Prologue

As Lothíriel’s Journal will not make sense unless you have read Counting the Days, I have posted my first story here as a prologue. If you have already read it you can go straight to Chapter 1. However, if it was a while ago, it may be worth scrolling down to remind yourself of the Epilogue as the new story starts from there. LBJ

Counting the Days 1

The scene that greeted him when he pushed the tent flap aside was one he had witnessed a hundred times. The morning view of a Rohírric encampment rarely altered: the lines of picketed horses; the fire with the cooking pot held above by a tripod; the smell of gently frying bacon coming from the pan resting on the stones at the edge of the flames; the men all busy with their early chores. Only the place had changed. Never before had they made camp on these southern slopes of the White Mountains. And therefore, not only the place differed, but so did the scenery. At least he imagined it would be different, but at the moment he could see little of it. Éomer nodded to his men who looked up to greet him but he did not speak. Not feeling like exchanging pleasantries even with his most trusted and treasured companions. Walking over to the edge of the plateau where they had set up the night before, he gazed out. The land fell away beneath him into an empty nothingness.  Somewhere, way south of him, lay the sea. Not that he would be able to see it so many leagues away, even without the mist. It covered the land below like a soft grey blanket unravelling at the edges with the threads winding their way up the sides of the narrow valleys and curling into the crevices. It would all burn off later. Still early – early in the year as well as early in the morning.  Éomer looked down at his feet, knowing he could not avoid the inevitable. Already it looked like they would start out an hour later than he had intended, and he could not blame his men for that. Just to the right of his booted foot a stunted bush struggled to survive; its small buds were showing a first glimpse of green. New life, new season, things changing. He sighed: not sure that he wanted the kind of change he was in for – not yet – not ever. Éomer turned on his heel and stalked back towards the campfire. When something nasty stood in your path then you faced it, especially if you couldn’t creep around the edge.

Sitting down on a convenient rock near to the fire, he looked up only when someone passed him a bowl of oatmeal. They knew him well enough to realise that he did not wish to talk. Éothain shot him a speculative glance from the other side of the fire, but even he left him alone with his thoughts. The porridge had already begun to congeal in the dish before he even touched it with the spoon. When he did so the rapidly forming skin piled up into little creamy ridges.  He pushed the skin aside and dug his spoon into the semi liquid mass underneath and as he removed the spoon he heard a decided slurp. The spoon came to a halt halfway to his mouth and he looked down at the bowl, watching the fragile crater fill up and the sides slipping into the middle in an unstoppable motion. He gave up and put bowl and spoon down onto the rock next to him.

“Didn’t I make it right, Lord?”

Éomer started and looked up. The young rider gave the impression of being terrified. “No, Celm, it is fine, I am just not very hungry. Perhaps just one piece of bacon, a small hunk of bread and a mug of tea.” The boy nodded, picked up the bowl and started to walk away, “No leave that, Celm, Firefoot will polish it off,” he said feeling guilty and trying to smile at the lad.

Celm reappeared with the required breakfast a few moments later, “Shall I take that to Firefoot, Lord?” He pointed to the bowl of solidified porridge.

“No, I will do it; he will be a bit lively this morning. Get his tack and my other stuff would you.”

The boy nodded and hurried away

Éomer cast his mind back to the first few times he had ridden with an éored and the memory of his own nervousness and fear of doing wrong forced him to eat the piece of bacon and most of the bread. At least he welcomed the tea.

He stood up and dumped his plate and mug in the proffered bucket of water. The camp was now in the process of being swiftly disassembled, his men evidently eager to get on even if he did not share their enthusiasm. Éomer picked up the bowl and headed towards the horse lines deciding he might as well enjoy the ride. It looked like it would turn into a beautiful day. Firefoot whickered excitedly when he saw his master approaching and pawed the ground with one well polished black hoof, obviously anticipating a morning gallop.

Éomer ran his hand down the dark dappled neck feeling the solid muscles ripple under the warm skin. “You’ll have to wait a bit, my friend; it’s going to be a rocky downhill ride first thing.”

The horse spotted the bowl and smelt the oatmeal. His leathery black lips started to quiver with anticipation.

“You want this, then?”

Watching the thick pink tongue snaking around the bowl, eager to extract every last oat, restored Éomer’s good humour. It could not be as bad as he thought. The bowl finally abandoned, his mood lifted temporarily as a result of watching the big grey trying to lick the goo that stuck obstinately around his mouth, his resilient tongue extending to its fullest length in an effort to reach every last scrap.

Éomer took the opportunity to run his hands down each of his stallion’s strong legs. The ride through the caves had been rough and uneven, but he felt no heat or swelling and Firefoot did not twitch. Celm arrived, and Éomer suppressed a grin. The lad staggered under the load of saddle, saddlebags, saddlecloth, harness, spear and bow. A good job he had already buckled on his sword. He took the saddlecloth from Celm and placed it carefully on Firefoot’s back, “Come on then,” he whispered to the horse, “we can put it off no longer.” With the ease of long practice he fitted the saddle to his horse’s back, his hands rejoicing in the familiar feel of the supple leather. He reached one hand under the Firefoot’s belly to pull the girth through and fasten it. “Don’t you even think of making it difficult you old bugger.” The big stallion relented, recognising the firmness in his master’s tone, and lessened his waist measurement to allow the straps to be tightened. Éomer took the bridle from the young Rider and motioned the lad to put his weapons against a rock. “Go and get yourself ready, we shall be moving out soon.”  Celm went to do as ordered and Éomer turned to finish tacking up his horse. The fitting of the bridle and bit accompanied as always by an ever opportunistic Firefoot nudging and nosing into his master’s tunic. When this manoeuvre produced no apparent reward he resorted to giving Éomer’s hands a thorough licking, his eyes rolling in ecstasy as he revelled in the salty taste. Eomer tugged affectionately at the unruly quiff of coarse black hair that fell over the stallion’s forehead, “You’re an old softie really and I will try and give you a gallop.”

“I don’t think there will be much chance around here.” Éothain came to stand next to him, his own saddle over his arm, “Perhaps it might be a bit better farther down.”

“Well, he’s going to be a pain in the ass if we don’t find somewhere. It did not suit him yesterday.” Horses bred in the Riddermark were meant for the rolling plains: the restrictions of mountain tracks and steep valleys did not sit well with them.

Éomer fastened his bow to the saddle and fixed his spear into its long leather holder, wondering why he had brought it. True, he felt naked without it, but he couldn’t really imagine he would need the weapon on this trip and decided not to admit to a certain perverseness that made him proclaim his warrior status quite so loudly.

“Have the scouts left?”

Éothain looked up from tacking up his own horse. “Aye, I told them to report back and not to make contact. I didn’t know if you wanted to ride up with standards flying and horns blowing or creep up on them and give them a fright.”

Éomer grinned at his friend, “They might creep up on us.”

Éothain said nothing but raised his eyebrows in a sardonic gesture.

“It doesn’t become you to be too cocky.” Laughing at Éothain’s expression, Éomer took hold of Firefoot’s reins and swung himself into the saddle. “Once we know where they are we will stop and have a clean up.”

“You mean you daren’t meet a princess with your hands stinking of horse’s spit?”

That managed to spoil his mood. “Come on, we should have left hours ago.”

The long orderly column left the plateau and rejoined the main way, heading down and heading south. The horses fidgeted and tossed their heads in frustration: impossible to train them to the peak of vigour and fitness and then expect them to be content with slipping and sliding on an old neglected track. Progress remained slow. The danger of a false move on a loose stone too real to ignore. They had gone half a league when one of the outriders returned. He came at a fair pace, the journey uphill by far the easier option.

The man oozed dampness, the braids in his tawny hair hanging like limp ribbons. Little beads of moisture were clinging to the wool of his cloak: they glistened like crystals in the now bright sunlight. A nod to his King, he addressed Éothain, “The road improves around the next bend, my lord, but not long after that you will hit the mist.”

“Any sign of them?” Éomer could not resist asking.

“No, Sire, nothing. We have stopped and listened as the sound travels better upwards, but all is quiet. We don’t want to go too far from the road until the mist clears.”

“Let us know when you find them. Do not let them see you. They will probably have scouts out as well.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Éothain muttered.

The man nodded, acknowledged the order from his king with a wave of his hand and turned back down the road. He showed no surprise at the confidence shown in him.

Once they penetrated the belt of wet mist they entered an eerily silent world, but the loose rock had, thankfully, given way to a beaten dirt road. Somewhere to the right of them would be the habitations of the great Blackroot Vale. Every now and again they passed a small stone cairn from which a treacherous looking path disappeared down into some hidden valley, the only sign that men lived in this mountainous region. The relative smoothness of the track excited the horses, especially Firefoot. None in his vicinity could fail to realise that the big horse wanted a gallop. However, the thought of blindly charging into a cloying cloud of murky grey did not appeal to his master.

Éothain laughed at the horse’s antics, “You should not have given him those oats. It has made him worse. In fact…” he laughed louder, finding whatever he happened to be thinking, extremely funny.

Éomer waited patiently for the joke to come out.

“In fact… when you meet this princess, you might wish you had eaten them yourself. You might want to leg it quickly.”

Éomer sighed; not in the mood for his friend’s jokes. He knew he should have braided his hair, he thought ironically, as he pushed the dark gold mass back from his face and wiped his hand across his forehead for the umpteenth time, trying to stop the rivulets of moisture from running into his eyes.

 “Éothain, how long have you known me?”

“Well, I can remember you running around Aldburg in a napkin, if that is what you mean.” The grin on his face widened, “I had just got my first pony.”

“About twenty six years then. That must be long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

“For you to tell me why I agreed to marry a woman I have never set eyes upon.”

The silence stretched out as Éothain seriously considered the question. “You were drunk,” he said finally.

Another long pause ensued before Éomer eventually replied, and when he did so his voice held an echo of regret, as if he wished the explanation to be accurate and therefore excuse him. “I was definitely not drunk.”

“Then you must have been stark raving bloody mad…, my lord.”

That’s what he liked about his long time friend. The Captain of his Guard could always be relied upon to speak the blunt truth.

When no answer came Éothain relented, “All right then, you must have had some sensible reasons for agreeing to such a damn fool notion.”

“Other than the fact that I found myself surrounded by Aragorn, Imrahil and Faramir, not to mention my sister, you mean?”

“I don’t see that counts for anything,” Éothain stated blandly, “I have seen you surrounded by a thousand Orcs and not twitch a muscle. On the other hand,” he continued seriously, “I did not see Éowyn amongst them.”

A loud snort came from Éomer, “I will not have you bad mouth my sister.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“That’s all right then,” his king grinned, but the frown soon appeared back on his face. There must have been some sensible reasons, but right now, he couldn’t remember a damn one. Probably because he had pushed the whole fool thing out of his mind over the winter. It was in his mind now, though. He could hardly ignore the fact that he would meet her in the next hour or two.  “It is good for the Riddermark,” he came out with at last.

“Why?”

“Why?”

Yes, why?”

A good question really. Why was it? He must have thought so at one time or he would never have agreed to it. “It strengthens our ties with Gondor.”

“And we want them strengthened, do we?” Éothain had never had much time for politics.

“Of course we do. We need the trade, and we will stand together if there are any further threats.” Yes, that was definitely it.

Éothain looked far from convinced. “I do not see you that have to marry the Princess of Dol Amroth for that. You have the friendship of her father and her brothers, but most importantly, of Gondor’s King. So no, I do not see it.”

Another deep sigh, “No, you are right, maybe not exactly that. I think it had to do with her brothers.”

“Her  brothers?”

Éomer pushed his hair out of his eyes to gain time. “I think so.” He was not usually so woolly headed. The whole damn thing would probably seriously unhinge him.

“Why her brothers?”

Why indeed? Difficult to explain, even to Éothain. He would probably laugh his head off. “I have to marry someone.”

“Yes…”Éothain said slowly, “you probably do, and a woman is preferable, I suppose. Did you want to marry one of her brothers?”

“What! What ever are you talking about?”

“All this going on about her brothers is confusing me. I wondered if I missed something.”

Éomer stared at him for a few long moments, his lips tight with the effort of suppressing his laughter. Trust Éothain to lighten the atmosphere. He could contain himself no longer,

“Go fall in a fire pit. I knew I should not have mentioned it.”

“No, I consider it my duty to help you out on this one. Explain slowly.”

Éomer ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek and eyed his friend, wryly. “If you remember after Théoden’s funeral, how much the council pressurised me. In fact before he was even buried they had drawn up a list.”

“And you did not fancy anyone on the list?”

“Did not fancy, is a polite way of putting it.”

“And you could not supply your own?”

“I suppose I could have done, one or two perhaps.  However,” a deep chuckle brought a grin to Éothain’s lips, “I doubt they would have obtained the official seal of approval.”

“So enter the Princess of Dol Amroth.” Éothain sniggered merrily. “No doubt that she would be acceptable to those blown up old windbags, but how do you know you are going to fancy her?”

“I do not, of course. In fact I now realise it was the most stupid thing to have done, but I thought she might be like her brothers.”

Eothain looked mystified. “So you do fancy her brothers?”

“Will you listen instead of making brainless remarks,” Éomer began to feel exasperated, but not sure who with, himself or Éothain. “I have to marry someone. One of sufficient rank and who will make a good queen. A princess, especially a princess who is Imrahil’s daughter, is likely to fulfil that role admirably.”

“Yes, but it would have been better to have met her first.”

“I know, but it was just easier to agree and get one thing out of the way. It meant I could concentrate on restoring prosperity to the Mark and not worry about searching for a woman.”

“You have never had to search much.”

Éomer did not bother to deny this, “The right kind of woman, Éothain.”

“Not so easy, I agree. So if we accept that as reasonably sensible, where do her brothers come in to it?”

“You have to admit that there is something about them,” he painfully searched his brain for words, “they are elegant.”

“Poncey, you mean,” Éothain had no trouble finding one.

“Éothain, you saw them fight. They are certainly not poncey.”

“No, you are right. They just look poncey. It must be all that silk and velvet not to mention the silver.”

Éomer grinned, “Yes, there is a bit much of it. But I have to say since I have worn the crown, so to speak, I do have to wear a bit of it myself.”

“But you would not be so daft as to wear that stuff out riding. Horse snot makes a right mess of velvet.”

“That aside, I have it on good authority that all three of them are good looking.”

“Whose authority?”

Éowyn’s for one. She is a woman, Éothain, in spite of what you may think.”

“Hmmm,” another chuckle, “well, I admit she appears to have turned into one.”

Éomer chose to ignore that remark; Éothain had known Éowyn from her birth. “Anyway, it was not only her. It may have escaped your notice but the two unmarried ones were very popular in Edoras.”

“It did not escape my notice. Luckily my daughters are too young for me to be bothered by it. But I still do not see the point.”

“The point is,” he took one hand off the reins and held it in the air. “One: all three of them are tall; two: they are good looking; three: they are elegant,” he counted on his fingers to emphasize the points, “and, although I do not feel elegance is a particularly desirable quality in a man, I do have a penchant for elegant women.”

“Do we have elegant women in the Mark?”

Éomer laughed out loud, “Don’t you let Éowyn hear you say that. But anyway, observation has shown that there are many in Gondor.”

“Not only observation, I observed that you…”

“All right, all right…it was purely a matter of research.”

“A new name for it. I haven’t heard that one. It would have been better if this princess had been there, then you could have researched her and you would have known what you were letting yourself in for.”

“Evidently a series of mishaps prevented her coming to Minas Tirith.” 

“Hmmm, so now, if I understand you correctly, because her brothers are tall, good looking and …elegant, then you think she will be too.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I don’t want to worry you but the theory does not stand up.” 

Éomer waited in trepidation for what was coming.

“Hamund is a good looking sort of a man, but his sister Bronwyn, looks like the back end of Firefoot.”

Éomer groaned, “Don’t insult my horse, and she topped their bloody list. I suppose the only good thing is that the Princess of Dol Amroth could hardly be worse.”

“Well, you will know soon enough, my lord.” Éothain couldn’t restrain his laughter, “Perhaps you had better start thinking about contingency plans in case she does look like Bronwyn.”

“I really do not believe that Imrahil’s daughter will look like Bronwyn.” At least he hoped not and if she did then there was nothing to be done. He could not back out now. He stared down the road ahead of them wondering what the next couple of hours would bring. “I think the mist is lifting.”

“Aye,” Éothain agreed, “it’s definitely not so thick. I wonder where they are. I thought we would have met up with them long before this.”

“Perhaps she’s refused to come,” Éomer suggested, allowing hope to creep into his voice.

“What, you mean a nicely brought up princess of Gondor might baulk at the thought of marrying an uncivilized Horselord from the north?”

“Oh, go to Mordor.” Éomer fixed his eyes on his friend with a look that would have crushed a lesser man, but Éothain held them until they both started to laugh heartily.

They travelled in companionable silence for another half a league, the subject of princesses, reluctant or otherwise, being pushed aside as it became possible, if not to gallop, but at least to canter at a reasonable pace. The scout returned, appearing suddenly, with the last wisps of mist still clinging to him, and a definite smile.

“We have found them, my lords.”

“Ah,” said Éomer, trying to sound pleased, “how far are they behind you?”

“They are camped, my lord.”

“Camped? At this time of the morning?” Éomer gaped at Éothain who just shrugged his shoulders. He turned back to the scout, “Where are they?”

“Where the road from the south meets the road that travels along the foothills of the mountains through Tarlang’s Neck,” the rider replied.

Éomer searched his mind, trying to recall the topography shown by the map he had studied the day before, “Near Erech?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Did they see you?”

The man grinned openly, “No, my lord. They are camped in a corrie between the two roads, we were able to get above them on the Lamedon road and watch them for a while. They have guards but there are no scouts out.”

“Told you,” Éothain grunted.

Éomer suppressed a smile. “Right, I would like to have a look as well. Is it possible to move the men all onto the top road without being spotted and then Éothain and I can take a look?”

“I am sure it is, Lord. And, if you have not forgotten your skills, you will be able to see the whites of their eyes. Shall I go and tell the others about your plans? You have about a league to go.”

“Yes, do that. And I shall ignore your remark about my skills.” Éomer felt slightly affronted by that. “We will slow down and keep quiet when we get nearer.”

The rider nodded, barely suppressing a laugh, and disappeared back down the road. Éothain looked enquiringly at his King. “What are you going to do, turn around and go home if you do not like the look of her?”

“Unfortunately, Éothain, it is an option I do not have. I merely want to be prepared so that I show nothing untoward when I actually meet her.”

“And then you will have the six months to your wedding to prepare yourself for the idea, good or bad.”

“Humph!” He could not even imagine what the next three weeks in Edoras would be like. What if they found they could not stand each other? He put the thought away for a moment, but it seemed that no sooner had the scout left them, he was returning again with the news that the party from Dol Amroth were still camping and there would be no problem spying on them.

“I cannot understand why they have not moved on. Could you see any reason?”

“None, Lord. They look like they are sitting around waiting for something.”

Éomer shrugged his shoulders, “Oh well, no doubt we will find out what soon enough.”

The whole guard turned silently onto the Lamedon road and they had only gone a short way before another Rohan scout materialised from behind a rock and beckoned to his king.

“There is a large grassy ledge which overlooks them, Lord,” he pointed towards the edge of the escarpment, “once you get to that tree go on your bellies, otherwise they may spot you.”

Éomer nodded and the two men passed their horses over and made their way to the tree on foot, dropping to the ground when they reached it. They slithered forward on their stomachs for the last few yards until they were able to look over the edge of the overhang

and into the corrie below.

“It looks as if they might be thinking about moving out,” Éothain whispered.

Éothain spoke the truth. The Dol Amroth soldiers were starting to take down the blue and white tents, but they looked to be in no hurry.

Éomer nudged Éothain on the shoulder “There’s Imrahil…and Amrothos.” Father and son had appeared from out of one of the larger tents. They were dressed for travel, wearing their cloaks, carrying gauntlets and resplendent in blue and silver.

“See what I mean about elegant?”

Éothain stifled a laugh. “What do they look like when they’re dressed up for some grand ball?”

Éomer said nothing but raised one eyebrow with an amused expression. “Look,” he suddenly pointed. A woman had appeared from the tent nearest to them but they could only see the side of her dark blue dress. She stood just out of vision for a moment and then walked towards Prince Imrahil and Amrothos. She had her back to them.

“She’s short,” Éothain stated unnecessarily.

Éomer swallowed, he did not know if the words would leave his mouth, “She’s fat,” he got out at last.

“I don’t think she’s fat,” said Éothain generously, “she’s plump. It is being so short that makes her look fat.”

“She is short and fat.”

“Perhaps it’s not her,” Éothain sounded far from convinced.

“Then who do you think it is?” Éomer hissed. “Do you see another woman?”

Éothain looked around. The last tent came down and the camp was rapidly dismantled although no-one made for the horses. “I am afraid not. That theory of yours worried me all along. It might not be too bad,” he said, obviously trying to reassure his king; “Perhaps she is pretty and has a sweet nature.”

“What does that matter? She looks like a plum pudding tied around the middle,” the King of Rohan protested in total disgust. “I will kill them,” he spat through gritted teeth, “slowly.”

“Kill who slowly?” asked Éothain, instantly diverted and drawing his eyes away from the plum pudding.

“Her brothers, of course.”

“Oh, we are back to them. Well, as much as I still think they look poncey, they cannot be blamed because their sister is not tall,” Éothain said in all fairness.

“They could have told me. Both Amrothos and Erchirion are well aware of my taste and they assured me I would be happy with the match.” In fact Éomer decided he could not really understand it and wondered if he had done something to offend them. He cast around his mind but found nothing. They had always been on the best of terms. He shook his head disbelievingly, “Why would they do this?”

“They probably have done nothing,” Éothain stated. “Sometimes we do not see our dearest as they really are.”

Éomer glared at him, “If you are making any insinuations….oh, Morgoth’s balls!”

Éothain followed the line of his horrified gaze. The woman still talked to Imrahil but she had turned around to face them looking over towards the horses. Not pretty, but not exactly downright ugly.

“She’s not that …” Éothain started to say, but at that moment she opened her mouth and gave a great laugh.

“Did you see that, Éothain?” The Lord of the Mark had turned white and looked to be suffering from some kind of seizure.

“The last time I saw teeth like that they were coming straight at me with an orc riding on their back,” Éothain had given up all pretence of normalising the situation. He looked sympathetically at Éomer who now lay flat on his back with his hands covering his face. “I think it’s time for those contingency plans,” he said very quietly.

Éomer let out a muffled utterance which Éothain must have interpreted correctly as, “I have not made any.”

“Well,” said Éothain as brightly as he could, “we had better go through the options.”

“Are there any?”

“Of course, there always are.” Éothain thought for a moment, “The easiest way out would be to totally put her off marrying you. Behave so badly that she refuses, throws a tantrum or something.”

“What do you suggest I do?” Éomer asked in a somewhat strangled voice.

