground again.

“You may turn around now.”

He sat down cross-legged on the grass a good distance away from her, quite ignoring the curiously festooned bushes, and took out another of the dried meat sticks to chew on it. No doubt he was quite used to having half naked women about and thought nothing of it. Anca, that traitor, crept over to him and put her head in his lap looking up at him beseechingly.

He laughed. “It looks like I’ve finally found the one being in Middle Earth that actually likes these things.”

“I fed her mine,” Lothiriel admitted.

“So I noticed,” he grinned, “not that I blame you. During the war we subsisted on these the whole way to Minas Tirith and my riders were grumbling all the time.”

“On these?”

Éomer nodded. “For six days! We didn’t have time to prepare anything else and this was all we had left in our stores. No doubt deliberately,” he added grimly.

“Deliberately?” she asked, “But that would be sabotage!”

“I think it was. My uncle was gravely ill and his advisor being a traitor, he did not want us to help Gondor.”

She now dimly remembered her father mentioning something about the last King of Rohan being healed by Mithrandir, but she had not paid much attention to it at the time. All the books on Rohan she had read had covered more ancient events.

“Well, you have my sympathy!” she shuddered, “I’m surprised you had the strength to fight a battle after six days of nothing but these.”

He chuckled. “It was a good motivation to reach Minas Tirith and the stores there. Those Southrons never knew what hit them.”

Lothiriel had to laugh at his words. Somehow the King of Rohan having a sense of humour had rather surprised her. The impression she had gotten from her father’s and brothers’ description of him had been of a dour warrior who thought of nothing but the training of his men and the disposition of his forces.

“I wish I had some of those stores here now,” she remarked wistfully, “do you suppose it will be a long time before my father’s men find us?”

He squinted up at the cliffs. “I have no idea, but even if they find us, what can they do?”

Lothiriel had not really considered this and her heart sank. “You are right,” she admitted, “there is really nothing they can do, except tell my father we are safe.”

She picked up a stone and threw it at the water. “We’ll be stuck here for hours!”

“I’m afraid it will be a while before you are rid of me,” he shrugged.

“That’s not what I meant,” she protested, “I don’t mind your company.”

“Thank you, Princess Lothiriel.” With an impudent grin he bowed from the waist, “At least that’s an improvement on last night.”

She shot him a quelling glance and he had the cheek to laugh at her.

Then he grew serious again. “Lothiriel, why didn’t you simply tell me you did not want to marry me?”

“What and throw myself on some unknown man’s mercy when my own father won’t listen to me?” She still felt bitter.

He conceded the point without even arguing. “But why are you so much against this match?”

Was it her imagination or did he sound wistful? She drew the cloak closer about her and rested her head on her knees, suddenly thinking what a mess she must look.

“It’s nothing personal,” she tried to explain, not quite meeting his gaze, “I just want to be in charge of my own destiny and not have two men deciding my fate for me. You see, Gondor is my home, I don’t want to leave here.”

He was absentmindedly pulling up tufts of grass and feeding them to his stallion that had ambled over. “ The Riddermark is not so bad, you might like it.”

“And how would you feel if you had to leave it?”

He looked up startled. “I never would. It’s my home!”

“Well this is my home.”

He looked thoughtful and they both stared out over the roiling waves.

“Are you going to return to Rohan now?” she broke the silence after a while.

He sighed and leant back against one of the boulders. “I’m not sure. That’s what I was considering on my ride this morning. You see, it’s a matter of survival for me, too.”

“Survival? What do you mean?”

Éomer seemed reluctant to go on. “Didn’t your father tell you why I suggested this match?”

She frowned as she tried to remember her father’s exact words. “He said it would strengthen the alliance between Rohan and Gondor … and that you needed an heir,” she added blushingly.

“That’s not all.” He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I need your dowry,” he said at last.

Lothiriel’s laughter faltered when she saw the guilty look on his face. “That was a joke, right?” she floundered, “I mean, you’re a king…”

He groaned and hid his head in his hands. “A king of a country ravaged by war and completely impoverished.”

“My dowry? That’s why you wanted to marry me?” Lothiriel could only stare at him in stupefaction when he nodded shamefacedly.

“You see, your father agreed to hand over part of it immediately and to pay in grain.” He looked up suddenly, his expression pained, “Lothiriel, please understand, if we do not receive aid my people will starve in the coming winter.”

“Starve? Surely not!”

“You have not seen the devastation in the Westmark. Saruman’s orcs plundered everything they could lay their dirty paws on and what they could not take they burned to the ground.”

Lothiriel heard the quiet desperation in his voice and also the fury at his enemies. This was a man who cared deeply for his people and who would do everything in his might to protect them. He jumped up and started to pace the narrow confines of their prison.

“So many of my farmers lost their lives in the war,” he exclaimed and balled his hands into fists, “The planting was delayed and we do not have enough stores to last us through the winter, let alone seed grain for next year.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said impulsively, but then she frowned, “why didn’t you ask King Elessar for help, I thought he was your friend.”

“I will not go begging!” he replied, affronted.

Sometimes Lothiriel felt that despite growing up with three brothers she would never understand men. What was wrong with asking for help when you needed it?

“So you decided to have my dowry instead?” It came out sharper than she had intended.

He opened his mouth to reply and closed it again with a snap. “Yes,” he admitted.

“You deserve a good hiding,” she said quite without heat, “That was the best idea you could come up with?”

Éomer ran his hands through his hair. “It seemed such a brilliant plan at the time, so simple! I get a wife and the Mark gets the food we need.”

They looked at each other and involuntarily his mouth quirked up at one corner. Suddenly the whole situation seemed utterly absurd. Lothiriel could feel her shoulders beginning to shake with laughter.

“And to think you criticized my plans!”

Éomer plopped down next to her. “It sounds rather bad when phrased like that, doesn’t it,” he said with a disarming smile, “I never even considered your feelings.”

“You’re not the only one,” Lothiriel felt angry, “are you telling me my father knew of this when you proposed the match?”

“We did touch on it. Imrahil was willing to help by sending some of the grain straightaway,” Éomer hesitated, “don’t be angry with him. I’m sure he had your best interests at heart. He seemed to think we would suit very well…”

Lothiriel shook her head. “Father must be mad!”

“He sang your praises, saying how beautiful and accomplished you were and what a good rider and elegant dancer.”

“He did?” she suddenly grinned, “It must have been a bit of a shock to meet me after having that vision of beauty described to you.”

Éomer rolled his eyes. “It certainly was, but I put it down to a father’s fondness for his only daughter. Now I’m not so sure anymore…” He reached over to very gently touch a strand of her dark hair.

Her heart missed a beat and when she looked up at him there was something disturbingly intense in his face. Here was a dangerous man and one who would not give up easily. No wonder he had not lost a single battle in the war. He seemed unable to concede defeat, which was a useful quality in a leader, but an alarming one in a suitor. She did not think he had met many women immune to his dangerous charm either. Fortunately she knew exactly how to deal with such unwelcome compliments, she’d had enough practice over the years.

“The customary comparison for my hair is to a cascade of midnight silk,” she said sweetly, “although it stretches the imagination a bit in its current state.”

This kind of frontal assault usually worked like a charm. Not with the King of Rohan, though. He twirled her hair around his finger and grinned at her completely unabashed.

“Oh, I’m not fussy. To a barbarian like me black hair is quite exotic enough even when it’s a mess like yours.”

Lothiriel ground her teeth. “It’s not a mess,” she snapped and snatched her hair out of his grasp, showing more bare arm than she had intended to. With as much dignity as she could muster she wrapped her cloak around herself again and gave him a crushing look. Somehow he seemed to be able to bring out the worst in her without even half trying.

“If you say so,” he agreed with her politely. The man was laughing at her!

“Can we just agree we do not suit and dispense with further compliments?” she asked pointedly.

“Very well.” He touched her briefly on her cheek, “Don’t look so worried, Lothiriel. I do not want an unwilling wife, I have got quite enough trouble at home without adding that to it as well, believe me.”

Lothiriel had to resist the impulse to touch the spot where he had rested his fingers. “Stop teasing me then,” she grumbled, “and maybe we can come up with an idea how to help your people.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “What could you possibly do?”

“I don’t know,” she had to admit.

“Maybe you can introduce me to another heiress,” he suggested flippantly and she frowned at him.

“I do not intend to inflict that fate on some other poor woman,” she flashed.

He seemed unperturbed by her unfavourable opinion. “Some ladies actually like me, you know” he remarked “And it’s not just the crown either.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she retorted, “Was that the original plan then? To come here for two days, charm me thoroughly and then leave with part of my dowry?”

“Something along those lines.” Was he so completely shameless there was nothing that rattled him?

“You need better advisors.”

Éomer shrugged. “I have none. Uncle’s only advisor turned out to be a traitor and I haven’t had time to find new ones. It’s one of the reasons why I can’t stay away from Edoras too long. In fact I will have to return tomorrow.”

He turned to stare out at sea morosely. Lothiriel mulled over what he had just told her about the state of his country. Somehow she felt guilty at depriving his people of their much-needed food, yet there must surely be another way to find enough grain to last them through the winter.

“What about the other areas of Rohan,” she asked, “can’t they provide you with food if you share it out carefully?”

He shook his head. “The Westmark is the most fertile and the most heavily settled part of the Riddermark. In the east we keep our horse herds and further up in the mountains it is mostly sheep country.”

He swept an area of the ground bare and picked up some stones to make a rough map of Rohan. The rocks became mountain chains and a passing crab was chased off towards Mordor as he explained the layout of his country. One question led to the next and before long he was telling her about the battles with Saruman and their desperate ride to Minas Tirith. Lothiriel watched the animation on his face as he drew a map of Helm’s Deep on the dry ground and when he suddenly looked up and gave her a blinding smile she could not help but smile back at him.

“You should write this down,” she remarked, “after all it’s an important part of your people’s history.”

His smile faded and he sighed. “I hope to do so one day, but at the moment I have more pressing concerns.”

With a violent motion he swept the stones away from his makeshift map. “What’s the use of winning battles when your people just die of hunger afterwards! As I’ve read in a book somewhere: you cannot feed on honour alone…”

“… but you can choke on dishonour,” Lothiriel absentmindedly completed the quotation. “Hyarmendacil again,” she explained at his surprised look.

“If you say so,” he shrugged, “you’re the expert.”

“Only in theory, I never got to put it into practice. That is at least not until last night,” she added after some consideration.

That caught his attention. “Last night?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Well, it seemed a bit like a battle, didn’t it.”

“Not to me! I was under the impression I was having a conversation,” he pointed out. “Don’t you need two people to start a fight?”

“Not according to my books,” she answered with a grin, “in fact Ecthelion maintains it is easier to win if you strike before your opponent is even aware that hostilities have started.”

