A Question Asked

‘Are you not married, then?’  Pippin asked chattily.

It had been a wearing session – not least because it would appear that hobbits were remarkably good at being where you did not expect them to be as well as at holding conversations about food and family throughout activity that should have left them speechless.

‘Why do you ask?’ Boromir enquired cautiously.

The youngest hobbit looked at him with the frank gaze that was surprisingly disconcerting.  ‘Because you are here,’ he said, readily enough.  ‘Sam would say nothing to Rosie, even though she was expecting him to – because he could hardly leave her to go off with Frodo.  And Merry, even though he would deny ever having thought of it, has been casting sheep’s eyes at a certain Bolger lass since before he came of age, but he couldn’t ask her to agree to a courtship either, not since we were all watching Frodo like hawks to see when he would try to slip away from us.’

Merry’s large foot shot out to prod his cousin in the back.  ‘As if you knew anything about it,’ he objected.

‘So…’ the youngest of them continued with logic that seemed indisputable to him, at least, ‘you cannot be married or you would not have left your home to come on such an uncertain journey.’

‘Well – I cannot say that I would happily have left a wife and family behind,’ Boromir admitted, ‘but needs must at times – and when Gondor demands, I cannot refuse to heed her call.’  He looked at the sprawling hobbits, wondering briefly what it must be like to live in a land where considerations of marital harmony could take precedence over the requirements of war.  ‘But I have spent most of my adult life in the field – and so have many others.  Soldiers’ wives have learned to wait and hope and do without their menfolk most of the time.  It is not a happy situation – but there is little alternative.’ 

Pippin inspected him, sharp eyes narrowed.  ‘So are you married, then?’ he asked, rephrasing his original question.

Memories two decades old stirred up and choked the man of Gondor, like the dust in a long-abandoned room.  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I was once.’

Ensuring the Succession

‘You should be grateful that you are a younger son,’ Boromir declared.

Faramir attempted to suppress his grin and look sympathetic – failing, in his brother’s opinion, abysmally.  ‘And that I am not yet of age,’ he added.  ‘Although, short of falling foul of an orc’s arrow, that will not save me for long.’

Boromir scowled.  ‘Father is determined that we should produce sons of our own before anything like that can happen – he said he had been remiss in not remarrying, but that he hoped we would make up for his dereliction and produce heirs in plenty for our house.’

‘Has he already decided who should be their dams?’  Faramir sounded slightly uneasy, his brother was glad to note.  Denethor was not one to be crossed and, if he had his mind set on negotiating for the hand of suitably aristocratic and wealthy maidens of notedly fertile families, there was little or nothing his sons could do to change his mind.

‘I know not if he has decided who should be your bride, little brother – that may well depend of the outcome of the match he has planned for me – but he certainly knows whom he intends me to wed.’

The tall captain’s voice was unexpectedly grim.  After a decade of service with Gondor’s finest troops, Boromir was accustomed to taking charge of his campaigns and there were few in the field who could hold him to account.  The Steward recognised his skill in warfare and listened to his advice on military matters, even in the face of those who had led Gondor’s armies for years – but, when it came down to it, he required – and got – his son’s obedience. 

‘Do not keep me in suspense!’ 

‘It could be worse, I suppose,’ Boromir conceded.  ‘At least he has informed me before doing anything irrevocable.’  Not, he thought, that he had really been offered a choice – just asked to inform his father if he had a particular aversion to any of those on the shortlist.  With his father’s tone of voice telling him that he would not appreciate any such feeling being voiced.  ‘He has selected three he would not mind seeing as his daughter – and ranked them in order of suitability.  I think he has very little doubt that he will be presiding over my wedding to his first choice before the summer is out.’

‘Surely he will let you get to know her before you make an offer!’  His little brother sounded almost scandalised.  That was what you got from reading too much poetry – an unnecessary sense of the romantic.

‘You think so?’

‘Father was nearly twice your age when he married – and he has never entirely reconciled himself to Mother’s death!  Why is he in such a hurry to see you wed someone you cannot love?’

‘Have you any idea how many brats you can squeeze in your nursery in a score of years?’ Boromir smiled ruefully.  ‘Especially when it is put to you as a matter of state importance!’  He sighed.  ‘I suppose it will not matter much.  She will take up residence in the Steward’s House and assume the responsibilities of its lady – and I will still be with the army.  Father will see more of her than I will.  As long as I do my duty by her at regular intervals …’ Boromir shrugged. 

‘I do not think that the begetting of children is the only duty of a husband,’ Faramir declared.  ‘How can you expect any woman to be happy with such a … a bloodless match?’

‘I do not think happiness is on the list of requirements, little brother.’  The Steward’s heir looked at him ruefully.  ‘At least I can feel that I am saving you from having to rush into matrimony before your beard is full-grown.’

‘He is that determined?’ Faramir’s eyes met his brother’s anxiously. 

‘Probably not,’ Boromir reassured him promptly.  ‘I daresay he will grant you a year or two yet.  But I am not looking forward to arrival of my wedding night, little brother – and you should not envy my fate.  Not the least amount.’

***

She was pale and thin and looked about as keen as he felt to stand here in this stuffy hall, surrounded by hundreds of braying, dagger-eyed spectators, chosen and placed to reward or snub them according to Denethor’s assessment of their value to Gondor.  Tall, grey-eyed and dark-haired as befitted one whose lineage had been traced back with nit-picking detail through a raft of younger sons and disregarded daughters to the glory of the Sea Kings of Númenor.   Her formal gown looked slightly too big for her – as if she had lost weight since the stiffly-embroidered brocade had been measured.

Boromir felt a pang of guilt.  This was not what he had wanted, for sure, but he, at least, had an escape – in the field, riding abroad to support Gondor’s alliances, in the inns and houses of the city – but what could she do but endure?  His father had loved his mother dearly, but still she had paid for his greater devotion to the needs of state, until she had faded and died in the confining luxury of her silken prison.  Would it be like that for this girl?

He squeezed the cold hand he held, as much to convince himself that she was real as to reassure himself that he would not allow that to happen.

Two grey eyes, dark as winter rain clouds, shifted to meet his, as surprised as he was to realise that the man beside whom she stood was more than one of the chill white statues with which this place was infested.

The ceremonies carried on above their heads, declarations intended to assure that all Gondor knew the Steward’s heir had taken a wife – and that bonds of kinship had been forged between his house and hers, but both of those at the centre were able to ignore them.  Their part in this was no more than a word or two in confirmation of their acceptance of the fate chosen for them by their elders.  Indeed, their presence was barely necessary and would soon be dispensed with as they were dismissed to the bridal chamber to address dynastic concerns – while the serious business of politics carried on in their absence.

Afterwards, Boromir realised that he barely remembered any of the feast that followed.  His father’s speculative gaze as he regarded the girl he now called daughter, perhaps.  The warmth of Faramir’s clasp and the brotherly clap on the shoulder.  His uncle’s soft voice, underlaid with the rhythm of the sea he loved.  Before he knew where he was, her older sister and his aunt had escorted the girl from the table to prepare her to welcome him to her bed – and he was honour bound to follow.

The heavy door closed out the last remnants of the sounds of celebration and the sudden silence was – unexpectedly alarming.  The blood pulsed in his ears and his throat, he found, was dry.  Not what he usually expected on secluding himself in a woman’s bedchamber, where the atmosphere was more commonly one combined of laughter, intoxication and desire.

‘My lady,’ he said politely.

‘You may call me by my name,’ she said.  ‘If you can remember it.’

She almost had him there, he thought fleetingly – but years of practice in earning the affection of his troops had made him the master of the half-heard name.

‘Emeldís,’ he amended.

She sat up in the huge bed where custom had presented her – clad in fine white lawn and with her hair unbound – looking like a little girl dressed up in her mother’s garb.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

She looked startled.  ‘Old enough, I am told,’ she told him, ‘to fulfil the duty demanded of me.’  She pressed her lips together to conceal their trembling.  ‘And young enough to do it many times over.’

