Dol Amroth TA 3021

As a flower seeks the sun, she turned immediately Éomer entered the room, unconsciously stretching out her hand, having sensed her husband’s presence long before she could see him.  Imrahil thought he had never seen his daughter look so lovely. A week of marriage had given depth to her beauty. Éomer twined his fingers with hers, and drew her towards him possessively. He slipped his other arm around her, rubbing his hand up and down her back and whispered in her ear. As one they headed for the door; probably the last that would be seen of the bridal couple that night.

Imrahil sighed, with both contentment and memory.  Contentment: because he had once despaired of ever seeing Lothíriel floating on air, gliding across the room to greet a beloved husband. Memory: because it had been on the road to the Black Gates, a place where any remaining hope had been sucked from him by the all devouring gluttony of evil, that the thought had last come to him – fluttering on the wings of reminiscences of his late wife.

And seeing his daughter now, all her attention focused on Éomer, memories of his wife grabbed his mind once more.Their years together had been full of joy. She had beenso alive in the early days, with sparkling eyes and her hair an ebony cloak that framed her pale cheeks and fell streaming down her back…  Imrahil paused in his thought, realising that he was not the only one enjoying the interaction between the newlyweds. Aragorn had arrested his goblet on the way to his mouth, staring over the top of it towards the door. His pensive expression showed that he too had slipped into the midst of some memory. The goblet landed back down on the table.

The wine ignored for the moment, Aragorn smiled. “I’ve never noticed before how much Lothíriel has the look of her mother. Different eyes, but there is something in the way she moves. And her hair is just as striking.”

Elphir audibly gasped. Pushing away his own goblet, he leant towards Aragorn. “You knew my mother?”

“He met her before me,” Imrahil answered sharply. For some reason he had never mentioned it. There always seemed to be other things to talk about: first the war… and then managing the peace…

Aragorn chuckled at Imrahil’s slightly aggrieved tone, and turned to Elphir.  “But I never saw your parents together, which is a shame.  I would have liked to have been there to witness the end of the story.”

“Story?” Elphir looked inquiringly between his father and Aragorn.  “I realised you had met before, but is there a significance that has escaped me?”

Imrahil looked sideways at his son, flashing him a wry smile. “You could say it was a noteworthy time in my life.” For him and others.

Aragorn laughed. “Your father was a proud young man who resented serving under a travelling soldier, but even more, objected to Gondor’s Steward telling him to pay court to a beautiful woman.”

“Serving? You fought together?” Elphir immediately forgot his mother and picked up on the scent of battle. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”

Because it had been forgotten as the Dark Lord drew ever closer, and when Imrahil had met Isuidur’s Heir on the Pelennor, a slight embarrassment of his long ago hostility to the man who turned out to be Gondor’s lost king, had kept him silent. He straightened, knowing Aragorn had attached no importance to his youthful behaviour. “It was during the attack on Umbar; Ecthelion requested the loan of two of our ships.”

Elphir reached for the wine jug and topped up his father’s goblet. “It’s just the evening for a story.”  He reached over to Aragorn’s cup, but the king put his hand over it and stood up. Immediately there was a shuffle around them as guards and courtiers saw their king move, but Aragorn waved them down.

“I promised Arwen I would settle Eldarion into bed tonight, all the celebrations have upset his routine.” He swigged the last of his wine, and grinned down at Elphir.  “Besides, it’s better if you hear it from your father. If I am not around, he’ll be able to tell you what he really thought of me.”

“Well,” Elphir demanded of his father as soon as Aragorn had gone. “The ladies are deep in conversation, my brothers have taken Faramir to the tavern, so I think we could pass a pleasant hour delving into your disgraceful past.”

“There was nothing disgraceful about it,” Imrahil retorted. “But I have always been averse to being told what to do by the Steward of Gondor.”

Elphir laughed. “Or anyone else for that matter.”

Imrahil acknowledged the truth with a flick of his brows; already he could see his father in his mind’s eye – the letter in front of him, a determined look on his face…

Dol Amroth TA 2980

Imrahil yawned, and stretched out his legs sinking lower in the chair, swallowing to try and rid his mouth of the sour taste of too much ale. He needed a drink and something sweet to eat. The cook’s apricot tarts would be good. But watching the changing expression on his father’s face as he scanned the dispatch from Minas Tirith, he didn’t hold out much hope of breakfasting anytime soon. Ecthelion must have something important to say: the errand rider had arrived before dawn with a lathered horse and a bulky package. Although, sleeping late after a visit to the Crooked Capstan the evening before, Imrahil had missed that occurrence. His tardiness also meant his father must have had time to read the missive many times, but so far he’d not shared its contents. Imrahil shifted in his seat, stifling another yawn, which caused his father to glare at him with disgust, as if he had never visited a tavern in his life.

But his son knew better. Carved into the age-hardened oak trunk that supported the low roof of the sleaziest drinking house in the port was his father’s mark – the Ahe enjoyed stylizing into a fair rendering of the shape of a Swan-ship. It could not be mistaken.  And although the Lord of Belfalas might take care to appear moderate and restrained in all things, Imrahil had talked to leathered fishermen who well remembered a young prince rolling and rollicking his way up the hill on many a night. The thought of seeing his immaculately turned out father — who somehow managed to reach the end of even a lively skirmish with his dignity still intact, and appeared to have the knack of ordering dirt not to cling to the highly polished boots – in a less than perfect condition, made him let out a loud chuckle. This earned him another look of disapproval. But getting hungrier by the moment; the ale always did that – perhaps he should have some ham after the tarts with a baked egg – Imrahil made an effort to sit up straight and prompt his father into explanation.

“What does our worthy Steward want, Father?”

Adrahil frowned, and slapped the sheaf of correspondence down on his desk. “To join him in a raid. He asks us for two ships, each filled with a company of good fighting men to be at the harbour on Tolfalas within a week.”

“Tolfalas?” Imrahil repeated, surprised.  There had never been any trouble on Tolfalas. “Why there?”

“To meet with three of his own ships for a joint raid on Umbar.”

“A raid on Umbar!”  Breakfast forgotten, Imrahil surged with excitement.

“To hit the Corsairs at their base,” Adrahil carried on. “Ecthelion feels they will become an even greater threat as the Shadow grows, especially to us.”

Imrahil leant forward enthusiastically, his mind immediately going to the difficulties: they’d never get their fighting ships into that harbour without being seen.  An overland attack? “He thinks a raid’s possible?” 

Staring out of the window to the sea, chin in hand, his father tapped his finger on the end of his nose, likewise considering the implications of such a bold venture. “Been persuaded, evidently,” he said at last.  “I imagine that daring assault three months ago, when the bastards scoured the coast to within a few leagues of Linhir, helped him make up his mind.”

“It was a bit close to his own doorstep,” Imrahil scoffed. “That’s what he worried about, not us.”

“Maybe, but I am inclined to think it’s worth us joining in.  There are no more details of the plan. That’s to be given when you meet up with his forces.”

“Me? You’re not coming, Father?” Imrahil wanted to whoop with joy. It wouldn’t be his first command, but the others had all been along their own coast. To be trusted with taking troops to raid Umbar…

“No. Tondir can take one company on Osprey, and you the other on Windsong. Take Eradan as your second in command.”

Not likely! There was no way he was having one of his father’s cronies watching his every move. “I’m happier with Sergion,” Imrahil named his friend.

“He’s too young,” the dismissal was thrown back immediately.

“He’s older than me,” Imrahil retorted. “And he’s been with me every time I have drawn arms.”

His father twisted his lips into a wry smile. “Three months older, isn’t he? Unless I am mistaken he is twenty-six in a few weeks’ time.”

“He’s clever, and a natural soldier,” Imrahil argued, marvelling at his father’s capacity to retain knowledge. “But most importantly,” he pressed, “we understand each other.”

The Prince of Dol Amroth scrutinised him for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desktop. “Oh, very well.”

Imrahil hid his elation at having got his own way so easily. His father must be having an off day. “So, I will be in command of our forces?”

“No. As I said, you will command one company and Tondir the other. Captain Thorongil will have overall command of the operation.”

“The mercenary!” Imrahil let out a huff of disgust.  Now he knew why he was being trusted. It soured the cherry slightly, but not much – he would still be away from his father’s all seeing eyes. “No wonder you are happy to let me go, there’s no way you’d serve under a paid soldier.”

“Ecthelion does not expect it …”

“A good job, because he’d be wasting his time,” Imrahil interrupted, but his father ignored the remark.

“Our Steward has particularly asked for you. And you may call Captain Thorongil a mercenary, but the man has proved his worth countless times. Gondor’s enemies have been weakened because of his skill and inspiring leadership, and now he has set his sights on Umbar. He is twice your age, Imrahil, and vastly more experienced. You have to accept that.” A little glint of mischief warmed his father’s grey eyes. “Would you be happier serving under Denethor?”

Imrahil sniggered. “I bet he’s mad, he hates playing second fiddle to Thorongil. But you are right, much as I respect Denethor, there is something cold about him. I’ll never know why Finduilas agreed to have him.” He eyed his father. “It wasn’t as if she was bereft of suitors.”

Adrahil bristled. “I did not pressure her, if that’s what you’re insinuating. She wished for the match, Imrahil, however strange that may seem to you. And there’s no denying he is extremely fond of her. Besides, if it unites us with the line of Stewards even more, then it’s a good thing for Gondor.”

Imrahil shrugged. His sister could still be in her beloved Dol Amroth, with the sound of the sea in her ears, had she married another man. But too late now. He stood up, eager to be gone. “I’ll go and talk to Sergion, there will be a lot to sort out.”

But his father waved him down. “Not yet. There is one more thing.” He shuffled the parchments, pulling one to the top and scanning the writing.

Imrahil sat reluctantly on the edge of his chair. “Well?”

“When the job is done, Ecthelion would like you to go to Minas Tirith before coming back here.”

“Won’t his precious Captain make a report? There’s no need for me to go. I will want to get back to Blade.” With a new horse to train, the raid had come at a bad time. He’d hardly had time to see what the horse could do.

His father shook his head, and then fixed his gaze on him.

“What is it?” Imrahil asked. He didn’t like the set of the princely jaw. It spoke of purpose.

“Ecthelion has picked out a wife for you.”

“He’s what!” Imrahil stood up so abruptly the chair fell backwards with a crash.

“Lady Mirineth,” his father went on as if nothing had happened. “She is a third cousin or something. Beautiful, good family, the father’s rich.”

Imrahil thrust both hands down on the desk, leaning over the expanse of polished wood to look his father in the eye. “I don’t care if he has a dragon hoard in his cellar and she a second Lúthien, I will not marry at Ecthelion’s behest. Or anyone else’s for that matter!”  Besides, he was too young. He didn’t want a wife and all that went with it. “I mean it, Father,” he said when the cool eyes never wavered.  “I will not be coerced into this.”

Adrahil sighed. “While I do not always agree with our noble Steward, Imrahil, I have some sympathy with his concerns. You are my only son. You have a talent and liking for warfare, so you are vulnerable. There are likely to be more fighting roles for you in the future and I would be happier to see you follow the banners if the nursery was full of babes.”

Who was to say he would be more successful spawning sons than his father! But he smothered that retort and stood up straight. “No!”

“There is nothing to stop you looking, my son.” The hard look disappeared. “I’ll not try to force you. In the end it will be up to you, I want you to be happy.  But you have not formed any serious attachment here, so you might as well enjoy a time in the City and take the opportunity to see your sister.”

“I have no wish to sojourn in Minas Tirith, Father. My place is here.”

“A short visit, Imrahil. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I have enough to think about. I am more concerned with the problems of settling a company of men on Windsong. Her captain is a cantankerous old dog.”

The black eyebrows rose, conceding temporary defeat in the matchmaking. “But there’s no better seaman. Just remember to be circumspect with him. A captain on his own ship outranks the Valar.”

Imrahil nodded. He knew that, but did Captain Thorongil? 

 ---

To be continued.

 Authors note.   This story will stand alone and it is not necessary for readers to be familiar with any of my other stuff to enjoy it. However, those who have read Tide of Destiny will recognise Imrahil and his friend Sergion from there. Before the end of this you will meet the ladies they married and also discover why Lothíriel had such unusual green eyes.