He shook his head in wonder. “I think I remember the passage now. Something about deception being the basis of all warfare.”

“That’s right,” Lothiriel nodded, “and it would have worked like a treat as well if you hadn’t insisted on going for this silly morning ride when the tide was coming in.”

“My apologies, my lady,” he replied gravely, “but you’ll never make a decent field commander if you can’t handle surprises.”

She gave a laugh. “You are the surprise! I never thought you’d actually possess a sense of humour.”

“What did you expect then?”

“Well, my brothers kept going on about what a brilliant leader you were and what a great warrior. They nearly swooned when describing the way you waved your sword at the black ships. I was expecting somebody like Lord Denethor.”

“Lord Denethor?” He stared at her, “I am starting to understand now why you did everything you could to get out of this engagement!”

“Well you could have been like him,” she defended herself, “your ancestors sound like a pretty grim lot.”

“My ancestors! What do you know of them?”

“Only what I’ve read in ‘The land of the horse lords’ by Beregond. He gives an interesting account of them right up to your grandfather Thengel’s time.”

Éomer put his head in his hands and started laughing. “You’ve really done your research well! No, don’t tell me,” he interrupted her when she opened her mouth to reply, “I know, good preparation might not win you victory, but no preparation will ensure defeat.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t know that one. Is it by Thorongil?”

“No,” he replied with a completely straight face, “it’s by Éomer Éomundsson.”

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

Aftermath

While heading the profit of my counsel, avail yourself also of any helpful circumstances over and beyond the ordinary rules. According as circumstances are favourable, one should modify one's plans.

(Eldacar: The experience of battle)

***

“Lothiriel?” the voice was soft and gentle and she sighed, unwilling to open her eyes, now that she was warm at last.

“Lothiriel, wake up.” She gave a yawn and stretched her arms, luxuriating in the heat given off by the nice soft cushion she was leaning against.

“You know, you really shouldn’t do that.” Somebody pulled her covers close around her again and Lothiriel tried to burrow deeper down. It was so cosy and comfortable, she just wanted to stay put where she was. It felt right.

“What’s the matter?” she asked drowsily.

“I think your father’s men have found us at last.”

“Tell them to go away,” she muttered.

Her cushion shook with laughter and she mumbled an incoherent protest. Her father’s men? What did they want of her? Dim memories started to come back to her of the morning’s events. The desperate scramble down the cliff face, warning Éomer, their narrow escape onto the little island…

She sat up with a start, abruptly realizing just what her warm soft cushion was – or rather who. She remembered now, they had been talking, he had told her stories about Rohan, and she must have fallen into a doze at some point. Lothiriel felt heat flooding her cheeks and when she finally dared to look up saw him watching her with an amused smile on his face. Then she caught her breath in distress. His left eye was looking truly horrendous by now, completely swollen shut and the whole area around it puffy and blackening rapidly.

“Your eye!” she exclaimed.

He lifted a hand to his face, but did not touch it. “Does it look bad? It certainly feels so.”

She nodded and bit her lip, feeling thoroughly guilty. A too-long silence ensued.

“Did I fall asleep?” Not the most intelligent of questions.

“You did,” he nodded and stretched his arms, as if he was cramped, “I was wondering when to wake you up.”

Lothiriel watched the muscles rippling across his chest and remembered the feeling of resting her head against his comforting warm solidity. When she looked up again his expression was unreadable, the former amusement completely gone.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I fell asleep against you like that.”

“That’s all right,” he reassured her, “I don’t mind at all.”

“You should have woken me up when it got uncomfortable.”

Again that slow smile. “But it wasn’t uncomfortable…”

Why did she have the feeling she was rapidly getting out of her depth? She decided to change the subject.

“Did you say something about my father’s men?”

He motioned towards the shore. “I think they’ve found us.”

Squinting her eyes against the sun she looked up at the cliff top and made out several riders. Even as she watched, one of them turned his horse to canter back the way he had come, no doubt to tell her father that his missing daughter and guest had been located at last.

“Anyway,” Éomer added, “I think we should be able to leave our island soon.”

Lothiriel got up to glance down at the water and calculated with a shock just how long she must have been asleep for it to recede to the level it was at now. Indeed they could probably be on their way quite soon.

Éomer had shrugged back into his tunic and now examined his saddle with a frown before heaving it onto the stallion’s back. He then bent to fasten the girth and checked the animal’s legs again.

On her part Lothiriel went to collect her discarded clothing from the small bushes she had hung it from, glad to find that none of it had been blown away. It was bone dry by now, but when she slipped her trousers on under the cover of the cloak they were stiff with salt and scratchy. Then she hesitated, regarding the chemise and tunic in her hands. A quick look back at the shore showed her father’s men still watching them and she wondered how she could possibly manage to put her clothes back on without everybody knowing that she had actually taken them off. The gossip would be bad enough without adding that juicy little titbit to it as well.

At that moment they were hailed from the other side. Before she so much as caught a glance of who it was, Éomer had slewed round, his sword drawn and ready. He relaxed again almost immediately and when she cautiously peered round Firefoot she saw that it was a small sailing boat heading their way. She recognized it at once as one of her family’s boats and when she spotted her brother Elphir at the helm she could hardly restrain herself from waving madly. Anca had seen him, too, and started to bark in excitement.

The water was ebbing fast now and Elphir had difficulty making any headway against the force of the tide, so he contented himself with heaving to and hailing them again. Éomer waved back and turned to her.

“Do you think he can bring the boat close enough so you can jump on board?”

Lothiriel regarded the waters dubiously. There were probably hidden rocks just under the surface and their little island sported no convenient place where you could bring a boat close in. She shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Éomer shouted at Elphir not to come any closer, but to Lothiriel’s annoyance instead of sailing away again her brother seemed quite content to wait in the deeper water.

“Éomer,” she whispered.

He looked over at her in surprise. “Yes?”

“My clothes,” she hissed, “what am I supposed to do with them?”

He regarded her in puzzlement. “Aren’t they dry yet?”

“That’s not the problem! How can I put them on with everybody watching us!”

“Oh! I see your difficulty.” He actually had the impudence to laugh out loud and she gave him a quelling look.

“Give them to me,” he ordered her and when she handed them over simply stuffed her tunic and shirt into the saddlebags, adding her still sodden boots for good measure as well.

“There,” he said, “just wear the cloak and nobody will notice.”

“But what if they do!”

“You’re a princess,” he grinned, “surely you know how to look haughty. If you have the right attitude you could ride through the town stark naked and nobody would dare to comment.”

Before she could think of a suitably crushing reply he took Firefoot by the reins and very carefully led him down one side of the island, where the going was easiest. It took considerable coaxing and Lothiriel was surprised by the patience and gentleness the King of Rohan displayed, but finally the stallion could be persuaded to step into the water again, low though it was by now.

“Are you coming?” he called and Lothiriel gathered her cloak around herself with as much dignity as she could muster and gingerly clambered down as well, her dog following behind her. Picking her up as if she weighed nothing at all, Éomer threw her in the saddle and she had to grab the pommel to keep from falling down the other side. When she threw him an icy glare he simply laughed back at her.

“That’s exactly the look I meant,” he teased her, “nobody will ever know.”

You know, she fumed inwardly, annoyed at having gotten herself into this situation. If her father ever found out he would probably think himself obliged to force her to marry Éomer, black eye and all. The man had been nothing but trouble ever since he had arrived in Dol Amroth!

“When did you say you are leaving?” she asked pointedly as she draped the cloak around herself, but that only earned her another grin.

She held her peace, though, as he slowly led the horse towards the dryer parts of the beach. The footing was treacherous with stones hidden in the murky waters and deep tidal pools they had to circumvent. Pretty soon his trousers were thoroughly soaked again and she was secretly grateful at being allowed to ride. After the morning’s exertions she was stiff and sore, her numerous cuts were still aching dully and her belly was altogether empty. She wasn’t sure how far she could have made it on foot and privately wondered if he guessed as much. They probably made a pretty pair, she thought with an ironic smile, looking down at her dirty feet.

After a while they hit the sandy part of the beach and the going got less hazardous if not exactly easier. They turned south to parallel the shore at that point and then finally reached the path that would eventually bring them back to the castle. There was a small stream emptying into the sea here and they stopped to have a drink.

Éomer looked back at the way they had come.

“Did you really clamber down those cliffs?”

Lothiriel had trouble herself imagining that anything but a bird could make it down there in one piece.

“Maybe it’s less steep where I climbed down,” she offered, “Mind you, it seemed rather like a controlled fall some of the time.”

He shook his head. “Brave but foolhardy,” he declared.

“Well hardly that,” she demurred.

“Being foolhardy or being brave?” he asked with one of his contagious grins.

“Being brave of course,” she said, looking up from where she was bathing her feet in the cool water of the stream, “I leave that to my brothers, they are the warriors.”

“Courage is sometimes found in unexpected places,” Éomer replied as he held out a hand.

“More Éomer Éomundsson?” she asked with a smile as he helped her to her feet.

He looked down at her, suddenly serious. “No, it’s the halflings that have taught me that. A salutary lesson for every warrior I think.”

Lothiriel watched him thoughtfully as he led Firefoot over and whistled to Anca who came bounding up obediently. Truly a man full of surprises.

“You’ve met them, haven’t you,” she took up the conversation again, “What are they like?”

“To look at, they seem like children to us.”

The big stallion gave his master a playful nudge with his head and he stroked him absentmindedly, “Not very respectful towards their elders and thinking of their next meal all the time.”

As if in response to that Lothiriel’s stomach chose to give a growl and they both laughed.

“And yet?” she prompted.

“And yet they have that well hidden streak of stubborn courage that we all owe our lives and everything we hold dear to.”

He shrugged, “You should talk to my sister. She rode with one of them all the way to Minas Tirith.”

“I would like to do so.” He had told her quite a bit about Lady Éowyn and she had found it difficult to reconcile the picture he drew of a stubborn but much cherished sister with the slayer of the Witch King of Angmar.

Éomer gave her a leg up and when she was settled in the saddle she leant forward to pat Firefoot on the neck.

“You’re not at all afraid of him, are you,” he commented with an approving nod.

“You shouldn’t be surprised, after all I told you I like to pet horses,” she said and threw him a mischievous look from under her eyelashes.

“Be careful, my lady,” he warned her as they started out again, “You haven’t reached the safety of your home yet.”

It was a threat that singularly failed to impress her. “I’m perfectly safe with you,” she asserted and then suddenly blushed at her own words. Fortunately he just let them pass. They had joined the main path between the castle and the harbour town by now and in the distance she could already see the flags flying from the highest tower of the keep of Dol Amroth.

“It’s not much further now. You’re bearing up well,” Éomer threw over his shoulder and Lothiriel told herself sternly it was silly to feel so warmed by this praise when she wasn’t even sure if it was directed at her or the stallion.