He winced.  ‘You are not a brood mare.  I will not have you speak of yourself so.’

‘As my husband commands.’  There was an edge to her voice that informed him that it mattered not one whit how the idea was phrased, the reality was the same.

He sighed.  ‘This was not my choice,’ he said.

‘Nor mine,’ she replied.  ‘But we are here nonetheless.’

They looked at each other – neither of them able to think of anything to say to break the awkward silence.  It was up to him, Boromir realised.  She was younger and less experienced – his father would have made sure of that – and this was his home.

‘Wine?’ he asked and, without waiting for a response, he poured a generous amount into both of the glasses on the table by the fire and walked over to hand one to her. ‘It will warm you and make matters seem less – intimidating.’

‘I doubt it will be that simple.’

For a moment, Boromir was aware of a decided irritation.  He was doing his best, after all – the least she could do would be to meet him half-way.  Anyone would think that she had not wanted to marry him!  And he had enough experience of the ruthless hunt of high society to know that he was a prize worth having – and that many of those maidens who had attended the day’s nuptials had been weeping from frustrated ambition rather than any sentimentality.  Most of those who had felt impelled to voice their congratulations on his betrothal had considered that the girl had been undeservedly fortunate to be singled out from her peers and chosen as his bride – and she ought, at least, to be prepared to acknowledge that to herself. 

‘I am not, generally, considered to be that bad company,’ he said.  ‘Some people have even been known to seek me out willingly.’

‘I do not mean to offend you.’

She sounded defiant, as if she was afraid to show any signs of weakness.

‘This is not a battlefield,’ he said more gently.  He sat down on one of the red velvet chairs – she would, surely, be more at ease if he stopped looming over her.  ‘This is a marriage – a bond between two people.’

‘Only two?’ she asked.

He nearly barked at her in his best parade-ground voice before it occurred to him that she was probably not talking about his – his reputed interest in rather less respectable members of her gender, but referring to the link between houses.

‘Why did you choose me?’ she continued rather forlornly.  ‘Surely there were plenty of likely girls from more important houses from whom you could have had your pick.’

He hesitated, but decided to tell her the truth.  ‘I had no part in it,’ he admitted.  ‘My father made the decision.’  He smiled wryly.  ‘I do not believe the choice was as wide as you might think.  By the time the genealogists had drawn a line through anyone who was too closely related to me and ruled out any family that had allowed its blood to become diluted, there were not many left.  Then the candidates had to be judged on age and likely fertility – and their ability to support the role of Steward’s wife.  I was under the impression that your sister was first choice – but it seems my father came too late and she was already wed.’

‘The contracts had been signed,’ Emeldís agreed.  ‘My father was furious.’  She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms round them.  ‘But your father and mine decided that I would do instead.’

‘You are too young,’ Boromir exclaimed in sudden realisation.

‘Women can be married at fifteen,’ she informed him, ‘although it does not happen often.  I am well beyond that age.’

He looked at her in sudden sympathy.  ‘There is no need for us to consummate this union yet,’ he told her.  ‘We can wait until you are better prepared.’

She smiled wryly.  ‘And if we do not produce a child within the time laid down, my lord?  Should I be seen to fail in my duty?   Will the Steward have me put aside as barren?’ As Boromir blinked at her in confusion, she added, ‘Have you even read the marriage contracts, my lord?’ 

When he did not respond, she scrambled from the bed and held up her overlong nightgown to pad across to a chest under the window.  Boromir felt the first stirrings of interest as the fine fabric outlined her figure, but the sensation left him as she returned triumphantly with a scroll.  She proceeded to unroll it and pushed it in front of his eyes, finger stabbing at a closely-written clause until he obediently read it.

‘But that is outrageous!’ he declared.

***

‘She is nice,’ Faramir declared, as he topped up his brother’s flagon of ale and poured himself a rather more modest amount.  ‘Brave, too.  Well – except where you and Father are concerned and that is understandable.  She refuses to let the servants bully her – and they would, given half a chance.’

‘M’mm,’ Boromir grunted, taking a long swig.

Faramir glanced at him, but decided against saying any more.  He settled into his chair, back against the wall so he could look out into the taproom.  

‘She is a pleasant-enough girl,’ Boromir admitted grudgingly.  ‘Just – not really my type.  We get on well enough – and she is willing to please.’  He up-ended his flagon and gulped down the ale.  ‘Only Father,’ he said bitterly, ‘would be able to rob the act of all its pleasure.’

A crack of laughter escaped from his brother.  ‘Is this the big brother whose eighteenth birthday gift to me was a night’s entertainment at the Mermaid?  Are you becoming mealy-mouthed now you are a married man?’

A reluctant grin brightened Boromir’s face.  ‘Is this the little brother that recited Elvish poetry to the girl and made her cry?’ he retorted.  He paused and the smile drained from his face.  ‘This is different.  I have never before been forced to focus on the begetting of a child.’

Faramir sat back, one of his unspoken questions answered.  ‘It is a fairly standard clause,’ he said mildly, making a leap of association that would have amazed his brother, had Boromir not already drunk his way through several great pots of ale.  ‘At least in ruling families and for the eldest son.  It is rarely implemented.’

‘What guarantee would you care to place on that?’ his brother asked.  ‘Might not the reason Father settled on such a minor house have something to do with the ease of putting her aside?  The least I can do is give her a child and make her safe.  It has been six months now.’

‘I hesitate to ask this,’ Faramir grinned, ‘but are you sure you know what you are doing?’  Boromir scowled at him indignantly.  ‘A quiet word with the healers might be in order – they know there is more to the getting of babies than the act.’

His brother shook his head.  ‘Even mentioning the thought would put her under worse scrutiny,’ he said.

Faramir poured more ale as he considered the problem.  His brother accepted the mug and took a mouthful.  It was something of a relief to have his little brother thinking about the problem, he realised.  He trusted Faramir as no-one else – and he knew, none better, that his brother could find solutions where others only saw difficulties.

‘Take her to Dol Amroth,’ Faramir said after a few minutes.  ‘Get Emeldís away from the eyes watching her.  It will get you away from Father – and you can just get to know each other.  And talk to Aunt Almiriel.  She has had four children – she must know something about what it takes.’

Boromir turned the idea over in his mind.  ‘That is not a bad idea,’ he admitted.  ‘And I do not believe Emeldís has ever seen the sea.  She would enjoy that, would she not?’

‘Probably,’ Faramir said amiably.

‘I will do it.’  Boromir put his mug down on the table and dragged himself to his feet. 

‘Not now!’ his brother exclaimed in alarm, grabbing Boromir’s arm.  ‘If you want Father to agree, you will not speak to him when you have been drinking – and I daresay Emeldís would not welcome your return just now.’  He pulled his elder back down.  ‘Let us think for a moment how we can make Father decide to send you to Dol Amroth – then all you need to do is offer to take your wife with you.  He could hardly criticise you then for a lack of marital enthusiasm.’

Boromir blinked at his brother.  ‘You are very clever,’ he said approvingly, reaching for his ale. 

‘And you have already had too much of that,’ Faramir declared.  ‘Come on – let us walk up to the wall and have the wind blow away the fumes as we think how we can wangle this.’

***

A wife, Boromir had discovered, was not comparable to a junior officer.

For one thing, it was not possible to sentence her to punishment detail – and, for another, she always – always – had access to her husband’s ear.  And, however young, and however inexperienced, she was – and however irritating – she demanded respect and a gentle treatment that was quite different from the boisterous hail-fellow-well-met camaraderie of the barracks.

She had been surprisingly unenthusiastic about the journey to the sea – seeming almost to fear being taken away from the city.  He had had to put his foot down and insist – then endure a fit of the sulks that had lasted all the way down the Anduin.  I was not until they had entered the Bay that she had relaxed her suspicion and begun to enjoy the deep blue of the sea and the clean brightness of the sun.