“It shouldn’t take much. Don’t wash for the whole three weeks. Get drunk every night. Pick your nose when you are eating. Make lewd remarks to the serving maids. That should do it,” he sounded pleased with himself.

Éomer rolled back onto his side, glanced down into the corrie, gave a big sigh and stared straight at Éothain. “You don’t think Imrahil might be a little surprised if I behaved like that? He has after all spent a long time in my company, in Minas Tirith as well as Edoras.”

“I suppose he might, but on the other hand he may conclude that being a king has gone to your head.”

“Something is going to happen to more than my head if I have to marry his daughter,” he said bleakly. “I cannot get out of it, Éothain, I gave my word.”

“Then look at it a different way. Because you are a king you will not have to see much of her. You can spend a lot of time travelling around the Mark, staying with Elfhelm and Erkenbrand. King Elessar has hinted that he will be calling on your services, you will not have to live in Meduseld much at all.”

“Meduseld is my home, Éothain. I want to live there.”

“All right then, have separate chambers. You will only have to see her when you… you know.”

A long low wailing moan emitted from Éomer. “I don’t think I could, Éothain. In fact I am sure I couldn’t… it’s…it’s the teeth,” he gave a long horrified shudder.

“You might if you were desperate enough.”

“I really don’t think I would ever be desperate enough…oh,” he sat up with his head in his hands oblivious to the fact he might be seen, “what ever have I done for the Valar to do this to me?”

Éothain grabbed his arm and pulled him down to the ground, “Too much research, most like,” he muttered. “You will have to do it occasionally; the whole point of this charade is to get heirs for the Riddermark.”

Éomer shook his head, “I really don’t think I could manage it.”

“In that case you will have to use the bag trick.”

“Talk sense, Éothain, or don’t talk at all. I am not in the mood.”

“I am talking sense. You put a bag over her head. One of Firefoot’s feedbags would do, but I would make sure it’s a clean one.”

The King of Rohan stared at the Captain of his Guard, his mouth dropping open very slightly and a look of complete incredulity spreading over his face, “And you think the Princess of Dol Amroth would allow a feedbag, clean or otherwise, to be placed over her head whilst in the nuptial bed, do you?”

“Oh, I suppose not.” Éothain thought for a moment, never one to give up, especially when the sanity of his king was at stake, “In that case you will have to keep your eyes closed until you have got her legs wide apart, they all look the same then, anyway.”

Éomer, however distraught he felt, could not let this pass, “Éothain, when did you last have a woman other than your wife?”

“I haven’t,  at least not since I was about eighteen.”

“Not even after the war? They were queuing up.” Éomer grinned, intrigued now.

“I dared not risk it. Berwyn would have flayed me alive.”

“I don’t think even Berwyn would have known what you were up to from four hundred miles away,” Éomer chuckled.

“She would have smelt it when I got home.”

Éomer had a hard job not to laugh out loud, “They had plenty of baths in Minas Tirith.”

“Believe me, there are some smells you can’t wash off.”

“In that case, then let me assure you that they do not all look the same, especially from that angle.”

“I know that. It is obvious that the Gondorian ones will look different from those from the Mark, dark and light so to speak. But the main design of the thing can’t vary much.”

“Accept this as true; they vary a great deal…in fact…”

“What varies a great deal?”

Éomer and Éothain looked at one another, an awful truth dawning on them. Both turned their heads in unison, their startled gazes settling on a pair of highly polished black boots.

Éomer let his eyes wander slowly upwards, taking in the dove grey deerskin breeches, the dark blue tunic edged with silver embroidery, the breastplate with its superbly embossed Swan. He stopped there for a moment before he jerked his eyes upwards and noted the sardonic amused expression on the handsome face. “Erchirion?”

The middle of Imrahil’s sons bowed his head, “Éomer King, what a surprise.”

“We were…” Éomer looked beseechingly towards Éothain, hoping his friend’s inventiveness would not let him down. It didn’t.

“Éomer King, fearful that his royal duties have been keeping him from practising his scouting skills took this opportunity of brushing up on them. In other words,” he said with a deadpan face, “we were spying on you.”

“Not on me,” Erchirion looked even more amused, “I wasn’t there. But I would advise you to make less noise next time. I could hear you from the road.”

Éomer thought it best to ignore this; attack was always the best means of defence. “Where were you then? Were they waiting for you? We thought to meet up with you hours ago.”

“They were waiting for us,” Erchirion did not sound at all apologetic. “I have a friend who lives in the next valley,” he pointed along the road in the direction of Lamedon. “I wished to take the opportunity of spending a little time with him, and my sister decided to avail herself of his hospitality in order to bathe and prepare for the forthcoming meeting with her betrothed.” His grey eyes managed, with one look, to take in Éomer’s crumpled tunic, the pieces of twigs and grass on it and the mud on his boots.

“I see…,” said Éomer slowly, “so you and your sister spent the night in a house down the road and not in the camp.” He got up trying to brush the mess from his tunic, and glanced down into the corrie. The horses were being saddled and everyone looked to be preparing to leave.

“That is what I said.”

“And where is your sister now?” Éomer asked in a tight voice.

“Lothíriel is talking to your men and to Firefoot. She is, naturally, slightly nervous of meeting you and feels that making friends with your horse will put her in a good light and it will also, perhaps, give her an insight into his master’s nature. Personally, I doubt if conversing with a bad tempered stallion will be advantageous to her.”

Éomer had stopped listening. His gaze held captive by the vision walking hesitantly towards him. Béma, he prayed she was not a vision. She wore a tunic similar to Erchirion’s, except it had been cut fuller and longer, more like a dress. No breastplate, though. Breasts!  Éomer gulped. Tall and slender, with a ruffle of snow white lace at her throat, the wonderful proportions of her figure could not be hidden. Her black hair had been fastened at the back but the long tail of it brought forward to hang down the right side of her chest. Chest! He gulped again. She smiled softly at him— the smile on her full, very kissable lips, matching the shy smile in her clear grey eyes.

“Princess Lothíriel,” he managed. Surprised he could utter anything as his tongue felt like a gag in his mouth.

Her smiled deepened as she reached him and held out her hand to be kissed. Too late he remembered that he had not washed his own since Firefoot had washed them for him. He brought her hand to his lips. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice if she had been petting his horse.

“You had better be very sure about this, Loti,” Erchirion managed to sound amused and haughty at the same time. “I do believe your betrothed has spent the last half hour ogling your worthy companion.”

************

Epilogue

Edoras three months later-

Éomer found himself staring into space again, doing nothing. He had done a lot of that lately. A very pleasant way to pass the time. Well, he would have to do something, the messenger would be returning to Dol Amroth in the morning and he still hadn’t written a single word. A light tap came on the door and Éomer looked up, startled, and slightly resenting the intrusion.

“Come in.”

“Fréowyn told me to bring you this, my lord.” The maid put a tray down on his desk. Bending over far enough for her king to see most of her very ample breasts. The tray held much more interest for him – tea and a fruited cake. The girl fluttered long dark lashes at him, her pouty lips curling into a seductive smile. “She said you did not have an early meal.”

Éomer sighed, “Thank you, Edyth, just leave it there, would you.”

Edyth gave him another flirty smile. She turned around and made for the door, wiggling her bottom all the way.

He speculated on when she would give up. She had been in Meduseld for two months now and there was no sign of the signals abating. Éomer took a long deep sigh and wondered when other women had ceased to exist for him. He allowed himself a smile. No, not true really, he knew exactly when it had happened, but he just liked to think about it.  It had happened when he had let go her hand, looked up, and locked his hazel eyes with her grey ones. Whatever had he done for the Valar to be so good to him?

Éomer turned back to his desk; he would have to write something. He stared down at the piece of parchment in front of him; it stared blankly back, berating him for his neglect. How did you tell such a Lady that she set you on fire, stirred your very soul? How did you tell her you were counting the days to their marriage: dreaming of hot steamy nights when alone in your cold wide bed?

You did not, of course. Sighing, he picked up his pen.

Dear Lothíriel,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I have been very busy and it looks as if it will be a good harvest. The horse I have chosen for you is well into her training….

*******

To be continued— when we find out how Lothíriel feels about her betrothed.

Lothíriel’s Journal. – The prequel and sequel to ‘Counting the Days’

Written for Maddy

Chapter 1

Dol Amroth - Summer 3020

Knowing she could bear her brother’s teasing no longer, Lothíriel rushed out of the room, her journal tucked under her arm. Amrothos might be right – watching the palace gates would not bring the messenger any quicker, but it passed the time and allowed her to dream. Well, she would have been able to dream if her family left her alone to do so.

Once out in the courtyard, the sun beating down on her bare head, she hesitated. Trying to decide where to go. The beach would be baking in the early afternoon and they might not come that far to find her. It would have to be her mother’s garden. She still thought of it as her mother’s and so did her father, although he never went there. But he kept it up together, or at least the gardeners did. Her father never begrudged money spent on his dead wife’s little hideaway, even if he could hardly bear to pass through the arched doorway. Her brothers didn’t come much either. But maybe that was because big feet and large frames were not conducive to tripping lightly along pebble paths made even narrower by the profusion of scented plants and herbs that tumbled wantonly over the white-stone edging. Even Meren, her eldest brother’s wife, preferred the large open space of the main private grounds, and Alphros wasn’t allowed anyway because of the fishpond. Lothíriel smiled to herself at the remembrance of young Alphros  removing his clothes and wading into the ornate lily pond, tramping down the pads and trying to catch the bright orange fish that glittered enticingly just below the surface. Another smile tugged at her lips. The garden had become her own special place, an intimate area where she could read and write her journal and feel close to her mother.

Skirting the edge of the courtyard and keeping in the shadows as much as possible Lothíriel turned behind the family’s private quarters and followed the high stone wall until she reached a heavy wooden door. Reaching out her hand to the latch she stopped, drawing her forehead into a frown. Would they know she had come here here? On reflection, she thought they probably would. They only had to speak to the guards at the gate to find out she had not gone down to the beach. And they would look for her. Amrothos might take the opportunity of tormenting her until she squirmed, but really he had a kind nature and he always had her best interests at heart. As soon as the messenger came from Edoras he would find her and hand over her letter. Lothíriel’s heart started thumping uncomfortably – there would be a letter, wouldn’t there? Éomer would have written. He would have replied to her communication. Warmth flushed her face. Had she said too much, given away the depth of her feelings?  Perhaps she had embarrassed him and he would ignore it. No, he would reply, even if only with another unsatisfactory stilted missive similar to the one he had sent last time. Although she was glad that Rohan had been blessed with enough rain and spring sunshine to give the crops a good start, it was not really the sort of message she wanted from her betrothed. ‘I am looking forward to our marriage,’ could hardly be considered a passionate declaration of undying love. Perhaps men only said wonderful things in books.

Shaking her head in frustration, Lothíriel pushed open the door and entered another world.

The tinkle of a softly playing fountain greeted her first, and then the sound of birdsong. It always amazed her how many different kinds of small birds visited the garden, some even nesting there. She supposed the water attracted them, or the surfeit of insects that buzzed around the bright bougainvillaea or crawled in and out of the large yellow cups of Solandra. The pretty little finches had all flitted up into the creepers that clothed the stone walls as she entered but she knew that if she kept quiet they would descend again, some to chase ants that scurried over the pebbles others to delve for tiny seeds that had fallen down between them. Better still, they would take turns to come to bathe, chattering like excited children and fluffing their feathers importantly to one another.

Lothíriel picked her way along the pebble path that led to a wooden seat set in a wall niche. Screened and shaded by a feathery Tamarisk and the overhang of the wall, it made a cool and restful retreat on such a blazing afternoon and Lothíriel snuggled into the soft cushions, which were put out by the palace servants on fine days such as this. Once curled into one corner with her back supported by a bolster, she had a good view of the shallow edge of the pond where the birds liked to play. Shielded by the greenery the finches would soon ignore her and descend again, eager to continue with the social obligations of belonging to an elite little flock.

Comfortably settled, Lothíriel took the small key that hung on a chain around her neck and fitted it into the ornate lock that kept the leather covers of her journal together. She had no intention of anyone else ever reading her most secret thoughts. Carefully, she started to flip her way through the pages, searching for the entry made in Rohan three months ago on the evening of the day she had first met her future husband. She came to the page describing the night before the meeting, which she had spent as a guest of Lord Albin, a minor lord with a vineyard high in the White Mountains and whom her brother Erchirion had met in the war. Laughing, she read how nervous she had been, wondering what the King of Rohan would think of her. ‘Will he like grey eyes and dark eyebrows?’ she had written. ‘My hair is thick and black but my skin is fair. I have a nose that turns up slightly at the end, maybe he would prefer a more elegant accoutrement. And I am quite tall, not slightly built like lots of ladies but well formed. My breasts are large and difficult to hide, what will he think?’

Lothíriel dissolved into giggles, glad she was alone. In spite of Aunt Ivriniel telling her that she must keep her charms, as the old matriarch called them, hidden from all men, even her betrothed, she had not missed Éomer’s eyes moving from her face to her chest and back to her face before he had bowed his head. He seemed to like them well enough. Her fingers moved to turn the page but she stopped, and changing her mind she started to flip the leaves backward instead. She had plenty of time and would start from the beginning, reading the bits from the end of the war when she had first heard of him. She had not looked at those writings for ages and although she could remember without prompting almost every thought that had passed through her mind and every reaction she had felt when she had first set eyes upon Éomer, it would be nice to remind herself of those first days. Reading the passages would help her relive the excitement she felt at the end of the war when she knew with certainty that a husband would be found for her. That had been followed by the mixture of anxiety and anticipation when she had suspected who it might be. She flicked back unhurriedly, her eyes catching sight of various entries, some which brought a smile to her face, others a frown, until she found the page she sought.

Entry for  30 March 3019

‘I am almost too excited to write; in fact I am not sure I will be able to sleep tonight. For today we heard we have won the battle for Middle-earth. The Men of the West have defeated the Dark Lord and Gondor will soon be crowning a new King. Today I have learned not only of the bravery of our own people but what happens when men join together to fulfil an ancient oath and how the courage of one small halfling can change the course of history. ’

Lothíriel put the heavy book down to rest on her lap; she did not need the words to remember. As always when she started to read, the pictures and the memories jostled together in her mind until clear recall emerged, taking her back to the time and the place…

***

The day had dawned clear, the darkness and cloying cloud might never have been. A great restlessness was about the city, Lothíriel felt it in the way the servants were preoccupied, hanging around in groups waiting for something to happen. Elphir felt it too, but then he had found it harder than anyone over the last weeks. Staying in Dol Amroth when his father and brothers went to war did not sit well with him, but the city had to be defended, their people protected.

Unable to concentrate on any useful task, Lothíriel dragged Anniel, her distant cousin and companion, up onto the battlements that surrounded the fortified city of Dol Amroth. The older woman complaining all the way.

“Just because no one else is doing anything it doesn’t mean you have to waste your time, Lothíriel. And what do you want to come up here for anyway, there’s nothing but the sea to look at.” The breaths coming from her mouth were short and fast, climbing three flights of stone steps made the plump little woman pant hard.

Lothíriel caught hold of her hand, pulling her up and chiding her affectionately. “You want to keep off the sweetmeats and pastries, Anniel, or you won’t be able to get up here at all.”

“When you look like me, my girl, then eating is the only pleasure you are likely to get.”

“Nonsense,” Lothíriel laughed, “I saw the baker squeeze you around the waist only yesterday. And don’t tell me that Gerwin isn’t interested because I won’t believe you. He follows you around like a lapdog.”

“Tsk…” Anniel made a sound somewhere between a hiss and a snort through her protruding teeth. “The baker only likes me because I order so many cakes and as for that oaf Gerwin…  let me tell you, Lothíriel, if I am going to sacrifice myself a second time to the marriage bed then it won’t be for any drooling lapdog.  It will be for a real man.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows in astonishment, “Sacrifice yourself? That’s not what you usually say. I have heard you state that the only proper place for a woman is beneath a man.”

Anniel’s eyes widened in feigned shock “Not to you I didn’t say it. Your father would send me straight back to Lossarnach if he thought I put ideas like that in your mind.”

“No,” agreed Lothíriel, chuckling, “I overheard you saying it to Meren.”

“Well, there you are then,” Anniel pronounced with obvious satisfaction, “Meren’s a married woman. And I doubt she had to do much sacrificing, wedded to your handsome brother.”

Lothíriel shook her head in amusement, “You are incorrigible. But you are right: my father would not be pleased if he knew what kind of education you are giving me.”

“He should be glad that you won’t go to your husband in complete ignorance as many noble young ladies do. You won’t be prostrated by fear on your wedding night.” Anniel waited a short moment and then her lips twitched, “Just prostrated, I imagine,” she added mischievously.

Lothíriel grinned in response but then her laughter evaporated as she reached the castellated wall and stared out between the stone blocks to find only empty sea. “There probably never will be a husband, Anniel. We have heard nothing since the messenger after the battle, no news from the Black Gates. Whatever possessed my father and this Lord Aragorn to ride to confront the Dark Lord in his own domain?”

Anniel put her hand on her charge’s arm, offering well meant comfort that did nothing to dispel the fear that Lothíriel had resolutely masked under her schooled and trained countenance. “They know what they’re doing and must have had good reasons. Sooner than you think your father and brothers will come riding back here, waving banners and singing victory songs. Your father will pick you a fine warrior for a husband and my job will be done.”

Lothíriel went quiet for a moment before saying diffidently, “Perhaps there won’t be enough men left to go around. I will probably end my days sewing samplers and looking after Elphir’s increasing number of children.”

“Now what kind of talk is that…”

“Sail in sight!”

The shout from the lookout made them both jump. Lothíriel turned sharply, her eyes searching what still looked like an empty sea. “Where?”

“In the haze, half a league south of the point, Princess.” The lookout answered from the tower above her.

Lothíriel peered in the direction the man had pointed. For what seemed like an age she could see nothing, but then she glimpsed the outline of a sail. Hurrying footsteps, and the Master of the Watch crossed the top of the wall and climbed the ladder to the tower. A few minutes later he reappeared. “It’s Wild Swan, Princess. She’s coming fast with the tide.”

Lothíriel grabbed the arm of a passing guard, “Find Prince Elphir.”

But her brother appeared a few moments later and as rumours of the sighting of a sail ran like wildfire thorough the city, those not allowed on the walls crowded the areas below.

With the ship still at a distance and shielded by the haze of the hot afternoon, even the lookout from his vantage point high above them could not discern her device. Elphir hesitated, for their ship might be in enemy hands and lowering the chains across the harbour mouth could bring disaster…

***

Lothíriel flicked the page. There was no disaster. What had she written…? ‘Wild Swan returned today and for the first time I saw my father’s ship flying not just the Silver Swan but the ensign of the King of Gondor. A sight I thought I would never behold.’

She read further… ‘I experienced such a mixture of exalting joy and awful sadness. My father and brothers are virtually unscathed, and most of our Swan Knights have survived. But the men have suffered badly. I feel it is due to their inferior weaponry and armour and found it difficult to face the women who have lost husbands and sons. The plight of one young mother struck me forcibly. With her baby clutched to her breast, she stood as one turned to a marble statue when told her husband had been buried somewhere far from Dol Amroth. I will see she is employed in the palace. There will be something she can do without being parted from her child. But now is not the time to find out what skills she may have.’

Lothíriel sighed. Lissi had proven to be an excellent needlewoman, and with all the bride-clothes and the warm garments needed for relocation to Rohan, her talents had been appreciated. But employment and recognition did not replace a husband and father… she shook her head. Thinking back to the sadness would do her no good, there had been much celebration as well. She was supposed to be remembering the first time she had heard about Éomer. And that had been that evening when she had sat with Elphir and some of their wounded Knights who had returned on Wild Swan.

‘I could barely eat a mouthful, my mind fixed on the brave deeds of our soldiers. I say soldiers, but running through all the accounts of the first battle the part played by the Lady Éowyn of Rohan stood out clearly in my thoughts. That a high-born lady would ride to war was the antithesis of all I have been taught as a noblewoman of Gondor. In my country the men protect the women, and in turn the women minister comfort and care to their husbands, fathers and brothers, but are subject to their control. It has always been the way of things here, but I admit that my heart sings with pride that one such as her could strike so deadly a blow for the cause of the just. How I long to meet her.’

Lothíriel put her book down again; Éowyn was not as she had thought at all. Not large, loudmouthed and manly, but willow-like and slim. Her fine bones belying the strength of her flesh. Not much like her brother either. He was certainly large and strong; manly but not loudmouthed. At least not with women, although maybe in battle. A shiver of something she recognised as desire shot thorough her at the thought of her betrothed, bringing warmth to her body even in this shady spot.

‘It was my father who recognised that Lady Éowyn still lived, and because of that they carried her to the Houses of Healing, but her brother Éomer thought her life extinguished and in his grief went on a  rampage of killing that took him and his Riders far into the enemy ranks, nearly  proving disastrous.’

Lothíriel had a little grin to herself; she well remembered the tales told that night and the dig in the ribs she had received from Anniel at the mention of the heroes in the battle…

***

“This Aragorn, sounds like a man to be reckoned with. And he’s going to be our King, Lothíriel. Now who better to be his queen than the Princess of Dol Amroth?!”

“He must be at least eighty years old, Anniel,” she hissed back. “I may be eager to marry but I am not going to marry an old man. He’s older than my father.” It was true she viewed marriage as necessary, all noble Gondorian women did. It was their only hope of any independence. The only hope of having some say over their own lives, at least if they had an indulgent husband. But she couldn’t imagine she would have much freedom as Queen of Gondor.

“He doesn’t sound like he’s eighty, not by the way he fights.”

Anniel did not sound prepared to give up but Lothíriel knew she’d always had high aspirations for her charge. Grinning wickedly, Lothíriel leant close to her cousin, “I rather like the sound of Éomer of Rohan. He is young and undoubtedly brave. Do you think he is handsome?”

“Rohan?” Anniel whispered furiously. “Don’t you even think of going there. By all accounts my kinswomen, Morwen, couldn’t stand it. Cold windy place that it is. She couldn’t wait to come home.”

But by the end of that evening Lothíriel was already lost in her dreams. Rohan was the country that produced women like Éowyn and warriors like her brother, Éomer, who laughed in the face of despair and raised his sword in defiance when faced with unconquerable odds.

***

To be continued – when the dream intensifies.

Lothíriel’s Journal

Chapter 2

Just as she had thought, the birds had come back down and some were already lining up to take a turn in the bathing area. Lothíriel decided she liked the little sparrows best. They were not so colorful as some of the others but they made up for it by being cheeky and bossy, pushing bigger birds out of the way to regain a favored spot on the edge of the pond. Wings flapped furiously and water droplets sprinkled the surrounding pebbles, only to dry almost immediately as they hit the hot stone.

Entranced, she watched the frenzied activity for a moment longer before turning back to her journal.