The last part of the way they were escorted by her father’s men and the big courtyard in front of the stables was thronged with Swan Knights when they finally got there, everybody having been roped into the search effort. Even so, Éomer managed to swing her down from Firefoot without anybody being the wiser as to her state of dress or rather undress. To herself she had to admit grudgingly that sometimes being so tall and powerful had its advantages.

They were surrounded at once by a crowd of curious helpers asking questions as to where they had been and exclaiming at his face, but the King of Rohan simply waved them away.

“Not now,” he decreed, “the princess needs a rest first.”

He beckoned to on of the grooms. “See to my horse,” he commanded and then put his hand on her elbow to steer her into the keep. Miraculously a path opened before them and they had nearly made it to the safety of the back corridors before encountering the next obstacle.

“Lord Éomer!” a soft female voice exclaimed and a figure trailing a wave of perfume descended on them. Her green gown, made of the finest gossamer silk, floated around her like the tentacles of a giant jellyfish. With some surprise Lothiriel recognized Lady Eilinel whom she had introduced to Éomer the night before.

“My lady?” the King of Rohan seemed just as surprised by this enthusiastic welcome as herself.

“Your poor face!” Lady Eilinel cried out, “You must see a healer at once.”

She laid a hand on Éomer’s arm and cast a soulful look up at him. “Did you get attacked by bandits? You are so brave!”

Éomer seemed bereft of speech for a moment, but not so Lothiriel.

“Lady Eilinel,” she said coldly, “Please do not worry, as it happens it wasn’t bandits we encountered.”

The other woman seemed to become aware of her for the first time and looked her over critically, starting with her dirty feet and ending with her hopelessly tangled hair. Lothiriel was very much conscious of what a sorry sight she must look, but she took Éomer’s earlier advice and just lifted her chin and stared back haughtily. After an infinitesimal pause Lady Eilinel dropped her prince’s daughter a reluctant curtsy.

“Princess Lothiriel,” she acknowledged her, “I did not recognise you at first.”

“So it seems,” Lothiriel purred back silkily, “did my father send you with a message for us?”

The temperature dropped another several degrees. “No, he didn’t,” the other woman admitted, “I just happened to pass.”

Éomer wisely kept out of the conversation. Lothiriel gave a chilly nod. “In that case we really do not want to keep you any longer from getting ready for the evening meal.”

It was as clear a dismissal as any she had ever uttered and Lady Eilinel dared not disobey it, especially when a beseeching look at Éomer was only met by a bland smile.

“My Lord King, my Lady Princess,” she swept them a curtsy displaying a generous amount of her cleavage, “I will see you later.”

“Just passing by!” Lothiriel exclaimed wrathfully when she had gone, “When she’s probably been waiting here all day. The cheek of that woman!”

Éomer started to chuckle. “It’s slowly coming clear to me that the most dangerous thing in Dol Amroth is indeed not bandits or corsairs, but rather the ladies.”

“Well that one certainly has only one thing in mind.” Lothiriel was still feeling outraged at Lady Eilinel’s presumption.

“Don’t worry,” Éomer said soothingly, “I’m not going to make someone my wife who only wants to marry me because of my crown.”

He took a step closer to her while she was still trying to marshal her arguments why she did not worry in the least.

“Now if I found someone who might marry me despite my crown…”

His voice trailed off suggestively and she could only look at him in helpless fascination.

“Éomer…” she faltered, but was saved from having to answer by her brother Amrothos coming running around a corner, calling her name. For a moment she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or displeased at the interruption and then got annoyed with herself for even wondering. What was the matter with her all of a sudden?

“Lothiriel!” her brother hugged her tightly when he had caught up with them, “What has happened to you? You look a fright!”

“Thank you very much,” she replied sarcastically, but was secretly touched by the concern in his face.

“I will tell you later,” she added, “I urgently need a bath, a meal and a change of clothing now.” Lothiriel did not dare to look at her companion when she mentioned that last item.

Amrothos looked her over anxiously. “Father wants to see you,” he explained, “at once he said.”

They exchanged a resigned look and then Éomer shrugged. “Very well, we’re coming.”

On the way to their father’s study Amrothos drew her slightly to one side. “Are you all right, sister?” he asked darkly, “Éomer didn’t try to…”

His voice petered out when she lifted an eyebrow at him as if waiting for an explanation and he coloured slightly. “You know…” he stammered.

Lothiriel took pity on him. “He behaved perfectly honourably. In fact he saved my life.”

Amrothos looked somewhat relieved at not having to challenge the King of Rohan to a duel after all and took his leave soon after, promising to organize that hot bath for her.

Éomer was waiting for her at the door to her father’s study.

“Remember,” he whispered to her with an impudent grin, “just look haughty.”

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

A/N: Sorry about the long delay in publishing this chapter! I had to do quite a lot of overtime at work and then on top of that I developed a horrible earache that turned my brain to pulsating mush for most of the week.

Shifting battlefronts

All hope was lost when, unlooked for, the Riders came out of the North and broke upon the rear of the enemy. Then the fortunes of battle were reversed, and the enemy was driven with slaughter over Limlight.

(Cirion: The Path to Victory)

***

Prince Imrahil was standing by the window looking out over the ocean, which was now glittering serenely in the afternoon sun. He turned round at their entrance, crossed the room with a few quick steps and enveloped her in a tight embrace.

“Lothiriel!” he exclaimed, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine father,” she reassured him, “just hungry and tired.”

He looked her up and down, in his turn taking in her tangled hair, the unfamiliar cloak and bare feet. She was getting rather tired of these close examinations.

“You look exhausted,” he burst out.

Then his gaze went to Éomer and his eyes widened when he spotted the black eye the latter sported. Prince Imrahil’s face hardened and he drew her protectively to his side.

“What have you done to my daughter?” he demanded to know.

Éomer looked surprised then irritated at this reception. “What did I do to her? Shouldn’t you rather ask what she did to me?”

Prince Imrahil bristled. “I’m warning you, Éomer, I don’t know what kind of behaviour you think appropriate back home, but if you aspire to my daughter’s hand you will treat her with all the respect due to her.”

“There is no difference in how I’d treat your daughter back home to how I treat her in Gondor,” the King of Rohan snapped back, “I know she’s a lady.”

Lothiriel had to suppress a grin at this. Was this the same man who had threatened her with a good hiding earlier on? Her father was rather less impressed.

“Then what did you do to earn that black eye?”

“I didn’t earn it,” Éomer said through clenched teeth, clearly nearing the end of his patience.

“You must have done something…”

Unspoken the words improper advances seemed to hang in the air and the King of Rohan looked as if a trying day had just taken a turn for the worse. Lothiriel decided it was time to intervene.

“Please father,” she said, “It’s not what you think, it was simply an accident.”

“An accident?” Her father looked anything but convinced by this.

“We got caught by the tide and I fell in the water. Éomer pulled me out, but I accidentally hit him in the eye.” Although this was the truth the story sounded weak even in her own ears.

“You got caught by the tide?” Imrahil frowned, “My men told me they found you on the North Beach. What were you doing there anyway?”

Lothiriel never got a chance to answer this question, for behind her the door burst open with a bang.

“I told you so!” somebody exclaimed.

Lothiriel closed her eyes for a moment. With one of his lightning movements Éomer had interposed himself between her and the door, his sword half drawn already, but she did not need to see who had just entered the room. Against some things steel offered no protection anyway.

Aunt Ivriniel swept in with the irresistible force of a battle ram. Today she had chosen to dress entirely in dazzling white and as usual had emptied the contents of her jewellery box to go with this. The effect was overwhelming even to one used to her and Éomer was simply left staring at her in amazement. In the doorway behind her stood Amrothos, looking apologetic and silently mouthing ‘I’m sorry’.

With a sigh Imrahil waved his youngest son to go away and to close the door behind him.

“What did you tell me?” he asked in resignation.

“I told you no good would come of this,“ his sister exclaimed, “Inviting this so-called King of Rohan to pay court to your daughter. Mingling the noble blood of our lineage with that of an upstart barbarian!”

The upstart barbarian looked extremely annoyed at these words and took a step towards her, his sword still half way out of the scabbard.

“The blood of the House of Eorl is as good as anyone’s,” he snapped at her.

Aunt Ivriniel lifted a haughty eyebrow. “My good man, there were princes ruling in Dol Amroth when your ancestors were still no better than peasants living in straw covered huts.”

The King of Rohan’s face darkened and Lothiriel was amazed at her aunt’s temerity. Or was it foolhardiness?

“My countrymen and I saved your sorry lives on the Pelennor Fields,” Éomer snarled, “What use would your noble lineage have been if Minas Tirith had fallen and Sauron’s forces had swept across Gondor?”

Imrahil made a placatory gesture with one hand. “Please, Éomer,” he said.

Aunt Ivriniel merely looked the King of Rohan over coldly. “You were fulfilling your oaths as was only right and proper,” she replied.

Lothiriel held her breath as Éomer took another step closer.

“We fulfilled them with blood,” His voice had dropped to a whisper, “my sister nearly died on that battlefield and you stand there and sneer at me and my people. I will teach you to respect their sacrifices if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

For the first time Ivriniel was starting to look slightly alarmed.

“Imrahil,” she appealed to her brother, “are you simply going to stand by while this man threatens violence to a poor defenceless woman?”

The Prince of Dol Amroth looked rather flustered at the turn the conversation had taken, but before he could reply Éomer cut in.

“I do not threaten defenceless women,” he said through clenched teeth, only to stop suddenly and colour slightly.

Her aunt did not miss this. “I thought as much,” she exclaimed and pointed an accusatory finger at him, “What have you done to my poor niece?”

Lothiriel had had enough. “Éomer did nothing at all,” she fired up in his defence, “he saved my life if you must know!”

Her cloak nearly slipped off her shoulders as she joined Éomer’s side to glower at her aunt, but she managed to catch in time and wrapped it closer around herself.

“Éomer?” Aunt Ivriniel gasped, “You call him by his first name, a man you are not related to and have known for less than a day. What kind of behaviour is that?”

It was Lothiriel’s turn to look flustered. It was true that she had just slipped into the easy habit of calling the King of Rohan by his first name without even having been given leave to. She sent her father a look of mute entreaty, but in the event it was Éomer who threw himself into the breach.

“No doubt my barbarian manners are to blame. Things tend to get a bit informal when you’re marooned on a lonely island all on your own.”

Aunt Ivriniel gave a disdainful sniff. “That is no excuse at all. The more dire the circumstances, the more decorous a true lady’s manners will be.”

Lothiriel rolled her eyes. “The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment by Belecthor,” she whispered to Éomer.

“Not one of your favourites, I guess?” he whispered back. At least the murderous look had left his face and he seemed to have recovered his equanimity.

“Please,” her father intervened at this point, “let us not argue like this. Lothiriel was just about to tell me what had happened.”