Much of this story is action, I am grateful to Lia and other friends at the ‘Garden of Ithilien’ workshop for reading through the drafts and helping me to get it right – I hope.

Happy New Year to you all. LBJ

Chapter 2

“There, you can see the cloud over it; one always forms on warm afternoons.” Captain Arandir pointed far to their left, to where Imrahil could see a low haze on the horizon in an otherwise clear sky.

“Are you sure that’s Tolfalas, Captain?”Imrahil shaded his eyes from the bright glare reflecting off the water.

“It’s in the same place as it was last time I came this way. I doubt it’s moved.” Captain Arandir stomped to the starboard rail, muttering into his beard.

Imrahil decided not to apologise. “Then I thank you, Captain. We’ve made good time; it looks like we’ll be in by evening.”

“Earlier, if I can keep them pulling. The tide will turn as we close on the island.” Arandir looked out to the west, sniffing the air, white whiskers twitching. “And we are going to get some wind. That’ll help.”

Imrahil smothered a grin. He had once sailed far north up the coast with his grandfather, and they had spotted bad-tempered walruses battling each other on a lonely shore – he detected a certain similarity with Captain Arandir. Perhaps that was why the sailors had a preference for leaving the hair on their faces – it made them look fierce. But he mustn’t mock, because the Captain knew his trade. And if you could get past the gruff exterior he was good company, regaling them will tales of his run-ins with the Corsairs. Windsong was a fast and well-armed ship whereas others had not been so lucky. Hopefully they would avenge some of that, and if the mood on board was anything to go by, the chance of hitting back would be welcomed. However, no one besides himself, Sergion and Arandir had known of their mission until they had put to sea – too many traders who visited Dol Amroth did business with Umbar and Harad as well, for it to be made general knowledge.  They had been a few miles out before he had announced their eventual destination to soldiers and crew alike. The result was an air of expectancy, the ship ringing with the sound of steel on stone as blades were honed to razor-sharp edges, and the oarsmen pulling eagerly through the oily swell, setting the rigging singing.

A shout alerted Imrahil as feet scurried on the deck and within moments the great sails had been canted around. Arandir had been right: the afternoon was bringing a westerly. Canvas snapped, the sails filled and billowed out. Now he knew why the Captain had stood out from the coast: on this course they would sail right into the harbour on Tolfalas. Captain Arandir gave the order for the oars to be shipped; the crew could take a well earned rest. He stood with the wind in his hair looking up at the set of the sails.

“He knows what he’s doing.”

Sergion joined Imrahil on the stern. Sensibly he had his long hair tied back in a tail like the sailors, but even so the freshening breeze whipped it back and forth.  Imrahil smiled at his friend, glad he was here. They had grown up together, and sharing similar sharp features as well as the black hair and grey eyes of their race, had often been mistaken for brothers. Birthright decreed that one led and the other followed, but although having no qualms about commanding the men, Imrahil preferred to have the benefit of Sergion’s level-headed counsel. For one thing he always said what he thought.

“Yes, if anyone can get us unlooked for into Umbar, he will.” Imrahil indicated the mass of men crowding the main deck. “They are in good spirits.”

“They are excited about serving with Captain Thorongil, Imrahil. As well as striking a blow against the Corsairs.”

“Hmmph…” Imrahil turned away, placing his hands on the rail and staring at the horizon. “He’s a sell-sword.”

Sergion laughed. “True, but he has an awesome reputation. And the men are hoping to gain renown on the back of that. I take it you do not share their enthusiasm.”

“I’m keen to strike a blow against the Corsairs. I just wish we were doing it on our own.”

“You have a plan, do you?” Sergion couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice.

“As a matter of fact I do.” He grinned at Sergion’s look of surprise. “Well, at least I think I have worked out what our friend Thorongil is intending,” honesty made him admit.

“And? Are you going to share your thoughts?”

Imrahil left the rail and stared ahead; he could just see the island around the edge of the sail. Already the tall tower had appeared above the haze. “What is Tolfalas famous for?”

Sergion shrugged. “Mostly for the garrison. It’s a good place to get rid of troublemakers.”

That was true; Imrahil remembered some years before, his father had sent a soldier there who had taken too keen an interest in Finduilas, but that was not what he meant. “They also have a fishing fleet, small boats that go out after the squid.”

“Ah….”Sergion considered that.

“We can’t take our ships right up to the waterfront at Umbar, for a start we’d never be able to get them out quickly…”

“But if we towed a string of small boats and went in at night…” Sergion pondered.

 “Exactly, but it’s still going to be difficult to get past the watchers on the Cape unseen, even if we land a raiding party to knock them out.  However,” Imrahil shot his friend a scornful look, “I am sure the great Captain Thorongil has thought of that.”

“We might learn something, Imrahil. We might even like him.”

“I am just suspicious of a man who fights for Rohan, gains trust there, and then gives allegiance to Gondor.”

“But we are all on the same side,” Sergion pointed out.

Imrahil knew he was being disagreeable, and deliberately pulled his lips into a grin. “You are right, of course. But I would have liked to be doing this myself; it will come hard to take orders from a mercenary.”

“My father would say that you have the arrogance of youth, and that it will do you good to take second place for once.”

Imrahil glared at him for a moment, before breaking into laughter. “No wonder my father and yours are friends, they think the same.”

“Osprey’s in sight again,” Captain Arandir called from the rail. “She must have followed us out.”

Imrahil looked to where the Captain was pointing and saw a sail tracking down their wake. “She won’t catch us, will she?” All sailors liked to outrun their fellows.

“Not a chance,” Arandir said with satisfaction. “The tide’s got us now; we will be in within the hour.”

“Then I will go and make sure the men are not expecting to go ashore. Not until we know what’s happening, anyway.” Sergion jumped down the steps to the main deck and called to a sergeant.

Imrahil leant over the rail, watching the waves racing down the side of the hull, turquoise bubbles foaming against the weathered planks. He liked being at sea, enjoyed the emptiness of the vista, the smudging of the horizon where distances were blurred. Not that he had ever been tempted to have his own ship; it had been the flash of the sword and the ripple of banners that had called to him. The proud line of knights, bristling with weaponry, their grey horses decked in armour that had captured his loyalty. 

Although the incursion into Umbar would see no great charge – more likely a stealthy slither through a dark night. He would still enjoy it, he admitted, recognising in himself the need to fight, not only because he enjoyed the skill of arms, butto protect a land he loved from the increasing evil that harried its borders. And if Ecthelion’s confidence in Captain Thorongil gave him the weapon to strike a blow deep into the heart of one of Gondor’s main enemies, then he would grasp it. But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t have preferred another method.

Dismissing his thoughts with a wry laugh, Imrahil strode to the front of the afterdeck and stared towards the island. Below the tower the ramparts of the garrison started to take shape, and very soon he could distinguish the outlines of the houses that clustered around the port. The low sun shone directly into the harbour and by screwing his eyes he was able to pick out the stalks of three masts rising above the breakwater. As they got closer he realised that the ships were anchored in the haven, not berthed alongside. The men wouldn’t be pleased about that; even Tolfalas had a tavern or two they would have appreciated visiting. Soon the possibility they would be anchoring out became apparent to everyone and muffled murmurs of discontent wafted up. Captain Arandir ignored them. They didn’t bother Imrahil either: confident plans for the forthcoming raid, once known, would push thoughts of taverns and wenches from the men’s minds.

“They sound like they’re grumbling,” he said, as Sergion joined him again.

His friend laughed. “A couple of days at sea and they are already missing their women. But it’s mostly good-natured. I imagine we will be off soon and that’s why there’s no shore-time.”

“Probably,” Imrahil agreed, “but we’ll try and give them some recreation after it’s over.” The sooner they started the action the better it would be. Any nerves, and there were always some, disappeared once he had the enemy in his sights.

Sergion glanced down at the men on the deck; most had now gone to the rail to get their first sight of the port. He chuckled quietly. “You only have to tell them they will get some time to sample the ribald delights of Pelargir and all thoughts of going ashore here will be thrust aside.”

“What?”Imrahil turned around abruptly. “Why would we be going up river afterwards? We shall want to get home.”

“Minas Tirith, Imrahil. Isn’t your presence required? Something concerning a lady?” Sergion wore his practised innocent expression.

“I have no intention of dancing to Ecthelion’s tune,” Imrahil snapped. “I am too young to think about marrying, and when I do think about it, I will not discuss the matter with our noble Steward. Dol Amroth makes its own decisions.”

“But I thought your father had urged you to look.”

“Only because he liked the sound of the riches, I imagine. Wars are expensive.” Imrahil ignored his father’s call for heirs and slapped Sergion on the back, laughing. “But I don’t think our coffers are empty yet and if we can strike a heavy blow to the Corsairs then trade will improve even more. No, we will be going straight back to Dol Amroth. The lady can look for another prince.”

“I don’t think there are any more, Imrahil.”

“No, perhaps not,” he chuckled. “She’ll have to make do with a mere lord. Be better off, don’t you think? I doubt I am good marriage material.”

Sergion’s face filled with laughter. “There is that, of course. I can’t imagine a wife would be too keen on you rolling back from the Crooked Capstan and waking her up with your bawdy songs.”

“Very true.” Imrahil grimaced, wondering for how much longer he could enjoy such light-hearted pleasures. “But unfortunately the prognosis is poor. I have it on good authority that my father was worse, but look at him now.”

“I see what you mean. Mine has become just as po-faced, but there was a time…” Sergion mused silently for a moment. “Which all suggests that if the lady waits, she might get her prince?”

“Oh, go ride a whale! I am fed up with the subject already. Let’s concentrate on what we are here to do.” Imrahil folded his arms and stared towards the harbour, shifting his weight from foot to foot to steady himself against the roll as they picked up speed. The details of the ships were becoming clear, and he recognised the Voyager. She often came into Dol Amroth. Soon he could see figures on her deck, watching them coming in. He wondered if one was Thorongil.

They left the breakwater to larboard and made for the other three ships anchored in the middle of the haven. Captain Arandir called for the sails to be lowered, and a small boat headed towards them to take their anchor. Imrahil pointed to the quay. “There are the squid boats.” Clustered against the wall were a fleet of small open boats, powered by oars with just a mizzen sail to keep the boat to the wind as the fishermen waved the torches to attract the squid to the surface on dark nights. “I wonder if he intends to use them,” he mused.

“We shall soon find out,” Sergion pointed to the boat that had come to take the anchor, it also carried a soldier in the uniform of Gondor. They were wanted for a meeting on board Voyager, straightaway.

Imrahil hurried down to his cabin, he wanted to change quickly. But he might have known Sergion would make some remark.

“Feel the need to say who you are, do you?” he ribbed when he saw the glittering swan-ship on Imrahil’s tunic.

“The man is uppity enough. According to Finduilas he has quite upset Denethor.” Not that he bothered overmuch about Denethor being upset. In fact it was the only thing that might warm him to the mercenary. But he would reserve judgement.

Sergion laughed, and made a mock bow. “I doubt he will be able to mistake you, he’s sure to tug his forelock when he sees that lot. And the Umbarians will spot you a league away.”

Imrahil sighed, knowing he was behaving like a fool. “You’re right, but it’s too late now. Osprey is in and anchoring. Let’s go.”

They followed Captain Arandir down the netting and into the small boat. The soldier dutifully saluted as Imrahil swung across the gunwale. “Captain Thorongil is waiting, lord. He’s eager to start off tonight.”

Imrahil nodded, wondering what the hurry was. He stood in the bow watching Voyager as the big ship loomed closer, speculating as to whether he had been mistaken about the stealthy approach when he noted the piles of shot stored alongside the catapult on her stern.  True, Windsong and Osprey carried plenty of armament, but he still couldn’t see how they could fight their way past the defences in the narrows and reach the inner harbour unscathed. Fire could be rained down on them. He hoped Captain Thorongil was as good as his reputation. This close, he eagerly looked forward to meeting him.