‘What brought that on?’ he asked, holding her steady as she walked rather uncertainly to the stern to watch the land disappear behind them.

She shook her head, using her free hand to hold back the streaming black hair. 

Her husband looked down at her and a smile quirked the corners of his mouth.  ‘Did you think I might be planning to fasten a chain round your ankle and cast you overboard?’ 

Emeldís slapped his arm in reproof.  ‘I am not stupid,’ she announced.  ‘If you wished to drown me, you would have a much better opportunity here.  It was just …’

‘I will never send you back like an outgrown toy,’ Boromir promised. ‘No matter what.  You do not need to worry.’

‘Do not say that.’  She drew a jagged breath.  ‘You cannot be sure of it.’

‘I can.’  Boromir sounded very certain.  ‘I am not given to saying things I do not mean.  I give you my word, Emeldís.  Whatever happens, I will see that you are kept safe.’  He grinned.  ‘You may very well decide to dispose of me,’ he said.  ‘I have made sure you would be a very wealthy widow.’  He turned her to face him.  ‘And, while I am alive, my wife, I will protect you.’

She looked at him searchingly for several moments before nodding.  ‘You are very convincing, Boromir,’ she said.

‘But you do not altogether believe me.’

She shrugged.  ‘You cannot control everything – and things do not always turn out as we expect.’

He wrapped a comforting arm around her and gave her a reassuring hug.  It would take more than words to convince her, he knew by now.  He found that he sometimes wondered just why it was that his wife was so insecure.  There was – surely – more to it than simple worry over the timely production of an heir.  ‘So – what do you think of the sea?’ he asked.

‘It is big.’

He laughed.  ‘Observant of you.’

‘And it moves a lot.’

‘You are not, I concede, proving a good sailor.’

‘And it is going to take for ever to comb the tangles from my hair.’

He brightened.  ‘I do not mind giving you a hand,’ he offered.  She had nice hair, he thought.  Long and silken, black and straight, it reminded him of some of Faramir’s poems about elves. 

‘I can hardly arrive in Dol Amroth looking unkempt,’ she fretted.  ‘It will not make a good impression.’

Boromir laughed.  ‘My uncle will not notice,’ he said, ‘and my aunt will not care.  They are used to the winds that whip the coast – and will be more anxious to see you smile.’

‘And your cousins?’

He grinned.  ‘As long as you are prepared to tell her stories, Lothíriel will welcome you with open arms.   And Amrothos is probably the most curious child I have ever encountered – worse even than Faramir.  If you have anything you wish to keep secret, I suggest you avoid him.  The older two – we are unlikely to see much of them, except at meal times.  Between lessons and training, they are kept pretty busy.’ 

‘I like children,’ Emeldís said wistfully.

‘I daresay you will go off them when you have them round you all the time,’ he assured her cheerfully.  ‘I would rather deal with a troop of soldiers – they are far less trouble.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘you would feel differently if they were your own.’

His grey eyes met hers and he reached out carefully to smooth the wind-blown hair back from her face.  ‘We could,’ he said carefully, ‘make another attempt to find out – if you wanted.’

Her gaze held his and she drew a steadying breath before answering.  ‘If that is your wish, my lord,’ she agreed. 

***

‘She does not give me the impression, dearest,’ his aunt said thoughtfully, tapping her closed fan against her lower lip, ‘of coming from the happiest of families.  What do you know of them?’

Boromir shrugged, glancing at his uncle for help.

‘Her father is not in the highest councils,’ Imrahil offered.  ‘He attends the broader gatherings – and always seems to me …’ he hesitated briefly, as if unwilling to voice any criticism, ‘to be seeking the greatest advantage, regardless of principle.’

His wife smiled at him.  ‘What greater condemnation could there be!’ she teased affectionately.  ‘But I do not mean simply what of her father.  What of the family amongst whom she grew?’

‘We spend little time talking about that sort of thing,’ Boromir admitted.  ‘Should we?’

‘It might be pleasant if you showed some interest in her beyond the bedroom,’ his aunt said dryly.

‘She is the fourth child.’  He dredged him memory for more.  ‘She has an older brother and a sister who married shortly before our betrothal – and one brother who died in a childhood accident.  There are several – four, perhaps five – younger children.’

Imrahil’s wife sighed.  ‘I do not recall any talk about her mother’s reasons for not attending the wedding,’ she said. ‘I wonder why … that is most unusual.’

‘She could not come.’  Boromir knew that.  ‘She had recently given birth to the latest and was not considered strong enough to travel.’

The princess nodded slowly, as if the information reinforced something she suspected. ‘What does she say about her mother?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ her nephew said promptly.  ‘We spend more time talking about my mother than hers.’

His aunt and uncle looked at him.  ‘And not much of that, either,’ he admitted.  ‘After all, my visits tend to be fleeting – and quite brief,’ he said rather shamefacedly.  ‘Talking is not the matter most on my mind.’ 

‘Poor girl,’ his aunt said compassionately.  She raised her fan like a weapon and pointed it at Boromir.  ‘While you are here,’ she commanded, ‘you will walk with her and talk with her and treat her as if she is another living creature, with interests and hopes of her own.’

Imrahil shook his head at his nephew’s desperate look.  ‘Do not expect me to help you,’ he said with amusement.  ‘My sympathies lie with your aunt.  You are a man of action, Boromir, and, if you will take a word of advice in the interests of marital harmony, you will learn to act as if your wife’s words are pearls of wisdom.  At all times – even when they quite clearly are nothing of the sort.’

***

Emeldís held Lothíriel’s hand as they descended the steep steps from the castle walls to the beach.  It did not seem right, she thought, that she was receiving support from the little girl rather than offering it – but the child seemed completely unconcerned by the steep drop to the rocks below and skipped down the steps chatting merrily about … tides and rock-pools and limpets and shrimp and passing whales and all sorts of other things that were completely meaningless.

‘I had never seen the sea before I came here,’ Emeldís remarked.

Lothíriel stilled – stunned to silence, apparently, that there were people to whom the sea was alien – and turned to gape at the older girl.

‘It is beautiful,’ Emeldís added, ‘but rather – frightening.  There is so much of it.’

Dol Amroth’s little princess stared briefly at the constantly-moving water as if a friend had suddenly turned into a stranger, then resumed her swift descent of the steps, pulling Emeldís after her.  ‘You have to be sensible, of course,’ she said in an authoritative tone that sounded comic in one so small.  ‘You must not come to the beach alone and you have to be sure the tide is ebbing and tell the guards where you are going.  But there is no reason to be afraid of it.’

She was such a happy child, Emeldís thought – so confident.  It made her hope that nothing ever happened to shatter the girl’s world and make her realise how dangerous life could be.  It would, though.  Sooner or later, Lothíriel would be forced to realise that she was just a disposable piece in someone else’s game, there to be placed to their maximum advantage and with no voice of her own.  Or perhaps not – perhaps she would escape.  The Prince of Dol Amroth seemed to be an indulgent and loving father to his brood. 

Lothíriel let go of her hand and sat on the steps, pulling off her shoes and stockings and hitching up her skirt to tuck it through her belt.  She placed the small slippers neatly by the rock wall and jumped down to the pale sand, a look of delight on her face.  ‘Come on,’ she encouraged Emeldís.  ‘Let us go and look in the rock-pools – you will love them!’

The morning on the beach was fascinating, Emeldís found, like nothing she had ever seen before.  For all this … this rocky meeting place between land and water looked barren, it was filled with life.  Tiny life, mostly, and some of it rather unappealing – she had been forced to cover her mouth to hide her revulsion when Lothíriel had informed her that some of these repulsive-looking creatures might end up on the dinner table – but interesting to watch.  

And the little girl had chatted endlessly, treating Emeldís as a trusted friend to whom she confided all kinds of information, from tales of items washed up by storms in the bay, to legends of mermaids enticing sailors to throw themselves in the sea and stories about her older brothers and their antics.  Emeldís thought she had laughed more in this one morning than she had since her father had summoned her to put her name to the marriage contract.