“I don’t care what story she tells you,” Aunt Ivriniel said with a sneer, “Quite obviously your daughter has fallen for the dubious charms of this barbarian.”

“I have not!” Lothiriel replied hotly, “And he’s not a barbarian.”

“Well, I won’t have you marry him and that’s my last word on it,” her aunt declared.

“I will marry whomever I please,” Lothiriel flashed back, only to belatedly remember that she had just done everything in her power to escape this match. By her side Éomer suppressed what sounded suspiciously like a sudden snort of laughter.

“Peace!” Prince Imrahil intervened again, “let’s just listen to what Lothiriel has to say.”

“Thank you father,” she took a deep breath, “Like I was just about to tell you earlier on I went for a ride this morning.”

Her aunt had finally taken a closer look at her. “What is this thing you are wearing?” she interrupted her at this point.

“What do you mean?” Lothiriel asked back, “It’s just a cloak.”

“A cloak?” Her aunt was regarding her with horror. “This is completely unseemly raiment for a princess. How can you be so immodest as to wear a man’s cloak! Judging by the unpleasant colour it is his cloak as well.”

Lothiriel found herself stirred to fresh wrath. “It’s a lovely colour and it’s none of your business what I choose to wear.”

“You will take it off at once!” Aunt Ivriniel declared vehemently.

Thoroughly alarmed, Lothiriel clutched the cloak closer around herself. “I will not!”

“You certainly will.”

“I agree,” Éomer said beside her.

Lothiriel spun round. “What?” she stammered.

He was not paying her panicked words any attention, concentrating his attention on her aunt instead. “You are just so right, Lady Ivriniel,” he said, “this cloak is of course completely unsuitable for a princess of your noble lineage.”

“Quite,” Ivriniel agreed, somewhat taken aback by this sudden endorsement of her opinions.

Lothiriel stared at the King of Rohan feeling like someone who had just been stabbed in the back. Shock and outrage ran through her at his betrayal. Had this been his plan from the beginning? To compromise her in a way that left her no recourse but to accede to his suit? Well if that was his idea he would soon discover that the battle had only just begun.

“You…” she breathed, words failing her. And to think that she had started to find him quite likeable.

He gave her a tiny shake of his head, but paid her no further heed, instead smiling at her aunt. “It’s so fortunate that you should be here, my lady. I admired your impeccable taste in clothes last night.”

“You did?”

You did? Lothiriel thought, finally getting a glimmering of what he was up to.

“I did indeed,” he nodded gravely, “Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch your niece something suitable to wear?”

“Well…” even her aunt was not impervious to his charm.

Éomer went to open the door for her. Under Lothiriel and Prince Imrahil’s fascinated gaze the King of Rohan turned the full force of his personality on Aunt Ivriniel, giving her a warm smile exactly as he had given Lothiriel in the garden last night.

“I’m sure I can leave it to your excellent taste to select something modest and becoming.”

Lothiriel held her breath as Aunt Ivriniel went out the room like a woman under a spell. Éomer gently closed the door behind her and then sagged against it.

“Let’s hope this defenceless woman takes her time to make up her mind what you should wear,” he said to Lothiriel with a grin.

Even her father looked impressed and Lothiriel could only regard him in awe.

She clapped her hands. “I don’t know how you did it, but that was marvellous,” she exclaimed.

He gave a bow. “Thank you, my lady.”

There was a twinkle in his eye and she realized he knew only too well what thoughts had run through her mind earlier on.

Lothiriel blushed hotly. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I should have known…”

He winked at her with his good eye. “I always fight fair, unlike some others I could name.”

“Oh!” she gasped, “You dare!”

Her father gave a chuckle at this point and she jumped, for she had completely forgotten his presence.

“Maybe you could cease hostilities for a moment,” he suggested, “and go on with your story, daughter?”

“Yes of course,” Lothiriel agreed obediently and tried to order her thoughts. The quick flash of anger at her aunt had passed and now she felt tired and exhausted again.

“It’s a long story,” she sighed.

It seemed to be her fate to be constantly interrupted. This time it was Éomer who held out a hand.

“Just a moment,” he said, “Lady Lothiriel has had nothing to eat all day, she nearly drowned and has been chilled to the bone by the cold wind. Don’t you think she deserves to sit down while she tells her story?”

Her father threw her a startled glance. “Of course,” he said and pulled up a chair.

Then he got busy pouring her a glass of wine, which she accepted gratefully. At her frown he grudgingly offered one to Éomer as well, but the King of Rohan refused with a curt shake of the head. Lothiriel made sure she held her cloak tightly around herself and then explained how she had gone for a morning ride along the coast.

Her father interrupted her again almost at once. “And what were you doing so far away from the castle? You know that you are supposed to stay close.”

She had the sinking feeling that her freedom would be severely curtailed in the future. “It’s not that far away,” she temporised, “and anyway I had Anca along.”

At the sound of her name her dog that was sitting patiently by her feet wagged her tail. Her father sent her a sceptical look, apparently dubious about her abilities as a protector.

“Never mind,” he said, “what happened next?”

“I saw Éomer out on the mud flats going for a ride and knew I had to warn him because the tide was coming in,” she explained.

“Had you arranged to meet him there?”

“Certainly not!” she exclaimed indignantly, “it was pure chance I took that path.”

“And a lucky thing for me that was,” Éomer interjected.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I decided to try and send Snowflake home for help and then climbed down the cliffs and told him to turn back.”

“You climbed down the cliffs? But it’s almost a sheer drop!” Imrahil looked like he could not quite believe it was his gentle little girl telling him these adventures.

“There was a footpath. Well a kind of footpath anyway,” she amended with a rueful smile, “but unfortunately the tide was coming in so fast we could not make it back to the shore. Luckily we managed to reach a small island, though.”

Éomer now spoke up as well. “In fact your daughter saved my life with her warning.”

She waved that aside. “Please Éomer, you saved mine when I nearly drowned reaching that island.”

“That’s true Lothiriel,” he admitted, “but you wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it hadn’t been for my stupidity in underestimating unknown territory. I blame myself.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she protested, reaching out a hand and just remembering in time to draw her cloak around herself.

Her father cleared his throat. “So what happened then?”

Lothiriel spread her hands. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Éomer agreed, “We just had to wait for the tide to recede.”

Prince Imrahil was tapping his foot. “While I do not doubt your word, this will give rise to a lot of gossip. It is really most unseemly for Lothiriel to spend the whole day with you without any female companionship.”

Lothiriel hunched deeper into her cloak, for defeat was staring her in the face. She had seen it coming, of course. Next her father would appeal to Éomer’s chivalry, the latter would offer to restore her honour by making her his wife and everybody would be satisfied.

“I suppose the proper thing for me to have done was to drown,” she muttered rebelliously.

“I fail to see the problem,” Éomer cut in sharply before her father could utter more than an incoherent protest, “Lothiriel was perfectly safe with me and if anyone wants to contend this he can take it up with me.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” her father hastened to reassure him, “I’m just trying to warn you that there will be a fair amount of gossip. And what about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Are you still going to announce your betrothal?”

Éomer hesitated, but not so Lothiriel.

“No,” she said firmly.

Her father was looking from one to the other. “But you seem to have come to some sort of understanding.”

“An understanding?” she was alarmed, “What are you talking about! On the contrary we’ve decided we are definitely not suited.”

“Not suited? But…”

“Definitely not,” she stated firmly and frowned at Éomer to corroborate this statement.

“Your daughter has convinced me that now is not a good time for my suit,” he obliged, although she did not miss the emphasis he put on ‘now’. What did he mean by that curious choice of words? Some kind of message seemed to pass between the two men and she gritted her teeth.

“I will retire now and have a rest,” she said sharply and got off her chair, “since my presence won’t be required at the ball tonight.”

“Yes of course.” Her father suddenly seemed remarkably calm about the turn of events, “You have a bath and a hot meal, my sweet, and I’m sure you’ll be feeling a whole lot better again.”

She did not like his condescending tone at all and was tempted to utter a sharp reply, but then her exhaustion caught up with her and she decided to let it pass. After all she had won her victory, even though she was much too tired to feel the expected elation about it. Giving them a curt nod she turned to go, but before she could reach the door Éomer called out to her.

“Princess Lothiriel?”

She turned round and regarded him with narrowed eyes. His face was perfectly straight, but that did not fool her. The King of Rohan was laughing at her again.

“Yes?” she asked.

“My cloak…”

She stared at him. He wouldn’t dare.

“Shall I collect it later?”

“Yes.”

She firmly resisted the temptation to slam the door behind her. That man was urgently in need of a firm set-down.

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from the appendix to ‘Return of the King’, describing Eorl the Young riding to the aid of Gondor.

Council of war

Move not unless you see an advantage, use not your troops unless there is something to be gained, fight not unless the position is critical. No ruler should put troops into the field merely to gratify his own spleen, no captain should fight a battle simply out of pique.

(Eärnil II: Waging war)

***

With a satisfied sigh Lothiriel pushed the tray away and leant back against the cushions of her bed. As usual her father had been right. After a bath and a hot meal she did feel a whole lot better.

“So are you feeling human again?” Amrothos was sitting on the side of her bed and regarded her with an amused smile.

She grinned back. “Marginally more so.”

“That was quite an adventure you had today.”

Lothiriel nodded in silent agreement. She had given him a brief recapitulation of events while she had her meal and had also told him about the scene in their father’s study.

Amrothos shook his head in wonder. “I still can’t believe he actually got rid of Aunt Ivriniel without having to resort to violence.”

Lothiriel gave a reminiscent smile. “Do you know, it was almost worth drowning just to see the masterful way in which Éomer handled her.”

Her eyes fell on the dress Princess Ivriniel had put out ready for her and she grinned to herself, wondering in what dark recesses of her wardrobe her aunt had found it. No doubt she considered the sombre grey a fittingly penitent colour for her wayward niece. In a way it was a shame that Éomer wasn’t here to share the joke. A truly dangerous man that, but nevertheless it had been fun to cross blades with him. Life would be rather dull with him gone.

“Éomer?” her brother interrupted her musings, “You seem to be on pretty good terms with the King of Rohan all of a sudden.”

Lothiriel bent forward to stroke Anca who had curled up at her feet. The great deerhound had been forced to have a bath, too, and no longer looked like the bedraggled creature that had shared their island. Just like her mistress, Lothiriel thought ironically.

“I suppose so,” she answered, “He turned out to be quite nice really.”

“Quite nice?” he gave her a curious look, “That’s not the impression I got last night. In fact he looked very much annoyed when you got back in from that stroll in the garden.”

She felt herself blushing. “That was my fault. I did say some rather ill-considered things.”

“Like what?” asked the most curious of her three brothers.

“Well…” she hesitated, but Amrothos was the nearest to her in age of her siblings and had always been her confidant, “I said that I preferred petting horses to actually riding them.”