Imrahil climbed up the ladder and stepped onto Voyager’s deck. Three men waited to welcome him: one was Voyager’s captain, a man after Arandir’s ilk; one a high-ranking Gondorian soldier in immaculate uniform – a good job he had dressed up himself; the third man was tall, taller than most men of Gondor, even Denethor. Stern and weather-honed, he was dressed in grey with only a silver star to relieve the plainness of his cloak. His powerful arms and chest, the confident stance, marked him as a swordsman. But this Thorongil also had the look of Númenor – black-haired with farseeing grey eyes. Great Ulmo! Surely he was not a by-blow of Ecthelion’s. Was that why the Steward favoured him, and Denethor hated the man? Imrahil stared, dismissing the feeling that his thoughts were on view. But here was a man that could look deep into the hearts of others. Waiting for acknowledgment of his rank, Imrahil met only blatant assessment. Drawing himself up under the scrutiny, he kept his gaze deliberately challenging. Damn, the man’s lips were twitching.

Thorongil inclined his head so slightly that the movement was almost imperceptible.”Prince Imrahil, we are honoured that you are able to aid us in this venture.”

“I am glad Ecthelion has decided to strike a blow against the Corsairs,” he answered smoothly.

“Hmm…,” Thorongil smiled, and waved his arm towards the cabin. Imrahil immediately knew that Ecthelion had decided no such thing, and it was down to this man that they were here.

“You are eager to get going?” No way would he acknowledge the power the mercenary had over Gondor’s Steward.

“I will explain why as soon as our friends from Osprey get here.” Thorongil led him below decks and into the large cabin at the stern.

A dozen men were already there. They stood up as Imrahil and Sergion entered, introducing themselves. Captain Arandir followed them in, nodding to his fellow seamen before sitting himself in the corner. Imrahil and Sergion looked at each other, sharing a moment of amusement and awareness: most of the men in the cabin were twice their age, and of vast experience. His father would counsel prudence in his dealings with them.

A servant filled goblets and passed around some savoury tartlets while they waited. The talk centred on the likely plan of action, but Thorongil kept his thoughts to himself, spreading out a large chart of the coastline of Harad on the table.

“I’ll wait if you don’t mind, until we are all here.” He concentrated on the chart making some measurements across the expanse of sea and frowning as he did so.

The door opened again and Tondir and Osprey’s captain came in. Good, now they could start.

Imrahil had to admire the way Thorongil drew all to him, his eyes ranging around the room, encompassing every one of them and making them feel his ideas were theirs. He listened to the mercenary outline his plan with great satisfaction; they were going to tow the squid boats.

“The entrance to Umbar is well guarded,” Thorongil pointed out the narrow channel on the map. “On the high cliff is a watchtower and if we go straight in, even at night, our boats will be spotted.  They will alert the garrison and that will bring a fury of missiles down on us.”

“So we have to knock out the guard,” Imrahil interrupted.

“We do. I want to land a small party the night before; they can lie up in the day, and at dusk make their way up the cliff to capture the watchtower, and then the fort. Our ships will remain in this cove,” he indicated it on the chart, “– it’s reported uninhabited and as long as we are close in, the watchers in the tower cannot see us. We’ll make the assault once we have received the signal that the garrison has been taken. When we do go in, the dromonds will wait where the channel widens, armed of course. We will have archers and catapults ready, but the small boats will get right into the harbour amongst the Corsair ships. If we can get in unseen, we should be able to overpower any crew on board, fire the ships and be away before our enemy has woken up.”

“How do we know their ships will all be in port?” one of the soldiers asked.

“They will on the sixteenth, which is why it is imperative we get away tonight to allow us time if we encounter foul winds or bad weather.” Thorongil chuckled at the blank looks he encountered.

But Imrahil shouted excitedly. “The Festival of Glory! Of course, the bastards will be drunk out of their minds on Arak.”

“The reason I think it will work,” Thorongil agreed, smiling at him. “And a very appropriate day to destroy their fleet, don’t you think?”

Did he! Imrahil couldn’t help but meet the man’s eyes and grin back. The Festival of Glory –  a celebration that had started way back in history to mark the arrival of the Númenorean, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden in Umbar but had, more meaningfully to them, over the years come to commemorate the arrival of the rebel sons of Castamir and the theft of the Gondorian fleet. Oh yes, what a day to choose! He clenched his fists with anticipation and then realised Thorongil was still looking directly at him.

“Prince Imrahil, I thought you and a small party of your men might take the watchtower and fort. It will need youth to climb that cliff.”

Miss the main fight? But he would have no man watching him… , Imrahil nodded his agreement.

“Don’t worry, you won’t miss the rest of the fun,” Thorongil carried on. “If all goes well, we will pick you up on the way in. The details can be gone over later.”

Imrahil smiled, glad he had not made a fuss. 

“Captain Arandir,” Thorongil acknowledged the whiskered seaman sitting in the corner, “I hope you will allow me to lead the attack from your ship.”

What! Imrahil rose to his feet. Was he not trusted to land a raiding party?

To be continued.

Chapter 3

Nothing between him and Umbar but an expanse of dark ocean. Imrahil leant comfortably against the neck of the Swan-prowed ship, his cloak wrapped tight around him, staring down at the froth of bow wave as the wind powered them through the silky water.  Above, Ithil hung as no more than a shard of silver, but still streaked light across the waves, topping them with foaming glitter. The beauty of night sailing never failed to move him, even when he seethed from his first meeting with Thorongil.

A pertinent question from Tondir had forestalled his immediate outburst; Sergion’s hand on his arm had helped, too. He supposed he was thankful. Strict upbringing ensured that he had managed to hold on to his temper for the rest of the meeting. Plus the discipline that decreed you did not question your commander’s orders.  For a moment, just for a moment, he had come under Thorongil’s spell, but the magic had disintegrated into disenchantment. Entitled to obedience, a commander was also expected to show confidence and expectation that his captains could be trusted to perform the duties allocated to them. To demonstrate lack of faith so blatantly was not good leadership, especially in front of others.

Imrahil supposed his age gave cause for concern, but he had been trained for war since he could walk. Dol Amroth had not been held safely for generations by its Princes being shy of battle. And he had never suffered from diffidence when it came to his own ability. The day you didn’t have belief in your own skill was the day you hesitated. And that day you were lost.  He firmed his lips defiantly. Well, he would just have to prove himself to Captain Thorongil. But right now he should get something to eat; hopefully by going late he could avoid his commander. Imrahil sniffed; his stomach growled when the door to the crew quarters opened and the smell of stew wafted past his nostrils. The low rumble of conversation and a burst of laughter issued out before the door closed again. Wanting to take one last look at the splendour of the netted sky, he didn’t turn around, assuming a sailor had come on deck to tip the remains of the meal over the side.  But instead, soft footfalls approached him. Imrahil caught sight of the flapping edge of a dark cloak and a glint of steel when the person joined him at the bow, and immediately pushed himself upright. Shunning the handhold of the prow he folded his arms and stared out over the sea, letting his body sway to the motion of the ship as the waves rolled under her belly. Damn the man! Why couldn’t he stay away?

“It certainly is a beautiful evening,” Thorongil remarked grasping a stay with one hand.

“Yes.” Imrahil said.

“I have been briefing the crew on our plans, they seem a good bunch. And all are keen to strike a blow against the Corsairs.”

Imrahil nodded. “Excuse me, I haven’t eaten yet.” He half turned, but Thorongil put his other hand on his arm. A warrior’s hand, Imrahil noted: long fingered, strong, calloused.

“There is something you are not happy with?” Thorongil waited for an answer, but when none came he pressed the point, squeezing his fingers into Imrahil’s forearm. “If you have any issues with me then it is better that we discuss them now. A demanding few days lie ahead and we need to understand our roles and trust one another to fulfil them.”

“Trust,” Imrahil rounded on him, “is a two way thing. I am expected to trust you, a paid soldier, who tells no one of his origins, his birth and his homeland. But you, Captain Thorongil, cannot trust me, whose ancestors have defended this realm for generations by land and sea, to even command a small raiding party without wanting to oversee it.”

For a moment Thorongil looked stunned, he opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. When he said nothing, Imrahil shook off the restraining hand and took a step away.

“No, Prince Imrahil,” Thorongil stopped him with a cold tone. “This is something we need to talk about. I take it you are displeased to be taking orders from a mercenary. Even one with vastly more experience of warfare than yourself?”

Imrahil stared into the man’s eyes, but they were dark and veiled. “I know nothing of your motives, and that worries me.”

“Can you not accept that my motives are the same as yours – to rid Gondor of her enemies?” Thorongil said it so low that Imrahil could only just catch the words before the wind whipped them away. “Or do you think it is only the high and the mighty that are loyal to the west and wish for all men to live in peace.” He twisted his lips mockingly when Imrahil didn’t answer. “If you do, then you must doubt the allegiance of the common soldier and the men that pull the oars. And believe that courage and bravery belong only to those who wield the finest swords.”

“No, of course I don’t,” Imrahil retorted, stung.  “But I believe duty and responsibility march hand in hand with rank and birth. And that the common soldier, as you put it, can walk away easier than those that lead them.”

Visibly startled, Thorongil mused for a moment before answering, his eyes searching into the night. “That is true. But have not there been those in Gondor’s past, high and noble men, who have led rebellion and spilled blood. Rank and birth have never stopped men being corrupted by evil, whereas others of lesser status have remained faithful.”

Imrahil sighed; knowing Thorongil spoke the truth and no man should be judged by birth alone, but by his actions also. But it was this man’s birth and this man’s actions that he questioned.  Thorongil stood tall and resolute; noble in bearing as well as speech, and Imrahil knew without doubt that had Ecthelion not fathered him, then some other man of Númenor could claim the deed. “I may be wrong to doubt you, as so far you have proved your loyalty to Gondor.  If your motives are as you say, then I wish you well. But because of you there is a cup of bitterness filling between Denethor and his father…”

“That is not my intent,” Thorongil interrupted.

“Even so, it is happening. My sister is concerned. Gondor has suffered before from usurpers driving wedges through its ruling families to try and seize control themselves.”

The moonlight sparked on the star on Thorongil’s cloak, the thin shaft lighting his weather-beaten features. “I swear to you, Imrahil, I have no such purpose. I only wish to help rid Gondor of the evil surrounding her.”

He said it so simply, so truly, that Imrahil believed him. Their eyes met for a moment as the ship pitched in the rising swell. He nodded, and Thorongil smiled.

“Now, as to your other complaint that I am on this ship to oversee your actions, I apologize for not making myself plain. But there was much to talk about and explaining all my decisions would have taken too much time. I wanted to get away.”

Imrahil stiffened. “You are in command here, you have every right to do as you see fit.”

“No, I left you with the wrong impression and that was a mistake. Be assured, I have no doubts that you will not do otherwise than what is asked of you. I am on this ship merely because Captain Arandir had sailed into the Firth of Umbar many times in his youth, and I therefore value his experience. Also, I need a seaman to advise me whether it is safe to proceed. I would hate to risk the men’s lives unnecessarily, but I don’t want to pull back as a result of craven counsel. Your captain, besides being a seasoned sailor, has a reputation for daring, so I will trust his judgement. ”

“How did you know he has sailed into Umbar?” Imrahil felt a fool, in his indignation he had forgotten that Arandir had once served on the trade ships.

Thorongil leant back against the prow, taking up much the same position Imrahil had vacated. “I met him at the Harlond when he brought your sister back from a visit to Dol Amroth. We had a long talk about the difficulties of sailing into the Firth. It narrows considerably, and is only navigable on the northern side where the watchtower and the garrison are. But he also assured me that although the cliffs are high, they are climbable by those agile enough. There are difficulties, too, once we get to the Haven. The Corsairs have considerable strength and not all will be reeling from too much Arak. But by not taking the dromonds right up we allow ourselves room to escape. After I confirmed that we could tow small boats, I felt confident to put the scheme to Ecthelion. The information I obtained from Captain Arandir helped me persuade him.”

“I suspected the idea came from you,” Imrahil admitted. “But whatever, I am glad of it. For too long we have allowed the Corsairs to harass our shipping and our coasts. We never expected them to get as far as Linhir, and it will only get worse.” He caught hold of one of the forestays as the ship ploughed into a wave.

“The motion is changing.”  Thorongil braced himself against the prow, but looked in no discomfort.

“The tide was due to turn about now; it must be already running from the east. The opposing west wind will kick up a bit of a chop,” Imrahil explained.