Entry for 3^rd April  3019

‘More messages came from my father today; he has commanded us to attend the coronation. The new king is to be called Elessar, the Elfstone, Envinyatar the Renewer of the house of Telcontar. We are to send harpers and players to honour the king, for there are none that play more sweetly than those of Dol Amroth. My father has suggested that we take Wild Swan and join him in Cormallen where the armies are resting after the battles. However, we have decided against this. As much as I long to see my father and brothers the time is not right to forsake our people. Elphir has decided that he will stay home for a while longer, as amidst the victory celebrations the people of Dol Amroth are grieving. In spite of my eagerness to meet the heroes of the battles and visit the White City I support him in this. We aim to leave towards the end of the month, arriving just in time to witness the coronation on the first day of May.’

Lothíriel sighed. Perhaps she should have been less high-minded and just ignored the plight of her people. But when they heard that Antron, the brother of one of her childhood friends, had been hewn down in the last hours of the fighting whilst dealing with the remnants of the Easterlings, she knew she could not go.  She sighed again. If she had left when her father wanted then it would not have happened. Even now, over a year later, she could still remember the bitter disappointment and envy when she had waved her brother and his family on their way. But who could have foretold that she would have broken her leg a week before they were due to take the ship to Minas Tirith…

***

They had watched the ship until it rounded the point; the last sight of it bringing a hollow feeing to her stomach. Just imagining all the wonderful celebrations, the dancing and the banquets had made her grip her crutch in frustration. She wouldn’t be meeting Éowyn now, or her brother. And she had so much wanted to.

“Crying won’t do any good, Lothíriel. You should have considered the danger before you went clambering over those slippery rocks.” Anniel’s voice was a little sharp but all the same she slid her arm around her charge’s waist.

Lothíriel sniffed. “I am not crying, but I am naturally disappointed. And on top of that my leg is uncomfortable. Besides,” she said, head defiantly in the air, “if the situation arose again I would still do the same. I cannot bear to see a creature struggling for life, and the gull would have drowned when the tide came in. It was so tangled in the line it had no chance.”

“If the guard hadn’t spotted you, you would have had no chance. Either of rescuing the gull without a knife or of making it back above the tide line with a broken leg.”

“Well, he did see me and that is what he is there for, so there’s no point in going on about it,” Lothíriel snapped.  “Oh, I am sorry, Anniel,” she said immediately, seeing her cousin’s lips press together. “I should not take out my frustration on you. It’s just that nothing ever happens here. I have not left Dol Amroth since my mother died and it would have been so exciting to have gone to Minas Tirith. Everybody will be there except me.”

Anniel looked at her with a shrewd expression for a moment; as though she could divine Lothíriel’s every thought. “By everybody, I presume you mean Éomer of Rohan.” Anniel shook her head, “I don’t know what’s got into you. You have never even met the man but I find you reading books about that barbaric county at every opportunity.”

Lothíriel blushed. But she couldn’t really explain it either, only knowing she wanted to meet a real hero. And if he happened to be of marriageable age and considered by those who had met him, to be a good looking sort of man, then so much the better.  Spending her early years reading tales of the first battles for Middle-earth and the champions of those times had left her with a vivid imagination and she admitted freely, a romantic disposition. As a noblewoman of Gondor, reading about adventure was the closest she was likely to get to it. Anyway, in spite of what Anniel said, it was not only Éomer she wanted to meet.

“I want to meet Éowyn, Anniel, and the others who helped to save us. I have never met a Halfling, an Elf or a Dwarf.”

Anniel smiled, a sceptical look on her face, before turning around to signal for the men to bring the adapted cart that would get Lothíriel back to the palace, “Well, your leg is not broken badly, and who’s too say how long they will all be staying in Minas Tirith, but…”

“But what, Anniel?”

“Just don’t you go setting your heart on any man in particular. You know it won’t work like that for you. Your marriage will be an affair of state and I am afraid you will have little say in it.”

“You don’t think my father will arrange something straight away, do you?” She didn’t quite know whether to be delighted or worried. Could she trust her father to make a choice that would please her?

“Maybe not quite yet, but soon, Lothíriel. Your dowry is bound to attract a lot of interest. No doubt new alliances will need to be forged after the war and there will be favours and debts to repay. The hand of the Princess of Dol Amroth is likely to seen as a valuable commodity.”

“Is that all I am, Anniel, a commodity?” Lothíriel swallowed, the slight euphoria she had felt when she realised things would change in the not too distant future, totally evaporated.

“Now, now, don’t pull that face,” said Anniel, putting her arm around her again. “You know your father will consider you when he makes the decision. He will be very fussy and want the best for his daughter.”

Reassured for a moment Lothíriel nodded. Her father might be a stickler for tradition and honour, but she knew he loved her. It was only after conversation ceased as the cart trundled its way back to the palace that a stray though flitted through her mind. To whom did Gondor owe the biggest debt, if not Rohan?”

***

Coming back to the present Lothíriel looked down at her journal, she had to remind herself what she had written that night…

‘I know it is silly of me to think so much of a person I have never met, but somehow it is as if I am heading toward a fate that was destined for me. I have heard so much from our men about the Rohirrim and the young lord who now leads them that I feel our paths will cross whether I go to Minas Tirith at this time or not. Ever since I can remember I have had these premonitions and they rarely let me down.  Therefore I will not be saddened at my forced incarceration but use the time to learn more about the lands to the north of us and the people who dwell in them.’

Lothíriel grinned, hugging her journal against her breast before letting out a long sigh of satisfaction. Their paths had crossed all right, but she still remembered the stab of pure mortification she had felt when her father wrote of her cousin Faramir’s involvement with Éowyn of Rohan…

Entry for 12^th May 3019

‘Another letter came from my father today in which he tells me that the Rohirrim have left Minas Tirith to begin their journey home. Evidently they were feted all the way from the city to the walls of the Rammas Echor. One person is sorrier than most to see them go: my cousin Faramir. It will not be announced until Théoden, the previous King of Rohan has been buried, but Faramir is to wed the Lady Éowyn.  I am trying to be pleased for my cousin, for surely he deserves such happiness, but mixed amongst my pleasure at the news is the dreadful disillusionment I feel. Of course I will meet Éowyn and her brother, and doubtless many other of the Rohirrim; I will meet them at Faramir’s wedding in the spring. My premonitions were correct: our families will be drawn closer together, but not in the way I envisaged. Éowyn will be a cousin to me, not a sister. It was but a dream, no doubt the consequence of a fervid imagination and a liking for stories of bravery, romance and adventure. It is possible that I will spend the rest of my life in Gondor, wedded to some noble lord whose loyalty will strengthen the rule of the new king. My life will be regulated and subject to the traditions and restrictions imposed on the women of our land. But how I wish for something more!’

Lothíriel shook her head. Rarely in her life had shefelt so despondent as she had during the summer months of 3019. She could not ride until her leg fully mended; Meren, her brothers and her father were all in Minas Tirith and the City of Dol Amroth still reeled from the aftermath of a bloody war. Even when the strapping came off her leg it took a while to return to full strength. Walks on the beach with Anniel and gentle ambles on her horse, her only relief from the monotony of long hot days and endless talks with her father’s councillors.  The news of the king’s marriage to an elf caused some interest – and relief – that was one old man she was not destined to marry. But then came further disappointment…

Entry for 20^th July 3019

‘In a few days Meren and Alphros will be home, but my brothers and my father are travelling to Rohan for King Théoden’s funeral. They honour the dead and the living, for no race of people is held in higher esteem in Gondor than the Rohirrim. But it will mean that six months will have passed since I set eyes on my father, Erchirion and Amrothos. I miss them dreadfully. I try to keep interested in my embroidery but I am making slow progress with the new seat covers needed for the solar. Even the books Anniel found buried in the vaults do not keep my attention and often my mind wanders up the river valleys of Lamedon and over the Ered Nimrais. Those snow-capped peaks I once saw in my childhood are in my thoughts a great deal. Somewhere beyond is a country I long to see.’

Well, she had seen Rohan now and it had not disappointed her, neither had the Lord of that land, but when she had written the passage she had told herself to think no more of him. Anniel was right: to set one’s heart on something one was unlikely to obtain only led to sorrow. Then Meren came home and everything changed…

Entry for 24^th July 3019

‘Tonight the Great Hall rebounded with the clatter of crockery and the buzz of lively conversation. The last of the musicians, relatives, and the soldiers who are not accompanying my father to Rohan, returned on the ship with Meren. Those who had stayed in Dol Amroth listened eagerly to the tales of the glory and splendour that attended the first crowning of a King of Gondor for a thousand years and of the joyful celebrations of his marriage to Arwen, the beautiful daughter of Elrond Halfelven. All around me I heard descriptions of the fierce Rohirrim, the magnificent horses and the bravery of their White Lady. How I envy my cousin Faramir who has found true love in the midst of sorrow. I think my face must have portrayed my sadness at missing such an exciting time but Meren, took my hand, leant toward me and whispered that she had some news to tell…’

Lothíriel chuckled to herself, recalling how impatient she had felt that night, waiting to hear Meren’s news.

***

Meren had left her and Anniel in the solar while she went to kiss Alphros goodnight. A quiet tap at the door brought only a servant with a tray of camomile tea; Lothíriel’s sigh of annoyance instigated a sharp admonishment from Anniel.

“I don’t know what you are expecting, Lothíriel, but I imagine the news may be that you are to have another nephew or niece.”

“Oh…,” the disappointment dripped gloomily from the short syllable, and she sat down heavily in the nearest chair. But just what had she expected? Finding no real answer, and chastising herself for her ill humour she overcame her discontent. “That will be nice and of course I will be very pleased if it is the news,” she said, smiling to show her mood had improved.

“I am sorry to be so long,” Meren chirped as she entered the solar, all chestnut curls, glowing honey complexion and with her petite figure shown off to perfection in a blue silk gown, “but Alphros is grizzling. He is overtired from the journey.” She grinned. “Goodness knows what he will be like when he has to share my attention.”

Lothíriel jumped up and hugged her sister-in-law. She loved her dearly, and all the ire and frustration that she had been feeling from missing the wondrous events in Minas Tirith vanished in the genuine joy for her brother and his wife.

“Careful, careful! You will squash it! Meren pushed her away and only then did Lothíriel realise she held a rolled up piece of parchment. “I brought you this,” Meren said, handing the roll to Lothíriel.

Her sister-in-law did not elucidate but just waved her hand toward the light. Intrigued, Lothíriel took the offering over to the desk in front the window and laid it out on the leather surface, using a paperweight, an inkstand, a candlestick and a jug to keep it flat. In the half-light the image seemed to leap from the page. Hador Goldenhead, her first thought. Immediately to be dismissed, for this fair-haired warrior rode a huge snorting war-horse. The drawing had been done in ink, but the artist had brushed what looked like a mixture of yellow ochre and saffron on the man’s long flowing locks. The sword, held high above his head, bore streaks of vermillion running down the blade but the only other colour had been given to the horse’s overlarge saddlecloth which had been painted with some green pigment.

Lothíriel started, a shiver passing down the complete length of her body. Now she knew whose likeness she had been given – Éomer of Rohan. No wonder she thought it was Hador, for this man looked very like the ancient illuminations that she had seen depicting the Lord of Dor-lómin and involuntary the words she had read so often came to her mind… ‘The Men of the Three Houses throve and multiplied, but greatest among them was the house of Hador Goldenhead, peer of Elven-lords. His people were of great strength and stature, ready in mind, bold and steadfast, quick to anger and to laughter, mighty among the Children of Ilúvatar in the youth of Mankind.’* The stories of Hador’s grandson, Húrin, and his great grandson, Túrin, had long fascinated her. Then for moment she became lost in the tales she had read in her childhood: At the end of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Húrin and his brother Huor had defied Morgoth, vowing to fight to the end. She paused in her thoughts. At the Battle of the Pelennor Fields there had been one who had thought to stand until all fell around him. A lump of emotion caught in her throat and she refocused on the parchment — here was no legend from the past – this warrior dwelt over the mountains to the north and even now her father rode with him, along the Great West Road that would take them to Edoras and the plains of Rohan.

Feeling Anniel moving closer to peer over her shoulder, Lothíriel studied the representation intently. Rather unlikely in the middle of a battle, Éomer had removed his helm. It rested on his saddle before him but no doubt the artist thought it more important to show the expression on his subject’s face rather than adhere to accuracy. He had caught the moment brilliantly. Instinctively, Lothíriel knew that this was the very instant despair and defiance had changed to jubilation as Éomer had witnessed the King’s standard unfurling on the lead ship. The artist had managed to portray all three differing emotions in the warrior’s eyes. A masterpiece. She looked up, her gaze questioning Meren.

“Is it a good likeness?”

“Oh yes,” Meren replied. “Éomer spent some time in the White City and no doubt the artist was able to observe him reasonably closely.”

Lothíriel said nothing but Anniel let out a long sigh. “Well, he looks like a man one would be happy to stay awake for.”

Meren’s pretty face broke into a mischievous grin, “Many of the young ladies of Minas Tirith thought the same.” She looked straight at Lothíriel, “Your brothers bet on who would walk away with the prize.”

“And who did?” Lothíriel tried to keep her voice and her face from showing any emotion.

“No one. At least not permanently. I am not saying he did not have any liaisons; there were many willing widows around. But he did not strike me as the sort of man who would take advantage of innocent young women unless he had serious intentions.”

“Thank goodness for widows,” Anniel said, “they give a man a chance to practice.”

Meren dissolved into giggles but Lothíriel looked at her cousin in slight shock. “Are you saying that a man should have numerous liaisons before marriage, Anniel?”

“Of course. Believe me it’s much better than having him fumbling around on the wedding night, not knowing exactly where the pieces fit together.”

Lothíriel gasped, before she too started to giggle. Anniel was always so completely down to earth and pragmatic about the whole thing, it was impossible to be offended. Anyway, her brothers saw to it that she was not a complete prude.

“Is that what happened to you?” Meren asked when she had stopped laughing.

Anniel made a humph… sort of sound. “I think I knew more than him. He was so nervous I worried we would never get there. But it was all right once he realised what he had to do.”

Lothíriel doubled up in mirth, “No more, Anniel. I am sure you should not be telling me things like that.”

“As I have said before, the more you know the better. It saves a lot of anguish.”

“She’s right, Lothíriel,” Meren agreed. “With my mother dead I knew nothing,” a dreamy smile crossed her face, “but your brother…”

“No!” Lothíriel held up her hand. “Please, I do not want to know about any intimacies that involve my brothers.”

“It’s probably a good job you did not go to Minas Tirith then,” Anniel said with a smirk, “for I imagine they took full advantage of what was on offer…. Not Elphir, I mean.” she said hurriedly, glancing at Meren.

“I should think not,” Lothíriel uttered. But Meren only laughed, seemingly sure of her husband’s loyalty.

Still amused, Lothíriel turned back to the drawing; “It is a very skilful drawing,” she said, for she could almost hear the snorting of horse and the shout of joy from Éomer’s mouth.

“Yes, it is certainly one of the better ones. Many were taking benefit of the wish for keepsakes, and not all were by any means as good as this one. You could buy sketches of just about everyone – the hobbits, Gandalf on his horse – he and Shadowfax were mostly depicted defying the Witch King when he smote down the gates. Éowyn’s portrait was popular, of course and the silver-haired elf. But I thought you would like one of the Lord of the Mark.” 

Lothíriel looked her sister-in-law straight in the eye. “Why would you think that, Meren?”

“Because your father intends to try and negotiate a marriage contract with him.”

Silence. But surely they could hear her heart thumping. Lothíriel searched around for something to say that would not reveal the thrill that rushed through her. How would she be able to explain the sense of rightness she had been aware of ever since she’d heard about the man?

“I knew it!” Anniel cried. Thankfully giving Lothíriel time to collect her thoughts. “They will send you of to that savage country and you will have to learn to fight like the Lady Éowyn.” The dumpy little woman plopped into the nearest chair and took out a handkerchief to wipe her perspiring face.

Lothíriel put a hand on her shoulder; she knew it was not really Rohan that bothered her companion. Her cousin wished her to make a good match but when she married, Anniel would lose her position, and although her father would honour his obligations to a kinswoman, life could be bleak for a widowed lady of unsubstantial means. “Nothing is certain, Anniel. My father may wish for our houses to be joined but that does not mean that the new King of Rohan and his advisors will agree to it. They may…”

“I have to tell you, Lothíriel,” Meren butted in, “that your father and Éomer have become close friends, your brothers also. Besides that, I understand that King Elessar is very keen on the idea. He and Prince Imrahil will put the suggestion to Éomer while they are in Rohan. Nothing can be mentioned until King Théoden is buried and the new king crowned.”

“So he has no idea what’s intended for him yet, and might not agree, or indeed may have plans of his own.” Lothíriel said, wondering if there was any point in speculating at all on something that might not be.

“No, he doesn’t know,” Meren agreed, “and I only am aware of it because your father has been discussing it with Elphir. But he seems determined to bring it off.”

“And if the Lord of Dol Amroth wants something, he usually gets it,” Anniel said quietly from her chair, putting an end to the conversation….

***

Shifting her position on the seat slightly to avoid a shaft of sunlight that now peeked through a gap in the foliage; Lothíriel fingered the edge of the page pensively. She remembered it had been a long time before she could write the entry in her journal that night, so confused were her thoughts. In the end she had locked the drawing of Éomer away and just put down the facts, finishing off with…

‘What happens to me now is in the hands of my father and King Elessar. They may convince our friends in Rohan that it will be good to strengthen our alliance, or they may not. I am unable to make any contribution to the decision that will decide the course of my life. May the Valar help me to accept my fate with good grace.’

***

To be continued – When Lothíriel finds out if her dreams will come true

A/N  * Quotation taken  from The Silmarillion, Chapter 17 – Of the coming of men into the West.

Lothíriel’s Journal

Chapter 3

Something had changed, Lothíriel looked up, scanning the area of garden she could see through the greenery. A moment passed before she realised that the bathers had disappeared from the pond. Only a wet area on the paved edged remained, and a few leaves quivered in a bush beyond. A bee buzzed out of a bloom to her left, but the birds had stopped singing. It must be the hour in the afternoon when they all seemed to go for a rest. She had noticed before that they vanished into the trees at a certain time, reappearing when the sun sank a few degrees to stock up on food before retiring for the night. Running her tongue over her lips, she wished she’d thought of bringing a drink and considered for a moment whether to return indoors. But no – the time passed much faster out here and she wanted to finish reading her journal in peace…

Entry for 30^th September 3019

‘Today my father returned home. Silver trumpets welcomed the Lord of Dol Amroth as he rode proudly through the gates of his fair domain with silken banners flying high. Such a welcome the citizens gave their Prince after his months away. As well as the Ship and Silver Swan, he came bearing the device of the King of Gondor, for none other is more loyal to our king, and now my father is his closest advisor. How handsome my brothers looked. No helms they wore but their black hair flowed loose down their backs and their armour gleamed red, catching the light of the westering sun.’

And then…

‘The feasting carried on long into the night as we all listened avidly to the tales of the past six months and of a journey to the land of the Horselords. A realm once seldom visited but that now lies less than a week’s ride north through a tunnel in the mountains. I heard of a mighty golden-roofed hall and rolling plains of grass where the wind set up a shimmering wave that echoed of the sea. A king buried and a king crowned. At his crowning the new king gave his sister to Gondor, pledging friendship between our two countries. So our families are to be joined and I will call the Royal House of Rohan, kin. But I heard nothing of any other uniting of our people. So the drawer that contains the likeness of the Lord of that Land — remains locked.’  

***

Lothíriel well remembered the frustration of not knowing anything. She had tortured herself imagining Éomer refusing the offer from her father and that instead she had been promised to a dull and boring Gondorian nobleman with strict ideas on the role of women. The next afternoon, with her father and Elphir incarcerated with the council, Amrothos and Erchirion wedded to the stables, she wandered down to their private area of beach. Morosely, she walked along the tideline kicking sand and picking up shells until weary of the distraction, she settled herself on a rock to watch the sea-birds diving. She must have been sitting there a long time judging by the length of the shadows when the sound of barking shattered her peace. Her father’s two spaniels were rushing in and out of the surf chasing the wading birds – short stumpy tails wagging furiously. Their master had returned and they were wet – life for them could not get any better. Lothíriel looked back along the beach, expecting to see the steward who normally exercised them when her father’s duties kept him busy, but surprised, she saw the Lord of Dol Amroth himself striding purposefully towards her.

Watching her father approach, she thought perhaps she might have been a bit hasty in dismissing King Elessar as an old man. Not that she had met him yet, but all reports told of an upright and striking, finely-honed warrior. Looking at her father now she could believe it, he gave the impression of being just a slightly older version of her brothers. Even casually dressed he had an air of elegance:  the dark wool tunic fresh and un-creased, the sand afraid to cling to his soft suede boots. As always, he looked every inch a prince.

Lothíriel stood up as he reached her, a sudden rush of love for him overwhelming her for a moment. Alone on the beach, or at least with the guards a good way away, he drew her into a hug, something he never did in public. She welcomed the feel of his strong arms around her, but then he pushed her away from him a bit, his all-seeing eyes searching her face.

“You looked so sad sitting there, and when I look into your eyes I see discontent.”

She shook her head, “Not really, but I missed so much in the summer. I would have liked to have joined in the celebrations and have seen Minas Tirith again.” She would see it in the spring of course, when she went to her cousin Faramir’s wedding and expected her father to say that, but his grey eyes creased in concern.

“Is your leg back to full strength, Lothíriel? When Anniel wrote she assured me you had only broken one of the lower bones and that it would mend well.”

“Yes, I went for a gallop with Erchirion this morning and have had no ill effects.” She grinned. “Unlike Amrothos, who had such ill effects from the feasting last night that we had to leave without him.”

The Lord of Dol Amroth raised a wry brow, “Overindulgence is a sign of extreme youth, he cannot use that excuse much longer.”

“He…” but she never finished her remark because suddenly two wet spaniels were racing around them, showering them in salty droplets and trying to gain attention after having enthusiastically denuded the beach of feeding waders. Order restored, they went off to investigate the prospects of the tidal pools while her father sought out a relatively dry bit of rock and drew her down beside him.

“An unfortunate accident indeed, but I imagine you would do the same again. Did the gull survive, by the way?”

She managed a half smile wondering if her father was laughing at her, “Yes, I would not let the guard carry me back until he had cut the gull free. But I imagine you think me stupid to have worried about the life of a bird when so many had died.”

He put a calloused but manicured hand over hers, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “Not at all. My daughter will always try to protect those who are weak and in trouble and I would want it no other way. But I wish you could have joined us in Minas Tirith and travelled to Rohan, because I have had to make decisions about your future in your absence…”

Her father hesitated. Not surprisingly, she thought. Even for him it must be difficult to say that he had attempted to arrange a marriage for his daughter without even informing her, however many rights he had. Especially as yet he did not know that she fervently hoped he had arranged a match – at least the match.

He had still not spoken so she decided to take the initiative. “Perhaps it was better I did not go to Rohan. Éomer might have taken one look at me and decided that no alliance with Gondor would convince him to marry me. Without me around, you at least had a chance of persuading him.”