He laughed out loud. “And to think you’ve been riding every day ever since you got that beautiful mare given to you! That was bound to annoy him.”

When she didn’t reply apart from a short nod he gave her penetrating look. “There is something more, isn’t there? Out with it!”

Lothiriel traced the embroidered patterns on her robe. “I also happened to mention that discrete arrangements on the side are quite common here in Gondor…”

Amrothos had picked up her cup of cider and had just helped himself to a mouthful, but at her last words he choked violently.

“What?” he spluttered, “Lothiriel, tell me you’re joking. You didn’t say that to the King of Rohan, surely.”

“I know!” She hung her head, “I still don’t know what got into me, I just panicked. It was the only thing I could think of that would disgust him so much that he would give up his plan of marrying me.”

“You are mad!” said her brother full of conviction, “King Éomer is famous for his temper and you go and bait him like that. I’m surprised he didn’t strangle you there and then.”

She laughed. “Nonsense! As if he’d ever hurt me.” Then she remembered the way he had threatened her with a good hiding, but dismissed that again straightaway. After all he hadn’t so much as touched her.

“Besides,” she pointed out, “when engaged in a fight you should use all possible means to win. It’s no use entering into a battle with defeat already on your mind.”

He groaned and hid his head in his hands. “Father should never have let you read all those books on warfare. Let me tell you, little sister, one of these days they are going to lead you into serious trouble.”

This dire prediction did not impress her much. “I have it on good authority that I will make an able field commander one day,” she laughed.

Her brother was still shaking his head. “So what did King Éomer say when he eventually found out about your little plan, as I presume he did?”

She shrugged. “Well, he did get slightly annoyed, but since he was really in no position to complain, it soon blew over.”

Amrothos leaned forward. “What do you mean, he was in no position to complain?”

She found herself suddenly reluctant to explain the King of Rohan’s motives in seeking her hand. “Well, he did have his own reasons why he wanted to marry me,” she replied vaguely.

Her brother knew her rather too well. “What kind of reasons?”

“Just reasons…”

“Come on, Lothiriel,” he said when she didn’t elaborate any further, “you can’t just leave it at that or I’ll die of curiosity.”

“Oh, if you have to know,” she replied grudgingly, “He needs my dowry to feed his people.”

“What?” The amusement was wiped from her brother’s face, “All he wants is your dowry?”

“Not all,” she retorted swiftly, only to blush furiously.

Fortunately her brother was much too annoyed to notice her sudden discomfiture. “How dare he come here with such a mercenary plan in mind!“ he exclaimed.

She laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Please, Amrothos, he only did it to get the means to buy food for the Rohirrim to survive the coming winter.”

“That’s no excuse. I have a good mind to tell father about it,” her brother declared and got up to pace the room.

“Actually, father knows all about it.”

“What?” he stopped and stared at her in disbelief.

“Indeed he does,” Lothiriel nodded, “he’s got that ridiculous idea that Éomer and I would be well suited. Absurd, isn’t it?”

Slowly Amrothos sat back down on the side of her bed. He looked thoughtful all of a sudden. “Absolutely,” he agreed, “after all you hated the idea of having to leave Dol Amroth and move to Rohan.”

“Well…”

“A cold and windy country far away from your beloved ocean, you said.”

“I’ve had enough ocean to last me for a while,” Lothiriel shuddered, “Actually the Riddermark doesn’t sound quite so bad and apparently it’s not as cold as I thought.”

“The Riddermark?” Her brother asked.

“That’s the proper name for Rohan,” she explained.

“I see,” Amrothos said, “A shame you do not like its king.”

Lothiriel was starting to feel a bit irritated with her favourite brother. “I don’t dislike him,” she tried to clarify her position, “I just don’t want to marry him.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” she repeated, “I will not have my life decided for me by my father and a man I’ve known for less than a day. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Ah, principle!” it was his turn to bend forward and stroke Anca, “of course that is important.”

Why did she get the feeling he was hiding a smile? In her opinion his tendency to regard the personal affairs of his family as an ongoing source of amusement was one of his less endearing qualities.

“It’s not funny,” she snapped.

“Principles never are,” he agreed gravely and she glowered at him

“If you’re in that mood, brother of mine, I’ll have you thrown out my room,” she threatened him.

He laughed and held up both hands in surrender. “Very well, I’ll stop teasing you. So what happened on your lonely island?”

“Everybody keeps asking that,” she answered with considerable irritation, “but nothing happened.”

“Nothing? What did you do all day?”

“Nothing!” she exclaimed, “After I finished with drowning we just talked.”

“Talked?” Amrothos looked sceptical, “What can you talk about for a whole day, you hardly know the man.”

“He told me about the Riddermark, but mostly we talked about matters of strategy,” she answered with a sudden grin.

“Strategy?” her brother exclaimed, “Don’t tell me you bored him with endless quotes from your books.”

“They’re not boring,” she protested, “In fact he’s read most of the same books.” Even though he had dared to make fun of her.

“I suppose it is a novel experience for him after meeting the likes of Lady Eilinel all the time,” Amrothos observed idly.

“Lady Eilinel!” Lothiriel felt fresh ire rising within her, “Do you know what she said to him when we got back?”

“I have heard,” he nodded, “The tale has already made the rounds of the castle. Yet unless I am very much mistaken you invited her for the express purpose of letting her loose on King Éomer.”

“That was a mistake,” she admitted.

“A mistake?”

“Well, I didn’t know him then,” she defended herself, “He deserves better than a wife who would marry a toad as long as it came with a crown.”

Amrothos laughed at that description of the lovely Lady Eilinel. “So what kind of wife does your quite nice King of Rohan deserve?”

“He’s not my King of Rohan,” she protested, “but he should marry someone who can see past the cold mask he wears to the warm-hearted man behind it.”

Amrothos leant back against one of the bedposts. “Ah well,” he observed, “he will have plenty of opportunity to meet that special woman next spring.”

“Why next spring?”

“Have you forgotten the planned celebration of the downfall of Sauron?” her brother asked, “all the unattached ladies of Gondor will be in Minas Tirith for sure.”

Lothiriel frowned. She had actually forgotten the festivities planned for the first anniversary of their victory, even though her father had promised her he would take her this time. Many of the ladies of the court were already busy ordering their gowns and if she wasn’t careful she might be left with a very limited choice of fabrics. After all it wouldn’t do to wear that pink dress again.

“I suppose as King of Rohan he will be there, too?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m sure,” her brother nodded, “and like you said there’s certain to be somebody there who appreciates his good qualities.”

What was the matter with Amrothos today, Lothiriel thought to herself, he seemed to be getting more annoying by the minute.

“You know the court ladies in Minas Tirith,” she snapped, “The only qualities they notice are wealth and titles.”

“You’ll have to admit they’re very ornamental, though,” he put in.

“That they are,” she admitted, “but that’s not what he needs.”

“So what does he need?” Amrothos asked and put his head to one side. “Someone like you?”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, “Don’t you get any ideas. Like I’ve just told you, I’ve done my utmost to win my freedom, I do not intend to give it up again.”

“You might not have to.”

Lothiriel frowned at her brother. What did he mean by that? But before she could frame an answer, her lady-in-waiting came bustling into the room.

“Are you finished with your meal, Princess Lothiriel?” Lady Idril asked solicitously, “Or can I get you something else?”

Lothiriel suppressed a quick surge of irritation. Her lady-in-waiting had been fussing over her ever since she had walked in the door and had insisted she eat her meal in bed like she used to do whenever she was ill as a child.

“No thank you, that was lovely,” Lothiriel replied and Lady Idril picked up the tray to give it to one of the pages waiting outside.

“Shall I draw the curtains now?” she asked, but Lothiriel shook her head.

“It’s still early,” she replied, “and I’m not feeling tired anymore. I think I’ll just do some more reading.”

This was hardly unusual and her lady-in-waiting nodded and was on her way to leave when there was a knock on the door to the anteroom. Lady Idril went to check and came back a moment later wringing her hands.

“It’s that man! He wants to see you, my lady.”

Lothiriel and her brother stared at her nonplussed. “What man?”

“That so called King of Rohan.”

“Oh Éomer! Why didn’t you say so?” Lothiriel gave her a frown. “I’ll see him in a minute. Could you please show him into my study?”

With a sniff Lady Idril went to do as she was told, her disapproval visible in every line of her stiff back. Her sense of propriety had been sorely tested by the events of the day.

Lothiriel looked up to see Amrothos watching her intently. “I’ve just got to give his cloak back to him,” she defended herself, “nothing more.”

“I can do that for you if you want me to,” he offered and Lothiriel again got the impression he was hiding a smile.

She shook her head. “I have something I want to discuss with him anyway,” she explained. As it happened, this was the truth, for she had not forgotten about the plight the people of Rohan faced.

Amrothos gave a sudden grin. “As you say, sister. Do you want me to stay?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied airily, “Don’t you need to get changed for the evening meal?”

He got up and surprised her by planting a quick kiss on her cheek. “Very well, I’ll be off then. But don’t forget what your clever books say: it’s always a good idea to know what you’re fighting for.”

Lothiriel was left staring after her brother and heard him exchange a quick word of greeting with Éomer in the anteroom. It looked like Amrothos was in one of his profound moods, she thought. Then she dismissed his cryptic remarks from her mind and jumped out of bed. After all she had more important matters to decide she told herself as she threw open the doors of her wardrobe, unsure what to wear.

In the end she settled on a dress with long tight sleeves that would cover the many scratches on her arms. It was one of her favourite gowns, made from soft linen of an emerald green colour and displaying her figure to perfection. She gave a quick twirl in front of the mirror as she finished lacing up the low-cut bodice and thought how different she looked from last night. Except for the eyes there was nothing she had in common with yesterday’s Princess of Dol Amroth.

It was only when she was hurriedly brushing out her hair that she stopped to consider just why she was going to all this trouble to make herself presentable. Her hasty strokes of the brush slowed down as she pondered this question. She was only being polite, Lothiriel decided in the end. After all the man was a friend of her father’s, an important ally of Gondor, and now that all the unfortunate misunderstandings had been settled between them it was only civil to treat him like she would any other guest.

Besides it went very much against her grain to let him go back to Rohan thinking of the Princess of Dol Amroth as looking either completely overdressed or half drowned. She smiled at her image in the mirror as she applied a touch of perfume behind her ears. He was so sure of himself, maybe a change of tactics was in order anyway.

When she finally swept into the study next door she was rewarded by a suitably stunned look on his face.

“Princess Lothiriel!” he exclaimed and bowed over her hand to kiss it.

Anca, who had followed behind her mistress, recognized her benefactor and started to bark excitedly and jump around them. From somewhere in his pockets Éomer produced another of his meat sticks and with a grin threw it to her. Ecstatically happy the dog retired to the rug in front of the fireplace to worry at her price.