“You must have been brought up knowing much sea-lore.”

Imrahil shrugged. “My grandfather was the sailor; he took me on many voyages. I love it, but have never wanted to make the sea my life. When I am not battling, horses claim most of my time.” He thought of Blade and sighed. “I took a new horse recently, but have hardly got to know him before being called away.”

Thorongil smiled sympathetically. “It is a long time since I have owned a special horse; my feet have served me well. But oddly I find the sea no stranger; although before coming to Gondor I did not know it well.”

Imrahil stared at him. Seeing the faraway look in his eyes he wondered just where the man did come from. “Then perhaps the sea is in your blood, as it is in all the men of…” But at that moment a rogue wave broke over the larboard bow, dousing them with cold water. “Damn!” Imrahil pushed sodden hair from his eyes.  “Now I am wet and hungry besides just being hungry.”

Thorongil stood and shook himself like a dog, his long hair spraying more water. “Then I will not keep a young man from his food.”

Imrahil hesitated, but he had to say it. “I am sorry for the way I reacted. I took offense too quickly.”

“Dare I say that time will cure you of that,” Thorongil ventured, laughing. And when he laughed his stern faced showed a humour, hitherto unseen.

Grinning, Imrahil nodded. “I deserved that. But you need a young man to climb those cliffs.”

“True.” Thorongil held out an arm for a warrior’s clasp. “So, the sell-sword and the prince can go into battle together.”

“And defeat the bastards.” Imrahil slammed his hand around the hard muscle of Thorongil’s forearm. Now he too had fallen under the spell; damn the man!

---

For three days they had crossed the open sea towards Umbar. The small fleet only closed on the Cape under cover of darkness, and then, like a ghost ship, her sails stowed away and the great oars muffed with linen, Windsong had crept in as near as she dared, letting go of the tow a mile from the shore.

Her task fulfilled, thedromond slipped back into the night. The two squid-boats were left to battle through the waves to the shore. Imrahil stood in the bow of the first, searching the land for any sign they had been seen. The cliffs loomed above them. Somewhere up there was the watchtower that looked over the entrance to the narrow inlet leading to the corsair’s famed sanctuary. He could only hope that the lookouts were sloppy in their guard and in the cold hours just before dawn they would be huddling around their fire, dozing.

The boat went in silently: the sailors pulled the slippery little craft cleanly through the choppy water.  All had covered weapons and faces with cloth so no gleam of flesh or steel would alert the watchers. But still Imrahil scanned the beach. Thankfully he saw nothing except the foam of the breakers sparkling against the dark sand. Although, as little as he wanted to meet some unexpected opposition, even less he relished tarnishing his mail by being tipped into the cold water when the boat hit the surf.

“It’s a bit lively, will you be able to get her onto the beach?” he asked the boatswain.

“Should be all right. But get ready to jump, lord, the tide’s still going out and I want to be able to get off again.”

Imrahil nodded. It would have been better on a making tide, but by then it would be light. So it would be wet boots and cold feet during a day of waiting.

The little boat plunged into the breakers and spray spewed high over the bow, drenching everyone. Imrahil went over the gunwale first, drawing his sword as soon as his feet hit something solid. A wave washed over his boots before he could gain the firm sand. The men followed quickly, two sailors jumped as well to push the boat back out.  A glance to his right showed Imrahil that the other boat had reached the shore and he saw Sergion leap for the beach. He too drew his sword; anyone watching would have seen them now. But no cries of alarm sounded over the crash of the waves and Imrahil signalled them all to get up under the shelter of the cliffs. He put up his arm to wave to the bosun, but the man was busy getting the boat back through the surf, as the oarsmen fought to keep her straight to the waves.  Both boats made it safely. Hidden by a trough, they disappeared into the spray, heading back to Windsong.  The fleet would be secreted in a deserted cove along the coast, and two dozen men were alone in a hostile land. Imrahil ignored the churning of his guts: there was too much to think about.

“Get those footprints covered.” He pointed to where the dry sand had been scuffed by their run up the beach. He could do nothing about those in the wet sand, but the tide would be back at dawn. They would have to hope no one came looking over the cliffs at first light.

“We need somewhere to hide up.” Sergion said. He also had his eyes on the footprints, but with the moon resting, they were safe for the moment.

“Yes, I spotted some dark patches that could be caves.” He pointed to the right where a fall had tumbled rocks across the sand. “That way. Go in file, the last man hides the prints.”

Not a cave, but an overhang of rock. A poor shelter, and there were still hours before he could risk moving. His plan was to climb the cliffs as the shadows lengthened, reaching the top before dark. This would enable them to be sure of the route to the tower and judge the distance to the fort. It was always easy to become disorientated on a black night, although as they had approached the coast he had seen a faint light on the cliffs in the place he imagined the garrison to be. The watchtower should be unlit if the lookouts wanted to see anything. He intended to circle behind it and come up to it from the east. With any luck nobody should be looking that way as the small fort with its garrison guarded the landward approach, although he shouldn’t rely on that.

---

Imrahil wrapped his damp cloak tighter, trying to shut out the chill of dawn.  He had kept watch himself ever since the sun had thrown a pink flush over the breakers. Another cloudless, winter day, but the sun would not reach the base of the cliffs till it westered.  The climb up could not come soon enough. But no point in going early, as that would leave more time for their ploy to be discovered. Who knew if the lookouts were expected to signal an all’s well every so often. Not able to relax, he cast his eyes in an arc across the beach.

“We’re not expecting anyone are we?” Sergion passed him a piece of twice-baked bread and a lump of cheese. “They reckon this place is deserted.”

Imrahil chewed on the hard bread and looked back to where they had landed. The sea incessantly claimed back the sand, the red crabs skittering back and forth as they dodged the surf. Farther along a small flock of sanderlings were doing the same – about fifty pretty little birds with their thin black legs moving in restless harmony as they grabbed morsels washed in by the tide. He breathed a sigh of relief as the next wave filled the last of the footprints. The sand was firm and clean again. “So we are told.  It’s possible someone comes fishing here, but not today, eh.”

Sergion laughed. “No, let us hope they are already pouring it down their necks.”

Imrahil stamped his feet trying to get some life back into his toes. “I could do with something warming myself.”

“Well, if we find any of their fire-water up top, we’ll have to keep it away from the men. Or they will be rolling back down the cliff.”

Imrahil nodded; he wasn’t really worried, having picked soldiers he could trust. And those he thought could climb.

The hours passed slowly, but he steeled himself to wait until the light started to fade. They had been lucky so far, but one vigilant guard on the cliffs and all could be lost. When he did give the order to go, their luck held again as the crag that soared above the beach presented little problem. It rose in a series of rocky steps with cracks and crevices that afforded generous handholds. They ascended in two lines, those behind benefiting from the path-finding of their leaders.

Imrahil stepped up onto a wide ledge studying the heights above him. He could not see the top, but stretching up to the beginning of the vegetation was a steep slope of shale. Damn! That wouldn’t be easy. What was more, if they started the stones moving it could be noisy. He hoped to come out some way behind the tower, out of sight and sound, but couldn’t be sure.

Only a few steps upward and he realised it was nigh impossible, every movement brought down a shower of shards on those below.

“We will have to go around. The solid rock continues higher over there.” Sergion pointed to their left.

He nodded his agreement, but that would bring them close to the tower. They had no choice. Signalling to the men to follow him, Imrahil started to work his way under the scree slope to reach the easier ground. His feet cramped in his boots from the sideways scramble on the steep incline, and a finger bled from where he had put his hand down on a splinter of shale. The light had started the fade, a pale sun sinking behind them. He needed to get up this hillside and take a look at the fort before the landscape coalesced into uniform grey. As dusk fell, Thorongil would be edging the dromonds back under the cliffs, waiting for the signal to enter the Firth.

The rock gave way to a scrubby, stony hillside, dotted with thorn bushes and low growing pines. Imrahil started up the slope, with each step he made, his mail shirt weighed heavier. Not the best outfit for climbing, but it would have been stupid not to wear it. At least he carried no ropes or grapple hooks like many of the soldiers. Imrahil glanced behind to make sure they were keeping up and then started to angle across the hill towards where he thought the back of tower would be. A few more yards of hot climbing up a steep gulley and he stopped. “Do you hear that?” he whispered to Sergion. The men behind them paused for a breath, grinning – raucous voices sounded from above them, rising up to a crescendo at the culmination of a bawdy song.

“Sounds like more than just a couple of the bastards up there.”

“Hmm… come on. Let’s see what we’re facing.” Imrahil started moving again.

Another fifty yards thigh-burning climb and he could see the top of the tower.  Light blazed out of its slit windows. The last thing he expected. He stared as the ramifications hit him like a cold wave: they had expected the tower to be in near darkness.  As the sun dropped, Thorongil would see the glow and think it their signal. He would bring the fleet into the inlet before the fort had been taken.

To be continued

Chapter 4

They had to move fast, but Imrahil took the time to look along the headland to where he could see the ramparts of the small fort perched over the entrance to the inlet. Sergion was still concentrating on the tower. Noise and light emanated from the windows, quashing the need for stealth. 

 “There must be a dozen in there. And Thorongil was right about the celebrations, it sounds like they have already made inroads into the Arak. The stuff wields a mighty punch.”

Imrahil smiled, temped to leave the sods to drown in fig juice, but he couldn’t risk one still being sober enough to see five warships entering their harbour. He was just about to order the attack when a movement along the track to the fort had him wave everyone down. He peered through the gloom. “Can you make it out?” he asked Sergion.

“Looks like three men rolling a barrel,” one of the young soldiers piped up.

“I think this lot here are about to be joined by some of our friends from the garrison,” Sergion agreed.

“Yes.” Imrahil glanced up to the tower. “And I imagine there are some already up there. Which means there can’t be that many left in the fort.” They knew from reports it was thinly manned, but there could still be enough to cause mayhem if Thorongil came in early.

“Lord!” A voice came from behind him. “I think I can see our ships. I just caught sight of something glinting through the haze. A way off yet, but they must be on their way.”

Damn! Just as he feared, Thorongil had seen the light shining and taken it for the signal to come in. He touched Sergion’s arm. “Go and spoil that happy trio’s party, will you. We don’t want them seeing anything here and running back to the fort to raise the alarm. Then scout ahead, I’ll join you as soon as we have cleaned up the tower.”

Once Sergion had gone, leading three men, Imrahil picked six to take the tower with him. He doubted there would be room for more.

“Right, let’s go!” He drew his sword and sped across the open ground to the tower. It had been built on top of a granite outcrop, and not fearing they would be heard with the noise emitting from the upper floor, he bounded up the steps cut into the rock. The door opened with a squeak of rusty hinges, but the room he entered was empty. It served as a store: hams hung from a beam and vegetables spilled out from an open crate.  Squashing debris under his feet, Imrahil made straight for the flight of stone steps in the corner. A rat jumped down from a grain barrel and scuttled past his legs. He swore under his breath and signalling the men behind him to be quiet, started creeping upward.

The steps emerged into a circular room, lined by torches and filled by men. A more gruesome looking bunch he had rarely seen. One looked straight at him, a filthy rogue with matted hair and a livid scar on his cheek. He lurched to his feet, swayed, and held up a stone mug.

“Where’s the liquor, you whoreson…” His eyes opened wide as he realised his mistake. Imrahil lunged forward and slashed him straight across the throat. Blood sprayed across the room.

Chairs tipped, cups rolled on the floor, as drunken men reached for their swords.  A bearded giant charged at him, but Imrahil dodged right and brought his sword down on the man’s arm. He shoved the hilt into the brute’s face and when he went down, stamped on his throat. No room or need for niceties. It was over in minutes. He had guessed the garrison and the tower would be manned by those too old or too maimed to serve on the ships. Seasoned fighters they might be, but the corsairs had been intent on rollicking their way to oblivion. He had brought Dol Amroth’s best warriors with him; mail-clad and well armed, they massacred the ragged bunch.

Imrahil wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and tipped a body with his foot, but the man was dead.  His men checked the others; none of this lot would be singing again. But a movement across the room alerted him. How had he missed it – a narrow wooden door? It must lead to the turret and somebody had just pulled it shut.  Not knowing if there was anything up there that could be used to warn the fort, he leapt across the room and wrenched open the door, Frightened eyes shone in the dark, a figure was outlined against the lighter sky above.