High on the rock stairway, Boromir paused.  His wife seemed an entirely different person here – not the tense and rather defiant young woman he had come to know.  Not the duty his father had imposed on him, someone who faced the tasks of the heir’s wife with her shoulders determinedly held back, but a girl – her dress salt-stained and untidy, bare feet covered in sand, cheeks flushed with colour and a warm smile on her face as she played with his little cousin.

‘How did you and my aunt learn to deal with each other so happily?’ he asked rather despondently.

Imrahil looked at him with amusement.  ‘It took time,’ he said. ‘And patience.  And, I have to say, we knew each other well before your grandfather consented to a betrothal.  Adrahil was never one to insist on marrying his children off to the advantage of the house.’  He rested a comforting hand on his nephew’s shoulder.  ‘It was chance that your mother wished to wed Denethor,’ he declared.  ‘Had she rejected him, his position as Steward’s heir would not have gained him her hand, whatever he wanted.  You have a harder job – and many other things to do that keep you too busy to give getting to know Emeldís as much attention as it deserves.’

‘She is afraid,’ Boromir blurted out, ‘that, if she does not produce a son quickly, Father will have her put aside – perhaps for one of proven fertility.’

‘He would not do that.’  Imrahil sounded quite certain.  ‘Not, at least, until he felt he had no other option.  For one thing, it would be an admission that he had chosen awry – and Denethor does not enjoy being wrong.  And he knows that it can take time – after all, you did not arrive until your parents had been two years wed.’  He grinned.  ‘In fact, a child arriving too swiftly is not considered a good thing – it suggests intemperance and a lack of dignity.’  He squeezed Boromir’s shoulder.  ‘Come,’ he suggested.  ‘I promised my daughter I would play with her before the tide came in and washed away the rock-pools – and if I do not return her to her maid in time to get her cleaned up for lunch, you will begin to doubt that your aunt and I are really on such good terms, after all!’

***

Her husband was different here, Emeldís thought as she watched him teasing his cousins.  Less the commander, frowning over dispatches; less the richly-clad heir playing the simple soldier while he managed his father’s councillors; less the newly-married man, trying rather awkwardly to put her at her ease – more beloved kinsman, younger, more relaxed, happier.

‘He is a good lad,’ Imrahil murmured in her ear, watching him affectionately as he let Amrothos attack him with a wooden practice sword, fending him off with a battered wooden shield.  ‘He lost his mother at a bad time – neither young enough to weep out his grief, nor old enough to understand it.  He is afraid of hurting you – but without enough sense to ask you what you want.  You will have to tell him, if you want to get him past stepping round you as if you will break.’ 

Emeldís’s eyes opened wide.  Boromir appeared so overwhelmingly confident that it seemed impossible that anyone – let alone someone who knew him as well as Imrahil did – should think that she might have the upper hand in any part of their relationship.  ‘But …’ she protested.

The prince smiled at her reassuringly.  ‘Perhaps you should talk to Almiriel,’ he suggested.  ‘She knows more about him than he probably suspects – and she would do a great deal to ensure that he is happy in his marriage.’

Boromir yelped as Amrothos managed to clip him on the knuckles.

‘You have to keep your attention on what you are doing,’ his cousin informed him.

‘I will try to bear that in mind.’  The captain in Gondor’s army grinned.  Not that the lad was wrong – but it was difficult to focus on this game with Emeldís in quiet-voiced conversation with his uncle.  There was no knowing what they might be saying to each other.  ‘You are getting quite skilled,’ he said.  ‘Last time we tried this, I had far less trouble with you.’

‘You should try a practice bout with Elphir,’ Amrothos suggested.  ‘Now he is good.’

‘I will,’ his cousin said, straight-faced.  ‘If he is prepared to give me a chance, that is.’

Emeldís watched him – she had never imagined that Boromir could be playful.  She found that he was a great deal less intimidating like this – more likeable.  As she stood to follow – reluctantly – his uncle’s advice, he glanced in her direction and smiled warmly, distracted for just long enough to let Amrothos through his guard.

As she fled, she could hear the youngster’s crow of victory echoing across the lawns and Imrahil’s burst of musical laughter at the discomfiture of the noted warrior.

Almiriel was sitting beneath her roses, an embroidery hoop resting on her lap, but she was not bothering to stitch, instead watching contentedly as her daughter poured tiny cups of some brightly coloured liquid for her dolls to drink, her voice taking on different tones as the child provided the words for each of the participants in her game. 

The princess smiled and patted the bench beside her as Emeldís hesitated in the gateway.  ‘It reminds me of when I was her age,’ she admitted.  ‘Although I confess I was more inclined to make my dolls ride off to challenge dragons to battle.  I was never as feminine a little girl as Lothíriel.  I never found it fair that boys got to have all the fun in stories, while girls stayed at home and waited for them to return.’

‘Except Lúthien,’ Emeldís remarked.  ‘But none of my brothers ever wanted to play Beren.’

Almiriel laughed and shook her head.  ‘My brother, also, refused to play any game where he had to fall in love.  He used to say it with the utmost disgust, too – as if there could be no worse fate.  Being captured and put to torment was infinitely preferable, it would seem.  I am glad to say,’ she added impishly, ‘that he fell very deeply in love with a suitable maiden and married her – and she winds him round her little finger.’  She leaned back and inhaled the fragrance of the first of the early white roses scrambling over the arbour.  ‘This is my favourite time of year,’ she admitted.  ‘The castle is beautiful, I admit, but it is draughty and damp and, in the winter, so cold.  There are times when I would happily exchange it for a cosy house with windows that fit tightly and rooms small enough to heat.  It is one of the things I enjoy about visiting Minas Tirith – our house there is far more comfortable.’

The expression on Emeldís’s face made her smile again.  ‘Not, I concede, something that can be said about Denethor’s dwelling.  Poor Finduilas was constantly asking him to consider modernising – but he never got round to it, and, since her death, I think he has made it something of a shrine to her.’

‘I am afraid to move anything,’ Emeldís confessed.  ‘Lord Denethor does not say a word if I do – but, somehow, I will go to endless trouble to replace everything exactly where it was before.’

‘He was a very different man before Imrahil’s sister died,’ Almiriel said.  ‘Still quite – aloof, I think describes it best, and far too intelligent for his own good, but a loving husband and father.’  She watched Lothíriel’s game.  ‘He blames himself, I know, for her death.  Even now.’

‘Mama,’ the girl carried her tray of little cups and small cakes across the grass. ‘Milui says that you should have tea with us.’

‘Thank you, sweeting,’ Almiriel smiled, taking a sip of the orange liquid. ‘Delightful.  May I have a cake, too?’

Emeldís raised her cup to her lips, but something about the smell made her feel vaguely queasy again.  ‘What is in it, Lothíriel?’ she asked, looking at it doubtfully.

‘Just juice,’ the little girl told her, gulping the contents of one cup in a single mouthful.

‘Peaches,’ her mother said rather more precisely.  ‘And passionfruit.  Lothíriel adores it – and finds that holding tea parties for her dolls generally enables her to obtain rather more than she would be granted otherwise, as they generally allow her to drink their share.’

‘It is just …’ Emeldís put the cup down and leaned back to inhale the fragrance of the roses and try to clear the cloying scent of the juice.  ‘I do not think …’

Almiriel looked at her sharply before turning to her daughter.  ‘Your father and brother – and your cousin – would doubtless appreciate a chance to share your generosity, poppet.  Why do you not take the juice to them?’

Her daughter looked at her sceptically, but obligingly removed herself together with the tray of cups.  After all, it was not often that she was actively encouraged to involve the males of the family in her games.

‘How long have you been feeling like this?’ Almiriel asked gently.  ‘Unwell at times – and a little … delicate, I suppose I could call it, for want of going into any more detail out here.’