Her lady-in-waiting had been watching these goings-on with a jaundiced eye and hovered at his side, clearly unwilling to leave her charge alone with this man.

Lothiriel nodded at her. “Thank you Lady Idril, you may leave us now.”

“Are you sure, my Lady Princess?” the poor woman fussed, “Will you be all right on your own?”

Lothiriel lifted one eyebrow. “I will be perfectly fine,” she replied evenly. After all she had just spent half a day marooned on an island with Éomer completely on her own. What did the woman think he would do to her here in her own rooms?

“Please don’t worry, my lady,” Éomer threw in soothingly, “I will look after your mistress and make sure no harm comes to her.”

Lady Idril still hesitated, obviously not quite ready to tell him that the harm she feared originated from him.

“I have Prince Imrahil’s permission to speak to his daughter,” Éomer said and she finally capitulated.

“Very well, I will leave you then.” With curtsies to both of them, one of them much shallower, she retired.

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

Truce

Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence. Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting. Therefore the skilful leader subdues the enemy's troops without any fighting. He captures their cities without laying siege to them. He overthrows their kingdom without lengthy operations in the field.

(Thorongil: The Way of Strategy)

***

The door shut behind her lady-in-waiting with a soft click. Lothiriel turned to face the King of Rohan with a frown.

“You have my father’s permission?” she asked. She wasn’t at all sure if she liked the sound of that.

Éomer smiled innocently. “He told me to take you for a walk in the gardens last night, didn’t he?”

She couldn’t suppress an answering smile. “I doubt that explanation would have satisfied Lady Idril, my Lord King,” she teased him, “In fact I’m surprised and deeply shocked by your unscrupulous methods.”

“Deception is the basis of all warfare,” he quoted her own earlier words back at her, “I have had an excellent teacher, you see.”

“And you’re a quick learner,” she shot back and he laughed out loud.

She noticed he had found the time to change and have a bath, for he wore fresh clothes and his hair was still slightly damp. Then her eyes fell on the saddlebags lying on her desk.

“Oh, have you brought my things?” she exclaimed, momentarily distracted, “That’s good, Lady Idril was asking about them and I didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded and with a flourish emptied out the bags and handed over her crumpled clothes and boots.

“Here you are,” he said, “I’ve also checked on your horse while I was in the stables and am happy to say she’s no worse for her little adventure.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Lothiriel thanked him and he smiled back warmly. Her airy study suddenly seemed rather small and crowded.

“I’ll get your cloak for you,” she said a little breathless and made her escape into the other room. When she got back he was studying the books and household ledgers lined up on the shelves. These took up all four walls from floor to ceiling, leaving only space for the window and the shipping tables and map of the environs of Dol Amroth that she had hanging up behind her desk.

“You probably have more books here than what my uncle had in his entire library,” he remarked.

“Really?” she was rather surprised, “This is just my personal collection, copies I’ve had made for me.”

She motioned at the shelf next to the window. “This is the Rohan section, not very extensive I’m afraid.”

He shook his head at the titles. “Half of them I’ve never even heard of.”

“I can have copies made for you,” she offered, “I keep a small army of scribes busy as it is.”

He laughed. “That’s very kind. I might take you up on the offer one day when I have more leisure. My primary concern now is to somehow get my people through the winter.”

“I’ve had an idea on that,” Lothiriel began hesitantly. In fact the idea had sprung into her mind fully formed while she’d had her bath and she had been thinking on it and improving it ever since.

“I’ve just explained to your father that you are far too dangerous to force into a marriage you do not desire,” he took a step towards her, “Are you going to tell me you have changed your mind and intend to become my wife after all?”

“No, no,” she replied all flustered, “That’s not what I meant!”

Lothiriel tried to gather her scattered wits. He really should not spring surprise questions like that on her when she had thought everything settled between them.

“I won’t become your wife,” she explained, “but I’ll become your agent.”

“My agent? What do you mean?”

“If you authorize me to act for you I can buy grain and other food and have it shipped to you.”

He frowned down at her. “Lothiriel, that’s a kind offer, but like I explained we have no way to pay for it.”

“I know,” she replied and took a deep breath, mustering her arguments. “I’ve been thinking you must surely have something you can trade to us. What about horses? After all Rohan is famous for them.”

Éomer shook his head. “I have considered this, but our herds have suffered as much as the people tending them. We won’t be able to sell any until the year after next at the earliest.”

“That’s all right,” she replied, “I can extend you credit and you can pay later when your horse herds have recovered.”

“Credit?” The idea seemed completely new to him. He really needed those advisors.

“That’s right,” she nodded, “and don’t worry about getting a good price for them, I’ll see to that. Now about those sheep…”

“Sheep?”

The King of Rohan was clearly bewildered by the way this conversation was going and Lothiriel couldn’t altogether blame him, but then he shouldn’t have rattled her with that proposal a moment ago. She tried to make herself clearer.

“You were telling me your people keep sheep in the mountains, right?”

“Right.”

“What do you do with the surplus wool?”

“I’m not sure…” It was obviously not a question he had ever pondered before.

“Well, you probably sell it to passing traders, but if you let me have it I can sell it here in the south and get a much better price.”

Another thought struck her. “In fact I can trade it for the wine we import from Lebennin, and you can have the wheat we usually send as payment. That way everybody is served.”

“Are you sure that is feasible?” He seemed to have recovered from his initial surprise and now was regarding her sceptically.

“I do this kind of bartering all the time,” she reassured him, “Now what else do you have to trade?”

“I don’t know,” he was forced to admit, “I was always so busy fighting, I never really paid any attention to that aspect of ruling a kingdom. Now I wish I had!”

“That’s not your fault,” she consoled him, “I’m sure my father would be just as lost if he had to cope on his own. Here in Gondor it’s the woman’s responsibility to see to the provisioning of the household.”

He sighed. “My uncle’s seneschal used to do all that, but he was killed at Helm’s Deep and I haven’t been able to replace him yet.”

“Well you should,” she opined, “And at the same time you should also seek out some good advisors.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said meekly.

Lothiriel decided to ignore these words. “Well, find out what else you have to trade and let me know. I’m sure we’ve had salt from Rohan in the past and possibly furs and leather goods. Now that the passage under the mountains is open the way is much shorter.”

She went over to the shelves that housed her precious collection of maps and mounted the small stool that helped her access the top shelves where they were stored away in long leather tubes.

“Give me a hand,” she ordered him and held out the map she had been looking for.

She had meant him to take the map, but instead he seized her round the waist and swung her down from her precarious perch. Momentarily alarmed she clutched at him and found herself suddenly face to face with him. Her pulse speeded up as he gently set her down, his hands lingering a moment longer than was altogether necessary.

“Thank you,” she said, annoyed with herself at sounding so breathless. What was the matter with her? Then she quickly escaped over to her desk, where she unrolled the beautifully drawn parchment and weighed down the corners with four pebbles she kept for the purpose.

“Southern Gondor,” she explained and tapped her finger on the tiny castle signifying Dol Amroth. “It would be easiest to take the Old Coast Road to Edhellond, then follow the Rivers Ringló and Ciril as far as Calembel where you hit the road to Erech.”

He stepped up behind her. “That’s the route we took coming here.”

“Good!” Lothiriel had thought as much, “I know the road will take wagons as far as Erech because I’ve traded with them before, but what about the passage under the mountains?”

“I’m not sure,” Éomer sighed, “I didn’t really pay any attention.”

“Well, have a look on your way back and let me know,” she ordered him, “Otherwise we’ll just have to use packhorses.”

Thinking furiously, she traced the long line of the Anduin with one hand. “I think I’ll ship some grain up to Minas Tirith anyway and have it transferred to wagons there to take the Great West Road. Faramir can make himself useful for a change.”

He nodded in bemusement and she continued with the next step of her plan.

“Guards,” she said, “I’ll organize guards this side of the mountain, but it would be useful if you have your people meet them outside the tunnel and take over. Can you do that?”

“Yes of course,” he replied, “But won’t your father mind if you use his men?”

She grinned. “He’s the one who keeps telling me we owe you. Anyway, he leaves all that to me, he probably won’t even notice.”

“Lothiriel,” he said hesitantly, “This sounds like a good plan, but are you sure you can manage to organize enough stores for us? A wagonload or two would of course be welcome, but are nowhere near enough. We are talking about feeding half a country here.”

“I know,” she replied offended, “And I have plenty of experience. Feeding farmers is no different from feeding soldiers. Who do you think organized supplies for your armies during the war?”

He stared at her. “You did?”

“Certainly. Father could not spare any of my brothers to do so and I’m better at it anyway,” she explained.

“I suppose that is why the Swan Knights always had the best food at Cormallen.”

“They did?” she was pleased, “I was so busy I could not come.”

“A real shame,” he remarked and she quickly dropped her eyes again. Did he have to stand so close to her?

“Quite,” she agreed, “Now what do you need? Dried fish is plentiful and cheap here, but your people might not like it.”

“Fish?” he shook his head, “No, I don’t think so. All we need is grain really, the rest we can manage.”

“Grain it is then,” she decided and studied the map again, “You have all those mountains, don’t you have any deposits of ores or precious stones?”

He looked thoughtful. “As a matter of fact we do and what is more we now have the help of the dwarves. I have to speak to Gimli, he is going to make his home in the caves near Helm’s Deep.”

“That’s all settled then,” she agreed, “So are you going to let me act as your representative here in Gondor?”

“Do I have a choice?” he asked with a grin, but when she held out her hand to seal the agreement he took it in his own and gave her a firm handshake.

“Well, I am curious to see how this works out,” he said and she had the feeling he did not expect much to come of their discussion. But she would show him. It being soon after the harvest, wheat was still cheap, so she would buy in bulk now before the price started to rise as the winter progressed.

“It will work out.” She was absolutely determined. Nobody would starve in Rohan this winter, not if she could help it in any way. She did not tell him that she had decided to dip into her father’s funds if necessary. If Prince Imrahil was so terribly eager to hand over her dowry, he could just as well extend some credit to his ally, even if he would have to wait some years before he got paid back. That would serve him right, Lothiriel thought to herself.

She became aware of the fact that Éomer was still holding her hand and was giving her another intense look. It was surprising what magnetic force he could exude with just the one eye. The other one looked truly horrendous now and she cautiously extended a hand towards it.

“Have you seen a healer?”

He shrugged. “Not yet. I have survived worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” she replied tartly, “but if you don’t have it seen to, it will take longer to heal. You just want me to feel guilty,” she accused him half in jest.

“Of course,” he agreed with a smile, “after all the official explanation of my black eye is that I got into a fight when somebody criticized your taste in gowns.”

“What?” she exclaimed and then started to laugh. “You are terrible! Wait there!” she ordered him and gently freed her hand from his grasp. Lothiriel had just remembered the lotion that she had used on her own cuts and bruises earlier on and now went to fetch it from her bedroom.