“Come down! You’ve no chance!”

“I’ll stick you if you come near,” a wobbly voice threatened him.  A knife glinted.

“Put the knife down. I’ll not hurt you.”

The boy, he could see it was a boy, stepped down into the light. Thin and black-haired, with big dark eyes, he wore a grubby red tunic.  The knife still threatened, but the hand that held it trembled with fear … or maybe cold. Imrahil could have taken it from him in one move, but he didn’t.

“You’ll kill me.”

“No, I won’t. Not if you give me the knife.  I don’t make war on children.” Imrahil lowered his sword and held out his hand for the knife. “Is there anyone else up there?”

The boy shook his head, and after a moment turned the hilt towards him. Imrahil guessed he had been designated as the lookout while the rest of the bastards caroused. He motioned one of his men to check the turret, keeping his eyes on the lad. Now what did he do with him? He couldn’t leave him here, but a prisoner would slow them down and they needed to be away to secure the garrison. Thorongil would be approaching.

The boy’s eyes were pleading; did he still think he was going to be killed? He turned to the nearest man. “Ohtar, take care of him.”

Ohtar went for his knife. “You want me to slit his throat, lord?”

“No!” he barked. “He’s no more than a child.”

“A child with a knife,” someone murmured.  “And they slaughter enough of ours.”

Imrahil took no notice.  If he started murdering children he would be like their enemies.

No one else was up the tower, his man reported. Only a large gong, presumably used to alert the garrison to danger. Imrahil wondered why the boy had not banged it straightway. “Bring him along. But make sure he doesn’t get away. And find him something warm,” he ordered Ohtar, seeing his captive shiver. Besides probably being cold from the open turret, fear was etched on his face. ”We need to move out.” Another hitch: dragging a boy along when he wanted to impress Thorongil.

---

Sergion waited for him under the cover of a large clump of thorn a few hundred yards from the fort. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the boy. “Did you have any trouble?”

Imrahil ducked into the shadow, pausing for a breath after their run along the track. “No, but that one was too young to kill. How about you?”

Sergion jerked his head to three dark shapes lying in the scrub. “They were making so much noise we could have walked right up. But we do have a bit of a problem.” He carefully pulled aside some branches to make a peep hole to the fort.  “The walls are higher than we were told.”

Imrahil studied the fortifications for a moment. “Difficult to tell from here. You went closer?”

Sergion nodded. “Yes.  And the gate’s closed and locked. There’s about twenty five-men left inside, plus a few servants...”

“You found out that from looking?”

“No,” Sergion eyed the nearest body. “He thought cooperation would let him live longer. It did, by two minutes … but his death was quick.”

“Hmm… we have to get in soon. Thorongil’s on his way.” Imrahil stared at the walls – the worst news possible, he needed to think for a moment. Would the ramparts be lower where they dropped down the cliff to the platform overlooking the channel? “We’ve plenty of rope, so could extend the length of the grapples.” But he knew the answer as he said it.

“They’re unwieldy enough now. We’ll alert the whole garrison trying to snag them on top of the wall.”

But they had to try. He couldn’t give in. If the fort started raining blazing pitch down on Thorongil, besides doing incredible damage, the action would warn the ships in the harbour. Then their fleet would face hostility from two directions.

Still pondering, Imrahil heard muttering behind him. “What is it?  Speak up if you have an idea.”

“It’s the lad, lord,” Ohtar answered. “He says he can get us in. Although why he should, I don’t know.” Ohtar pushed the boy forward. With no immediate threat of death and a dirty surcoat over his tunic, he had stopped shaking.

“Well?” Imrahil demanded.

“They said you’re a prince.”

Imrahil bit back a retort – he didn’t have time for this. “Yes.”

The boy stared at him. “My mother said you’d come.  That the Swan Prince would come for his people. She went on and on about it. But I didn’t believe her.” He glared accusingly, lips quivering. “And she didn’t believe it either, or she’d never have jumped into the harbour.”

When Imrahil said nothing, the boy’s eyes dropped and he kicked at a stone with his foot. “She came from Belfalas, lord, taken in the raids. Her master got fed up with her and sent her to the brothel. When she could bear no more she jumped.” He raised his eyes again and Imrahil saw a tear glistening. “You should have come sooner, Swan Prince.”

“I’m sorry.” Imrahil put his hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Jibran, lord.”

“You can help us, Jibran?”

“They’ll let me in, lord. I can knock, and you hide. Surprise them once the door’s open.” His chin went up. “But only if you take me to Belfalas, like she said you would.” 

Imrahil hesitated, reluctant to promise what he might not be able to deliver. He studied the pinched face for a moment. “Can I trust you, Jibran?” he asked, saying it as much to himself as the boy. “You seemed pretty well in with them back there.”

The boy pulled himself up straight, meeting his eyes. “They’re nothing to me, lord.” He spat on the ground. “I’m slave-born. When I’m too old for pleasure, I’ll be sent to the ships till I’m only use for fish food. Anything would be better than what life holds here.”

Bile rose in Imrahil’s throat. Damn them! Damn all of them! He would gut every sod he came across. He looked around the men, they were murmuring together and nodding. “I will trust you, Jibran. And if you help us, I will take you with us when we go home.” Now he had to hope the boy really could open the gates. “Are you sure they will let you in?”

Jibran looked back to the tower, his lips twisting into a grimace. “That ugly one with his throat cut was the commander of the fort, lord. I was his favourite. They will open the doors for me.”

Imrahil guessed that the boy had been trusted, doing anything to make life easier. Who could blame him for that? “Right, Jibran, then tell me what we’ll encounter when we get inside.”

Imrahil took a few moments to find out the general layout and confirm Sergion’s information on the number of defenders. He had no qualms about the odds, only that he needed to get the job done with no more delays. “Give us time to get into position, Jibran. Then walk up openly, as you would,” he said when he had heard all he needed to know, “in case anyone’s watching.”

The men started to move, but Jibran grabbed Imrahil’s tunic just before he left. “You’ll only kill the corsairs, won’t you, lord? Not the boys. You’ll take them with you as well? Away from here.”

“Away?”

“You won’t leave them, lord. They’ll be punished terribly!”

Imrahil sighed. “How many, Jibran?”

“Five, and there’s an old woman who does the cooking.”

Imrahil nodded. “I promise we’ll do our best.  But they’ll have to keep up and take their chance; we’ve still got to get back to the ships.” He patted the boy’s arm encouragingly. “Now we must go.”

They moved as swiftly as they could, keeping to the dark shadows of the thorn bushes. As they got nearer, Imrahil could see that the walls would have been difficult. If Jibran could get them in, he would be grateful enough to take him and his friends. Could he do anything else anyway?  Any man would cringe at leaving young boys to live in such a way.

Reaching the edge of the open space in front of the gateway, they split into two groups and ran for the shelter of the walls. He could hear nothing from within, maybe all the ones who wanted to drink had gone to the tower. The men were in place; he and Sergion first in line, each side of the gate. Jibran was about a hundred yards away. He walked purposefully, and Imrahil felt reassured. Still no sound from inside, and they had seen no lookouts during the approach. But he doubted the corsairs were even thinking of any attack: it had been hundreds of years since Gondor had made any attempt to raid their stinking nest.

He signalled he was ready, and Jibran hurried the last few yards.  The boy paused for a moment, but after a sideways look and a drawn smile, raised his fist and banged on the studded door.

Nothing happened. Jibran banged again, thumping hard on the wood, and shouting. “Let me in. Are you there, Lubayd?”

“Who’s that? What do you want?” A slurred voice came from behind the door.

“It’s me, Jibran. I’ve got a message from the commander.”

Imrahil’s heart thumped, willing the man not to question any more. He had no idea if Jibran had any real excuse.

“What does he want? I thought he’d be too far gone to care what happens here,” Lubayd grumbled.

Damn! But the boy must have been prepared: he grinned at Imrahil, white teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Not yet,” Jibran laughed, talking into the wood. “But soon. He says that thin rubbish in the barrel would scour a camel. He wants the good stuff in the skins.”

“Mighty particular all of a sudden, ain’t he?” the gatekeeper protested, but the bolts cranked as he began to open the door. Imrahil jammed his back against the stone, well out of sight, and nodded to Sergion. They were ready.

The gate started to swing, hinges squeaking – the corsairs had obviously never heard of oil. The hinges must have dropped a bit as well, because the gate caught on the rough stone of the entranceway. Jibran put his shoulder to it and it opened with a jerk.

“Mind me! What’s the hurry?” Lubayd groused.

Jibran stepped aside and Imrahil dived through the gate. Lubayd’s protest gurgled in his throat as he tasted cold steel. They were in!

The entranceway led into a square courtyard and Imrahil ranged his eyes around. A number of buildings led from it, and suddenly a door opened. A man wandered out, looked up at the sky and stretched. Imrahil and Sergion leapt across the intervening distance. With a gasp of shock, the corsair tried to get back in and slam the door, Imrahil flung himself against the wood – the last thing he wanted was to have the whole garrison roused. He fell through the doorway into a room full of stinking smoke. And corsairs. 

Imrahil sliced at the nearest man, his men pouring in behind him. Shisha pipes tipped over, hissing on the floor like writhing snakes. Tâb boards and pieces erupted into the air as players jumped to their feet, desperately reaching for their swords. Bleary eyed men jolted awake, horror on their faces. He had to be in the off-duty room Jibran had told him about – this lot hadn’t taken so much liquor, but the Dol Amroth warriors outnumbered them.  As soon as a few were down, Imrahil yelled to Sergion. “Take half and secure the rest of the place. I can manage here.”

He fought his way across the room. Seeing some young boys cowering in a corner, he shouted at them to keep down. Then he felt a blast of fresh air – one big sod was getting away through another door. Imrahil hurled himself after him, down a few steps and out onto an open platform. He could smell the sea.  The man he was following headed for a raised stand that held a huge gong. He couldn’t let him sound that! But footsteps thudded up from a lower level – three guards coming for him, swords drawn.

Imrahil snatched a dagger from his boot and let fly, straight at the man going for the gong. It hit him in the middle of his back; he stumbled forward and fell against the gong. It clanged dolefully.

The guards were on him. Imrahil met the first with a sweep of his sword and rammed him back into his fellows. Now his own men poured down the steps, and they fell on the corsairs.  Imrahil gulped for air, looking around for any other attack. He heard some racket back in the building, but it died away.  Quickly he descended to check the platform below, but it held only armaments and no more guards. It looked like the watch kept was pretty meagre.  As he came back up the steps Sergion appeared. A dark patch stained the front of his tunic; he sheathed his sword and smiled.

“All clear. I’ve three wounded, a collection of boys, and an old woman with a bad limp and a sharp tongue. How about you?”

Imrahil checked his men – most were knocked about a bit, a few would be sore. One had a gash on his arm. Already he was wrapping it, but managed a grin. “Nothing serious, lord.”

Imrahil nodded, relieved. Now he had to get everyone out of here and hope the boats came to pick them up.

To be continued.

Chapter 5

Halfway down the steps that wound from the fort to the sea, Imrahil stopped, realising he was alone. Sergion had been right behind him, but now there appeared to be a huddle of figures some way back. He sighed, chaffing at the delay. Little could be seen in the darkness ahead, the only torch he had allowed to be lit was back with the woman, but far below he heard the waves crashing against the rocks. The wind had freshened. He could only be thankful that the Valar must be with them: nothing of what they had accomplished so far – the towing of the boats, or the landings – could have been done in a real storm. But even now he prayed Jibran was right and the quay that served the fort was sheltered enough for the squid-boats to pick them up.

“What’s the hold up? Are the wounded managing?” he asked Sergion when his friend caught up with him.

“Yes, it’s the woman who is slow; some of the steps are deep. Ohtar tried to throw her over his shoulder, but she wasn’t having any of it. The boys are helping her.”

He didn’t believe this! All their planning and they were hampered by a bad-tempered crone and a gaggle of boys. “If she’s not careful I’ll tell Ohtar to throw her off the cliff! He won’t care.”