‘A few days now, I suppose,’ Emeldís admitted.  ‘A week or two?  I did not really want to travel this far – although I am glad I did,’ she added hastily.  ‘I would not have wanted to miss meeting you all.’

‘Well,’ Almiriel smiled as she patted the girl’s hand, ‘at least there is one matter that need no longer concern you.  We will have to get confirmation from the healer, of course, but I think I have enough experience to know what might be making you feel unwell – and I believe you will be pleased at the news.  I suspect the succession of the Steward’s house is shortly to be made more secure.’

Duty Bound 3

The Best-Laid Plans

The sun blazed down on the White City, reflecting blindingly from every surface, heating the stone until it was too hot to touch.  At night, when the breeze from the mountain might have been expected to cool everything down a little, the buildings had radiated heat, so that nowhere in the city – short of the dank cellars excavated from the bedrock itself – was anything approaching cool.  Even at the highest part of the Citadel, where the wind usually found any crack to suck out the warmth from the splendid buildings, it was stifling.  Emeldís found herself resenting those who were able to escape the city and seek refuge somewhere less suffocating.

She had become some kind of freak, too, she fumed.  Denethor inspected her with an almost proprietorial interest, as if she had something he wanted and he wished to keep her under his eye.  Boromir, on the other hand, seemed almost afraid of her.  He returned to the city rather less frequently than he had before their trip to Dol Amroth, and, when he did, seemed reluctant to spend more than the minimum of time in her company.  He refused even to argue with her, instead giving in to even the most ridiculous demands in the interests of keeping her happy. 

As her pregnancy began to swell her figure, convention required that she should withdraw from public life – and, instead, she was left confined to the stuffy house to become increasingly fretful over minor details.  The midwife had told her she was being foolish … well, as close as a midwife could come to telling the Steward’s daughter-in-law any such thing.  Even Ioreth, who was notably outspoken, was unlikely to be quite as down-to-earth with Emeldís as she would be with another expectant mother. 

She had said that Emeldís would be better with more to occupy her mind – and suggested that she should spend time with other young mothers and mothers-to-be so that she might learn more of how to care for a child, but what was the point of that?  Emeldís already knew more about the arrival and care of infants than she wanted to acknowledge – and she knew full-well that this child would not be abandoned to the unpractised hand of its mother, but would instead be given over to nurses and governesses and – if, please the Valar, it was a boy – arms-masters and lore-masters, spending only a limited amount of time with the woman who had brought it to the world.

‘You are young and healthy,’ Ioreth said cheerfully.  ‘There is no reason why you should fret so!  Eat well, get plenty of rest – and make them wait on you!  You will have enough to do once the child is born.’  She felt the child kick vigorously against the hand pressing on the swollen belly.  ‘He is an active one!’ she exclaimed approvingly.  ‘He will be like his father, I daresay.  You will never know what he will be up to next.  Why, I remember, when Lady Finduilas was carrying Lord Faramir …’

‘What caused Lord Boromir’s mother to die so young?’ Emeldís interrupted.  She had heard enough of Ioreth’s reminiscences to be able to quote them word for word and had no desire to have this one repeated to her.

The healer suddenly looked rather older – and her mouth pinched, as if reminded of something that left a bitter taste.  ‘We are not immortal,’ she said more sharply than customarily.  ‘And it is not given to us to decide when our time has come.  The Lady Finduilas …’ she paused reflectively and shook her head, ‘was never going to make old bones.  Too fair, she was, too much of a treasure.’

‘Did she die in childbirth?’ Emeldís was uninterested in the midwife’s sentimental view of Denethor’s wife.

‘They say that, I know,’ Ioreth conceded.  ‘But it was not so.’

‘Did she kill herself?’

Ioreth’s eyes flashed.  ‘She would not have done any such thing,’ she snapped.  ‘She loved her husband and she loved her sons – she would never have chosen to leave them.  She was a daughter of Dol Amroth – and no coward!’

‘Then what?’

The midwife looked at her.  Surely, Boromir’s wife had a right to know the truth, especially as she was driving herself increasingly frantic with worry about her chances of surviving the birth of this child.  ‘She had a growth,’ she muttered.  ‘Inside her – there was nothing we could do apart from keep her comfortable.’  Her eyes held Emeldís’s.  ‘It is not generally known,’ she said.  ‘Lord Denethor has always wanted her memory to be left … pure.’

The girl gave a quick nod.  She did not know why it made her feel better to know that her predecessor had not died carrying the Steward’s child, but it did.  ‘I will say nothing,’ she said.  After all, who was there she could tell?  It was not as if she had any friends here in whom she could confide if she wanted.  It seemed bizarre that the Steward would rather people suspected him of having driven his wife to her death than admit the truth, but, if that was the way he wanted it …  ‘Not even to my husband.’

***

Summer in Gondor was usually hot, Boromir thought jadedly, unless you had the fortunate chance to spend it in the mountains or by the sea, but this was getting ridiculous.  The barns on the Pelennor were filled to bursting point, the grape harvest weighed down the vines and still the sun blazed over the plain, turning the broad Anduin to molten copper as it finally condescended to drop into the west – and it really was time for the fires of summer to subside to the crisp freshness of autumn.

He released his troop to the care of his young lieutenant and rode slowly into the city.  This time last year he would have suggested that the lad join him for a refreshing mug of ale before making his way up to the Steward’s house, giving himself a chance to make the mental adjustment from rough soldier to Denethor’s heir, but now – well – at least he had grown wiser than to present himself to his wife smelling of the tavern.    

Boromir sighed as he reluctantly handed his horse over to the grooms, but putting his return off would not make matters better.  Emeldís would have already been informed of his arrival – and any delay would only make her more awkward-tempered than ever.

Anyone would think that she blamed him for her condition!  First he had been wrong for not getting her pregnant – and now anyone would think he was Morgoth incarnate for expecting her to carry his child.

For all the sympathy that was coming in his direction, most of those who knew of her mood seemed to agree with her, too.  Even Faramir seemed to think the whole situation was side-splittingly funny, and he could usually be depended upon to support his brother against all comers.  While their father had raised his eyebrows and suggested that Boromir could make an effort.  An effort!  What did the Steward think his son was doing?

She was in tears.  Again.  It seemed that she was always either angry or weeping – sometimes both at the same time – and he was not, he freely admitted, good with women who were in either state.  The shutters of their rooms were half-open, striving to keep out the sun whilst admitting any stray breeze.  Emeldís had shed her gown and was clad in nothing but her shift, her feet bare on the stone flags and her hair screwed up and pinned on the top of her head.  She still looked hot and uncomfortable and as if she did not know how to support the increasingly distended belly.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked cautiously, approaching her rather as if she were a rabid bear that might turn and bite.

‘Nothing,’ she sniffed.

‘Then why …?’ he let the subject drop.  ‘How are you?’  He reached out a tentative hand towards her, unsure how she would respond to the advance.  She seemed, this time at least, almost pathetically grateful for his touch – and his sympathy was aroused for her, so that he stepped forward and embraced her gently.

Emeldís rested her head on his shoulder briefly before pulling back.  ‘It is too hot,’ she said.

Her eyes were dark and shadowed, he realised.  ‘You have not been sleeping.’  His sword-calloused fingers brushed her cheek gently.  ‘You need your rest, Emeldís.’

‘I feel even worse when I am in bed – as if I am about to suffocate in feathers.’

It was true, Boromir thought.  All the furnishings were rich and soft, buried in padding and swathed in velvet.  ‘You need a camp chair,’ he observed, ‘such as soldiers use.’  He smiled.  ‘And a hammock.  You would enjoy resting in a hammock while the breeze cooled you.’  She looked at him in incomprehension.  ‘My mother used to have one,’ he mused, ‘that she set up in her private garden – I wonder what became of it?’  He continued to soothe her as if she were a nervous filly and she relaxed into him, apparently relieved to be able to release her anxieties.  ‘I am sure it will not have been thrown away.  Nothing is ever thrown away here – I daresay we could find Eärnur’s coronation robes if we put our minds to it – so the hammock should not be a challenge.’