The vial she brought back was tiny and Éomer gave it a dubious look.

“Are you sure you know what you are doing?” he asked.

“This oil is made from the roses of Imloth Melui and is very rare,” she explained, “I have had good results with it whenever my brothers got into a fight.”

“Are you a healer as well as an administrator then?”

“Not at all,” she demurred, “but I perforce picked up some knowledge of the treatment of wounds during the war.”

“Now hold still,” she ordered him and stood on tiptoe to apply the rose oil to the swollen skin around his black eye. He winced when she first touched it, but obeyed her meekly.

His breath was warm against her hand and she was ridiculously conscious of how close she was to him. Taking a firm hold on her thoughts she sharply told herself that she had rendered this kind of aid many times before and to concentrate on what she was doing. A strand of his blond hair had fallen across his face and when she brushed it aside she was surprised how soft it was.

“There,” she said when she had finished to her satisfaction, “If you like, you may take the vial with you when you leave tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he replied, “are you so keen to see me go then?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she stammered, surprised by this unexpected accusation.

“It seems to me you are willing to do almost anything to get rid of me,” he observed slowly.

Unnerved by his change of mood, Lothiriel wiped her sweaty palms against her dress.

“Like I explained before, it’s nothing personal,” she said defensively and took a step back, only to bump into her worktable. How had she ended up trapped between him and her desk?

“What if I choose to take it personally?”

His tone was so low it was almost a whisper. She licked her lips, trying to think of how to reply, when he abruptly crossed the remaining distance between them and pulled her into his arms.

“Éomer!” was all she managed to protest before he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss that left her senses reeling. This onslaught was so utterly unlike the kind of polite and considerate behaviour she was used to from her other suitors that she was completely at a loss how to react. No man had ever dared to handle the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth in this rough way, crushing her against his chest and besieging her lips with his kisses. By the fireplace Anca was snoring softly instead of defending her mistress.

He deepened his kiss and Lothiriel felt as if a big wave had risen above her and was now sweeping her away in its wake, completely helpless. For a moment she debated struggling against it and then suddenly surrendered and let herself be carried away by it, drowning in the sensation of his hands moving up her back and burying themselves in her long hair, his clean male smell overlaid with the subtle scent of her oil, the hard muscles of his chest under her hands.

At first feeling clumsy and inexpert she nevertheless opened her lips to him and started to kiss him back as best as she knew, welcoming the unfamiliar rush of passion running like liquid fire through her veins, blazing, scalding, burning. It was a long time before Éomer finally broke off the kiss.

“Do you know,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve been meaning to do this all day.”

She took a deep breath of air and clutched at him wildly to keep from simply collapsing onto the floor. Although there was really no danger of that, he held her much too tightly.

“You have?” she asked in stupefaction. Herself, she had not known how much she ached to kiss him until a moment ago.

“Ever since I lost my temper with you this morning,” he admitted.

Involuntarily she stiffened. “Is this supposed to punish me then?” she asked, feeling hurt by his words.

“Oh Lothiriel,” he exclaimed, “Does it feel like punishment?”

“No,” she was forced to admit.

“An honest answer from my lady love for once,” he teased her, “Lothiriel…”

At that moment there was a loud knock on the door, causing both of them to jump guiltily. He did not let go of her, though.

“Éomer King?” somebody called from outside.

He gave a low curse in Rohirric under his breath. “It’s Éothain, the captain of my guard,” he explained to Lothiriel in an undertone.

“What is it?” he called.

“Prince Imrahil awaits us for the evening meal. Unless we hurry, we will be late,” the rider said, “May I come in?”

“No,” Éomer replied curtly, “Wait there. I’ll be with you shortly.”

He cupped her face between his hands, his calluses rough against the smooth skin of her cheeks.

“Lothiriel,” he began hesitantly, “I wish I could stay longer, but I have to go now and tomorrow I’ll be leaving at first light.”

“I know,” she nodded with a lump in her throat.

He cursed again softly. “There is so much to do in the Riddermark to get us through the winter, I don’t think I’ll be able to leave again until spring.”

Spring? It seemed an eternity away. He gently stroked a thumb across her lips. “I want to do things properly this time, for I want a wife who will come to me full willingly. If I woo you again in the spring will your answer still be the same?”

“No,” she said, “Yes. That is…” Lothiriel had never felt more confused in her life, but she had been brought up to be truthful, even if she had not lived up to it much the last few days.

“I think…no,” she finally admitted and was rewarded by one of his blazing smiles that wrapped itself around her and insinuated itself into her brain until she could not think straight anymore. What had she just agreed to?

“I will hold you to it. Until spring then, my lady,” he whispered.

Lothiriel remembered what Amrothos had said.

“Father promised to take me to Minas Tirith in March for the celebration of the victory over Sauron,” she said hesitantly.

He gave one of his irresistible grins. “I should certainly be able to obtain an invitation to that from Aragorn. Your father mentioned something along those lines.”

“My father?” She remembered the look the two men had exchanged in the study and a terrible suspicion suddenly crossed her mind. “Did he put you up to this? What else besides talking to me did he give you permission to do?”

Éomer took one look at her face and much to her annoyance started to laugh. “Oh Lothiriel,” he gasped, “no, he didn’t tell me to kiss you, that was entirely my own idea.”

When she continued to frown at him he added, “I’m afraid you are just far too enticing, my Lady Princess.”

With a deep breath Lothiriel let go of her resentment at Prince Imrahil’s interfering ways. After all there existed more important matters, like the fact that Éomer would have to leave in another minute. Maybe her brother was right and she did not have to fight every battle that presented itself to her.

“Oh never mind,” she said, winding her arms around his neck, “just do it again.”

And the King of Rohan was happy to oblige with another very thorough kiss, taking his time with it as if he wanted to remember the taste and feel of her through the long cold winter months.

***

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’.

Many thanks to Maddy for her medical advice. She saved Éomer from a nasty inflammation of the eye!

Epilogue: Peace settlement

He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

Minas Tirith, Third Age 3020.

It was a mild night and the windows of Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, had been thrown wide open. Éomer stood near one of the doors leading into the gardens and enjoyed the slight breeze that brought with it the smell of spring flowers and damp earth. He surveyed the crowd of elegantly attired lords and ladies and sighed inwardly when he noticed the many green gowns worn by the female guests. It seemed rather fitting that the colour should be associated with hunting. They did not know that he much preferred being the hunter to being the prey.

Well, the spot he had chosen had two strategic advantages, one of them being a quick means of escape into the gardens. The other was that it afforded an unimpeded view of the great double doors leading into the hall through which new arrivals were still streaming all the time. In the middle of the floor the King and Queen of Gondor were holding court and greeting their many guests. Éomer had exchanged a few words with his friend Aragorn when he had first arrived, but had not lingered long. Polite and absolutely meaningless conversation with the many courtiers seeking his attention was not really to his taste. In fact there was only one person he was looking forward to meeting tonight, but she wasn’t here. Yet, he hoped.

The musicians struck up a lively tune and over at the other end of the hall couples lined up for the first dance. Éomer saw his sister being led onto the floor by Faramir, the two having eyes for nobody else but each other. Marriage seemed to suit Éowyn, she was positively glowing with happiness.

Resolutely ignoring the hopeful damsels lingering about in his vicinity and throwing him covert glances he turned back to his surveillance of the arriving guests. On the wall facing the main entrance were displayed the banners of all the nobles expected tonight and next to his own white horse on a green field was the swan and ship of Dol Amroth. What he hadn’t been able to discover, however, was who exactly of the family would attend the celebrations.

Éomer’s mind went back to last autumn and his leave-taking of the princess and once again he wondered if he had been too bold to kiss her like he had. Even though Lothiriel had responded in kind, he had started to worry since that he might have frightened her with his passionate demands. The innocent way in which she returned his kisses should have been enough to tell him how little experience she had with men, but at the time he had simply let his impulses rule his actions.

Like so often, Éomer ruefully thought to himself. He would really have to learn to master his temper instead of being mastered by it. There was just something about the Princess of Dol Amroth and the enticing challenge she represented that made him want to take her in his arms and not let go again. Maybe it was the way she did not care in the least about his crown, unlike almost every other woman he had met, or maybe it was simply the melting look he had surprised a couple of times in those fathomless black eyes. He was convinced that a minute in her presence would suffice to tell him what her feelings were for him, but what if she didn’t come tonight?

The first dance had come to an end and there was a lull in the steady stream of arrivals when the herald loudly announced some new guests.

“His Highness, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth,” his voice rang out, “and her Highness Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth.”

Involuntarily Éomer took a step forward and for some reason, perhaps his sudden movement or uncommon height and blond hair, she looked over and their eyes met for the briefest moment. It was enough.

Her steps faltered momentarily, but she quickly recovered her poise and took her father’s arm to be introduced to the King and Queen of Gondor. Éomer made his way across the hall towards them, and although she kept her eyes lowered he knew she was as keenly aware of him as he was of her. Her gown tonight was of the deepest crimson, its long flowing lines and lack of adornment emphasizing the wearer’s curves in the most pleasing manner and making her golden skin glow in the candlelight. He would have to be careful with the compliments he paid her, Éomer thought with a grin, to avoid being cut down to size with a few sharp words.

Just as he reached Aragorn’s side she sank into a deep curtsy, somehow managing to gracefully include him as well. The King of Gondor shot him an amused glance, but refrained from making any comments and instead bid Imrahil and his daughter welcome.

“Éomer my friend,” Aragorn turned to him with an innocent expression on his face, “I believe you’ve met the Princess of Dol Amroth?”

Éomer bowed over the slim hand she extended to him. “I have indeed. You look lovely, Princess Lothiriel.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she had to suppress laughter. “Thank you King Éomer, you flatter me.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, “Will you dance with me?”

Prince Imrahil looked slightly bemused at this forthright approach, but his daughter just took it in her stride.

“With pleasure,” she replied and accepted his proffered arm.

“To strike boldly and unexpectedly is to win half the battle,” he quoted as he whisked her away towards the dance floor.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been studying Hyarmendacil!” She really had the most enchanting laugh.

“I have indeed,” he replied, “and what is more have found it excellent advice, to be put into practice at once.”

“So I see,” she shot back. Her red dress made her look like a bold poppy in a field of grass and he wondered if she had suspected that everybody else would be wearing green. Quite possibly, Éomer mused, after all she was a seasoned campaigner.

“I’m relieved to see your aunt has not inflicted another gown on you,” he remarked.

“Actually she has,” Lothiriel said with a grin, “but it got mislaid somehow on the way to Minas Tirith.”

“Another pink monstrosity?” Éomer asked with a shudder.