Sergion laughed. “You don’t mean that, and anyway Jibran says she’s a wonderful cook.  Also, now I’ve had a second look, I can see she’s not that old.  I think her legs must have been damaged at some time, life is hard for women here.”

Imrahil’s ire vanished immediately when he thought of what she must have suffered in the past. “And the boys,” he said with a shake of his head. “Why do the sods prefer boys?” They might be slowing him, but he felt for the lads they had rescued, wondering if they would ever lead a normal life.

“I don’t think it’s a case of preferring them,” Sergion replied, curling his lip.  “For such filthy bastards any young flesh will do. But girls breed. Which I suppose they don’t want to be bothered with up in the fort.  I can’t imagine a child born there would be likely to live long.”

Imrahil’s anger kindled again at the thought of the corsairs’ cruelty. “My flesh cringes when I think of all the good people they have snatched from our shores.” He sighed in frustration, knowing he could do little to help.   “I wish we could free more, but let us concentrate on the rest of the job and getting the few we can out of here.”

With the others now only steps behind them, Imrahil started the downward trek again. Although shielded from the harbour by an elbow of land, they could risk no more light yet, so had to go carefully. A rope acted as a handhold, threaded through metal eyes hammered into the rock, but he could only see a few feet of it, the rest disappeared into blackness.

It seemed to take an age, the air moist with spray and the sound of the sea drowning out conversation. The boats would never take them off in this! But suddenly the steps turned sharply to the left and within moments the strength of the wind had eased. The rocky staircase, less steep now, ran behind a jumble of large boulders. All of a sudden they were down onto a flat cobbled area. Yards away, inky water lapped against a small dock.

Relieved to have reached water level with no accidents, Imrahil took stock of their surroundings. His heart fell — they were in a cove. He could see the dark outline of the cliffs above him, but the opening faced towards the harbour and the city, not the open water. The sailors coming in from seaward would have nothing to lead them in. And although they had a general idea of the pickup place, they would be expecting a signal.

One by one the rest of the party reached the bottom. The boys huddled together, chattering quietly, eyes wide with apprehension tinged with excitement. No doubt nervous as to what the future held for them. Not a lot if they couldn’t get back to the ships!  They must have realised, because when it became apparent no boats were waiting for them, they went silent. Imrahil called his senior men around, a couple had extra torches brought from the fort, but even if they lit them all it would be unlikely they would be spotted by their ships. 

“We’ve got no choice, lord,” Ohtar said after a bit of discussion. “One of us is going to have to climb over those rocks and reach the entrance to the cove. Try and wave a torch before it gets blown out. They will be looking out for us, so it won’t have to be for long.” 

Imrahil hesitated. The rocks were wet and slippery, and the last thing he wanted was broken bones. Perhaps Thorongil would bring the fleet on in and if they kept a light in the cove it would eventually be seen. But then one of the boys pulled at his tunic to get his attention.

“I can go over the rocks, lord. I do it all the time when I go for shellfish.”

Imrahil looked down at the boy; he was small and weasel-faced and wore a ragged tunic. Nothing on his feet, but perhaps that would be better than boots. “You know a way over the rocks?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Yes, lord. I help Henan in the kitchen. We cook a lot of fish. There’s a way between the big’uns if you know where you are going.”

Imrahil looked at the woman for confirmation. Even wrapped in a cloak she was shivering, but she cuffed the boy good naturedly. “Proper little rock hopper, this one. He’d be better going than one of you lot decked out in metal.”

“Gornon’s right, lord,” Jibran added his voice. Always clambering after something, he is.”

“What about the torch? You’ll have to take it.” No point in him going otherwise.

“I’m usually carrying a great sack of clams, lord,” Gornon boasted with a grin. “Carrying a torch will be nothing. And I can shelter out of the worst of the wind to make a signal.”

Imrahil decided to let him go, and gave him a torch and an oiled leather pouch with flint and tinder in case it went out. The boy’s thin legs flitted over the rocks as confidently as a crab’s. Imrahil watched until he disappeared from sight. Now all he could do was to wait.

Sergion was talking to the boys, they clustered around him looking at his sword, and one had a dagger in his hand. The men settled down, pulling some old crates from a pile to sit on, but Imrahil stood on the edge of the dock, straining his ears for any sound of oars.   He could hear nothing other than the splash of the water against the stonework. The noise drowned the footfalls of someone coming to stand beside him.

“What are you going to do, then, if they don’t find us?” The woman, Henan, stared into his face.

What indeed? Work their way landwards to the harbour, steal a boat? She would never make it. “They will. Even if they launch the attack first and collect us on the way out.” She didn’t believe him; he could see the doubt in her eyes. And now he saw her close to, he realised Sergion was right: not an old crone, but a worn out woman, dealt a hard blow by life.  “I’ll get you out. I promise.”

Henan shrugged, looking as though she didn’t really care. “Perhaps I should have stayed up there. At least I was warm.”  She sighed and wrapped the cloak tighter. “But your captain burst through the door all muscle and bright steel, and it was like a dream. A dream that should have come true years ago. I just thought I’ve a bit of time left and perhaps I could spend it cooking sweetmeats for my nephews and nieces – there must be plenty by now – rather than stirring pots of stew for scum.”

Her eyes dropped and she shook her head, limping away from him to perch on a rock. She looked defeated, having had hope waved in front of her only for it to be snatched away. But she would go home!  He’d make sure she spent her last years in peace – he swore it.

“The lad must have reached the entrance, lord, I can see the torch flickering.” One of the soldiers pointed to the end of the rocky outcrop.

They waited. Each one staring out at the line of surf that marked the opening. Imrahil blinked, seeing what he imagined to be an oar lifting out of the water, but it was no more than the splash of a night-time feeder chasing a meal.

“I thought I heard voices, lord,” a young soldier whispered, full of hope.

Imrahil heard them too, blown in on the wind. He saw the torch move; it seemed to be heading back towards them. Had Gornon seen something and shouted? Was he leading them in? He couldn’t tell. But then he saw it. No trick of the eyes – he saw the dark shape of one of the squid-boats tossing over the surf.

---

The darkened ship emerged out of the gloom like a towering cliff.  Hushed voices whispered orders as the squid-boats bumped alongside the hull.

Imrahil boarded first, timing his jump to the netting as the swell pushed the two vessels together. He might be confident in managing himself, but he left the difficult task of getting Henan up the side to the sailors, and watched from Windsong’s main deck. Taking no chances, they put a sling under her arms and heaved her up over the rail. An old hand, with white whiskers and a pigtail, wrapped a blanket around her and hurried her below. The boys came up next, their faces glowing with elation as they scrambled on board. Clinging together as the wind buffeted their scrawny bodies, they looked around excitedly for a moment before they were led across the deck by a sailor with a shielded lantern. Then it was the turn of the soldiers, hanging on perilously to the netting as the ship pitched in the swell. The injured men were helped by a sailor on each side of them; they would be taken straight to the ship’s healer. It had been a stomach-sickening journey through the rough water which had left everyone wet and cold. But safe, for the moment. Who could tell what the rest of the night would bring.

“Nothing looks too serious.” Thorongil watched the injured disappear below. Already the squid-boats were being dropped back behind the ship.

Imrahil shook his head. “Bruising mostly, a nasty gash and one broken arm. We got off lightly.”

“I was surprised to see your signal so early; you must have taken the fort before dark.”

“No, I didn’t.” Imrahil started giving Thorongil his report, knowing how easily everything could have gone wrong. “… I had no choice but to bring the woman and the boys,” he said at the end.

Thorongil slapped him on the back. “I wouldn’t have expected you to do anything else. Saving one of those lads from a lifetime of slavery makes our mission worthwhile. Come, you must be cold and hungry. We can talk more out of this wind.”

They went to the big cabin under the afterdeck that on this voyage served as a dining hall for the senior men, as well as a command centre. Thorongil opened the door carefully, not wanting to spill light into the night, and closed it before they pushed aside the heavy curtain.  Imrahil was hit by warmth, the odour of many bodies and the dank smell of wet wool overlaid with the tang of mutton broth. Henan had been given a chair, but the boys sat on the floor wrapped in blankets and eating out of bowls. Sergion and a few others were in a group standing around the table, which held a basket of hard biscuits and a round of cheese with some oranges. Imrahil’s stomach growled.

Thorongil took a bowl of broth from a sailor and passed it to him. “The crew wanted to bake bread when we were in the cove, but I couldn’t risk someone on the cliff top smelling it.”

Never mind the bread, the stew smelt good. Imrahil smiled his thanks, picked up a biscuit and steeped it in the hot broth. “Anything will do.” He ate in between answering Thorongil’s questions, but he could tell him nothing else that would be helpful in the forthcoming attack.

Gradually everyone put down their bowls. Captain Arandir came in. They were ready to move up close enough to send the squid-boats in. Loaded with men, pitch soaked cloths and all the other accoutrements required to fire the corsairs’ ships, they needed to be towed as far as possible.  Thorongil pushed aside the empty basket and spread a parchment out on the table in front of Imrahil.

“This is the layout of the harbour as far as we know. We are expecting the ships to be anchored out in the haven. Captain Arandir says that the berths alongside the wharf are kept for traders. I went through the plan with everyone else today, but I imagine you don’t want to stay behind.”

Imrahil shook his head, and cast his eyes over the chart. “No, I am coming. But I’ll not force the men who were with me today.”

“Agreed,” Thorongil said. “I am not envisioning much opposition on the ships. From what you said about the celebration in the tower, I am hoping they will be doing the same on shore and only have token guards. We should be able to fire the ships and get back to the dromunds and away before they realise what is happening. If it turns out that …”

“Away…” an angry voice interrupted, “you’re just going to fire the ships and leave? What about rescuing the slaves?”

Imrahil swung around; Jibran was on his feet, eyes blazing. “You can’t leave them!”

“Jibran, I brought out you and your friends, but we’ve come to destroy the corsairs’ fleet. To make sure it will be a long while before they threaten our people again.”

“Your people, Swan Prince? What about the ones already here? Those in the brothels, and the galley slaves kept like animals in the compound. You can’t abandon them. Always there has been hope, that one day the blue and silver warriors would come for them. But if you do this they’ll know you have been and gone, and their prince has left his people to misery without even trying to help them.” Jibran wiped his hand across his eyes, angrily brushing away a tear, and sniffed. “That’ll destroy their hope for ever.”

Imrahil stared at the boy, his chest leaden. He wasn’t really the Swan Prince, that was his father. Did that negate the responsibility? He thought not. But the problems were immense, and not just the rescue – crowded ships on the way home – little food to go around – returning people to their families after countless years. Some would have married again….  The silence thickened. Accusation bored into him. He drew his gaze from Jibran, locking it with that of Henan. Her eyes held the sadness and pleas of a thousand others. Abruptly he turned back to Thorongil.

“Can we do it?”

A slow smile softened the stern face. “We can try, Swan Prince.  And my heart gladdens at the thought. But let us look at the likely problems and then I will make a decision.”

Imrahil expelled the breath he had been holding, wanting it to happen but somehow thankful the decision would not be his. “We must be quick or the night will be gone.”

“Luckily our early arrival means we have a little time. The hours before dawn will hopefully find our enemies snoring peacefully.” Thorongil motioned Captain Arandir to the table and together they studied the chart.

The squid-boats would be needed to bring the people out, plus any other small vessel they could lay their hands on in the harbour. This meant the dromunds had to attack the corsair’s ships, by flinging blazing shot.

“Will there be room to turn?” Thorongil asked Captain Arandir. Not only might they have to get out in a hurry, but the large catapults were mounted on the after decks.

Arandir didn’t answer for a moment; they all waited while he stroked his beard. “No, not once we are close enough to attack. Normally in a crowded harbour the boats are warped around from the quay. We will be out of sight until we reach here.” He tapped his finger on the chart. “After we round that promontory the water will become calmer. We will have to let the squid-boats go, turn, and row in backwards.”

“You can do that?” Thorongil asked.

“Aye. But it’s hard on the men: they have to stand at the oars and push, two wielding each oar. And strength will be needed for the return, there’s no way we will be able to sail back through the narrow channel with the wind from the west.”