Her hand came up tentatively to rest on his tunic.  He was hot and sweaty – and would have appreciated shedding his own excess clothing, but he did not want to shatter this moment of cautious affection.  ‘I am sorry to leave you on your own so much,’ he offered.

‘It is your duty,’ she said.

‘Would you like me to fetch your mother to the city?  You are alone too much.’

‘She would not come.’  Emeldís sounded quite calm about it.  Not even, he thought, as if she resented her mother’s dereliction – which was pretty remarkable, considering how upset she could get if he spent overlong at the tavern with his officers.

‘Why not?’ It was odd, now he came to think of it, that he had never seen his wife’s mother.

‘She does not leave her home.’  Emeldís smiled wryly.  ‘She has not left her tower since I was a small child – she will not do so now.’

‘Will you not tell me more?’ She shifted uncomfortably, but did not speak.  ‘I could find out, you know.’

‘And if I asked you not to?’  She did not sound as if she believed he would respect her silence.

He raised her chin and met her eyes searchingly.  It did not appear to be causing her any pain – peculiar though it was, he could leave her this privacy.  ‘You realise my father will know all about it,’ he commented.

‘I doubt it mattered to him,’ she said.  ‘My mother has produced nine healthy children – that is more important than her self-imposed isolation.’

‘Priorities,’ he observed.  He slid a hand over her swollen belly, feeling the kick of his child against his palm.  What kind of father would he make, he wondered?  More like his uncle than his father, he hoped.  Denethor was – had been since Finduilas’s death – a rather distant parent: one who was difficult to please and rarely thought to offer approbation.  Imrahil, on the other hand, was part of his children’s lives, loved and loving.

‘You need a bath,’ Emeldís remarked.  ‘Cool water, good soap and fresh clothing.’

‘I do,’ he agreed, then hesitated, glancing at his wife from the corner of his eyes.  ‘Join me,’ he invited.  ‘We can cool off together.’

She paused only briefly, before putting her hand in his.  ‘Why not?’ she said.

***

Almiriel looked from the window of the carriage that was carrying her up from Harlond to the Citadel.  The streets were almost empty and even the market place dozed in the unseasonably warm afternoon.  The houses opening onto the street had dampened sheets hanging over the doors and windows in an effort to keep the heat outside, but here and there were tight-shuttered windows and sealed doors.  She did not blame those who could leave the city for having done so.  Even in the brief time since she had left the river, she could feel sweat prickling between her shoulder blades as they travelled through the uncomfortably steamy streets.

‘A girl needs women around her at a time like this,’ she said.  ‘Family – who can assure her that the outcome will be happy and well worth the trials.  Healers are all very well, but they seem to spend all their time warning you of what can go amiss.  Since Emeldís’s mother will not come …’

‘And you cannot resist babies,’ Imrahil remarked with amused resignation.

‘That, too,’ Almiriel dimpled.

‘We shall be lucky to escape this without another child.’

‘A sister for Lothíriel would be nice,’ his wife said hopefully.

‘She has three brothers to twist round her little finger,’ Lothíriel’s father said firmly.  ‘She does not need competition.’

Almiriel sighed dramatically.  ‘I shall just have to content myself with becoming a great-aunt, then,’ she said, settling back against the cushioned seat as the carriage carried them to the upper levels of the city.

Emeldís was, she thought, when the girl hugged her in greeting, looking a great deal happier than she had when she had arrived in Dol Amroth.  And she mentioned Boromir frequently enough in her conversation for Almiriel to hope that that tentative relationship between them had become rather more established.  She had always felt that Boromir would make an excellent family man, for he was, after all, a loving older brother and indulgent cousin – although he did his best to keep the softness concealed behind a rough exterior.

 It had been unfortunate that his mother had died when he and Faramir were so young, for it had left them both with a certain amount of awkwardness around girls – one that Boromir had, she believed, overcome in dealing with tavern wenches, although that was not exactly guaranteed to promote a happy marriage – and seeing Emeldís smile made his aunt feel that, perhaps, he had at last started looking on his wife as more than an imposition. 

‘You are looking well,’ she approved.  ‘Just as you should at this stage.’  She leaned back and smiled approvingly at the girl.  ‘And how is my nephew coping with the idea of becoming a father?’

Emeldís giggled, Almiriel noted with delight, she actually giggled and leaned forward to murmur in the princess’s ear.  ‘He talks to him,’ she confided, ‘and he likes to rest with his hand on my belly singing to the baby songs that he said his mother used to sing to Faramir.’

***

No-one noticed its arrival.  Dock workers and porters do not usually trouble healers with their ailments – and the absence of a few daily-paid labourers made little difference to the efficient running of the city.  By the time the authorities had begun to puzzle over the high number of unexplained deaths, it was too late to keep the infection out.

People thought little of it – a feverish child, an elder who could not keep steady on his feet, a headache, a raging thirst.  The weather was, after all, hotter than it should be.  Too much sun could be blamed for a multitude of niggling discomforts.  It was not until those whose work kept the city running could not lift their heads from the pillow that alarm bells began to ring.

Sickness crept up the circles of the city – and as it reached the houses of those who could demand the attention of the master healers, people began to panic.

Those who could packed up their healthy families and headed out to their country estates.  Those with less wealth sent wives and children to impose on the rural cousins they usually patronised for the simplicity of their lives.  The rest – remained.  What else could they do?

‘They are closing the gates between the levels,’ Imrahil said.  He smiled wryly.  ‘It is to be hoped that the food stores hold out, because soon only those with an official pass will be able to move around the city at all.’

Almiriel pulled a face.  ‘I am glad we left the children in Dol Amroth.  I know Ivriniel will take good care of them.’

‘One blessing,’ Imrahil agreed.  ‘On the other hand, Denethor has decided to cancel all meetings of the Council until the crisis has passed.  He will be ruling by edict.’

His wife winced.  ‘Not such a good thing,’ she said.  ‘I hope I value your brother-in-law as I ought, but he is far too convinced he knows what is best for everyone.  He needs a healthy dose of humility every now and then.’  She looked over the peaceful garden.  ‘How is he planning to keep his thumb on all that is happening if the city is sealed?’

Imrahil shrugged.  ‘He seems convinced that he can,’ he said.  ‘I did not argue – there is little I can do to move him when he is in this mood and I had no desire to give him an excuse to let me know who holds the power in Minas Tirith.’

He took Almiriel’s hand.  ‘You should be safe enough here,’ he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him.  ‘I should?’ she asked.  ‘What about you?’

‘Someone needs to take charge in the city,’ he said.  ‘Ensure that nothing gets out of hand.  Supervise the guard and liaise with the healers.’

‘That is why Denethor has aides,’ she told him firmly.  ‘It should not be your task.’

Imrahil squeezed her fingers.  ‘I would send you home if I could,’ he sighed. ‘But you should be safe enough up here in the Citadel.’

‘I am not leaving you here without me.’  Almiriel looked at their twined fingers.  ‘And Emeldís needs support.’  She looked up at her husband.  ‘You cannot let other people do what you will not do yourself, can you?  Sit back and enjoy the comforts of your position without carrying its burdens?’

He raised their hands and pressed a kiss to her fingers.  ‘Speaks the woman who left her children to come and encourage Boromir’s wife through her babe’s arrival.  No, my heart.  I cannot ask others to risk a danger that I will not accept for myself.’  He held her hand against his lips.  ‘I will not return until I am sure the danger is past,’ he said.

‘Look after yourself.’ Almiriel turned her fingers to cup his cheek.  ‘I shall be very cross with you if you allow yourself to succumb to this wretched illness.’

He smiled.  ‘I shall keep that in mind at all times,’ he promised.