She laughed outright. “Deepest purple with silver stripes,” she confessed. He tried to imagine her wearing it but failed utterly, although with her unconscious grace she had even managed to carry the pink dress off.

The current dance was still in full swing, a complicated affair with the couples passing down the line and back up repeatedly, so by silent consent they decided to wait for it to end. He felt absurdly pleased at seeing her again and watched her covertly, the shiny black hair, the slightly slanted eyes with their exotic cast, those red lips smiling up at him invitingly. It took a firm act of will to quash the desire to kiss her. Lothiriel lowered her eyes and a slight blush spread across her cheeks. Were his thoughts so obvious? He frantically searched for something innocuous to talk about.

“I haven’t thanked you yet for all your help over the winter,” he said and felt her relax again slightly.

“I promised, didn’t I,” she replied.

“So you did,” he agreed, “but I never expected you to deliver so much so quickly.”

In fact the first shipment had arrived a week after he got back to Edoras himself, it having been dispatched the same day that he had left Dol Amroth and from then on his men had been kept busy without a pause. Not that it had all gone without a hitch, but they had made it through the winter without a famine, especially when Aragorn and Faramir had sent supplies as well. Of course he had a pretty good idea who had put the King of Gondor up to that.

“We owe you a great deal,” he told her and he meant it.

Lothiriel gave a graceful shrug of her shoulders. “It is an honour. After all if it weren’t for the Rohirrim we would not be here today to celebrate this victory.”

“It must have been a lot of work,” Éomer remarked, “I don’t know how you managed to organize it all.”

“Practice,” she replied, “and my sister-in-law was so kind as to take over some of my duties in Dol Amroth. She will have to run the household eventually anyway when I get married.”

Éomer had some plans as to that himself, but judged it too early to say anything. He was determined to take things slowly this time, after all he was planning to stay in Minas Tirith for a couple of weeks. At the same time just having her so near to him already threatened to overturn his resolve not to rush her. Maybe he would allow himself to ask for one chaste kiss tonight?

“Dol Amroth is extremely popular in the Mark,” he said and she gave him a pleased smile. “Especially amongst my pig-herders,” he couldn’t resist adding.

“Pig-herders?” Lothiriel looked confused, “What do you mean?”

“All those pigs we got sent from some lady in Lamedon,” he explained.

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Are you telling me Lady Nenar sent you live pigs? It was supposed to be barrels of salted pork.”

“They were very much alive when I saw them,” he laughed, “and my men had a lot of trouble to get them through the passage under the Dwimorberg. It’s a good thing the ghosts were laid to rest by Aragorn or they would surely have been woken up by all that frantic squealing!”

Lothiriel’s expression flowed from disconcerted to annoyed to amused. “That scatterbrain!” she exclaimed, “She owed me a favour, so I thought it easiest if she sent you the pigs directly. Still, that must have been quite a sight to behold.”

“It certainly was,” he said with a reminiscent smile, “Éothain complained for days afterwards that he was smelling like a pig.”

They shared a grin and he thought how pretty she looked with her black eyes dancing with laughter. Her manners might have been cold and formal at their first meeting, but not her eyes, never her eyes. They had bewitched him from the start.

“I’ve missed you Lothiriel,” he said abruptly.

Her hand trembled on his arm, but she was saved from having to answer by the music ending at that moment. There was a general clapping of hands before the couples lined up for one of the more formal Gondorian court dances and they took their place amongst the other dancers.

The musicians started playing again and the ladies sank into deep curtsies while the men bowed. On the third count they met in the middle and executed a series of complicated turns and steps. There was some laughing confusion down the line as some of his riders found this too much to master and dropped out of the dance with their partners. For once in his life Éomer was glad of the tutoring his uncle had insisted on, although he had been bored to death at the time. While he had to concentrate on his steps at first, he at least did not embarrass himself by tripping over his partner or colliding with the couples on either side.

It was rather a frustrating experience however, when the dance kept separating them and he hardly had any opportunity to exchange a word with Lothiriel. She would not quite meet his eyes and did not venture a reply to his last statement.

“Have I offended you with my directness?” he whispered when they next met for a quick turn around each other, only their fingertips touching each other. She moved with the unconscious assurance and grace imparted by years of dancing lessons.

Three steps forward, turn around and clap your hands, three steps forward again to pass your partner on the other side.

She shook her head. “You haven’t.”

“Then what’s the matter?” As a means of holding a conversation this dance really left a lot to desire.

They met again. “When dancing, you’re supposed to talk about the weather or the other guests,” she pointed out.

Three steps forward, turn around and bow to your partner, three steps forward again to have her pass under your arm.

“The weather is fine and the other guests are uninteresting,” he complied with her request.

The glance she threw him was half exasperated, half amused.

“Now you could ask if I had a pleasant journey,” she instructed him at their next pass.

Three steps forward, turn around and pause a moment, three steps forward again.

“So tell me, Princess Lothiriel,” he said at the next opportunity, “how was your journey from Dol Amroth?” At least it wasn’t one of those dances where you changed partners all the time.

“Completely uneventful. How was yours?” she answered with a grin and he rolled his eyes, only to be parted from her again.

The dancers now formed a line facing each other and in its turn each couple passed down it. When it was their turn, Éomer saw his sister watching them speculatively and turn to the lady next to her to whisper a question to her. He did not hear the answer, but knew exactly what it would be and wondered if any rumours had reached Éowyn’s ears regarding last autumn’s visit to Dol Amroth.

The dance ended at that point and he found himself quite close to where the musicians were seated. Struck by a sudden idea he pulled Lothiriel over towards them.

“Éomer, what are you doing?” she protested laughingly, but he hushed her.

“I’ve got an idea,” he explained and went to talk to the leader of the group.

When he turned back to Lothiriel, he saw that a Gondorian courtier was bowing to her, obviously in the process of asking her for a dance. Fortunately a single black look on his part sent the man scurrying away again. The princess looked rather startled at his quick disappearance.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she chided, “people will start talking.”

“I wasn’t going to let him steal this dance,” Éomer replied, “This is the closest you will get to Rohirric music.”

The musicians struck up a lively and energetic tune and as he put one hand lightly on her waist her loose hair brushed across his skin and he became achingly aware of her lithe body under the thin silk. Firmly disciplining his thoughts he showed her the simple steps and off they were.

“This is fun!” Lothiriel laughed as he whirled her around, her skirts brushing against his legs.

“It also has the advantage that one can hold a conversation without being interrupted all the time,” he pointed out. The other advantage being of course that you held your partner so close she could not evade your questions.

“Did you miss me too?” he asked her.

Her steps faltered briefly, but she was far too consummate a dancer to trip. “Is this the kind of topic the Rohirrim like to talk about while dancing?” she countered smoothly.

“No, that’s my personal preference,” he admitted, “So did you?”

She was forced into a laugh. “You don’t give up easily, do you! Can you miss somebody when you’ve only met him for a day?”

“It was rather an intense day, or am I mistaken?”

She blushed adoringly. “Yes it was and I did miss you…a little,” she amended.

He could not suppress a grin of triumph and Lothiriel shot him an annoyed look. “Do you always corner your opponents like this?” she asked.

“I don’t really think of you as an opponent.” He let his hand slide up her back very slightly.

“What do you take me for then?” She suddenly chose to concentrate on her steps again.

“An ally I hope?” The question hung in the air between them for a long moment.

“It is my father who is responsible for forging alliances between Dol Amroth and Rohan, not me,” she replied demurely.

“I was thinking of approaching Prince Imrahil with a proposition for this particular alliance, but after my previous experience I wanted to test the ground first.”

“That’s always a good idea,” she agreed and he half expected her to add one of her quotations.

“Last time I encountered rather unexpected resistance to the idea. Do you think the same would happen again?”

“That depends on your motives,” she looked up at last and fixed him with a challenging stare, “Do you propose this alliance out of gratitude for my help last winter?”

Éomer knew instinctively he would have to tread very carefully. What had happened to his resolve to take things slowly?

“Lothiriel,” he said cautiously, “although I am very much indebted to you, gratitude is actually not the first thing that springs to mind when I think of you.”

“What is?”

He hesitated. Love? Desire? Need? “Longing,” he whispered at last.

“What for?” Her voice was soft.

“For somebody to share my life with me, to bring warmth and light back to Meduseld, to laugh at me with her black eyes…”

The music had ended and they stood facing each other, completely oblivious of the other guests.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

It was so simple in the end. “Yes,” she smiled.

His hand tightened on her waist, but he was aware of the many curious glances directed their way already. Looking around he spotted one of the exits leading out of the hall.

“Shall we discuss the details in the garden?” he asked politely.

“What details?” she laughed, but followed him willingly when he led her out the door.

Once they were out of sight of the other guests he pulled her into one of the conveniently placed alcoves along the wall and kissed her soundly. She melted into his arms in the most satisfactory manner. Her golden skin was as soft and silken as he remembered and she tasted of the mint sprigs the ladies here in Gondor chewed to freshen their breath. Desire ran through him in a red-hot tide and he pulled her closer still, wanting to have nothing between them. To his delight she responded by pressing against him and running her fingers through his long hair.

“You have not learnt this from your books,” he whispered in her ear and bent to kiss the sensitive skin of her throat where her pulse beat rapidly.

Lothiriel gave a surprised gasp and stood on tiptoe to allow him better access. It was an offer he could not refuse and it took considerable willpower to keep his hands from straying to her laces when she trembled in his arms tantalizingly, her eyes closed, her breathing ragged. So deliciously herself, completely innocent, utterly desirable.

“I’d forgotten what it feels like,” she said in wonder.

Éomer laughed. “I won’t let you forget again, love,” he assured her, “not as long as I live.”

“Oh Éomer,” she exclaimed softly, “I’ve missed you so much, it didn’t seem possible.”

“And I’ve been thinking of you all winter,” he confessed before claiming those sweet tasting red lips for another kiss.

“One last thing,” he remarked after they had in this way thoroughly reassured each other of their feelings.

“Yes?” She sounded so delightfully breathless that he absolutely knew he would have to kiss her again in the near future.

“If I ever again catch you treading on my feet deliberately while dancing, I will be most displeased.”

She looked first startled then intensely guilty at her perfidy thus revealed. “You noticed?”

“Almost at once. You really deserve some punishment!”

Black eyes met blue.

“Now?” she asked sweetly and tilted up her face.

FINI

The quotation at the beginning of the chapter is from Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’

Once again I would like to thank my wonderful beta Cúthalion. Also many thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I had a lot of fun with this story and I’m pleased to hear so many of you liked it. 

And if you want to read more of my writing, there are other Éomer & Lothíriel stories of mine on this site, or you can find my original stories on Amazon, iBooks, Kobo, Scribd, etc. by searching for ‘Lia Patterson’:

Wind Weaver (out in June 2022)

Daughter of Wolves (free on iBooks, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords)

Elephant Thief

Bride to the Sun