She had thought to surprise him with her direct approach, but only his lips twitched. “Meren told you, I presume. I should have guessed.”

Lothíriel said nothing but stared out to sea, her whole body tense with the expectation of his pronouncement.

“But you are wrong, my daughter. I would have had a much easier time if you had been there. In the six months I have been away you have lost your youthful tendency to be gangly and filled out. You are a beautiful young woman.”

Praise indeed! For her father did not throw his compliments lightly. But the viability of marriages of state did not often rest on the physical aspects of the protagonists, except of course the child bearing capacity of the bride. However, the results of her father’s scheming had not yet been conveyed to her and a mixture of apprehension and trepidation made it hard for her to answer him. But feeling his eyes studying her she pulled her gaze away from the sea and looked down at his hand which still covered hers. She would not allow him to witness any disappointment.

“And were you successful in your persuasions?”

“Yes. A marriage contact is to be drawn up between Éomer, King of Rohan, Lord of the Mark and Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, Princess of the Realm of Gondor.”

A wave of relief shot through her but when she said nothing her father carried on. “But that is what it says on the parchment, Lothíriel. What is important is that my only daughter will be marrying a man that I hold in high esteem. And that she will have a purpose for her life, free of the restrictions placed on her by our society.”

Her head shot up and she met a serious expression. Her father gazed at her for a moment before stretching out a finger to push a stray black lock of hair behind her ear, “Do you think I do not know what goes on in that pretty head of yours? I am very aware, Lothíriel that you find your life…shall we say – uninteresting.”

“Only the last few years, Father. When I was younger I found plenty to do.”     

“You mean you could play with imaginary heroes, Lothíriel, whereas now you can only read about them.”

“You do think me a fool,” she said, her face flaming red.

An arm shot around her head, pulling it down against his shoulder so he was able to whisper. “Men get to become heroes, Lothíriel; women have to be content with caring for them. It is the way of things but that does not mean you cannot wish for more. One day things may be different but in the meantime a little dreaming does no harm.”

“But they are different in Rohan; the Lady Éowyn became a heroine…”

Her father laughed out loud, “Lothíriel do not think that being Queen of Rohan means you will be able to ride at the head of an éored waving a sword. It horrified Éomer that his sister rode to war, the idea that his wife would be allowed to do anything similar is absurd.”

She grinned at him, “I suppose so, and I would be useless anyway. But it will not be as restrictive as being the wife of some boring Gondorian nobleman.

“Lothíriel, I am a Gondorian nobleman. Am I that boring?”

“Oh,” her hand shot to her mouth, “I did not mean…” but she stopped when she saw her father trying to contain his amusement. Taking a deep breath she asked, “What’s he like?”

“Éomer?”

Nodding, she smiled at her father. “Oh I know about him being the ultimate warrior, the men told me that. And I know from Meren he’s attractive to women.” Her father raised a wry eyebrow at that remark which caused her to blush, but she saw the kindly light in his eyes and carried on. “I want to know what he’s really like.”

“You are happy about this marriage, aren’t you? I can read it in your eyes, your voice.”

How could she hope to fool him even for one short moment? “I know it sounds strange, silly even, but from the very first time I heard about him I had a really strong feeling that this would happen. That I wanted it to happen. And it could not have only been because of his brave deeds, others, our own knights, all did great things. When Meren gave me the picture I felt even more drawn to him…”

“She gave you a picture of Éomer?”

“Yes, when she told me you were going to try and arrange a match. And although I tried not to let myself become fixed on the prospect, deep down I knew you would be successful.”

“One could read all sorts of things into that, Lothíriel. There is no doubt that fate takes a hand in our lives but also maybe, without you really realising, your mind could have worked out that an alliance with Rohan makes perfect sense.  What better way to achieve it than with the bonding of the Lord of the Mark to Gondor’s highest born lady.”

Lothíriel clamped her lips together not trusting herself to answer.

“Have I taken all of the romance out of it? I am sorry, I did not mean to.”

“No matter, from today I will have to start behaving like a Queen anyway,” she giggled suddenly, “or at least trying to.”

“Do not chastise yourself over your behaviour. You may still like to romp and spar with your brothers, but when it comes to it there is nothing wrong with your comportment on formal occasions. And while certain standards of behaviour will be expected of you, I had to assure Éomer that you were not a haughty Gondorian princess who would look down her long nose at him and his people.”

Her eyes opened wide, “Did you tell him much about me?”

“I left that to your brothers, they talk the same language.”

Best not to ask them what they said, instead, “You have not yet told me about Éomer.”

“Hmm…” her father sat up straight, looking out to sea. “Other than what you know I would say he is a mixture. A hardened warrior, but with a soft side. Never would he use his strength against those weaker than himself. And the honesty shines out of him, as it does out of most of the Rohirirrim. They are a straight thinking, plain speaking people. But that does not mean that Éomer is not blessed with a considerable amount of intelligence, he is. Also he has the sort of presence and personal power that makes

Men want to follow him”

Much as she imagined him to be. Then aloud she said, “I am pleased, Father. I have always known my marriage would have little to do with romance, but I am happy to be going to Rohan and all I have heard of Éomer tells me he is a man to admire. I can ask for no more but…”

“But what, my dear.”

“No doubt I will meet him at Faramir’s wedding to his sister, a very public occasion.  It will not be easy and I shall have to behave very correctly. Not the best way to get to know one’s future husband.”

“Lothíriel,” her father said with mild rebuke in his voice, “you surely know me better than that. I would not do that to you. No, we are going to Rohan in the early spring, a few weeks before Faramir’s wedding. It will serve a number of purposes: you and Éomer can get to know one another in the relative informality of Meduseld; you can learn from Éowyn how things are done in the Hall and you can help her with anything she needs to know about life as Faramir’s wife in Gondor. We will travel to Rohan under the Dimholt and back to Minas Tirith with the wedding party, taking the road over the shoulder of Halifirien and through Anórien. It will be a real adventure for you.”

***

Lothíriel hugged her journal to her chest again. A real adventure – she could still recall the tingling excitement she had felt when her father had told her of the arrangements.  She had gone back to the palace in a daze. Anniel had taken one look at her face and let out a strangled groan. “I suppose the cat-that-got-the-cream expression means we are off Rohan. Well, you had better order some thick woollen clothes; you will need more than lust to keep you warm in that place.” 

Affronted at the time, she had later told Meren, who dissolved into her normal giggles saying a bit of healthy lust never hurt anyone and she could not deny experiencing the sensation when she had first set eyes on Elphir.

Lothíriel chuckled, remembering her sister-in laws words but wondered if it could be counted unusual to feel such wanton thoughts when all one had was a picture. Anyway, it had not taken Anniel long to change her mind about Rohan, or actually – have it changed for her. But, she thumbed the thick book thoughtfully; there were many pages to go in her Journal before she got to that bit.

In fact, reactions to the news of her betrothal varied. Her brothers the most pleased, since they had had a hand in it. Lothíriel marvelled how they had managed to keep quiet about it for the twenty-four hours they had been home. But by then she had wanted very much to get to her room and to unlock the drawer that contained the drawing of Éomer. Amrothos, however, waylaid her.

 “You have no idea how glad I am you got the prize, Loti …” He broke off when she scowled at him, they would insist on calling her that.

“Why are you that glad, Amrothos?” suspicion clouding her voice.

He tweaked her ear, grinning hugely. “I got massive odds in Minas Tirith because you weren’t there. No one else thought of putting their money on you. I shall have a lot to collect in the spring.”

“You bet on me!”

“Of course. Have you ever known our father miss an opportunity like that? It stood to reason that once Aragorn was spoken for he was bound to go for Éomer. And King of Rohan or not, he didn’t stand a chance against the Lord of Dol Amroth.”

***

Lothíriel felt her hand clench into a fist. Even thinking about it now she wanted to hit him, and if he hadn’t darted behind a statue of Imrazor and out of the door, she would have done so then. Her brother’s frequent past misdemeanours crowded her thoughts for a moment. How could she have decided he would have her best interests at heart? He’d probably throw the letter away. Rising from her seat and scattering the cushions, she took a step out of the arbour only to see the door to the garden opening slowly.

The rush of expectation withered as she saw Ina, one of the maids, come through the opening carrying a tray loaded with a jug, a beaker and two small saffron cakes. She caught sight of Lothíriel and smiled. “Ah, you are here, Princess, I have brought you something to drink. It’s such a hot afternoon.”

“Thank you, Ina.” Lothíriel took the tray from the maid, smelling the citrus tang of fresh lemonade. “Did Lady Anniel say I might be here?” Disappointment had given way to pleasure at the thought of a drink.

“No, Princess. Your brother, Prince Amrothos, suggested you might be thirsty and he thought you would be in your mother’s garden.”

“Amrothos?”

“Yes, Princess, and he asked me to tell you that the messenger has not arrived yet but he will bring you your letter as soon as he does.”

“Oh,” that made her feel guilty for thinking so ill of him. Maybe Amrothos did have his good points.  

Sitting back down she put her journal aside for a moment – not wanting to spill lemonade on it – and mused on the rest of that fateful day. Eventually she had managed to get to her room and unlock the drawer…

***

As before the image jumped off the page at her, the vibrancy of the drawing making her catch her breath. Not only had the artist captured the emotion in Éomer’s eyes put he had managed to portray the pure strength of the man. And not just his physical strength, but the raw power of him.  Fascinated, she traced her finger over his face, wondering about the colour of his eyes. The picture gave no clue. Not grey, she thought, but maybe blue, or brown. A scant beard, the facial hair just framing his well shaped lips. The artist had smudged on a little ochre but it did not disguise the firm chin, or the slight kink in his nose. How strange that nearly all people had been blessed with the same basic features but they could be put together in so many different ways. In her opinion, Éomer’s had been put together brilliantly.

Leaving the likeness of her betrothed – betrothed, that had a good ring to it – she concentrated on the horse. Another powerful beast with liquid fire in his eyes.  The sweat almost glistened on the tightened haunches and sparks flew from a hoof that pawed over the steel clad chest of a trampled Southron. Again the artist had caught the very essence of his subjects – horse and warrior were moulded as one.

***

Her thirst quenched for a moment Lothíriel picked up her journal again.  Another night when the words had been difficult to write…

Entry for 1^st October 3019

‘Am I nothing but a fool to wish so much for my life to change, for there to be some purpose to it? No, not for that, perhaps, but to expect other than a marriage of political alliance, to yearn for a loving and passionate bond – a fool indeed.   I must put these thoughts away, for I will be Queen of Rohan, and wife to a man that I not only admire but who has helped to ensure the very future of Middle-earth. May the Valar help me to be worthy of the honour.’

***

To be continued – when Aunt Ivriniel decides to give her niece advice about marriage

Lothíriel’s Journal

Chapter 4

Lothíriel rubbed the soft cake between her fingers sprinkling the yellow crumbs over the pebbles, a little away from the edge of the pond. The birds would soon be attracted back down when they realised something was on offer, and the place she had chosen would afford her a good view.

Smiling to herself, she settled back down amongst the cushions. With her thirst quenched she looked forward to reading the rest of her journal. Such a strange winter it had been. Exciting because a new life had been planned for her, but anxious also because – however much she wanted it – meeting and marrying a stranger held many worries.

Entry for 3^rd December 3019

‘We are now into winter and the time passes slowly. My thoughts are often in Rohan and I wonder what I will be doing one year from now. Will my new husband wish for my company when he rides his domain, my advice when he ponders the affairs of government? Or maybe I must spend my time among the women, gossiping about unimportant things. How naïve of me to think that just because he is a handsome hero, a respected king, he will make me a fine loving husband. Sometimes I think it would have been better to find a common man who would love and cherish me, but, as I think it, I know it will never be and is not my destiny. For good or ill, I am a princess, born to be a queen.’

Lothíriel stared at the page. Had she really written that melodramatic stuff? It really must have been a boring winter. At least it had been until Aunt Ivriniel arrived. That event gave them all some amusement…

***

“What have you got there, Lothíriel? It looks well thumbed.” Anniel looked up from her tatting as her charge let out a stifled giggle.

Lothíriel cast a covert glance in her companion’s direction, her finger keeping the place in the large tome. “You must know what it is, Anniel. Aunt Ivriniel gave it to me when I turned sixteen.” 

“Oh, that old book. I haven’t seen it since. What made you bring it out now?”

“Where else would I turn when I want to know about marriage?” Lothíriel grinned as Anniel’s face showed interest at the mention of marriage. “Aunt Ivriniel said that in her early years she consulted it daily.”

“Does it tell you about marriage, then? I would have thought the old prude would have scrubbed anything like that out before she gave it to you.”

“No, there is a bit. I’ll read it if you like,” Lothíriel offered, keeping her face straight.

“Go on then. It will keep me more amused that this piece of tatting. The pattern has gone wrong somewhere and its going to take me ages to put it right.” 

Lothíriel sympathised, for she hated tatting, seeing it as an old woman’s occupation. Not that Anniel was that old… anyway she took a deep breath and tried to make her voice neutral so she would not giggle. “It’s under the heading – The Marriage Bed.”

“Is it?” Anniel’s eyes glistened.

Lothíriel nodded, “There’s not much but I’ll read it.” She enunciated slowly so Anniel would catch every word. “A virtuous wife should be acquiescent to the wishes of her husband without behaving in any way forward or immodest. Neither should she show overt pleasure.” 

Anniel’s eyebrows rose in astonishment but when Lothíriel said nothing else she tipped the tatting impatiently from her lap and joined her at the small table, making a grab for the book. “Who wrote that rubbish?  Oh, Belecthor, I might have guessed.  The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment,” she read the title from the spine. “You adhere to what he tells you in there and you’ll probably stay a maiden. Men like a bit of encouragement and reaction.” Pursing her lips she started to flick through the pages. “Is there anything else?”

Lothíriel nodded. “I’ll find it,” she said, retrieving the book from Anniel. “It’s right at the back. There’s not much about that side of marriage but plenty about being subservient to your husband and never disagreeing with him.” Anniel made one of her humph noises, which Lothíriel ignored. “Ah, here it is— As a wife you will remain dignified at all times and personal gratification is not to be expected or sought after.”  Lothíriel closed the book – there was nothing else anyway – and waited for the reaction. With any luck Anniel would fall right into her little trap. And she did!

“Of all the… the best thing you can do with that book, my girl, is to bury it at sea.”

“I’m happy to do that, Anniel but it means you are going to have to enlighten me on all the details I need to know. For instance, what sort of encouragement is a woman expected to give? And I want to know exactly what happens when…”

“You don’t need to know yet. You haven’t even met him.”

“I don’t see why that should stop you from telling me all about it.”

“No,” Anniel agreed frowning slightly, “but it will be easier to explain after you’ve spent some time in his company.”

“Why will it? What difference will that make to me understanding anything?” And why was Anniel hesitating. She had always seemed too ready to tell her anything until now, just when Lothíriel really wanted to know.

A deep sigh came from her beleaguered companion, as she stooped to pick up her tatting from where it had fallen to the floor. “Because when you meet him, and more importantly when he kisses you, you are likely to experience certain …sensations…which we can discuss and …

“Oh, is he likely to kiss me?” Lothíriel exclaimed, brightening considerably.

“If he’s got anything about him he will,” Anniel mumbled almost to herself but then looked up, her face betraying amusement. “Lothíriel, since he’s agreed to marry you and with him being … how shall we say …not a stranger to women, then if he’s got any sense he will try and woo you. He would be a fool to keep you at arm’s length until your wedding night.” A shake of her head preceded the next comment. “Although from the look of that self-satisfied smirk on your face, I doubt he’s going to have to do much wooing. I just hope you aren’t disappointed when you meet him.”

“I don’t know why you think I will be disappointed,” Lothíriel said feeling slightly belligerent at Anniel’s lack of warmth towards her betrothal. “I know you don’t want me to go to Rohan but you have to admit it’s better than marrying some stuffy old lord with thinning hair and gout.”

“Now you are just being silly.” Anniel retorted. “There’s no reason to suppose that your father would have married you to an old man. There are plenty of young nobles in Gondor who are loyal to the new regime and one would surely have made you a fine husband. Why you are so set on this Horselord, I really can’t fathom.”

Lothíriel gasped. “You saw his likeness, Anniel. There is no comparison.”

“I saw a picture of a fierce warrior on a snorting, stomping horse. Just what you saw, I am beginning to wonder.”

What had she seen? The figure who had haunted her daydreams brought to life? Anniel would never understand that, “I saw…”

The door opened with a bang. Anniel dropped her tatting again, muttering an unladylike curse under her breath and Lothíriel paused in mid sentence, her eyes fixed on Amrothos as he stormed into the room.

“You’ll never believe it, Loti,” he blurted out, diving to the side as the heavy door hit the stop with a judder and swung back, narrowly missing his head, “That old dragon of an aunt of ours is heading this way.

Lothíriel turned sharply around to the window as if already fearing her aunt might be spying on her, “Are you sure, Amrothos? She said she’d never set foot in Dol Amroth again after that drunken oaf, Brandir, stumbled into her room by mistake.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure. The lookout spotted her. No one else travels with oxen pulling their carriage and an army of foot-soldiers. But I don’t know why she made such a fuss, anyway. It was poor Brandir that suffered. It took him ages to recover from the sight of her in that flannel nightcap. He nearly called off his marriage thinking his intended might end up sleeping in one.

“Never mind that,” Lothíriel waved her hand dismissively. “Why do you think she’s come?”

Anniel erupted in a guffaw of laughter. “She must have heard about your betrothal.” It’s the only thing likely to get her here again. She will want to give you advice.”

“Anniel,” Lothíriel cried, horrified, “you don’t really think so, do you?”

Entry for 16^th January 3019

‘I dread tomorrow. My Aunt has made it clear she wishes to talk to me regarding my marriage. I can get no support from my family; in fact it affords them great amusement. My father says she has every right to talk to me, being my nearest female relative. Because of that I felt no sympathy when I overheard her berating him for betrothing me to an uncouth warrior without consulting her. Since she has never met the King of Rohan I feel she has no right to comment.  The conversation at dinner could have been considered strained, especially after Amrothos and Erchirion told her that it was a good job I had not started to ride side-saddle as she ordered me to do last time she visited. Anniel said it would be best to let her have her say and get it over with so we can be left in peace, but it is me who has to listen.’

Even now, months later, Lothíriel shuddered when she thought of that talk with her aunt. True, some parts had amused her, but at the time she had just wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

***

Finally cornered, Lothíriel sat down as her Aunt purposefully shut the door.

Tapping her way across the room, her ebony cane giving much needed support, Ivriniel headed towards her victim. “Really Lothíriel, I am most surprised. I find it extremely rude that your father rode for Minas Tirith before I had even left my room this morning.”

Her many chins wobbled with indignation and Lothíriel found herself fascinated by the large mole that adorned the uppermost one. It quivered with every movement of her Aunt’s small mouth. The two hairs that protruded from the centre of the blemish reminded her of an insect’s antennae – waving in different directions at once. Drawing her eyes resolutely away she eventually managed to answer her aunt, who was now looming over her much as mantis sizing up a cricket.

“He must have been summoned by King Elessar,” she replied, her tone evasive. Although why she should be loyal when she suspected her father had seized any opportunity to get as far away from his sister as possible, mystified her. “The king relies on him, you know.”

“I’m not surprised he needs your father’s advice.” Ivriniel sniffed. “How it can be expected that this Captain of the North, a man who from all accounts spent most of his life in the wilds would be suitable to take the throne of Gondor. I cant…”

“Because it’s rightfully his,” Lothíriel interrupted, half rising from her chair, “and he spent his early years in Imladris. Even you cannot object to that.” Damn, she chastised herself, sinking back down again, provoked into being rude already and the interview just started. But luckily her aunt was still annoyed with her brother.

Ivriniel moved from beside the chair to the window, looking out toward the direction of Minas Tirith. “He didn’t say anything about having to leave last night. I can’t believe it’s something he overlooked.”

Lothíriel shoved her hand under her gown and crossed her fingers, “I expect a messenger arrived after you had retired Aunt, they often ride in late. Your room is on the other side of the palace so you would not have heard anything. And don’t you sleep with cotton wool in your ears?”

Her Aunt turned around sharply, her puce-clad bulk quivering in protest. Lothíriel absently wondered why she chose wear a gown that had been cut so tight that the laces were already straining over her enormous bosom. One more hazardous movement and …Lothíriel shuddered at the thought of her aunt’s gown splitting right down the front, but then had to bite her lip to stop herself from giggling. That event would compromise the old matriarch’s precious dignity.

“I don’t get a wink of sleep unless I do, not with the racket those gulls make. I never could abide them.”

“It could be counted unfortunate, being brought up in Dol Amroth if you don’t like gulls.” Lothíriel could not resist goading her aunt and anyway if she kept her off the subject of her betrothal for a little while longer, then maybe the dinner gong would sound.

“I do admit it pleased me when my father arranged for me to marry Lord Belgar. Far enough away from the sea, but not too near the mountains. I can’t abide mountains. You never know what the weather is going to be like.”

Lothíriel groaned, the subject had been expertly turned. But she smiled, not being able to resist a pert rejoinder. “A good marriage then, for his land is so flat you can see the weather coming for miles.”

Her aunt drew in a deep breath and sat down on one of the chairs near the table. Lothíriel watched the rather spindly gilded legs with increasing hope. “An excellent marriage, Lothíriel. Belgar knew exactly how to behave in all situations. And he passed his principles onto our son. Your brothers could learn a lot from my Pelilas.”

Lothíriel clamped her mouth shut; the difference between her prissy, staid eldest cousin and her brothers was too great to even warrant comment.

“That’s why I felt it my duty to come here as soon as I heard the news. I have always had my doubts about my brother’s way of dealing with the four of you, but this passes all my worst imaginings.”

The youngest of the four opened her eyes wide wondering whatever her aunt was going to say.

“To agree to his only daughter being offered to a savage in order to prop up the shaking rule of our new so called king, well, it defies belief.”

A savage? Thrown for a moment, Lothíriel tried to gather her thoughts. Had her Aunt made a mistake? Did she think her father had betrothed her to a Harad Prince? But no, they had talked about it the night before.

“I spent the whole journey here wondering how I could get you out of it.” Lothíriel blanched at the thought but her Aunt continued before she could protest. “But then I realised that maybe your sacrifice would be to the greater good of us all.”

Lothíriel stared at her aunt. Sacrifice?  “I don’t consider marrying the King of Rohan to be a sacrifice, Aunt Ivriniel. He is a great friend of my father, and will be even closer related to us when Cousin Faramir marries his sister.”

Ivriniel leant on her cane, bent forward in her chair and lowered her voice. “No, of course you don’t, my dear. That is because you have not left Dol Amroth for many years and are unwise in the ways of the world. But men like that do not make good husbands.”

Lothíriel felt herself getting hot, “Men like what, Aunt?”

A deep sigh and her Aunt shook her head.  “Pelilas – felt obliged to travel to Minas Tirith to offer allegiance to King Elessar. I tried to talk him out of it but he overruled me.”