A mumbling came from a group in the corner, it sounded like a muffled argument. Thorongil looked up. “Someone wishes to contribute?”

No one answered. “I prefer those under my command to speak their mind. We can discuss any problems, and after that I will make my decision.” He fixed his eyes on the group. “Well?”

Ohtar pushed himself away from the pillar he had been leaning against and took a step forward. “Are you telling us, lord, that you are prepared to risk men and ships to rescue a few slaves and brothel girls?”

“Hold on, Ohtar,” another man came straight back before Thorongil could answer. “You’re talking about people from Gondor, mostly Belfalas.  They are living in hell and we have a duty to try and rescue them if we can.”

“They won’t all be Gondorians,” Ohtar argued. “They could be from anywhere. How do we tell in the dark?”

Imrahil could hardly believe this, he caught Thorongil’s eye, intending to put a stop to it by a direct order, but Thorongil shook his head.

“I don’t see it matters who they are.” Sergion stared at Ohtar disbelievingly. “They need help and we are here. If you see a man set upon by a gang of ruffians, you don’t stop to ask his name before you wade in.”

“But if we don’t go, we won’t see, will we?” Ohtar retaliated.

A burst of anger broke out at this, and Ohtar finding the mood of the room against him, put up his hand. “I will of course follow the orders of my prince.  But I would like to know we have an escape plan.”

“Keep quiet and do your job, Ohtar, and we’ll be successful,” Sergion snapped at him. “Which means there will be no boats to come after us, and we’ll have all the oarsmen needed.”

“Anyway,” a voice came from the other side of the room. “You were told you don’t have to come, Ohtar. You can spend the time chasing rats around the bilges. That should suit you.”

The room erupted into laughter. Imrahil’s smothered a grin and Thorongil winked at him.

 “I’m not one to miss a fight,” Ohtar muttered. “But Captain Thorongil said to speak, so I did.”

“Very true,” Thorongil agreed, “and I have listened.” He beckoned to Jibran. “Come here, young man and show me where the slave compound is, and the brothels.”

Jibran threw a disgusted look at Ohtar, and came to stand between them. The other boys whispered together, awed by the turn of events.

Thorongil dropped his hand on Jibran’s shoulder. “You do understand that we can only rescue those in the port. We haven’t enough men to assault the city itself and in fact must retreat before reinforcements come from there.”

Jibran nodded, and started to point out the prominent buildings.  Thorongil noted down all Jibran told him.

“That’s where the Captain of the Haven lives.” Jibran laid a grubby finger on the chart. “He’s fierce, and even if he’s drunk he’ll fight … his men are in the building next to him, and then there’s a couple of taverns. The compound is along from that.”

“Are the slaves chained?” Imrahil asked.

“Only those under punishment, lord. It would be no good for them to do that,” Henan offered from her chair. “It’s why they don’t keep them on the ships if they are in port for more than a couple of days. Muscles would waste and they need them fit to row at speed. But it means they have to keep the compound heavily guarded.” She paused and shuddered, her face stiffening with a memory of terror. “It’s also where they keep the women and children when they bring them in. Some go off to the city, but others are held back for the auctions. The slave traders from Far-Harad come in every so often, and those they take deep into the desert will never be seen again.”

Imrahil watched the men’s faces, no dissent now. Even Ohtar looked down at his boots rather than meet her eyes.

Thorongil nodded, taking a few moments before he addressed a shaken room. “Captain Arandir says we can get our ships into a position to make a retreat, and if we are able to release the slaves in the compound, we will have help from them. So I am happy that we attempt a rescue as well as destroy the corsairs’ ships.”

A murmur of agreement met his words.  Imrahil hardly heard it, the problems of the assault already flooding his mind.  “We’ll need to concentrate our force on the guarded compound,” he said to Thorongil. “I am wondering if we can land closer to it. Getting all our men ashore up the harbour wall might be difficult if it is crowded with small boats. I guess there might be many there, as they will be used to get between the port and the ships anchored in the haven. Helpful to us when we come to get the slaves out, but they’ll impede a fast landing.”

Thorongil looked down at the chart and the plan of the harbour he had made. “The compound is on the seaward side of the port.” He pointed to the area bordering it, looking at Arandir and Jibran. “What’s here?”

“A beach, if I remember rightly,” Arandir answered.

“Yes, lord.” Jibran nodded excitedly. “You can get from the beach to the harbour across some flat rocks.”

“Good.” Thorongil gave him a smile of approval. One couldn’t help but be buoyed by the lad’s enthusiasm. “That makes thing easier.” He talked to the room in general, “The men taking the compound will go in first and land on the beach.”

Imrahil was just going to say he would do that, but Thorongil forestalled him with a hand on his arm. Already he knew him well.

“You have done enough. The Gondorian troops will take the compound and I will lead them. Dol Amroth can deal with freeing the rest of those in the port. The other captains will need to be told of the change of plan, but it would be foolish to hang around here for too long. We may be out of sight of the harbour at the moment, but every minute’s delay risks us being discovered.” He swept his gaze around the men.  “Let’s move!” 

“And I thought we were in for a nice easy little raid,” Sergion whispered in Imrahil’s ear as everyone headed for the door.

“You obviously agree with it?”

Sergion chuckled. “I do. And I admire the way that little whelp squirmed his way under your guard. He knew just what to say.”

To be continued.

Chapter 6

The small vessels bucked and tossed, making it an uncomfortable ride through a gloomy night. Already the leading boats had disappeared in the froth of white water that streaked out from the rocky promontory. Imrahil could see that by the time his force rounded the point and gained the sheltered haven, Thorongil would already be heading for the beach. He glanced back, past the following squid-boats, to where the dromunds laboured bravely. High sterns being forced through the water by strong arms, no doubt accompanied by many an oath and grunt.

But he could hear nothing: the noise of the great oars swallowed up by howling wind and the waves smashing against the cliffs. Spray drenched him, salt stung his lips, but he wrapped his cloak tighter and remained standing in the bow, wanting to be alert to any danger ahead as well as wishing to direct the oarsmen.  The men pulling shuddered as another wave spewed foam down their necks. Those not rowing ducked their heads, huddling in the well of the boat. But as the lofty crags gave way to lower outcrops the motion lessened. Suddenly they were through the over-falls, churned up by the outward thrust of land, and the sea calmed considerably.

Imrahil wiped his face and nudged Sergion as the expanse of the Haven opened out before them. The masts of the Corsairs’ ships rose like a winter forest against the skyline. “They’re packed tighter than salt fish in a barrel.”

Sergion grinned. “Set one alight and the others will catch quicker than an oiled rag.” He shifted his gaze from the ships to the shore, screwing his eyes. “Can you see if Thorongil has landed?”

Imrahil peered into the darkness. The sickle moon slashed a rent in the clouds, and the beach appeared as a pale swathe beneath the cliffs, but he could see little else. Towards the harbour the odd torch flickered where he imagined the compound must be, and farther on shafts of light spilled from the buildings that edged the dockside.

“No, we must assume all is going to plan and follow our own orders.  The sooner we reach the harbour the better.”  But he refrained from urging the men on, knowing they were doing their best in an unfamiliar role. At the start of any venture his stomach always knotted tight. It would be better once something happened.  Sergion probably felt the same, though he’d never said.

“I’ll be glad when we get there,” Imrahil admitted.

His friend grimaced. “It looks quiet, but I suppose it is too much to hope all are sleeping off a day of excesses.”

“I can see no one on the quay at the moment. But even if we get in unnoticed and take them completely by surprise, the minute the dromunds start the attack the whole place will be alerted.”

“And those in the city,” Sergion agreed. “The Overlord will have armed men under his command, and it won’t take them long to reach the harbour.”

“Indeed; we must be quick.” Imrahil stared ahead, following the last lights of the harbour and on along what he took to be the shoreline. He blinked his eyes a few times, sure he could see the outline of gracious buildings in the distance, or was it clouds. “But it’s a shame we are here in the dark, I would like to see the domed city and the great fortress of Númenor.”

“Well personally, I’ll be glad not to see it any closer…”

“Shush …” Imrahil grabbed Sergion’s arm and pointed ahead. A small skiff bobbed in the open water between the quay and the fleet of corsair ships. He could see two men: one rowing, the other sitting in the bow. They only had to look seaward and all surprise would be gone.  Suddenly the noise of the oars sounded as loud as the slap of a whale’s fluke. Behind, the dromunds loomed like towering mountains! How had he ever thought they would steal in unnoticed?

The squid-boats glided towards the harbour. Voices carried across the water from the men in the skiff. Imrahil strained his ears – they were singing! 

Nearer and nearer the raiders crept. He thought they’d got away with it, but no sooner had the thought appeared when one of the men pointed towards them. The singing changed to shouts. Damn! What would the bastards do? Row back to the harbour, or make for the ships?   The corsairs hesitated, oars flaying the water chaotically before the skiff started to turn.

Imrahil assessed the distance: who would get to the harbour first? “Pull!” he urged the men at the oars. But they needed no second telling. Backs bent. The boat cleaved a foamy furrow, silver streams of waters flying from the blades.  But he had to have more speed! “Unfurl that mizzen sail,” he bawled. “Haul it out to catch the wind.”  A man fumbled with the ties. The triangle of dirty canvas flapped uselessly until someone caught its snaking rope and made it fast to a cleat.  The boat’s way picked up immediately.

“We’ll get there first,” Sergion concluded. “But they’re likely to rouse someone.”

The corsairs were still shouting, but Imrahil laughed. “Don’t forget they were singing before, I doubt anyone will notice the difference. “Go straight for them,” he called to the sailor on the tiller. “Hit them amidships.”

“You’re going to ram them?”

“Quickest way of stopping the devils.” Imrahil licked his lips, tasting salt. “We’ll hardly notice, but they will be in for a cold bath.” He drew his sword. “Or something worse.”

Realising the bigger boat was bearing down on them, the second corsair stupidly grabbed an oar from his companion. Both rowed frantically. Imrahil was close enough to see the panic on their faces as they tried to manoeuvre out of the way. But, drunk or incompetent, they let the skiff wallow right in the path of the oncoming squid-boats.

They hit the skiff with a splintering of wood. Holding on with one hand as the boat juddered, Imrahil lunged out, but too late. The skiff toppled its occupants into the water before being pushed aside by the forward motion of the heavier boat. The corsairs disappeared, shrouded beneath the murky water.  He flashed a grin at Sergion, and gave the order to turn towards the quay.

“Someone on the ships, lord.” a voice came from the back of the boat.

Imrahil swivelled around – they must have woken somebody. Figures ran across the deck of the nearest ship. He could only imagine the terror they must be feeling – anchored, fastened in line to their cohorts, and seeing the warships coming for them. But he gave them no more thought; they were too far away to stop him.

The small convoy of squid-boats closed on the harbour wall; Imrahil headed for an open area where stone steps led to up to the quay. As he had thought, small boats clustered along much of the wall’s length, bobbing around on the end of long ropes fastened to metal rings, and farther along a couple of lighters jostled for space. So, there were extra boats to get the people out if needed. But how many that would be he didn’t know, it depended on what they found in the houses. His eyes levelled to on the strip of buildings that framed the dockside; built of light-coloured stone they crowded together in a straggly row. Some were in darkness, but others flickered light from their windows. At the far end was a tall house with torches outside. One of the brothels, he guessed. But thankfully Tondir had drawn that straw. His job was to gut the taverns and clear the houses that surrounded them.

“Listen!” Sergion clutched his arm.

Imrahil heard the clash of weapons. Great Ulmo! It had started! A scream echoed across the water – Thorongil must have reached the compound. And they were not even ashore.

“Look!”

“Where?”

Sergion pointed. A group of men had appeared out of one of the taverns. Drawing long swords, they rushed in the direction of the fighting, not even glancing towards the harbour.

Imrahil let out a breath. “They must think the slaves are rebelling. They’ll find out differently.” He dropped the sodden cloak from his shoulders and raised his sword as the boat nosed against the steps.

 “Now it’s our turn.”

The other boats under his command elbowed their way to a place against the wall to discharge their share of men. Tondir sensibly led his force towards the end of the harbour, nearer to the brothels.