***

Boromir curbed his temper with difficulty. 

The guard standing defiantly beyond the closed gates of the city held firm.  It was never a good idea to refuse the Steward’s heir – not just because of his position of authority, but because he was, and always had been, remarkably reluctant to give up an idea once he got it in his head.  However, orders were orders.

‘Why am I being prevented from entering?’ the young captain demanded.

‘There is sickness in the city, my lord,’ the grey-haired guard repeated solidly.  ‘And no-one is allowed in or out.’

‘I am not no-one!’ Boromir growled.

‘No, my lord,’ the guard agreed.  ‘You are the Steward’s heir.  And you will remain outside the walls.’

It was impossible to properly intimidate someone who had known you since you were a child, Boromir thought with irritation.  He clenched his fists to restrain his urge to grab the old warrior by the tunic and haul him bodily out of the way.

‘How can I get a message to the Citadel?’ he demanded.

‘We can send a letter up for you, my lord.’  The guard was not unsympathetic.  He – like all the citizens of the city – knew that the young lord’s wife was heavy with their first child.  ‘But you would not want to risk taking the sickness up there, would you?’

Boromir drew a sharp breath.  ‘It is that bad?’ he asked. 

‘They are burying the dead in quicklime, my lord.’  The response was stoic.  ‘And fumigating the houses – but still it spreads.  The healers think we might not be rid of it until winter sets in.’

‘Which parts of the city are worst off?’

‘The First Circle, my lord, and much of the Second.’  The guard shifted from one foot to the other.  ‘Many from higher up in the city got out before it became too bad.  But it is patchy – there are some parts of the Fifth Circle where every street is affected.’

‘And we have to remain here helplessly and just let it kill our people?’

‘What can you do, my lord?’  The grey eyes held his and Boromir could not help but notice the man’s jaw working.  ‘Do you know a way to fight disease with swords and arrows?  For, if you do, I would be only too happy to volunteer for the battle.’

‘I am sorry, Thandún,’ Boromir said, subdued by the man’s obvious distress.

‘Stay clear of the city, my lord,’ the guard told him, swallowing.  ‘Gather your young warriors and take them back to Osgiliath – they will be safer there than they will here.’

Behind him a postern gate opened and the tall figure of Prince Imrahil stepped through, as fastidiously neat as if he was just off to attend a formal reception.  Thandún looked behind him accusingly.

‘Ah, there you are, Boromir,’ the Prince of Dol Amroth remarked, rather as if he had seen his nephew no more than a few hours before.  ‘Have you your men with you?’

‘Can you not see them at my shoulder?’

‘There is no need for sarcasm,’ Imrahil said calmly.  He narrowed his eyes to inspect the gathering of soldiers rather further back from the walls.  ‘I am glad to see that the patrols are keeping people well back.  We are quarantining those who are still healthy and trying to keep them clear of the sick – but we need more men to keep visitors from trying to approach the city.  Can you see to it, Boromir?  I cannot send people out – and I will not let people in.’

‘How is Emeldís?’ Boromir asked.  ‘And Father?’

‘As far as I know, there is no illness in the Citadel,’ Imrahil informed him.  ‘But is a more than a week since I have been there.’  Just for a moment his face looked grim.  ‘I am hoping,’ he said.  ‘I can do no more than that.’

His nephew looked at him in silence.  ‘I will ready letters and reports,’ he said.  ‘And do whatever I can do to help.’

***

Ioreth’s eyes met Almiriel’s.  There was little doubt.  The kitchenmaid had succumbed to the illness that was rife through the city – and she was very unwell indeed.  ‘Did you not think,’ Almiriel said with steely coldness as the cook squirmed, ‘that, since this sickness is considered serious enough to bar the gates, it might have been a good idea to send the girl to the healers as soon as she complained of feeling ill?’

‘But I am already so short-staffed!’ the cook protested.  ‘And these girls will use any excuse they can to avoid working.  I cannot let all of them skip off to the Houses of Healing at every opportunity!’

‘She and Lady Emeldís do not come into contact, my lady,’ Ioreth said hopefully.  ‘Perhaps no harm has been done.’

‘Who shares a room with the girl?’  Almiriel was much more familiar with the workings of a noble household than ever Ioreth could be. ‘And who does she count among her closest friends?’

The cook looked outraged.  It was none of his concern – provided the girls turned up on time and did as they were told, he had no interest in them. 

‘Send the housekeeper to me,’ the princess commanded.  ‘And do not speak to anyone else about this.  Not yet.’

He bowed stiffly, as offended as if she were the one at fault over this.

‘We need to check everyone,’ Almiriel sighed.  ‘And see that anyone who shows any sign of being unwell is moved out immediately.  We do not want Emeldís exposed to this.’

Ioreth attempted to assume the calm usually displayed by experienced healers.  ‘Expectant mothers are not coping well with this ailment, my lady,’ she said. ‘The elderly tend to survive it – but children and young adults …’ She pinched her fingers together.  ‘Lord Boromir will never forgive us if …’ She stopped immediately as a footfall outside the door warned them of an arrival and she smiled cheerfully as Emeldís entered the room.

‘What is going on?’  She sounded sleepy and confused – and not a little cross.  A flush of colour streaked her cheekbones and her eyes, Almiriel thought in alarm, had a glitter to them that she did not like at all.  ‘There are people rushing around everywhere – and my maid does not come when I ring the bell.’

The healer reached up to feel the girl’s forehead, only to have her shy away impatiently.  ‘You look hot,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should go and sit in the gardens with Lady Almiriel.’

Emeldís put a hand to her head as if to hold it steady and, as she opened her mouth to reply, her eyes suddenly rolled and she went limp. 

Ioreth clutched her desperately, breaking her fall, but able to do no more than lower her more slowly to the ground.  ‘She is burning up,’ the healer said.  ‘We must get her temperature down, if we can.’  She looked concernedly at Almiriel.  ‘This is not good – not good at all.’

Within no more than a few hours, the luxurious dwelling had become a pest-house.  Part of Almiriel wanted to summon Imrahil back – after all, what was the point in his continuing to stay away to keep them safe when they were so clearly nothing of the sort?  The only thing that stopped her was the hope that he was managing to keep well.  Denethor was closeted in his tower – he, at least seemed to be healthy – and she was left with the responsibility of looking after his daughter-in-law and unborn grandchild.

She gazed out at the lazy silver ribbon of the Anduin as it wound its way towards the sea and wished desperately that she was at home with her children.  But she was not – she was here in the White City and she had work to do.

***

Emeldís could feel great green beetles crawling over her skin, their feet scratching at her cringing flesh.  She fought them, kicking at the weight than held her pinned down, writhing away from the pain of the cold wing cases and biting at the invading pincers.

‘Her temperature is not coming down, my lady.’  Ioreth was exhausted.  She had not sat down for what felt like days – and she had not eaten for longer. 

‘The child is still moving,’ Almiriel said optimistically.  ‘Perhaps she is far enough along for it to survive even if she goes into labour.’

‘Perhaps,’ Ioreth agreed noncommittally.

Emeldís could smell fire: fire and burning flesh.  She panicked, choking on the screams that rose in her chest, panting desperately to catch a smoke-filled breath.  Her brother kicked at the door, wailing for their mother to come and save them, but, even as the blazing flowers of flame crumbled to ash and fell, the image faded.

She frowned and tasted the dryness of her mouth and smelled the freshness of cool water against her skin.  Emeldís blinked and moved a hand that felt as if it belonged to someone else until it caressed her grossly swollen belly.  For a moment, just a moment, the world came back into focus and then she jerked as a clenching pain seized her and everything inside her twisted.   She mewled, a haunting cry, like a screech owl floating on the breeze in the summer twilight.

‘Her waters have broken.’  Almiriel wanted to weep. 

‘It is probably as well,’ Ioreth said wearily.  ‘If she grows much weaker, she will not have the strength to help the child into the world.’

‘I doubt Boromir would want to have to choose between them.’