Good for him, Lothíriel thought. It must be the first time her cousin had ever gone against his mother. Her mouth quirked as she hid a smile but her aunt carried on, unaware. “He happened to arrive a few days before the funeral cortege left for Rohan. He didn’t mention anything, of course, not until we heard about your betrothal. But then he knew it to be his duty to tell me.”

“Tell you what, Aunt?”

“About the King of Rohan’s behavior.”

“What behavior?” Lothíriel queried. Perhaps he had got drunk. More than likely if he kept company with her brothers.

“Lothíriel, I don’t like to tell you this.” Her Aunt’s voice lowered even more, and she thrust her head forward. Much like a purple-heron, Lothíriel decided, waiting avidly for the imminent pronouncement. It came with controlled vehemence, “But there were so many women after him that the whole court amused itself making bets…”

“Oh, I know that,” Lothíriel interrupted, somewhat relieved that that was all it was. “Amrothos told me. He bet on me and won quite a lot.”

“Lothíriel!” Her Aunt’s voice rose alarmingly. “I don’t think you understand. Some betted on which of the women he had a relationship with would succeed in trapping him into marriage.”

“Well, none did, Aunt, so that shows he’s quite clever.”

A sharp intake of breath, and her aunt drew herself up in the chair, her face taking on a hue to match her dress. “I know now I was right to come. I was against that woman being given charge of you in the first place. She has been lax, and too much freedom of thought has been allowed you. I can only hope that it’s not too late for me to give you proper instructions on how to behave in your marriage. You may be going to an uncivilized land, Lothíriel but you will be expected to uphold the values of Gondorian womanhood. Making remarks like that will not be tolerated, even in Rohan.”

“No, sorry Aunt.” Lothíriel thought she had better apologize. It might get her off the hook, and she had gone a bit far. But it had just slipped out. “Don’t worry; I have been studying the book by Belecthor, which you gave me. If I adhere to everything it says in there, then I will make no mistakes.”

“It was the King of Rohan’s behavior that worried me, Lothíriel, but your light acceptance of it has shocked me even more. I concern myself with how you will conduct yourself when you meet him.”

“I shall of course behave with the utmost propriety,” Lothíriel assured her, hoping to cut short the inevitable lecture. “I know exactly what I should do during my betrothal period.” She smiled at her aunt and quoted directly from Belecthor – on becoming engaged, the lady will allow her betrothed a single chaste kiss to seal their union. Knowing the eyes of the world on her, she will pay suitable attention to behaving in a seemly and decorous manner. This is the proper way to gain and keep your lord’s esteem,” she finished, barely able to keep a straight face.

Ivriniel let out what sounded like a sigh of satisfaction, “Keeping your lord’s esteem, that is the very point, Lothíriel. The behavior men enjoy from their …mistresses, they do not expect from their wives. Immodest conduct will embarrass the most liberal of men.”

That was not what Anniel had told her. “Should not wives and mistresses do the same things, Aunt? I always understood that men took mistresses when wives …”

“That is not the case at all!” Her Aunt drew herself together and staggered to her feet. “I see I am going to have to tell you exactly how you must conduct yourself in the marriage bed. Instruct you on how to consummate your union. I hoped to avoid it, but there are times when one’s duty has to override the natural repugnance to talk about difficult things.”

Panicking, Lothíriel looked around for escape, but the way to the door was blocked by a mountain of puce silk. In desperation she pretended nonchalance, “Oh, don’t trouble yourself Aunt. Anniel will tell me all I need to know.”

“That woman!” Ivriniel waved her stick in the general direction of Anniel’s rooms. “What does she know about marriage? Her father had to pay someone to wed her and he soon got himself killed at Osgiliath.

“She’s very kind,” Lothíriel retorted, stung by the insult to her companion. “And her husband would not have deliberately got himself killed.”

“She may be kind, which I doubt, but she has no breeding and has proved unsuitable as a companion. And if your father had not disappeared so soon I would tell him so,” her aunt said almost triumphantly.

“Well, Meren will tell me all I need to know, there’s no need to trouble yourself, Aunt.” Lothíriel countered rising from her chair. I’ll go and tell her you want her to instruct me…”

“Sit down, Lothíriel,” Ivriniel commanded. “She is not at all suitable. Last time I was here I caught her slipping her arm around Elphir when they were crossing the hall. The servants could have seen.”

“They are very happy, Aunt.” Lothíriel instinctively defended her sister-in-law.

“She doesn’t know how to behave, but what can you expect? If your father had not wanted to ensure a safe haven for his fleet in Langstrand, he would never have allowed such a poor match.”

Lothíriel’s mouth opened to protest but she closed it again knowing argument was useless. Then diplomacy took over. “It’s very nice of you to take so much trouble, Aunt Ivriniel. I shall be really pleased to hear your advice on marriage. But I won’t be wed until the end of next summer, so there’s plenty of time.” She got up again, “It must be nearly time for dinner.”

“No, Lothíriel. However abhorrent this is for both of us, it has to be done now. I am not a young woman and may be taken any day, so we must overcome our natural reluctance to talk about such things. It is my duty and I owe it to your poor dead mother.”

Completely surprised at hearing her mother spoken about with apparent approval by her aunt, Lothíriel sank back down in the seat, prepared to face the inevitable.

***

The noise of small birds squabbling over the crumbs brought Lothíriel back to the present. No bad thing, as she needed to take a breath before she recalled the awful ending to that conversation. She squirmed on the seat, Sweet Elbereth; she had never thought her aunt would spell it out like that. Still, it had encouraged Anniel and Meren to tell her how she should behave.

***

To be continued – when we find out exactly what Aunt Ivriniel said.

Author’s note – with grateful thanks to Lia, for as well as checking through this story she lent me her very rare copy ofBelecthor’s – The Gondorian maiden’s guide to proper deportment. LBJ.  

Lothíriel’s Journal

Chapter 5

Lothíriel closed her eyes, and leant back against the cushions, sure that sometime in the future she would find the conversation she had had with her aunt, funny. Perhaps after she had been married for a few years.

-------

All the while her aunt had lectured her, the old woman had remained standing: mostly pacing around the room, her stick tapping on the polished wooden floor. Then every now and then she would stop, fix her intense eyes on her niece and wave her stick. Each time Lothíriel retreated farther back into the chair, praying the gong would sound.

“What is most important to understand, Lothíriel, is that doing one’s duty in the bedchamber is not meant to be pleasurable. A refined nobleman will be shocked if his wife enjoys his advances. He will think she is no better than a trollop.”

Lothíriel opened her mouth in astonishment, and then closed it again whilst she frantically searched for something acceptable to say. Finally she managed to get out, “Why do only low women enjoy relations with men. Are they made differently than us?”

“Not physically, no. Although, of course, the peasant classes seem to be blessed with big hips, which is why they find it easy to produce such overly large families.” Lothíriel stared at her aunt’s massive lower body, but the similarity seemed to pass the speaker by. “Highborn ladies are more sensitive, and therefore the vulgarity of the actual act can affect their nerves in the most alarming way.”

“Vulgarity?”

“Yes, vulgarity, Lothíriel. I am afraid there is nothing pleasant about a panting, heaving and sweating man.”

Lothíriel swallowed. Anniel and Meren had never mentioned that. “Surely there are some noblewomen who welcome their husbands to their bed, Aunt. Why…”

“It is not to be encouraged.” Ivriniel interrupted. “Nothing is likely to disgust a man more than a wife who deliberately seeks his attentions. Lord Belgar was always very particular in informing me of his intent to visit my bedchamber and so give me the opportunity of refusing him.” She frowned and made a little noise of aversion, “Not that I felt able to unless ill or indisposed, for as Belecthor makes clear – a husband’s wishes are paramount. But I was able to show that I did not relish the corporeal side of our union.”

“That must have pleased him,” Lothíriel said, letting out a muffled sigh of disbelief.

“Yes, indeed. He appreciated my sensibility and never troubled me too much. Once Pelilas arrived he felt no further need to bother me and we went on very comfortably together.”

“I am sure you did, Aunt,” Lothíriel said, wondering exactly who her uncle used to bother, “and now you have explained that, I feel a lot happier. I am hungry; shall we make our way to the hall?” She stood up, offering Ivriniel her arm but the old lady waved her down again.

“No, no, child. I cannot shirk this duty. You are grasping the essence well, but I must steel myself to tell you what you have to do when it cannot be avoided.”

Feeling much as she imagined a rabbit caught in a trap might do, Lothíriel shrank into the corner of the chair, waiting for the club to fall. Her aunt cleared her throat a few times, inhaled, and forced back her shoulders with obvious determination.

“I shall instruct the dressmaker in the design of your nightgowns before I leave, Lothíriel. I would not have you embarrassed by your husband catching sight of any bare skin before you are safely under the sheets. Hopefully you will be able to ensure that you are in the bed by the time he enters your chamber, but sometimes one’s toilet takes longer than expected and accidents can happen.

“You mean I might trip over the nightgown, Aunt.”

Ivriniel’s head turned sharply, eyes drawing together in suspicion but Lothíriel kept her expression guileless. “No, I mean he might come in when you are not quite covered. You must instruct your maid to always have a robe ready.”

Lothíriel nodded, slightly puzzled. “If I never show myself, aunt, how does he…?”

“I am coming to that.” Another deep breath and with a slight reddening of her face, Ivriniel continued. “When he has got into the bed beside you he will probably kiss you once to assure you of his affection. You must keep your mouth closed. At first Belgar tried to get me to open mine, but I soon put a stop to that. A very unpleasant experience.” Her Aunt gave a small shudder of distaste. Lothíriel said nothing.

“Now, you need to accommodate him without exposing too much of yourself. When he is ready he will roll on top of you and you must pull up your nightgown to your waist. It will be dark so he will not see your flesh.”

No wonder Anniel said her husband had difficulty finding the right spot. Lothíriel smothered a nervous giggle. “How can I pull up my nightgown, Aunt, if he has rolled on top of me?” He, being the King of Rohan, whom she gathered to be rather large.

Nonplussed for a moment, her aunt dithered before replying, “You pull it up when you know he is ready and then he rolls on top of you. At that same moment you must open your legs.”

Now they were getting to it. “So he will tell me he is ready?”

The puce colour returned to her Aunt’s face. “Not necessarily, Lothíriel. You may feel his …stalk … pressing against you. Then you’ll know he is ready to proceed.”

Stalk? She would have to tell Anniel that one! “What do I do then, Aunt?

“You, Lothíriel, do nothing. It would not be wise to encourage him to take longer than necessary. He…” The puce turned to dark mulberry red, but her aunt bravely continued. “Will attempt to insert his … stalk… between your legs. I would advise you not to resist. I feel it is one of those occasions when it is best to fearlessly accept the inevitable. Think of something else whilst it is happening. I always found it useful to make a mental inventory of my store cupboard. One can never have enough pickled cabbage.”

Pickled cabbage! Lothíriel stared at her aunt, dumfounded. Had age finally robbed her of sanity?

But Ivriniel continued in what sounded like a normal voice, at least for her.  “I am afraid there will be a lot of huffing and puffing. Especially if he has taken an excess of wine, or even worse, ale, which I imagine they favour in Rohan.” Glaring at Lothíriel, as if she were responsible for her future husband’s drinking habits, her aunt turned down the corners of her mouth in disgust.  The numerous chins sagged even more and the mole wobbled alarmingly. “You will know when he has finished because he will probably let out a loud groan and collapse on top of you. Don’t let him lie there. A quick flick with your knee will encourage him to get off and seek his own bed.”

Lothíriel imagined it would, but shock had rendered her speechless and she could only nod, mindlessly.

“Another thing you need to know, Lothíriel is that there will be quite a bit of …moisture… around…it is always wise to have a clean linen handkerchief tucked under your pillow.”

“Moisture, aunt?”

Ivriniel waved her hand and stuttered a bit… “I have always thought that the whole procedure was ill designed. A lot of residue ends up on the sheets if one is not careful. I have never seen the need for quite so much…sap to come out of the stalk. And you must be careful not to touch it, the stalk I mean, not the sap,” Ivriniel clarified, getting into her stride. “Touching it can cause a spontaneous eruption and that can be most disrupting of one’s laundry arrangements.”

Lothíriel felt the colour drain from her face, her mouth dried and she could only stare at her aunt.

“I can see my plain speaking has surprised you, my dear, but I thought it best you were fully informed. Too many young women go to the marriage bed in complete ignorance and never recover from the shock of that first night. I did not want that to happen to you.”

She smiled, but betrayed her unease by continually fiddling with the end of her stick.   “Is there anything you would like to ask?”

“No, thank you, aunt. You have given me a very clear explanation and I feel much better prepared, now.” Ask? The only thing she wanted to know was how to get out of the door.

Her aunt stood over her, beaming, and looking very proud of herself. “I am afraid you had better prepare yourself for the worst, Lothíriel. You never know with these savages. They are not like us.”

Valar be praised! Lothíriel nearly cried with relief as she heard the first strike of the dinner gong. But it was not over yet for as she got up and smoothed out her dress her aunt fixed her eyes on her neckline and pursed her lips.

“You are showing far too much of your charms, my dear. Low cut dresses only serve to excite and are better avoided completely before marriage and only worn occasionally afterwards. In my experience men need less encouragement, not more.”

Lothíriel nodded and yanked open the door, gulping fresh air. Manners forgotten she fled to the hall.

Entry for 17^th January 3020

‘What my aunt told me in regard to the physical side of marriage is the total opposite to what I have heard from Anniel and Meren and I could hardly wait until dinner finished to be able to question them. But in that I was frustrated: Anniel retired early with a slight head-cold and Meren rushed away when told Alphros had suffered from a bad dream. Not wanting to have any further conversation with my aunt tonight, I too have sought the sanctuary of my chamber. As I write this I have the likeness of my betrothed beside me. In spite of my aunt’s words my heart beats faster as I study his strong features, musing over the colour of his eyes. Sometimes, I feel he is looking at me, wondering too perhaps, how we shall deal together.’

------

Lothíriel sighed, putting her journal on her lap. A huge green dragonfly skimmed over the surface of the pond, but her gaze followed it flittingly, her mind still on her betrothed. Hazel eyes, with little green and gold flecks. Eyes that could flash with anger or fill suddenly with laughter.  Thinking about Éomer brought on a longing that reached deep within her and started all sorts of secret places quivering with expectation. Perfectly natural, she now knew. Anniel and Meren had soon put her right on that…

“She said what!” Meren’s voice rose above its normal level. Anniel just shook her head in disbelief.

“She said that Éomer will think I am a trollop if I welcome his advances,” Lothíriel repeated. Actually, her aunt had referred to a refined nobleman, but it amounted to the same.

“On the contrary, Lothíriel, he is much more likely to think you a poor wife if you don’t,” Meren said. “The best way to send your husband into another woman’s bed is not to welcome him in yours.”

“I doubt that old prude knows what a welcome is,” Anniel’s tone showed she gave no credence to anything Ivriniel had to say.  

“No,” Meren agreed. “In fact, Elphir told me that when Lord Belgar was alive and they used to visit, none of the serving maids were safe. He had a fearful reputation amongst the staff and your father, Lothíriel, had to speak to him.”

“There you are!” Anniel cried. “That shows what happens when you deny your husband. You must not take any notice of her prejudices.”

“Perhaps it was the other way around and his philandering put her off,” Meren said.

Anniel sniffed. “I doubt it, from what I’ve seen of her.”

“So how do I react towards my husband, if you say Aunt Ivriniel has it wrong?” Lothíriel asked, realising she might never again get such a good opportunity to obtain information. She did not miss the glance that passed between the two older women, but they seemed to come to some silent agreement and both turned to smile at her.

“It’s really a bit soon, Lothíriel, but since your aunt started to try and enlighten you, then we had better put you right on a few things.” Meren smoothed her hand over her bulging stomach and took a sip of tea. So Anniel took the opportunity to add her bit before she could continue.

“Enlighten you, it’s a wonder she hasn’t put you off for good. Trollop indeed! What’s that old expression?” She screwed up her face in thought, “Oh yes, – a man requires his wife to act like a strumpet in the bedroom and a goddess outside.”

“I think it’s a wanton, not a strumpet,” Meren put in, frowning slightly.

Anniel shrugged. “Anyway, what it means, Lothíriel is that men like their wives to take an active role. Lying on your back with your nightgown pulled up and your eyes closed, is not likely to make for a happy union.”

“I understand that.” Lothíriel said, flushing, “But what do I actually have to do?”

“Nothing to start with,” Meren interjected, “your aunt was correct there. Once he starts kissing and caressing you, then believe me, everything else will come naturally. Let him guide you and be receptive to his lead.”

“And we know just where he will guide you,” Anniel chuckled, “at least if he’s he like every other man. Men like to be caressed too, Lothíriel.”

“You mean on…” Her aunt’s words came back to her, “Aunt Ivriniel refers to it as a stalk,” she said, blushing furiously.

“Shaft, would be more appropriate if you ask me.” Anniel started to laugh, letting out her characteristic loud guffaw.

Meren, tut-tutted, but even her grin was poorly disguised. “The proper word is male-member, Lothíriel, but there are many others. I think manhood is the nicest.”

“I am sure you will find your own, Lothíriel, but the main thing is that it has incredible importance to a man. They tend to be a little fixated on it and expect their wives to be too. He will want you to caress it, I’m sure.” Anniel had managed to stop laughing but a smirk remained.

Lothíriel took a deep breath, knowing they would laugh again, but there was something she wanted explained. “Aunt Ivriniel said I must be careful not to touch it. She said that the …sap… had a habit of …discharging without warning and it messed up her sheets.”

Meren put one hand over her mouth and one on her belly, her body shook with poorly suppressed laughter. Anniel had no such inhibitions and laughed so hard she had to clutch the table for support. “I wish you would be serious,” Lothíriel snapped. “I am not finding this funny. You are supposed to be helping me.”

Immediately, Anniel looked contrite and stifled her mirth. “I am sorry, you are right. But what that woman told you is just hilarious. You really must take no notice of it, Lothíriel and follow where your husband directs you. He is no callow youth and I am sure he will have patience with your inexperience and,” a snigger escaped Anniel’s lips but she controlled it well,” he will not want to waste his …sap. Put things like that out of your mind. You will take pleasure in his love-making, I imagine, judging by your reaction to his picture.”

“That’s true.” Meren said, winking at her. “Your body will start reacting to him once he starts to woo you. And the first kiss is special; you will be flooded will all sorts of new sensations. As long as you do not act on them until your wedding night… then just enjoy them.”

Anniel nodded her agreement. “That is important, Lothíriel. I am usually the last one with prudish ideas but we are going to be spending three weeks in Edoras and then Minas Tirith. All together, you will spend a considerable time in the company of your betrothed. You must show that you are willing to participate fully in your forthcoming union without allowing him to take liberties before you are married.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Lothíriel queried.

“By responding to his kissing, but not letting him put his hands inside your clothing,” Anniel replied in her usual blunt manner.

------

Well –Lothíriel stretched. Her arm had gone to sleep and she massaged it a bit with her other hand –she hadn’t needed to worry about that. Éomer had behaved perfectly. Too perfectly. In fact she had thought she was never going to get a kiss out of him, not a proper one anyway. But when he did eventually kiss her it certainly enlightened her as to how her body would react. A giggle erupted. No wonder Anniel had warned her about not letting him take liberties, but to be fair he had seemed to be keeping a tight hold on himself. As long as that wasn’t because he didn’t find her attractive, but she thought not. Maybe the nearby presence of her father and brothers had inhibited him. She sighed. If only the letter would arrive and if only it contained something significant.

Lothíriel turned the pages quickly. Nothing much had happened that winter so she might as well get to the bit that told of the first meeting with her intended husband. But a few entries caught her eye, and she smiled as she read… ‘My new nephew came into the world today. Unlike Alphros, who had only a covering of soft down on his head, Elphin bears a shock of thick black hair. How sweet he is. I love his milky smell and the way his lips move in that unique rhythm. Meren, although quite fragile in her build, has no trouble producing healthy princes for Dol Amroth. How I look forward to the day I hold my own babe…’

Best not to think of that yet; get the wedding over first. Grinning, Lothíriel carefully pulled a couple of pages apart. She’d have to be careful – it looked liked a bit of jam had stuck them together. Pondering for a moment she thought back. She’d written one entry on the road to Rohan whilst eating her early meal, which would be where the jam came from.

Entry for 3^rd March 3020

‘My adventure has started. Yesterday we left Dol Amroth and began our journey northward. I relish the ride, although I know Anniel finds it quite hard. But she does not complain and keeps up an almost continuous chatter whenever I ride with her. Because of this I spend time galloping ahead with my brothers who have low tolerance to the speed of the packhorses. Strangely, they have stopped their normal teasing of me and are being unusually kind and thoughtful. They think I am anxious about meeting King Éomer, and I suppose am. I worry that he will be disappointed with his friend’s daughter and regrets agreeing to marry a woman he has never met. However I do not regret it and for every league we move closer to the mountains — my excitement grows.’ 

In fact, Erchirion had been so kind that he had arranged for her to spend the last night before meeting up with Éomer and his guards at the home of Lord Albin. It had enabled her to wash the travel dust from her hair, have a clean lacy blouse pressed and generally prepare herself for the most important meeting of her life.

Lothíriel turned to the entry she had made in her Journal the evening she had finally met her betrothed. It had not been easy –writing by the light of one candle whilst sitting up in bed in the chamber allocated to her. Anniel had already dropped off to sleep, her plump body humped under the quilt beside her. Sharing a room was unusual for Lothíriel, sharing a bed even more so. But, more importantly, the Lord of Harrowdale had been as hospitable as he had been able, and the welcome from everybody had been warm. Yes, it had been difficult to write that night, but she had been determined to record her first sight of Éomer.

Entry for 7^th March 3020

As we left Lord Albin’s home and turned onto the road back to Erech we emerged into bright sunshine but below us the valleys were still hidden by the early morning mist. Tendrils of moisture-laden vapour reached up to wind around our horse’s feet. Above, the sky was cloudless and the streams that crossed our path chattered and sparkled in the fresh morning air. I felt exhilarated by the beauty of the day and the fate that awaited me. I think it amused Erchirion and he warned me to remember to act like a princess and not like the hoyden he knew I really was. So much were we laughing together that had it not been for our guards we would have come on the party of Riders, unaware…

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To be continued – when Lothíriel finally meets the Lord of the Mark.

Lothíriel’s Journal

Chapter 6

Lothíriel wondered if she would always feel that shiver of excitement when she thought of her first sighting of the men of Rohan. Closing her eyes, she sent herself back to that unforgettable morning on the Ered Nimrais: she had no trouble bringing the picture to mind…

Unfamiliar in their dark green cloaks and long fair hair, but familiar in the manner they held themselves. Alerted by the sound of horses they stood tensed with hands gripping sword hilts, as her small group swept around the bend in the road. Only relaxing when they recognised the blue and silver banner of Dol Amroth.