There was not likely to be a choice to be made – they both knew that.  Emeldís’s grip on life was diminishing with every passing hour, and the child would probably draw its first breath and its last within minutes of each other.

Dawn had sent its first ray of light into the big room when the child slithered into the world.  He was small.  Too small.  Almiriel did not need Ioreth to tell her that.  His cry was weak, like the squawk of a nestling bird, and he did not open his eyes.  She cleaned him and wrapped him and held him close to offer him the comfort of loving arms, but she could not stop the tears that flowed down her face to drip on his fluff of dark hair.

‘How is Emeldís?’ she asked.

Ioreth shook her head.  ‘Her pulse beats still,’ she said, ‘but barely.’

The Princess of Dol Amroth sat on the bed.  ‘Emeldís,’ she said commandingly.  ‘Emeldís.’

Dark lashed stirred briefly.

‘Emeldís.’ Almiriel would not relent.  ‘Greet your son.’

A hint of a smile stretched the pale mouth and heavy lids raised to reveal eyes as dark as a sunless cavern.  ‘My son,’ she breathed.

Almiriel kissed the dark head and placed the bundle with her nephew’s wife.

‘My son,’ Emeldís repeated and closed her eyes again, letting go her remaining breath in a soft sigh.

The child protested, his squeal surprisingly loud in the silence of the room – and he relinquished his tentative hold on life, returning to the care of his mother. 

***

Boromir rode up through the silent streets, his face as shuttered as the houses, as frozen as the frosty day.  This was not the homecoming he had expected, for which he had hoped.  It had taken a month.  A month during which he had known that his wife and son would not care how long it took him to return.  The longest month of his life. 

Fewer had died, in the end, than the healers had expected – but that did not matter, because two of those who had been among the dead were his family.

Imrahil rode beside him, as silent as he was.  There was, after all, nothing to be said.

And the oddest thing was that everything looked exactly the same as it always had – but nothing would ever be the same again.

He had not wanted to marry Emeldís – he felt guilty now even thinking that – but he had learned to love her; learned to love the child she carried within her – and now they had both been taken from him.  His life would go on, exactly as it had before.  He would lead his troops and sit in Council with his father.  He would tease his brother and watch his cousins grow up – and she would not be there.  The child – the child he had never been able to greet, the child he had not named, the child he had never been able to present to the city as his son – the child would never be more than a memory of a faded hope.

He had promised to look after her – and he had failed. 

Imrahil placed a hand on his elbow.  They had arrived at the stables, he realised, and the groom was waiting to remove his horse.  He released a shaky breath that curled away like smoke into the chill air and dismounted, nodding at the man in silent acknowledgment.

‘I do not know if I can do this,’ he told his uncle.

The Prince of Dol Amroth looked leaner than usual, the lines on his face more deeply etched.  He had, of course, been no more generous to himself than to any other worried relative – and, when his wife had collapsed in the aftermath of Emeldís’s death, he had remained at his duty, growing only cooler and more distantly polite as he worried.  Almiriel had survived – if only barely – and only Imrahil, Boromir thought, would be more concerned about his nephew’s return home than for his own reunion with his much-loved wife.

‘Go ahead,’ Boromir said.  ‘Give me time.’

Imrahil shook his head.  ‘Almiriel needs to see you,’ he said simply.  ‘She will not be able to rest until she has spoken to you.’  His eyes asked for understanding.  ‘You can do nothing for Emeldís,’ he said, ‘but you can help your aunt – if you will.’

His nephew looked older – far older than he should at his age – and he gave a brief nod.  It was understandable that Imrahil should want him to get this over.  Once Almiriel had told him of his wife’s last hours, of the birth and death of his son, Imrahil would be able to take her home, in the hope that Dol Amroth’s mild climate and the presence of her children would coax her back to health.

By the time that, at last, he stood in the Silent Street, he found that he was beyond feeling anything.  No quicklime for these two – they had been embalmed, the likeness of their bodies preserved for all time, encased in stone, imprisoned in this cold place. 

‘I am sorry,’ Boromir whispered.  He had not been here since he had stood at his father’s side while his gentle, loving mother had been entombed here.  He had not thought to be back until it was his task to see that his father received the honour due to him.  It seemed wrong that this place was now to confine the slip of a girl who, little more than a year ago, had been brought to be his wife.  And the child …  His son should have lived to run free in the gardens of the Citadel, to ride over the Pelennor, to play in the sands of Dol Amroth – grown to be a true heir of his house, a son of the line of Mardil, holding Gondor staunchly against the shadow of Mordor.

But it was not to be.

‘I am sorry,’ he murmured again.

His throat hurt and his eyes burned.  There was nothing that he could do about it.  He reached out a hand to caress the indifferent stone that contained what remained of his happiness. 

Boromir looked round the mausoleum: a cold memorial to the past, a statement of power, like so much else in the city.  This was no place to remember them.  The Emeldís he knew – the child he did not – belonged in the living world.  And that was where he would remember them.  He would take them with him always.

He would not come here again.

Epilogue – A Question Answered

A drift of fine smoke stung the warrior’s nose and made him blink.

‘What happened?’ Pippin’s fluting voice sounded concerned.

Boromir’s eyes took on the look of a rain-washed mountain slope in winter.  A gentle hand, rather smaller than most, closed on his arm and the tall man was surprised by the understanding in Frodo’s face.  It was at times like this that he realised that the halfling was older by far than he looked and had his own experiences of the vicissitudes of life.

‘She died,’ he said simply.

‘You must miss her very much.’  Pippin sounded sad, touched by the tragedy he automatically assumed hid behind the words.

‘I do,’ Boromir said.  ‘I think that, in some ways, the longer I have spent without her, the larger the gap that her absence creates.’

‘You have not married again?’ Aragorn asked.   The eyes of hobbits, dwarf and elf fixed on him with varying degrees of disbelief.  ‘It is not uncommon among men,’ he said defensively.  ‘Especially when there are other considerations.’

Boromir shrugged.  ‘I have not married again,’ he confirmed.  ‘Although I daresay at some point that my father will insist on it – if we survive the assaults on us long enough for him to give it some thought, at any event.  The Stewardship must have heirs of our blood – and neither my brother nor I are in positions that could be considered safe.’

Merry’s sharp features contained a greater understanding.  ‘Duty,’ he said.

‘Duty,’ Boromir agreed.  ‘Yet obedience to necessity can have its rewards.’  He glanced at the lean Ranger who was fingering his pipe thoughtfully in the absence of any of his noxious weed.  ‘As I am sure you must have learned.’

Mithrandir watched them under his bushy eyebrows.  Time – and conversation and shared danger – might yet meld this unlikely group into a true fellowship, but it seemed unlikely.

The man of Gondor glanced at the stick his fingers were doggedly stripping of its bark.  There were times, now, when he was glad that the child had not survived to see the skies growing ever darker over Mordor.  Times when he was glad that one innocent, at least, was spared the fate that seemed increasingly likely to bring them all down. 

Yet, there was hope still, however slim.  And he was faced with the duty of helping see that those confronting peril were as ready as they could be.

‘Come, Master Pippin, Master Meriadoc,’ he said.  ‘Let us continue your lessons while we may.’

The hobbits exchanged glances, clearly deciding among themselves that this topic was best left for another day.

‘So, Boromir,’ the youngest hobbit demanded, as he picked up his small sword.  ‘Tell us about your brother.’

A snort of laughter escaped the wizard.  ‘Hobbits,’ he declared with a surprising warmth in his gruff voice.  ‘Boundless curiosity and bottomless appetites.  Hold your tongue, young Took, and save your energy for your training.’

Boromir rose, tall, battle-hardened, scarred in more than body.  He could not control all events – he had come to learn this over more years of warfare than he cared to consider.  He could not always succeed, could not always have what he wanted.  But Gondor’s need called – and it was his task and honour to serve.  ‘Later,’ he said.