“A welcome party… or more likley Éomer’s reconnaissance.” Erchirion sounded amused as he held up his hand and kicked his mount to the front to meet the Rider who strolled leisurely towards them.

“Prince Erchirion, we were not expecting you from that direction.” The man smiled.  At least, half his face smiled. The other half twisted into a grimace as skin stretched by an old scar splitting his left cheek, refused to move. But he met their gaze straight on, with just a bob of his head in deference to their rank.

Her brother jumped from his horse and clasped the warrior’s arm in genuine pleasure. Erchirion towered above the stocky Rohir, but the man looked as if he’d have no trouble holding his own against the taller prince. “Eorllic, you old warhorse. It’s good to see you. What are you doing hanging around here?”

Eorllic jerked his head to the right where a slight opening could be discerned through some scrubby bushes. “Éothain and Éomer King have gone to have a scout about.”

Hearing that, Lothíriel slid off her horse, handing the reins to a guard. “What’s happening, Erchirion?”

“Let’s go and see.”

But she shook her head, “I’ll stay here and have a look at the horses for a moment.” She certainly did not want to come across her betrothed in any embarrassing circumstances. In her experience men usually disappeared into bushes for one thing only.

Erchirion grinned, catching on. “Look after my sister, Eorllic. I will go and see what they are up to.”

The Rohir nodded, smoothing his neat beard between thumb and forefinger pensively. “Looks like I get to meet the princess before our King. I’m not sure he will like that.” He didn’t seem bothered by the prospect and shrugged, fixing bright blue eyes on her. “But I reckon he will like it well enough when he does get a look at you, my lady.”

Lothíriel felt herself blushing under the man’s blatant scrutiny, not to mention all the rest of the Rohan guards who were unashamedly staring at her. “Ha,” Erchirion laughed, “your first encounter with Rohirric directness, Loti. You’d better get used to it.”

Lothíriel took a deep breath, determined not to show any nerves or embarrassment, “Is that King Éomer’s stallion, Eorllic?” She imagined it must, being the only one with the White Horse of Rohan emblazoned on its saddlecloth, “Perhaps I will introduce myself, since his master is not here.”

“Just go careful, my lady. Firefoot takes instant likes and dislikes to people. But he’s usually gentle with the fairer sex.”

Luckily the huge stallion took an immediate liking to the piece of carrot Lothíriel had in her pocket. Knowing there would be a lot of horses around, she had thought it prudent to procure a few titbits. Firefoot – she’d heard his name before from her brothers, nudged into her looking for more carrot. However, not wanting to soil her clothing before being introduced to Éomer, she thanked the young Rider in charge of him and reluctantly pulled away.

“I imagine it’s safe to go after my brother, now.” Lothíriel gave the watching men a half smile and removing her gloves, followed Erchirion into the bushes. Maybe it would be better to meet him with a smaller audience.

She could hear voices – a strange one asking, “And where is your sister now?” It must be Éomer – a deep voice, but not enough words spoken for her to form any impression. And in reply she heard her brother starting to explain she was looking at the horses, but before he had finished she emerged from the bushes onto an open plateau.

Erchirion had his back to her, but facing her were two men, one of whom she recognised immediately. Hardly surprising, as she had been looking at his likeness every day for nearly six months.  Éomer’s eyes opened wide, something like revelation written all over his face, “Princess Lothíriel…” His gaze went to her face, dropped to the area of her breasts and then returned to her face.

Ignoring his rude appraisal of her – in fact quite enjoying it – Lothíriel extended her hand with a slight bob of her head. A curtsey would be inelegant wearing riding dress. He took her slightly trembling fingers and brought his lips down to connect with the back of her hand. Not brushing his lips over the skin like a Gondorian would have done, but pressing them firmly against her flesh. A tingle went all the way up her arm, causing her to catch her breath. The unfamiliar sensation, understandable nerves, and the fact that she saw he had a piece of twig caught in his hair, nearly made her break into a giggle. That was until Éomer raised his head and his gaze connected with hers – hazel – his eyes were hazel. But amongst the hazel were little specks of green and gold – the colours of Rohan in his eyes.  She froze. He still held her hand. Should she drop her gaze; a man had never looked at her with such intensity before. Just as she was starting to feel uncomfortable the corners of his mouth turned up and the smile reached his eyes, which made the gold bits glitter and twinkle. Lothíriel relaxed and her own lips curved in response, but Erchirion interrupted their frail connection —

“You had better be very sure about this, Loti,” Her brother managed to sound amused and haughty at the same time. “I do believe your betrothed has spent the last half hour ogling your worthy companion.”

Éomer’s eyebrows drew together slightly and a puckered frown appeared as he struggled to say something. Lothíriel recognised guilt when she saw it – she’d had plenty of practice with Amrothos. Realising that her father’s camp lay below the escarpment she did wonder for a moment if Erchirion was right. However the explanation that came from Éomer’s captain, sounded even more unlikely.

“My Lady Princess.” A quick bow accompanied his gruff tones. “Éomer King is probably too embarrassed to say, but he thought to bring you a gift.”

“Éothain!” Éomer’s voice held a veiled warning.

“No, go on, Éothain. We would like to hear about this gift, wouldn’t we Loti?”

Lothíriel could tell Erchirion was enjoying himself, so she said nothing, but Éomer breathed out thorough his nostrils in an audible sigh, resignation written all over his face. She knew instinctively that he had no idea what gift Éothain was talking about. Intrigued, she waited as Éothain’s eyes travelled around the grassy plateau, coming to rest on a large clump of Spring Gentians, glowing iridescent in the bright sunlight. “Flowers, he wanted to pick you a bunch of flowers, my lady. The blue will go with your dress.”

The King of Rohan opened his mouth but only a faint strangled noise came out. Her brother, on the other hand, drew air between his teeth as he managed to contain his initial response and said with only a hint of mirth. “What a lovely idea, Éomer. We will wait while you pick them. I would hate my sister to be disappointed.”

Éomer stood transfixed, but Lothíriel noticed the fingers of his right hand flexing. Probably deciding who to hit first, she thought as she studied him. From his mass of tawny hair to his mud splattered boots, from his tooled-leather vambraces to the burnished hauberk that hung beneath his embroidered woollen tunic, from the top of the knife she could see protruding from one boot to the heavy weapon suspended on his hip, every inch of him – and there were many of them – proclaimed the warrior. For the second time her gaze locked with that of her betrothed. The appeal in his eyes had to be answered. The idea of this rugged king picking her a bunch of flowers in front of such a receptive audience as the captain of his guard and her satirical brother, could not be countenanced.

Lothíriel smiled, fleetingly touching Éomer’s arm in a gesture of solidarity. “My Lord King, I am flattered. But perhaps it would be better to leave the gentians where they are. They look so beautiful: a bold splash of colour amongst the grass. They will soon wilt and die if they are picked; I beg you let them live.”

Her words roused the King of Rohan from his stupor, a lazy grin transforming his mutinous expression into one of benevolence, “Never go against a lady’s wishes, Éothain.” He offered Lothíriel his arm, but not before he rewarded her with a conspiratorial wink. “We had best be going, my lady, if you wish to sleep under a roof rather than canvas tonight. We are much later than I intended.”

--------

Lothíriel’s reverie was violently interrupted as something streaked past her sitting place. The fleeting impression of grey-brown feathers and the panicked shrieking from the flock of small birds told her that a sparrow-hawk had launched a raid. By the time she had put down her journal and gone to look it was too late to see if the aerial predator had been successful. The flock had disappeared from the edge of the pond, an indignant chattering in the nearby bushes the only evidence of their presence in the garden.  Sighing at the brutality of nature, Lothíriel returned to her seat, tuning her mind to the Ered Nimrais again. Éomer had launched an attack that day – an attack on her heart. From the moment he had taken her arm, winked at her and whispered a grateful ‘thank you’, she had been lost.

And the assault on her senses had continued for the rest of that day. The magnificent vistas that could be enjoyed from the high mountain passes, the long cold journey under the Dimholt, even the decent from Dunharrow down the famous Stair, paled to insignificance when compared to the effect the Lord of the Mark had on her. The way he held himself, the lightness of his hands on the reins, his deep melodious voice, his easy discourse with her and everyone else, plus the fact that she considered him even handsomer that she had imagined from the likeness she had been given, all contributed to thetotal surrender of her heart. Not that she had let him see it of course. Anniel and Meren had agreed on that, they did not advocate her falling at his feet straight away. Lothíriel grinned to herself; Anniel had soon succumbed to his charms, though. Not being proof against the charisma of a young king who when introduced had taken her hand to his lips with practised aplomb and showed such concern for her welfare at the end of a tiring journey. Her  worthy companion  even gone so far as to say that Rohan, was not as bad as she’d feared, when they finally reached their destination that night and received another warm welcome from their host, the Lord of Harrowdale.

Lothíriel  knew she also had  also responded to Éomer from the first, but her training as a princess had allowed her to keep up interesting and polite conversation, to show pleasure in her betrothed’s company, without giving away her complete capitulation. She’d just wished she’d known what he had thought of her that first day, and she had mulled it over in her journal.

‘Éomer seemed in an extraordinary good mood. He laughed and joked with my father and brothers, treated Anniel extremely kindly and generally gave the impression that he was pleased with the arrangements that had been made for his future. Sometimes I felt his eyes on me and looked up to encounter a rather preoccupied expression, but then he would smile as he caught my eye and his face would light up as if mirroring some inner amusement, in which I was invited to share.  My first impressions of my future husband convinced me that all my instincts had been correct and no better match could have been found for me. How lucky I am to be promised to so fine a man, whom I will be proud to support in the difficult role he finds himself. It cannot be easy for one so young to rule but I feel the depth of his personality and commanding presence will aid him in this. There is no doubt he has the respect and affection of his men, over whom he holds total sway whilst still being able to join in their banter.

I hope he considers me to be a good choice of queen to stand at his side, I shall certainly try to be worthy and am prepared to pledge my life to Rohan, her king and her people.’

She had certainly gone to bed that first night in Rohan hugging herself with excitement, not quite believing that life could be so good to her.

Lothíriel glanced up, checking the position of the sun. The afternoon waned, she still had a lot to read, and the messenger still had not come. Surely he would be here by nightfall? She didn’t think she could wait another day to find out if Éomer had actually put more in his letter than the state of the harvest and the progress he was making with her horse. She thumbed through her Journal; there was so much that she would just have to pick out the important bits. She turned over the page with the description of her arrival in Edoras and her welcome in Meduseld, looking for the entry she had made about her impressions of Éowyn, but her eye alighted on something else.

Entry for 8^th March 3020

‘When we reached the Royal Stables in Edoras it surprised me to see the way Eorllic assisted Anniel from her horse. He held on to her for much longer than necessary, keeping his arm around her waist as she reached the ground.  She did not try to pull away and in fact giggled like a young girl. So many men and horses filled the stable yard that I doubt she thought anyone noticed her coquetry. I discovered during our journey that Eorllic holds the position of second-in command to Éothain in Éomer’s guard and because of this was made responsible for Anniel during the dark ride under the mountain. Therefore I would not have thought her behaviour worthy of comment had it not been for the interesting occurrence this evening.’

Lothíriel remembered how pleased she had been to find that a feast had been arranged to welcome them that first evening in Meduseld. The journey from Harrowdale did not take long so there had been time for a good rest and for Éowyn to be able to give her a short tour of the Hall before they all gathered for the evening meal. But it was not the food that remained in her mind, or even the songs that were sung throughout the meal, it was the dancing afterward that she could not forget.

Not surprisingly, as it was the first time she had felt Éomer’s arms around her. The Rohirric dances were such fun, and even more so because at first she kept stumbling and had to be stopped from falling by her betrothed. But she had soon learnt the steps and whirling around the hall in the arms of a man she already had started developing feelings for – had to be memorable. When she had wilted eventually at the end of a long day, Éomer had pulled her to the side and sent someone to fetch her a drink. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment watching the dancing until Anniel romped past, partnered with Eorllic.

“Your companion seems to be enjoying herself.” Éomer said.

“Yes, she likes dancing.” Lothíriel wondered if she dared ask him if he had been spying on her father’s camp, but he beat her to it.

“She’s a very nice lady, but I admit to being relieved when you appeared behind your brother.”

“You were spying!” Lothíriel accused him. Then she suddenly realised the significance of what he had said. “Did you think she was me?” He didn’t answer, but she could tell from his face that he did. “Surely you realised at once that she wasn’t. She’s a good few years older than me, in fact even older than you.”

“Well, I did when I thought about it, of course.”

She wasn’t convinced; the look he gave her was too bland and innocent to be believed, but at that moment something else caught her attention. Anniel and Eorllic had stopped to rest not far from where she and Éomer were standing, they were half hidden from those in the main part of the hall by a pillar, but not from them. Lothíriel made a mew of astonishment as Eorllic’s hand slid from Anniel’s waist to her behind, lingered there for a few moments and then gave the rounded cheek a firm squeeze. Lothíriel was not so much amazed that he did it; but more surprised that Anniel instead of admonishing him leaned against him and whispered something in his ear. Whatever she said caused the man to smile.

“I wonder what Eorllic got up to in that tunnel.”

Éomer sounded genuinely interested rather than shocked or surprised and for a moment Lothíriel wondered what to say. She didn’t want to sound prudish, but neither did she like to give the impression it was normal behaviour for Anniel or herself. “I don’t know why she has that effect on men. The baker is always trying to do that sort of thing to her but she always bats his hand away. Once she stamped on his foot.”

Éomer burst out laughing, causing everyone in the vicinity to look around. Lothíriel blushed as she met nods and smiles. No doubt it looked good for them to be laughing together. Éomer grinned at her, “It looks like Eorllic is having better luck, but he wouldn’t worry, anyway. He likes a challenge.”

Lothíriel just hoped the man would get a challenge. From what she had seen the battle was almost won. Not that that stopped her speaking to Anniel about it when she came in to say goodnight.

“You and the King looked like you were getting on, Lothíriel. I have to admit he’s a handsome man in the flesh.”

She couldn’t deny that. Or that he was easy to talk to, but she couldn’t really tell what he thought of her. He seemed happy enough but could just be being polite.  However, she wanted to discuss something else. “I imagine Eorllic was a good looking man too, until he received that nasty wound, Anniel. You seemed to be enjoying his company.” Lothíriel stared as a tell-tell flush of colour suffused the older woman’s face and she turned away to hide it. “Anniel,” Lothíriel declared, “You are blushing. Mind you, I am not surprised after what I witnessed in the hall.”

“I don’t know what you saw,” Anniel retorted her face still pink. “But it would have been nothing improper.”

“I’d say him squeezing your bottom to be very improper.” Lothíriel answered tartly.

Anniel’s lips quivered under the pretended outrage of her charge.  “It was only a little squeeze.”

Lothíriel giggled. “Come on, tell me all the details.”

Anniel dropped her head, rather coyly. “There is nothing to tell. He is a good man who likes a bit of fun and relishes a dance. Maybe I will get to know him a bit more and maybe I won’t. In case you are wondering, my girl, a squeeze is one thing – anything else is a liberty and won’t be tolerated.”

And that was all she could get out of Anniel that night, but it became obvious that a relationship had formed between her companion and the Rohir. How far it had developed Lothíriel did not know and decided it best not to enquire, but the two spent a great deal of time in each other’s company. Lothíriel grinned, unexpected happenings often had consequences and the outcome of that friendship was that she would not be going to Rohan alone. When Éomer had suggested Lothíriel might like Anniel’s companionship during her first few months as queen, the idea had been welcomed with enthusiasm from Anniel as well as herself. But Anniel could not be drawn as to whether she would be staying there permanently.

The Rohirrim were not as easy to read as her father had intimated, Lothíriel thought. It sounded as though Eorllic might not have made his intentions plain, and as for Éomer – well his intentions were obviously honourable but as for his feelings – she didn’t have a lot to go on.

Entry for 18^th March 3020

‘I have been here nearly two weeks and have fallen in love with Lord and Land. The Lord of the Mark is now the Lord of my Heart. Tonight our official betrothal was announced and he embraced me in front of all the assembled guests. A gentle chaste salutation worthy of Belecthor, but how I longed for him to sweep me off my feet and cover my willing lips with passionate kisses.  Apart from the lack of any real display of ardour, I cannot fault his behaviour toward me. He has been by my side as we have ridden across the plains of the Riddermark and partnered me on every evening when dancing has been instigated. He has taken me to see the Royal Herds and asked that he be allowed to pick and train a horse for my bridal gift, rather than I choose myself. He wishes to allow himself the pleasure of presenting such a marvellous gift and witnessing my delight with his choice.’

Lothíriel sighed; she had waited a long time for that first kiss and had begun to wonder if Éomer found her desirable at all. How awful to be married to a man who kept up a show of politeness but had no real feeling toward her. But the first kiss had reassured her. That is, she had felt happy enough until that difficult time in Minas Tirith. Now a slight worry lurked in the recesses of her mind. If only the letter would arrive.

To be continued – when we find out what Éomer wrote in the letter.

Lothíriel’s Journal

Chapter 7

Lothíriel knew she would not be able to stay outside much longer with her maid expecting her in to change for dinner. She grimaced: the hall would be hot tonight. Could she get away with wearing a light cotton dress?  Probably not, rich silks were expected in the evening for one of her rank. But not in Rohan, she would be able to wear cotton dresses there.  She should have done so at Éowyn’s farewell feast, but at least her mistake of wearing too heavy a dress had led to her first kiss…

-------

“You’re hot.”

Lothíriel nodded, too exhausted to say anything for a moment. Éomer didn’t look hot, or exhausted. He appeared to have boundless energy. But then he had stood out for a few dances whilst she had partnered what seemed like the whole of his guard. But she liked the way he had claimed her back as soon as he had spotted her wilting in the heat of a packed hall.

“Come outside. The air will probably have some bite to it, but we need only stay long enough to cool you down.” He took her arm and led her towards the main door.

Amazing how a path cleared. With so many guests, most of whom seemed to be watching their every move, there was no chance of sneaking out. Lothíriel felt eyes following them as they left the hall and she wondered if they would be allowed to be alone for any length of time. The wedding party planned to leave for Gondor in two days and so far intimate time with Éomer had been fairly limited. And on the rare occasions they had found themselves alone, he had shown no inclination to do more than talk. But not this time. Éomer took her arm when she started to stroll towards the top of the steps and firmly guided her around the side of the hall.

“Come this way, it should be quiet.”

Surprised, Lothíriel allowed herself to be led a little way along the torch-lit path that ran past the kitchen entrance towards the Royal Apartments at the rear. Supremely conscious of his proximity in the semi-darkness, the pressure of his hand on her arm felt intense. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he must be able to hear it. How much she wanted him to kiss her. Would he do so? And how should she respond?  Whatever she had been told by her aunt or Anniel, her instinct was to fling her arms around his neck and press her lips to his – right now! Swallowing to control her mad impulse, she caught sight of the full moon. Hidden behind a dark cloud when they had first left the hall it suddenly emerged above the peaks of the Ered Nimrais, bathing the steep slopes in light and glinting on the pockets of permanent snow that filled the upper corries.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she exclaimed, stopping abruptly. As she did so Éomer’s arms came right around her, steadying her before pulling her back against his chest.

“Very beautiful.”

Come outside to cool down, he had said. But now the husky voice in her ear and the warm breath on her cheek was responsible for the scorching heat that flashed through her. And his words, did she imagine the ambiguity of them? Was he referring to the scenery or her, or both? Deciding to play safe, she stayed within the circle of his arms but said quietly, “I love the way the mountains always look different. Sometimes they seem far away and at other times they appear to hang close above us.”       

“Lothíriel, do you think you are going to be happy here? I do so want you to be happy.”

Surprised, she turned right around, her hands clasping the hard muscles of his upper arms. Raising her face to look into his eyes she responded without hesitation, “Happy? Of course I will be happy. Why should I not be?”

A slow smile lit his face and his eyes gleamed gold in the light of the torches. Agonisingly slowly, he reached up one hand, allowing calloused fingers to trace down the line of her jaw. They lingered under her chin, holding it firmly but gently as though to stop her getting away. As if she wished to do that!

“Oh, Lothíriel…” He drew out her name until it became squashed between their lips.

Almost involuntary, her hands travelled upward until they buried themselves in his mass of tawny hair. As his kiss deepened one of his hands slid down her back until it nestled over the curve of her behind to pull her closer against his body. At the same time Lothíriel felt the tip of his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. Sorry, Aunt Ivriniel, she thought irrationally, as she opened it to him.

--------

And that was it! Lothíriel well remembered the depth of her own frustration and the expletive Éomer had let out when he had hastily released her as noise and guests erupted from the hall. She had wondered if her brothers had encouraged a mass egress outside, but perhaps it was just her suspicious nature where they were concerned.

Entry for 25^th March 3020

‘Tonight we combined the celebration of the passing of the Dark Lord and the downfall of Barad-dûr with a farewell feast for Éowyn. But more significantly –Éomer kissed me. His lips tasted of the wine we had shared and his beard tickled my face. His hands moved possessively over me, one pulling me hard against him and the other cupping the underside of my breast. Meren spoke truly: sensations I have never experienced before coursed through me, invading all the secret places deep within my body. I felt his disappointment as he pulled away from me and we moved to join those who had decided to enjoy the night air. I can only hope the opportunity to be alone arises again.’

Not for a long time it hadn’t. The journey to Minas Tirith had been fun and exciting, but it was not possible to go very far from the nightly campsites with guards and scouts patrolling continuously. However a new intimacy had arisen between them and sometimes during the long ride he would catch her eye and wink, or make sure he was on hand to help her from her horse at the end of a tiring day. Even that small contact took on a new meaning when his lips brushed her ear and strong hands squeezed her waist as he lifted her down. All of which accounted for the incident in Minas Tirith coming as such a shock…

----------

It seemed that every square inch of the City had been crammed full of people for nearly a week – the marriage of Faramir to the White Lady of Rohan commanded exuberant celebrations from every level of Gondorian society. But now the festivities were over and after days of open air dancing and picnics the city gradually returned to normality. Very soon Lothíriel would be back in Dol Amroth, with nearly six months to wait until her own wedding. How she wished for it – to be married to Éomer and be in charge of her own household. To be answerable only to her husband – a man she had already found to be easygoing and respectful of the strength and qualities of womanhood. A man she had fallen in love with.

Her head full of pleasant thoughts as she anticipated her future, Lothíriel decided to take a walk in the garden before the planned events of the evening.  Strolling leisurely along one of the neat grass paths that edged the wall of the palace she heard the murmur of voices, too low to distinguish. She continued around the corner, stopping abruptly as she recognised the two people in deep conversation. Numbed with shock, Lothíriel hastily retreated the way she had come, praying they had not seen her. How embarrassing that would be! She certainly didn’t want to have to listen to some bogus explanation as to why her betrothed was in the garden, half hidden by a bush, talking to another woman.

-------

She might have guessed she couldn’t hide her distress from Anniel.

“Now, my girl, you had a face that could sour cream all through dinner, are you going to tell me what’s the matter?”

Lothíriel didn’t know if she even wanted to discuss the incident with Anniel, but she knew it would fester and grow and her companion would probably wheedle the information out of her eventually anyway. “Anniel, have you heard any gossip about Éomer since we arrived here?”

Anniel’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “What kind of gossip? The kind that says how lucky he is that Gondor has found him such a gorgeous bride, or something else?”

Lothíriel couldn’t even smile at the uncharacteristic compliment. “About him and Lady Rívorwen.”

Anniel sighed. “Now, why would you ask that?”

“Because I saw him talking to her in the garden.”

“Just talking?”

Lothíriel shrugged, not really wanting to remember — something about the way they stood spoke of intimacy between them. It had been apparent even from a distance. “They were talking, standing quite close but not touching. Then Lady Rívorwen put up her hand and stroked his cheek.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Lothíriel replied. “I stepped back before they noticed me.”

“Hmm,” Anniel looked thoughtful. “He didn’t touch her?”

Lothíriel shook her head, “Not that I saw.”

“So all it amounts to in the end is that your Horselord was talking to a woman in the garden.”

Lothíriel fiddled with the lacing of her bodice, looking down at the floor. How could she explain that Éomer could talk to dozens of women and she wouldn’t think anything of it, but somehow – she knew she had witnessed something of importance.  “I could tell they were more than just acquaintances. And he did dance with her a few nights ago.”

“He danced with me, as well,” Anniel retorted. “Which I must admit I thought very brave of him. We must have looked a ridiculous pair – with me two thirds his height and twice his girth.”

Lothíriel managed a smile but it did not last long. “She is very lovely and I overheard Amrothos making a comment to Erchirion about … her figure.”

“You mean she has large breasts,” Anniel said in her blunt manner, “but so have you.” She grinned when Lothíriel made a half-hearted protest. “What’s more, you can give her a few years and you have no need for powder and paint.”

“Even so, she is still very attractive and I am sure knows a lot more about men than me…” Lothíriel hesitated, wanting to ask but not really wanting the answer. In the end she couldn’t stop herself as what had not bothered her before suddenly took on new significance. “Anniel do you think she and Éomer have been lovers…”

“I imagine so.”

“You do?” Crestfallen, she dropped her head once more.

“Lothíriel,” Anniel put her arm around her charge’s shoulder and gave her a hug, “You know from Meren and your brothers that he was much sought after during the celebrations at the end of the war. I have heard some remarks that led me to believe that she might have been – shall we say – particularly friendly towards him. She is just the type, after all. If that’s the case, then he could hardly completely ignore her now, could he?”

“I suppose not,” she agreed slightly mollified, but only for a moment as the real worry surfaced again. “What about now, though? Do you think they are still…”

“If they are then it is something you will just have to ignore,” Anniel broke in.  “But I have not heard anything and my instinct is to doubt it. I feel he wouldn’t have had to meet with her in the garden if he was meeting here elsewhere in private.”

“Oh,” Lothíriel exclaimed. “No, you are right, he wouldn’t.” And she had to hope that Anniel was right. She could hardly ask him but she could ask Anniel for some more advice.

“Anniel,” she started hesitantly, “you and Meren said I mustn’t sprawl all over him straight away but do you think I ought to try and show him that I…” she stopped, not quite knowing what to say …welcome his advances sounded so prim. As usual, though, Anniel seemed to know what was on her mind.

“There’s nothing wrong with showing him you are enjoying his kisses now, Lothíriel, or giving a hint you will enjoy more in the future. I have observed that you are getting on well but I have not noticed much sneaking out to be alone.”

“It’s pretty impossible for a king and a princess to sneak anywhere,” Lothíriel retorted, but then she sighed as she acknowledged the truth of Anniel’s remark. He had spent hours in her company – ridden with her almost every day while they were in Edoras – shown her blood-red sunsets and the spiralling grey mists of dawn. Together they had watched the herds thundering across the plain and marvelled at the stamina of the leggy new foals. In the evenings they had danced or whiled away time in conversation, – but sneaking off for illicit kisses had not been on her betrothed’s mind. Or if it had, he certainly had not acted on it. “I have enjoyed his kisses,” she said rather wistfully, “I just wish there were more of them. Every time we are alone we are either interrupted or after a while he suggests we had better go inside.”

“Well,” Anniel grinned, “it sounds to me as if he is treating you with too much respect. You had better make it clear that a bit less would be acceptable.”

Yes, she agreed with that, but would she get a chance?

------

‘I will take Anniel’s advice as soon as possible,’ she had written that night, ‘but there are very few days left. We will be returning to Dol Amroth and five long months will pass before I see Éomer again. He has not said how he really feels about our betrothal but I hope he is not displeased. I know I must be very sensible and cannot expect more from him than loyalty, affection and respect but that does not prevent me wishing that in the future he will return my love. I just pray that his heart is not given to any other woman.’

Lothíriel stared at the page. How brave she had been to commit her fear to paper. She well understood that a king could not always follow his heart and for all she knew it had already been given to another. However, somewhat reassuringly Éowyn had never mentioned anything like that. She and his sister had become quite close over the weeks before Éowyn’s marriage to Faramir. Surely she would have said, or at least dropped a hint. But there had been nothing. Lothíriel had decided back then that she would put the thought away and concentrate on showing Éomer that she cared for him – surely the right thing to do, trusting to hope that eventually her feelings would be returned if she made him an admirable wife. However, telling herself that did not stop her watching for any sign of a continuing relationship between him and the lovely widow and the next night her fears had resurfaced when she realised that both Éomer and Lady Rívorwen were missing from the dancing.

Trying to behave like a princess was not easy and she steeled herself to concentrate on the music and not keep looking around the room. Thus she jumped when a deep voice came in her ear.

“Would you like to take a walk?”

His soft breath caressed her cheek, and her senses quivered.  She had not even been aware he had come up behind her. Nodding, she allowed herself to be led across the hall, all the time conscious of the heat of his hand on her arm.

“I am sorry to have left you alone but Aragorn wanted a quick word with me.” Éomer explained as they neared the outer doors. 

Lothíriel nearly sighed with relief; she knew that Éomer was not the type to lie. Most likely Lady Rívorwen had gone off with someone else, after all she never lacked for dancing partners.  Deciding to put the matter out of her head worked quite well until Éomer led her to the same bit of garden he had shared with Lady Rívorwen the previous afternoon– she did not know whether to be amused or affronted.  The area had a secluded feel in the bright light of day, now though, the bushes were dark shadows against the night sky and the crickets chirped their rasping song.

Éomer was unusually quiet, and she too aware of him and her own confused thoughts to make inane conversation. So they walked in silence until upon reaching a small arbour, he suddenly pulled her inside.

“Oh!” Her little cry of astonishment was abruptly cut off by lips hungrily seeking hers. Any hesitation on her part could only have been momentary, and as he pulled her hard against him, hands already roaming her body, Lothíriel kissed him for all she was worth…

------------

She couldn’t believe it; even now she still couldn’t believe she had started that embarrassing bout of sneezing. Out of the various plants covering that little arbour and giving out their night scents, one had certainly not agreed with her. But why it had amused Éomer so much she was still not sure. Admittedly she had liked the way he had held her against him as he shook with suppressed laughter, but she hadn’t been so happy when he had caught her hand and led her back to the more frequented part of the garden.

“Lothíriel, I think the gods are trying to tell me something.”

Tell him what? That he shouldn’t be kissing her in the garden? But why not – that’s what she had wanted to know. They were betrothed so he had every right to kiss her – at least she thought so even if her aunt and that other prude, Belecthor, did not. Sighing, she started to thumb through the pages – that had been the last occasion she had spent time alone with him. He had very publicly kissed her goodbye and her last sight of him had been from the deck of Wild Swan. Magnificent he had looked – in her opinion anyway – astride his mighty stallion, sun glinting on his mane of dark-gold hair as he watched them from the bank.

Months ago, it seemed now. And why she had taken the chance and hinted at her feelings in her last letter, she still didn’t quite know. A bit despondent, and not sure she wanted to read any more, Lothíriel closed her journal and leant back against the cushions. The intense heat had gone from the sun and she would have to go in and prepare for the evening. Eyes shut, she tried to imagine what Éomer might be doing now – probably taking a last look at Firefoot before the evening meal. Did he often think of her, she wondered as her mind drifted up over the Ered Nimrais…

The first indication she had that someone had entered the garden came from the flutter of wings as a dozen little birds took to the air. She opened her eyes and looked up quickly, quivering with anticipation as she saw the top of her brother’s head over a pink hibiscus.

“Amrothos!”  She exclaimed, tipping her journal down on the bench as she leapt up.

“Yes, it is me.” Her brother was grinning as he came into full view, waving a letter in the air. “Is there something you want, little sister?”

Lothíriel controlled herself, knowing him capable of all sorts of tricks if he thought she would react to them. She smiled as blandly as she was able to, and held out her hand, “Yes please, Amrothos, I would like my letter.”

“And what’s it worth?” He held it enticingly out of her reach and she had to steel herself not to make a grab for it.

Smiling sweetly, Lothíriel cocked her head to one side and looked up at him, “What it is worth, Amrothos, is me not hinting to father how you pay Ina to look after a certain child at night so you and said child’s mother can …”

“Lothíriel!” He looked scandalised. “I didn’t think you were a sneak!”

“Needs do as needs must,” she chanted, plucking the letter from his outraged hand. “Thank you for bringing it, brother dear. Now don’t let me keep you.”

“I should have let you wait for it,” he grumbled, turning to go.

Lothíriel laughed, pleased to have got one over on him. Not that she would have told her father. If Lissi had found some comfort with her brother, albeit only temporary, then she would not interfere. “Oh, Amrothos,” she said to his retreating back, “could you take this tray back?”

“Take a tray back!” He turned and glared at the offending item, “I am not walking through the courtyard carrying that. I’d be bound to meet some of my company.”

“Oh, don’t you think your standing good enough to overcome that?” she asked, arranging her face into a mask of innocence.

“No. Quite frankly, Loti, I don’t,” he replied before stalking out.

Grinning, Lothíriel sat back down and studied the letter. ‘Lothíriel of Dol Amroth,’ in Éomer’s flourishing hand. He had lovely writing, which had admittedly surprised her. Certainly there was nothing the savage about her betrothed, as her aunt had once suggested. She turned it over and examined the seal, realising she was putting off the moment of actually opening it. Thick green wax, and pressed into the shape of a sun, no one had interfered with it – her father not being the type to insist on reading his daughter’s correspondence. After a moment she slipped in her finger and with a bit of a struggle, pulled the sheets apart. The stiff parchment crackled in her hand.

Smoothing down the sheet, Lothíriel ran her eyes quickly over the first few lines –the harvest and her horse! She jumped up and threw the letter down onto the seat in disgust. Why ever had she expected anything more? The hints she had given him must have embarrassed him, not encouraged him to give away any of his feelings. What did he think of her? Sighing dejectedly and telling herself to stop being a romantic fool, she sat down, retrieved the letter and gave it her full attention

Dear Lothíriel,

‘I hope this letter finds you in good health. I have been very busy and it looks as if it will be a good harvest. 

The horse I have chosen for you is well into her training and is responding admirably. I am sure she will be ready in time. I hope you are pleased with my choice and I can hardly wait to see your reaction to her beauty.’

A blot – how careless – he had made a large blot. Then there was a smudge and a crossing out. How odd! But her eyes opened wide as she read the next words and her heart started thumping wildly – so wildly that it had to be in danger of relocating to her throat!

‘I am finding it hard without you here. When I returned from Minas Tirith, Meduseld felt incredibly lonely. I miss Éowyn of course, but I miss you more. It is a little over two months until our marriage and I am counting every day, longing for the time you stand by my side as my wife. I admit when your father broached the idea of this match I never thought that it would turn out to be the best thing I had ever agreed to. From the moment our eyes met you captured my heart…’

A quick scan of the rest of the letter and Lothíriel jumped to her feet with a shout of pure joy, frightening the little flock of finches into once again seeking the safety of the bushes. She stared mesmerised at the words he had written, almost not believing them, - Éomer thought she was beautiful and – arranged or not – he actually wanted to marry her!

Grinning stupidly, she started to tuck the letter into the bodice of her dress but it was too bulky, so it had to go under her arm. Picking up her heavy journal with both hands she clutched it against her chest. Tray forgotten and already planning the entry she would write that night, Lothíriel sped towards the gate.

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To be continued – when we join Éomer and Éothain on their way to meet the soon- to- be Queen of Rohan. And, of course, Éothain cannot resist offering well intentioned advice!

 .

Chapter 8

Counting the Days – 2

Ered Nimrais

September 3020

Éomer pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out, sweeping his eyes around the campsite. Where was everybody? He could only see Celm – crouching by the fire and lethargically stirring a large pot of porridge – and another rider in the vicinity of the horses. He looked to the rear of his tent, a duty guard as usual, but where were the rest? The sky above distant peaks already glowed with a pale yellow wash of colour. He frowned in annoyance - the first rays of the sun would shaft over the ridge soon and it looked as if no one had even thought about leaving. 

At that moment Eorllic appeared from the next tent. The burly Rohir nodded a greeting before reaching for a bucket and plunging his head right in it. Éomer shuddered at the thought of the icy mountain water and watched, fascinated, as Eorllic emerged, shaking droplets from his braids before running his hands backwards from his face to squeeze the worst of the wet from his hair.

“Couldn’t you sleep?”

The sound of Éothain’s voice made him swivel round. His captain appeared from the direction of the latrine, still adjusting his clothing.

Éomer ignored the comment, unable to hide his irritability, “It’s late. Why isn’t breakfast ready?”

“Late?”  A slow smile lit Éothain’s face and he glanced at Eorllic, the two of them sharing some private amusement. “I think our king is mighty eager to get going this morning,” he announced to no one in particular.

“Never keep a lady waiting,” Eorllic contributed, straight faced.

“He’ll have to wait until tomorrow night to do his bedding, however early he makes us leave.”

Éomer glared at his captain. Who took no notice of the fierce expression and calmly reached for a bowl. “Do you want some? Last time, if I remember rightly, you fed it to that insatiable charger of yours.”

“Éothain,” Éomer felt he had to make some effort to restrain the worst of his friend’s, ribbing. At least in front of young Celm. “I would be obliged if you would show some respect for the lady who is going to be my wife and your queen.”

“Respect?” Éothain’s raised one brow, winking at Eorllic, “I certainly have the utmost respect for the Princess. We all have.”

“Yep,” Eorllic confirmed. “In fact we couldn’t have more respect if we tried.”

Éomer groaned, waiting with dread for the next pronouncement from Éothain. It came as expected.

“Respect that she didn’t get right back on that fancy horse of hers and bolt the moment she laid eyes on you.”

A splutter came from Celm as the youngster tried to contain his mirth. Éomer honoured him with a look that was meant to convey his displeasure of lads who listened to their commanders’ conversations, but he spoilt it when halfway through he started to laugh. Ah well, at least no one could accuse him of standing on any high horse- and if he ever tried it, then these two would soon bring him back down to earth. Might as well see if he could get his own back, though. “I saw some unusual activity when I took a walk through Edoras a few days ago, Eorllic. I thought spring cleaning to be over a few months ago.”

“Ha, so you saw all the furniture outside his cottage as well.” Éothain jerked his head toward Eorllic. “Our amorous friend here must have thought that he couldn’t ask a certain Gondorian lady to share his bed whilst he lived in such a mess.”

Eorllic, used from a young age to the banter that went with belonging to an elite group of men, be it a Marshal’s éored or a King’s guard, just shrugged. Only a slight twinkle in his unscathed eye betraying any real reaction.  “My old mother would be proud of me. It’s the first time it’s been done since she passed on.”

Éomer broke into more laughter. “She’s been dead three years, Eorllic. You are in need of a good woman.”

“And I doubt he’s thinking of the cleaning,” Éothain immediately quipped.

Éomer grinned, took the proffered bowl and sat down. For a moment their jesting had stopped him dwelling too much on the forthcoming meeting with his bride. Now that the time had come he felt unaccountably nervous. He’d given himself away in his letter, told Lothíriel his true feelings, after being so careful not to overwhelm her during her visit, conscious of how very young she was. He’d suffered such anxiety at the idea of an arranged marriage, what must she have thought?  Worse, he thought, for a sheltered girl to be betrothed to a stranger, and then dragged over mountains and through a dark tunnel to a land where she couldn’t even speak the language.  He was sure that she would learn Rohirric pretty quickly, though, as during her visit Lothíriel had demonstrated an unexpected enthusiasm for anything to do with her prospective new homeland. And him –he just hoped he had not misinterpreted the signs, but he thought she had shown a surprising and welcome enthusiasm – for him.

His deliberations interrupted by the sounds of the camp finally waking up, Éomer plunged his spoon into the porridge and started to eat.

Éothain sat down beside him, cradling his own bowl. “Oh good, they’ve started the bacon,” he commented watching the activity around the fire.

Éomer frowned, “Do we need to have bacon? I want to get on.” As he said it he knew how ridiculous he must sound. They were not riding to battle, they were riding to escort the soon-to-be Queen of the Mark to her wedding and coronation. A joyful occasion – and his men deserved their breakfast. His captain must have thought so too because Éothain stared at him, one of his characteristic smirks starting to show.

“I doubt she’s even out of bed yet, my lord. Aren’t they staying with Duinhir?”

“They are, but I don’t trust that spindly-legged mare of hers on the mountain track. It’s likely to spook and I want to be there.” A poor excuse that sounded, but he could hardly say that after a parting of five months he couldn’t wait to set eyes on her again.

Éothain suppressed a smile. “I am sure her father and three brothers can keep an eye on her. She will reach us safely.”

Éomer raised his brows; he’d had experience of her brothers keeping an eye on her. Too close an eye sometimes. “I suppose you are right. I just want her to have an easy journey.”

“I think you’ve got it bad.”

“Got what bad?” he asked, regretting the question almost at once, having a pretty good idea what Éothain meant.

“The Princess. I reckon you’re smitten.”

Éomer stirred the last bit of porridge around in the bowl. Smitten?  Yes, probably he was. Although exactly why still eluded him. True, she was a feast for the eyes. He still remembered his first sight of her after that embarrassing interlude when they had spied on Imrahil’s camp. She’d certainly looked like a vision as she had come walking towards him – a vision of womanly loveliness, fresh and untouched. Lothíriel was so much the princess –elegant and charming, knowing exactly what to say and do. She could make the lowliest servant feel at ease but quell an arrogant courtier with a disdainful remark. But maybe it was what lay beneath the polished façade that appealed to him, for when he looked into her eyes he saw the hint of a tender and passionate nature. Release that –combine it with her innocence and tantalising allure and …. Éomer smiled, “Yes, Éothain, I think I am.”

“Thought so.” Éothain nodded sagely, obviously pleased by his own astuteness. “But I still think you should have taken advantage of what was on offer over the last months. Now you are liable to frighten your lovely bride to death.”

“What are you talking about?” Éomer asked, wondering why a prolonged conversation with his friend always ended up exasperating him.

“Spending every night alone – that’s what I am talking about. Especially with the offers you had.”

“How do you know I had any offers?” Éomer shot back. Béma, did they watch every move?

“How do I know? It’s my job to know, that’s what. Not that it took much surveillance to work out what that Lady Rívorwen had in mind. I just cannot understand why you didn’t resume where you left off after the war. She’s the sort of woman it must have been difficult to refuse. Elegant! Isn’t that one of your requirements for a bed-partner?”

Elegant described the lady well, but he could use a few other words – tenacious, shrewd, determined, all fitted. Avoiding that particular mantrap had been more difficult than Éothain knew. It had taken all his ingenuity. Women like the beautiful Lady Rívorwen did not give up easily. “Difficult, Éothain, but not impossible. I did not want Lothíriel upset by any gossip in Minas Tirith and had to make it plain to the lady that our relationship had ended.”

“Very noble of you, I’m sure.  But there was nothing to stop you availing yourself of young Edyth’s voluptuous charms these past months. She might not be elegant but she was more than willing.”

“Nothing to stop me!” Éomer retorted incredulously. “Sometimes I wonder, Éothain where exactly you keep your brain. Do you really think I want my wife speculating on as to who amongst the servants have shared my bed?” 

Éothain chewed thoughtfully for a moment, before sticking his spoon upright in the glutinous mass and putting the bowl on the ground. “Oh, I suppose you are right on that. But it means you will be bedding a virgin after months of abstinence. It’s bound to cause problems. If you take my advice…”

“Éothain,” Éomer interrupted, “this is one area where I really do not think I need your advice.”

“On the contrary, if you think about it you’ll realise that I actually have more experience than you.”

Éothain looked so cocky that Éomer just knew he was not going to enjoy the rest of this conversation. He shook his head, sighing in resignation, “Go on, I am all ears.”

“How many times have you bedded a virgin?”

Éomer put the last spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, chewed and swallowed and then with lips twitching, and shaking his head in a gesture of long-suffering, finally answered. “Alright, I haven’t”

“Thought so,” Éothain declared, puffing out his chest. “I, of course, have.”

“How many?”

“How many?” Éothain’s eyes narrowed, “Well, only the one. But that’s one more than you.”                 

“So, from one roll in the hay you are proposing to give me advice about my wedding night.”

“It might only have been once,” Éothain said, clearly affronted, “but it was not a roll in the hay. If I could have persuaded her to oblige in that way then I wouldn’t have had to marry her, would I?”

“Éothain, you astound me with your logic. Are you telling me that you only married Berwyn because you could not persuade her to lie with you?”

“You have no idea how much I wanted her. She was very pretty at eighteen, with a lovely sweet nature,” Éothain mused.  His voice dropped and he grimaced, “I should have looked at her mother. That would have brought me to my senses.”

Éomer burst out laughing, “Berwyn’s still a very attractive lady, don’t deny it. And I have even greater respect for her now that I know how she dangled you on the end of a line.”

Éothain grinned. “Well maybe, but what I am saying is that she was a virgin on our wedding night and virgins need to be treated gently. You have to ease them in.”

“I think I know that,” Éomer agreed, “I am not a complete fool.”

“No, not a complete one,” Éothain said. “But surely you realise it is going to be worse for the princess. Everyone will be watching her and commenting so she will be nervous to start with.  It would be best if you make sure she has plenty to drink.”

“Plenty to drink!” Éomer opened and shut his mouth in astonishment. “Are you suggesting I get her drunk?”

“Only a little bit, so that she relaxes. And then don’t rush her to bed.  Also it’s best if you keep yourself covered until the last moment in case it puts her off. These high born ladies can lead a very sheltered life. It’s not like here in Rohan where the women are used to seeing the stallions performing.”

“Perhaps I should blindfold her,” Éomer suggested, not quite believing he was bothering to listen to this.

“I don’t think you need to go that far, but don’t have too many candles lit.”

“So, your advice is to get her drunk, steer her to the bed in the dark, and then what – pull the sheet over her eyes until I get my clothes off?”  He looked incredulously at his friend, “I think I rather go by my own instincts.”

“Well,” Éothain stood up, picked up his bowl and took Éomer’s from his hand. He started to head for the fire but stopped and threw a parting remark over his shoulder. “I am just trying to warn you that going without a woman for all that time and then finding yourself presented with an innocent young virgin might not be as straight forward as you think. After all, you don’t want to put her off for the future.”

Éomer did not want to put her off at all. Not that he thought he would. On the few occasions he had come near to losing the strict control he kept over himself, she had responded wonderfully. His mind went back to the last occasion they had been alone – in the Citadel garden when he had asked her to walk with him. No brothers around and no father in sight, he’d finally given in to his urge to kiss her, really kiss her. He’d revelled in immersing himself in her silky softness; her sweet scent – and then – that sneezing fit of hers…  Éomer started chuckling, remembering how exasperated and amused he had felt at the time.

He was still chuckling when Éothain handed him a mug of tea and plate of bread and bacon. “You might as well eat it. We have got plenty of time.”

“Maybe, but tell everybody I want to be on our way within half an hour.”

Whatever he thought, Éothain didn’t argue. He nodded and turned away, barking out his forthright opinion of indolent sods who lazed around chin-wagging until the morning had almost passed. This had the effect of those around the campfire all staring a bit bemused at him and their king, before making a noticeable effort to finish their meal.

The first shafts of sunlight tentatively reached across the plateau as Éomer led the column onto the steep downhill track, glowing autumnal colours of a few stunted trees the only relief from a landscape of drab grey rock.

 “Bit different than last time we rode this way,” Éothain remarked as he carefully guided his mount onto the less hazardous area of the stony way.

“I can’t say I will miss the mist,” Éomer agreed. “We should be able to see almost the whole of the western marches of Gondor from where we are meeting Imrahil’s party.” He looked around, checking the men riding behind him. “Have you sent the scouts out? I want us to sound horns this time.”

“No creeping up and spying then?” Éothain grinned.

“Don’t remind me of that,” Éomer grimaced. But then he couldn’t help smiling as he recalled how Lothíriel had saved him from embarrassment within moments of meeting him. “And no clever suggestions about picking flowers,” he shot at Éothain. “In fact it might be a good idea if you refrain from saying much at all.” Éomer started to laugh, “On second thoughts perhaps you could use your considerable verbal skills to help further Eorllic’s chances.”

“Who says I need any help?”  A voice came from behind. “The time I need any assistance from Éothain to snare a woman, is the time I shall give up.”

Éomer tended to agree with Eorllic but having provided the fuel left his two commanders to trade insults, which allowed his mind to return to Lothíriel. He just hoped he had not misread the letter she had written him. He’d look a damn fool if he had, after what he’d written back to her. He almost knew her words by heart …The weeks I spent in Rohan with you were the happiest of my life, how I long for the time I will call Meduseld home … Surely that was clear enough, he could not have mistaken that. A little chuckle escaped his lips: the last time he had ridden this way he had been bad tempered and apprehensive about meeting a woman he had been virtually forced into agreeing to marry. This time he was nervous in case that same woman didn’t return his feelings. Affairs of the heart seemed to be rather complicated for kings. Well, soon now, he’d find out the truth. He had no doubts that whatever she felt would show in her eyes and that even if she greeted him with the banal utterances dictated by the conventions of Gondorian society, he would know.

The sight of one of the scouts riding back up the track towards him interrupted his reverie.

“I’ve been down to the meeting place, my lord. They won’t be reaching it for a while. But I could see a dust cloud down in the valley, so they are on their way.”

“We don’t have to wait on the road, might as well ride down to meet them.” Éomer remarked.

“I wouldn’t advise it, my lord,” the scout answered. “The track is quite narrow and looks treacherous; two large parties meeting could cause problems.”

“You’ll have to wait a bit longer,” Éothain murmured under his breath.

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Éomer rested his foot on a convenient rock, leaning forward on his knee to stare down into the valley: the individual figures were discernable now. Behind the standard bearer and two pairs of guards he could see Imrahil and Erchirion. Lothíriel rode behind her father with Amrothos by her side and then Elphir, leading his young son who rode a piebald pony. Elphir’s wife and Lady Anniel came next, followed by a large group of Swan Knights, a few women, various retainers and a line of packhorses.

As he watched he saw Lothíriel’s head come up to search the ridge above her. He pushed down the urge to wave but stood up straight so she would see him.

“Shall we sound a greeting?” Éothain asked.

Éomer shook his head, “I don’t want to risk upsetting any of the horses on that track. We will offer a welcome cup instead. The ladies may be glad of a short rest after their trek up the vale.”

Patience not being one of his strong points Éomer walked a little way to the edge of a cliff face and whiled away the time trying to pick out the prominent features of the vast landscape that lay spread out before him. The peaks of the Ered Nimrais stretched away to his right, lowering in height as they ranged northwest. A purple spur of hard rock pushed deep into Pinnath Gelin as though trying to reach the far ocean. Below him, the silver ribbon of the Morthond River wound out onto the flatlands of Western Gondor. Shading his eyes from the morning light, he followed its course to the horizon – mist in the distance or the smudge of sea, he could not tell.

“They are nearly atop the ridge, my lord.”

Éomer turned and saw the top of the standard appearing above the ridge. Within moments bearer and horse came into full view as they took the last steps that brought them onto the main way. By the time he had returned to the place where the track from the Blackroot joined the road, Imrahil had attained the top. The Prince jumped from his horse as Éomer reached him, holding out his hand in greeting. “You were here early, Éomer. I imagined we might meet you further up the road.”

“Such a beautiful morning,” Éomer replied. “I thought we might as well get on.” Only half his attention was fixed on the Prince as Lothíriel now gained the road. Muttering an excuse to Imrahil he stepped across and took hold of her horse’s bridle, leading mount and rider away from the steep drop at the edge of the road. “Come over here, my lady, it’s safer.” Motioning one of his riders to the mare’s head, he looked up into a pair of sparkling grey eyes. “Welcome, Lothíriel and I hope your journey has not been too tiresome,” he said, eager for her to speak.

“A little tiring, my lord but it’s good to be here. It pleases me to look upon you after all this time.”

Éomer wanted to laugh, actually he wanted to shout. The formality of her words was totally at odds with the way she raked her eyes over him. He reached out his hands, “May I assist you to the ground, my lady?”

Lothíriel started to very elegantly move her right leg across her mount’s withers, all the time keeping her gaze locked with his.  “Thank you, my lord that would be agreeable.”

Once she was sitting sideways on the saddle he reached up and clasped his hands around her tiny waist. Her hands touched lightly on his shoulders and already he could smell the wonderful scent of her, distilled from a plant called Gardenia, he remembered her telling him. “And I hope the correspondence we have had was agreeable to you,” he whispered as he settled her on her feet, with his mouth close to her ear. She did not break contact, instead her fingers squeezed gently into his shoulder muscles.

“Oh yes, my lord,” she replied, her voice controlled but her eyes dancing, “I would say that it was extremely agreeable.”

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To be concluded – when Lothíriel tries to find time to write in her journal.

Chapter 9

Lothíriel’s  Journal 8

She entered the chamber quietly and tip-toed across to the bed. Éomer lay face down covered to his waist by a sheet, the muscled contours of his back thrown into relief by the light of the bedside lamps. A few strands of hair fluttered, disturbed by his regular breathing. Her husband of three days slept. A smile twitched Lothíriel’s lips: hardly surprising – they had gone out for a ride together just after dawn, but whilst he had spent the rest of the day sparring, she had benefited from relaxing and gossiping with the other women – not that she hadn’t kept half an eye on her husband, enjoying watching his prowess on the training fields, and the strength in his lean but solid frame  as he battled against her brothers – and then, at the end of three days of wedding celebrations, he had spent virtually the whole evening dancing with her. No wonder he had fallen asleep while waiting for his bride to join him.

Pondering on the pleasurable sights of the afternoon, Lothíriel considered whether to just get into the bed and snuggle up to that wonderful warm body. But she did not feel sleepy, so maybe she should take the opportunity to bring her journal up to date. She had not written a single word since arriving in Edoras. Now would be a good time to record the details of the wedding day. A giggle threatened to escape: writing about the ceremony would cause no problems, but as for night – dare she commit that to parchment?

Deciding that she would at least make a start, Lothíriel took a candle over to the small table that stood against the wall to the side of the bed, before fishing her journal out from the bag in the wardrobe. Faced with a blank page and with so many thoughts going through her mind she hesitated on what to write and where to begin. In the end she managed to get down the main details of the ceremony, finishing off with the moment when Éomer had kissed her…

‘Belecthor certainly would not have approved of the kiss Éomer gave me to seal our wedding vows, it was nothing like the chaste one I received at our betrothal ceremony. My new husband swept me into his arms and did not let me go until his men whistled their approval.’

Yes, that had been very satisfactory and the first of many even more satisfactory things that had happened over the last few days, but she must say a bit more about the evening…

‘Everyone, lord and commoner, were able to enjoy and join in the wedding celebrations. After our meal we went for a walk arm and arm through Edoras and received the good wishes of all the citizens, most of whom were very keen to drink our health and encourage us to join them. But Éomer told me to pretend to take a sip of what was offered and then he passed it to the guards to dispose of. We were accompanied all the time, not that we were in any danger, of course, but by that late hour the crowds were in a rollicking mood and he did not want me jostled. Eventually we headed back up the hill and I was spirited away to prepare for my wedding night. With three women – Éowyn, Meren and Anniel – laughing, joking and arguing about how I should wear my hair I hardly had a moment to be nervous. It seemed no time at all before I was sitting in the middle of our huge bed waiting for my husband to join me.’

Lothíriel put down her quill and glanced over towards Éomer, remembering how wonderfully considerate and kind he had been: understanding that even though she had every expectation of enjoying her wedding night she might have a natural nervousness of the unknown. In fact, she had only really been anxious that she may do or say something embarrassing, but right from the moment he had entered the chamber he had sought to relax her and give her time to adjust to their new relationship....

He came in not in a robe or a nightgown but still wearing boots, breeches and a shirt and with a green cloak in his hand. Lothíriel’s eyes went from his face to the cloak and back to his face in a question.  “Éomer, are we going somewhere?”

“Just outside. It’s such a beautiful night. All the stars are out and the moon is shining on the high peaks of the Ered Nimrais. There is no rush for anything, Lothíriel, and we haven’t had any chance to talk since you arrived. Come, I have brought you your new cloak, but it’s not cold out there.”

Surprised, and warmed by his words, Lothíriel threw the quilt back and got out of the bed, looking around the floor, “I’ll have to find my slippers,” she said, not having noticed where her maid had put them. All the time she could feel her husband’s eyes on her.

“That’s a very lovely nightgown.” Her head jerked up as his eyes scanned over her, glinting in the candlelight. Blushing, Lothíriel wriggled her feet into the slippers just as Éomer stepped towards her and draped the cloak lightly around her shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. The nightgown was lovely, made from a delicate silken fabric that clung to her curves, in a colour that changed like the sea – between green and blue. Not exactly transparent, it was not opaque either.  Meren had ordered it for her after they had donated the ones Aunt Ivriniel had given her to an old servant. Lothíriel swallowed, Éomer would not really want to know the details of her nightgown but she felt she had to say something. “It’s sewn from a special silk made in the south. My aunt thought I should be covered top to toe in heavy white cotton, but my sister- in law is more enlightened.”

“Hmm…,”an eyebrow rose, and his gaze came to rest on the area of her exposed breasts. “I imagine so. Especially if your aunt is the mother of that prig…what was his name …Pelilas, I think. Your father introduced me to him in Minas Tirith.”

Lothíriel grinned. My goodness did he know what her cousin had said about him? Best to pretend she knew nothing. “Yes, Pelilas. If you met him you can guess what Aunt Ivriniel is like. She tried to give me a lecture on what you would do and how I should behave on my wedding night …Oh!” Lothíriel put her hand up to her open mouth, heat flaming her face. Why had she said that? Nerves, she supposed. But beside her Éomer started chuckling.

“Did she now? That should be interesting. Later on you must tell me if I am doing everything correctly.”

That was it – she started giggling, burying her head into a very convenient warm chest and mumbling a bit incoherently. “Already things are different than in Gondor. I cannot imagine a bride going outside in her nightgown and as you know the groom is escorted to the bridal chamber by a procession of trumpeters.”

“I do remember the look on Faramir’s face,” he agreed with a short laugh.” Luckily my sister is unruffled by such things.” Éomer released his hold on her and reached out to open the door. He took her arm as they crossed the passage and within moments Lothíriel found herself staring up at the great peaks of the Ered Nimrais. Once again they were bathed in moonlight, just like the first time he had kissed her. But tonight the sky resembled a jewel-studded velvet cloth. “A beautiful sight, isn’t it?” he said.

Looking up, Lothíriel nodded. “I used to go onto the balcony at home and look out to sea. The stars looked like they went on for ever and ever. They seem closer here.”

Éomer pulled her back against him, resting his chin lightly on her head and staring at the mountains from over the top of her.  “It varies, I think. I have always thought that in Rohan they appear to be hanging just above us in the mountains, but on the plains they stretch way past the earthly horizon. I imagine that’s a bit like the sea.”

Her turn to speak, but she was having difficulty in forming her words. Probably due to Éomer’s arm being wrapped around her and tucked under her breasts. He had not grasped her tightly and the wool of her cloak lay between, but still she felt short of breath. Luckily he forestalled any reply.

“We were looking at the moon and the mountains the first time I kissed you and you told me you would be happy here. Do you remember?”

Remember? It was etched in her mind. She would never forget. Lothíriel squirmed around until she faced him, which was the best thing she could have done because he slipped his arms under her cloak, holding her gently around her waist. She looked up; his eyes looked much darker in the moonlight. “Of course I remember, I had been waiting for you to kiss me for ages.”

“Oh, you had, had you?” He looked to be having a hard time not to burst out laughing, “Let me tell you that having your father and brothers around was extremely off-putting. Besides that, I thought a properly brought up young lady might object.”

Lothíriel giggled. “You must have been reading Belecthor.”

“Who in Béma’s name is Belecthor?” Éomer asked, frowning slightly.

“Oh, he wrote my aunt’s favourite book on the behaviour expected from Gondorian ladies. He said that one’s betrothed should only be allowed one chaste kiss and my Aunt warned me to keep my mouth closed. I didn’t though,” she added as an afterthought.

“No you didn’t.” He couldn’t stop the laughter now and Lothíriel joined in, again burying her head against his warm body. Once they had regained composure he whispered in her ear, “I am getting a bit worried about what this aunt might have told you. Are you going to let me in on any more of her bizarre recommendations?”

Should she? But why not? Now that he was her husband she could surely discuss anything with him. “Well,” she said a little hesitantly, “she ordered me the cotton nightgowns because she said it was unwise to show any flesh. She thinks husbands should not be encouraged in any way and that they do not expect their wives to show any pleasure in their lovemaking.”

“What!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Anniel put me right on that. She was married before, so knows all about it.”

“Eorllic will be all right then,” Éomer muttered under his breath.

But Lothíriel caught his words and sniggered before asking seriously. “Do you know what his intentions are? I would not like her to get hurt.”

“Very serious, I imagine. A Rohir does not spring-clean his house in the autumn and order new curtains for nothing.” Éomer quipped.

“Oh good, so she might be staying here permanently?”

“Very likely, I should say. But enough of your companion and my captain, I am rather more interested in you.” His voice had dropped an octave and for some reason Lothíriel shivered, bringing about an immediate response. “Are you cold, my love?”

“No, not really, I…” But before she could say any more his lips descended on hers and the cloak was shoved right aside as he pulled her hard against him. Wonderful, this was so wonderful: the pressure of his muscled body against hers; his strong hands caressing her back; the tickle of his tongue exploring her mouth. And when one hand cupped her breast, the thumb gently flicking her nipple, she could just enjoy the sensations and not worry at all because he was her husband. How amazing it all felt.

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Lothíriel shivered as the curtains moved. Sometime during the evening the wind had got up and the temperature had plummeted. Seeing that the fire needed stoking, she put down her quill and went to the hearth, adding a few logs as quietly as possible so not to disturb her sleeping husband. When she got back to the table and looked down at her journal, she had written no more than .. We went outside to look at the moon and the stars, before … before what? Consummating their marriage? – what a banal way to describe so incredible a thing…

Éomer pushed the door open with his shoulder and then held her against him with one arm whilst he closed and locked it. A few strides took him to the bed and he deposited her gently in the middle of it. “I’ll take this.” Éomer pulled the cloak from her shoulders and hung it over a chair and then went around the room turning down lamps and dousing candle flames. Lothíriel took the opportunity to tuck her legs under the sheet, but stayed sitting up hugging her knees, her eyes following him around the room – for such a powerful man he moved with an easy grace, perhaps the warrior in him responsible for that fluid economy of movement. A delightful shudder of anticipation and expectation ran through her – how lucky she was to have such a handsome husband. When only the fire and one small lamp remained to light the space, he turned and caught her watching him. A smile lit his features, “You look so cosy in there I cannot wait to join you.”

No, she could not wait either and felt a little guilty for the lack of maidenly nervousness. But her confidence had grown since his letter – he wanted her for his wife and nothing could be better than that. Lothíriel moved across a bit to give him some room as he plonked down on the edge of the bed, already tugging off a boot. The other followed and he grasped the bottom of his shirt pulling it over his head and throwing it on top of the cloak. As the breeches hit the floor, Lothíriel caught a glimpse of tight buttocks and a peep of something interesting just before he slipped under the sheets.

She had enjoyed all his kisses, but lying down with a naked chest pressed against her breasts and the heat of a honed body burning through the thin material of her nightgown, awakened a passion she did not know she possessed. The melting urgency of their first real kiss as man and wife had her straining against him seeking for something yet undiscovered. Eventually, he lifted himself slightly and looked down upon her; she might not have much experience but recognized desire in those smoldering eyes.

“Lothíriel, I know you have been advised to keep yourself covered, but I would like to look at you, all of you.”

No doubt what he meant, especially as large fingers were starting to undo the ribbons that held her nightgown together. “May I?”  Swallowing, she nodded, and with what could be called practiced ease, the garment was rolled up over her hips, waist and breasts and over her head.  He threw it deftly towards the chair so that it ended up on top of the recently abandoned shirt.

Naked. Totally naked to her husband’s gaze, her breath came fast and shallow until he cupped her face gently in his two great hands and whispered, “You are so beautiful, I am going to kiss every part of you.” And then she relaxed, and the last thing she remembered him saying was – “Lothíriel, I expect you to show and experience extreme pleasure and I will keep on making love to you until I am sure of it.”

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Lothíriel stifled a giggle; she didn’t want to wake him. Now how could she write all that followed that in her journal?  She thought she had shown a great deal of pleasure, she’d certainly felt it, but it hadn’t stopped him making love to her again that night, or her shyly exploring his body. He had such a sense of humor too; because they had lain talking for quite a while and she had been comfortable enough to tell him about some of her aunt’s other ideas…not the bit about the laundry – she would wait to recount that little gem – but her aunt’s instructions on how a well brought up Gondorian lady should accommodate her husband’s desire had afforded them great amusement. Lothíriel clamped her hand over her mouth, the laughter threatening to burst forth at the memory of the night before when she had woken in the early hours to find him lying propped on his elbow watching her. He had grinned and said cheekily, “Luckily you are not wearing a nightgown, Lothíriel, so there’s nothing to pull up.”

How quickly any notion of modesty or shyness had been abandoned between them. She had wondered if he had deliberately done something to wake her, although he wouldn’t admit to it, and anyway, after this morning she would forgive him anything. At least that was something she could write about…

‘This morning we woke early and left our chamber just as the sun was rising. Firefoot and my new mare, Stardust, were already saddled and waiting at the bottom of the steps…’ Her new mare – what a magnificent creature Éomer had given her, the lightest of grays, with black mane and tail – they suited perfectly. Sighing at the pleasure of the memory of Éomer presenting her with the horse, Lothíriel continued writing… ‘A beautiful morning to go for a ride. As we passed through the gates a light mist swirled around our horse’s feet, but it did not look likely to last long as already the sun hung in a cloudless sky. However one of the guards reckoned the fair weather would soon break.’ And he had been right, Lothíriel thought, as she heard the wind rattling the window, but the morning had been perfect…’We turned right and followed the Snowbourn down towards the marshes of the Entwash. The track wound its way through groves of alders and willows that edged the bank of the river, and sometimes the trees were replaced by vast reedbeds over which harriers quartered, searching for prey. We had been traveling for about an hour, sometimes cantering, sometimes galloping, as the track permitted, when Éomer signaled a halt. We stopped in a small copse and through the trees I could see a narrow path disappearing into some reeds. Éomer lifted me down, saying he wished to show me something. He said a few words to the guards, my Rohirric not adequate enough to understand, but the instruction became obvious as they waited while he took my hand and led me along the path. The trees thinned and opened into a little clearing edged with reeds. I gasped, for there amongst the tussock grass peeped pale blue flowers…

Of all the things she had discovered about her new husband the events of the morning had surprised her the most. A warm feeling spread through her as she remembered her astonished gasp…

“Éomer, they’re gentians.” 

“Hmm,” he squeezed her hand. “I know they are not quite the same, not so bright a blue. But they are the only ones in bloom this time of the year.”

“I realize that, they are the marsh variety. They grow near Dol Amroth. But why have you brought me here?”

“I owe you a bunch of flowers.” Lothíriel shot her eyes to his face. He said it with a determined voice as though steeling himself, but when her gaze met his, he grinned. 

 Lothíriel grinned back. “Éomer you don’t have to. You are not the flower picking type”

“No, but I want to. And my men can laugh all they like. I wish to do something to show you how much you mean to me, how glad I am that you came into my life. Something other than presenting you with jewels and horses…”

He didn’t get anything else out because Lothíriel flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. That delayed the picking of any flowers for a moment. “Just one,” she said when they broke apart. You need only pick me one…”

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Lothíriel twirled the small flower in her fingers. It had already wilted, but she carefully smoothed out the petals, laying them flat and pressing the precious plant between two sheets of blotting paper ready to mount in her journal later. Picking up her quill and intending to make an effort to finish the outstanding entries, a tingle of awareness quivered on the back of her neck. Turning around quickly, quill in hand, she saw her husband watching her from the bed.

He raised himself up a bit, looking over towards her. “What are you doing?”

Now why did her heart start beating double time just at the sound of that velvet voice? “I thought you were asleep so I decided to bring my journal up to date.”

“I am awake now. Leave that until tomorrow and come to bed. I find that a short sleep has totally restored me.”

No mistaking that! The undercurrent of seduction in his husky tone was enough to squash any good intention of bringing her journal up to date that night. The quill hovered, and then returned to the stand. After all, as Belecthor stated – a husband’s wishes were paramount.

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The end.

Once again, a big thank you to Lia for lending me her precious book. I am sure it will be well used in the future. LBJ