Imrahil started up the steps, hearing shouting before he’d even gained the top.  As he reached the quay, he saw that the noise of fighting from the compound must have dragged a few more from their drink.  His heart pounded: a group of men clustered outside the nearest tavern, by their wild gesticulations towards the fleet he knew they had spotted the dromunds. Although with the squid-boats hidden by the wall, they hadn’t seen him yet.  Looking behind he signalled Sergion to be quiet before beckoning him forward.  A nod of readiness to each other and they rushed the drunken bunch, yelling their terrifying challenge. Already stunned by the threat to their ships, the corsairs took a moment too long to react.

The nearest few went straight down under the force of their attack. More corsairs erupted from the taverns. Screaming obscenities, they launched into the fight, but a heartbeat later the first of the Dol Amroth warriors joined in.  And they were only wet, not drink-soaked.

“Get inside and flush anyone else out!” Imrahil bellowed as more of his men arrived from the boats. 

One by one, the hardened fighters of Umbar, used to preying on the fishermen and farmers of Belfalas, fell to the sharp steel of battle-honed men. Bodies started to pile up; retribution felt good. This was what he had trained for all his life, and part of him relished doing it well.

Twisting his sword Imrahil pulled it from the chest of a wiry runt with a patch over one eye – the bastard would see nothing at all now.

A lot of shouting came from inside the tavern, but as he ran for the door a soldier hustled out two scruffy women. Dazed by the events they clung together, taking a step backward when they saw all the bodies.

“These want to come with us, lord, but there’s one inside who refuses. Evidently they’ve taken her son to the city.” The soldier shrugged. “I’ve said we can do nothing.”

No, they couldn’t, but how he would love to come back and free them all…

“Take them to the boats.”

Poor frightened rabbits, their faces were pinched with anxiety, but bravely they nodded and followed the soldier. Imrahil wanted to reassure them, tell them everything would be fine, but there wasn’t time. Two more women ran towards him from the farthest tavern, looking around bemused when they saw the aftermath of the fight.  One stopped, her hand covering her mouth as she stared at the dead corsairs, the other spat on the nearest body.

“Dying’s too good for this scum!” she sneered, bending down to rifle through his clothing. But Imrahil grabbed her arm.

“Run to the quay,” he ordered. “We have to get you away…”

Wooosh…! Heads jerked up – the first fireball arced across the sky, trailing a tail of sparks. It landed with a crash on a high-stemed galley. A blast of fire shot across the deck. A dead hit! Another and another piece of burning shot lit the night, the lethal mix of wood, oil and fire  ensured that flames already licked up the mast of one of the ships, setting the furled sails alight.

Doors along the harbourside opened – men, women, children poured out to stare incredulously at the growing inferno.  Some stood awed, but others drew swords when they saw the Dol Amroth warriors.  Imrahil waved his men forward. “Kill the corsairs! Tell the rest they can come or stay! There is passage back to Gondor for those who want it.” 

Sword aloft, a man hurtled towards him, braided hair swinging wildly, lips pulled back from his teeth in a determined grimace.

“You’ll die!” he screamed.

“Not yet!” Imrahil hit upwards against his blade with such force that the sword flew out of the man’s hands. Another lunge and his opponent sprawled across the stones, his lifeblood seeping into the cracks.

The initial fierce resistance waned under the two pronged attack by the warriors – Tondir’s lot were ashore and fighting at the end of the quay.  Imrahil saw one corsair go down under the combined assault of a trio of revenging women. But some of the sods fled, to save themselves or get help, he didn’t know.

But he couldn’t imagine that those in the city had not seen the flame-shot sky. Fires raged from ship to ship. Wood cracked, spitting burning shards into the air. Through the smoke he could see the dark shapes of the dromunds against the glow; two were still hurling their deadly parcels. The others had broken off and would be looking to make the pickup.

 “Open up each house,” he bawled at his men. “Make sure everyone is out. If there are women who want to stay, let them be!” Some would, they couldn’t all be here against their will. A girl, she was only a girl, clutched his arm. Tears streaked through the grime on her face and bathed bruised lips.  The sods, what had they done to her! She could hardly speak for shaking.

“You’re taking us home…”

“Yes, you must get in a boat, quickly.” Imrahil looked round; refugees had started to gather on the edge of the dock –  bewildered groups of people stunned by the night’s events, they hung on to the soldiers waiting to be told what to do. Most were women and children, although there were a few old men. Used as servants perhaps? 

Sergion, take this one.” He gently pushed the girl towards his friend. “Get the boats away as soon as they are full.” 

 “There are men coming from the compound,” Sergion pointed down the quay.

A whole gang of men, many more than he had imagined. But the ships that now torched the sky red would have needed a continuous supply of oarsmen. Thorongil must have no more room.  But already the soldiers were finding it difficult to keep order, the extra arrivals crowding dangerously at the top of the steps.

“Sergion, you take charge over there. They’ll be in the water soon. Grab any boat you can. I saw a couple of lighters when we came in.  Make use of anyone who can row.  The ships will pick them up this side of the point, there is shelter there.”

Sergion nodded; he held on to the girl’s arm and shouted to some of the soldiers to start loading the boats.

Hearing his captain’s commanding voice giving orders, Imrahil felt he could leave the evacuation in good hands, and checked along the line of buildings. Only a few still had closed doors. One looked like a warehouse.

“Break that door down,” he ordered a group of his men. “See if you can find anything to feed our guests on the way home.”

He moved on to the next closed door. “Ohtar, help me get this one down.”

They both put their shoulders into the wood and the hinges gave. But there was no light inside, the house felt empty. Outside again Imrahil saw that the whole harbour was covered by a drifting pall of smoke and a commotion had started amongst the press of people on the quay. A woman, screaming that she couldn’t leave, tried to pull herself from two others who were begging her to escape with them. Soldiers went to intervene, but the woman shook herself free and ran headlong along the quay in the direction of the brothels. 

“Let her go!” he heard Sergion shout.

Imrahil shook his head as he hastened towards the last building, wondering what awful decision the poor woman had had to make. But before he could aid Ohtar a soldier ran up, saluting him.

“Lord, Captain Tondir says he loaded to bursting and is going to leave. He reckons they’ll be here from the city soon.”

Tondir was probably right: time to go. “Tell him I’ll be right behind. I’ve one more house to check.”

“I can’t budge the door, lord.” Ohtar called across to him. “But there’s light inside.”

He ran over to help. It was one of the richest looking houses, with many windows and a porched door made of dark wood studded with heavy nails. Together they battered it, but nothing budged.

“Up here!” A yell came from above them; they stood back and looked up.

“Somebody’s at a window, lord.”

Imrahil saw a casement open on the second floor. A figure moved around inside the room.  They must be locked in or would surely have come out by now. He searched the wall for handholds, but before he could move a string of knotted sheets snaked down. They ended just above his head. The next moment bare legs scrambled over the sill.

“I’m coming down!” A woman’s voice, strangely controlled.

“Careful!” He put his foot on the sill. “Let me come up.”

But she started to slither towards him, hugging the sheets with her knees. He had an impression of pale skin and a mass of dark hair before a knot slipped and the woman fell.

“Ahh….!”

Hardly time to brace himself – she hit him full in the chest. He managed to hold on to her so that when he fell backwards on the cobbles, his body broke her fall, knocking the breath out of him.

Ohtar grabbed her, hauling her upright. Imrahil got a glimpse of some tantalizing garment before she snatched up the failed sheet and wrapped it around herself. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

 A pretty one, certainly worth a few bruises: a heart-shape face, big sad eyes. Imrahil nodded, unable to speak for a moment. He heaved himself up.  Pain shot up his leg as he put his weight on his right foot. But it held. “Nothing broken,” he managed to get out.

“Good.” Her eyes darted across the quay to where the last few people hurried to get down the steps. “Can we go?”

And a cultured voice. A lady? He hadn’t heard talk of a noblewoman being taken, but no time to ask. A noxious cloud of black smoke had blanketed the view of the ships, and slowly drifted towards them. He could even feel the heat from the blazing fires. It would not be a pleasant trip.

“Right away. Time to leave, Ohtar. We’ve done all we can.” Imrahil took her arm. “What’s your name?”

“Oriel. I …” Her face changed, eyes widening in fear. “Please!” She clutched him desperately, fingers digging into his forearm. “Don’t let him take me back!”

Ohtar was first with his sword, stepping out to block the passage of the corsair tearing towards them. Imrahil drew his. That was when he saw the second man coming, long legs flying over the stones. Thorongil?

“He’s mine!” Thorongil yelled.

Too late! Ohtar met the man head on, but the corsair outweighed him in stature and skill. Hardly stopping his forward motion, and with two hands gripping the hilt of his great sword he hacked into Ohtar’s side. As Ohtar went down, Thorongil rammed his shoulder into the corsair’s back. He fell forward but stayed on his feet, and with a great bellow spun around to face his assailant. Imrahil shook off the girl to join in.

But Thorongil halted him. “No! I owe him death!”

Blades clashed in fury, ringing like anvils. Each man’s face a mask of hate. The corsair heavier but a mighty swordsman, power behind each stroke. Thorongil taller, leaner, but as hard as tempered steel and nimble on his feet, he let his long straight sword do the work for him, its weight soaking up the corsair’s attack. The girl stood like a statue, hand in her mouth chewing her knuckles, watching the battling men.

“Come out of the way!” Imrahil pulled her from the danger of being trampled by a pair of rampaging bulls. He saw Sergion racing towards them and pushed her in his direction.

“Get her into a boat!”

“No! I want to see the devil die first. I need to know he’ll never abuse another woman.”

The bastard! He hoped Thorongil would slice his guts open. Imrahil grabbed her shoulder and propelled her towards Ohtar, who was trying to struggle to his feet.

“Then help him, and keep out of the way!”

“What’s going on?” Sergion had his own sword in his hand.

“Thorongil’s determined to finish him off himself,” Imrahil replied. “But I’ve no intention of letting him be killed by a bloody corsair. I’ll stay with them; you help the girl with Ohtar.”

A great roar came from the corsair as a clever move opened his arm from wrist to elbow, but with no more than a shake of his head he threw himself at Thorongil, catching his sword with his own and using his bulk to push him backwards.

Thorongil stumbled, coughing as smoke swirled around them. Imrahil readied himself to intervene, not at all sure about the outcome of the fight, but the mercenary recovered, parrying the corsair’s next lunge.  Thorongil was quick, but his opponent surprisingly light on his feet for such a big man. Time after time the swords met, the clash of steel echoing back from the stone buildings.  Both men grunted with the effort, sweat ran down their faces. But Thorongil was uninjured, the corsair tired. Blood dripped from his arm forming a dark slick on the cobbles.  Suddenly he slipped and his guard dropped. Before he could recover Thorongil forced the corsair’s sword wide and brought his blade back, scything it across his enemy’s chest.  Weakened, but not defeated, the corsair held his injured arm and swept his sword in a glittering, air-singing slice. Thorongil stepped back, let the blade pass and picked his spot. With a triumphant yell, he pushed the point of his sword straight through the corsair’s neck. His eyes bulged and he staggered for a moment. Thorongil pulled out his blade and he crumpled to his knees, blood and air gurgling from his throat. He thumped heavily onto the stone, black braids splaying into the widening pool of blood.

Thorongil stood over him, taking great gulps of air. “The bastard killed two good men. Men I had come to love,   but besides that, he murdered half a dozen unarmed slaves to stop them escaping.”

Imrahil slapped him on the back. “I think we can be sure he deserved death, but if you doubt there is one here who will confirm it.”

Ignoring the blood under her bare feet, Oriel slowly made her way towards them, eyes fixed on the inert body on the ground. She must have donated some of her sheet to Ohtar because now it covered not much more than her shoulders, exposing a slim body moulded by a semi-transparent garment. Imrahil averted his eyes from temptation; he didn’t have anything to cover her, but she seemed oblivious, staring down at the dead man. A fearsome looking brute with heavy brows and a cruel mouth.

“Who is he?”

She shuddered, wrapping the sheet as close as she could. “The Captain of the Haven.”

“And it was from his house you fled?” Imrahil asked.

“Yes.” She sounded weary, defeated. “He bought me right off the ship before I was even landed.  He always had first choice, no one gainsaid him.”

“Then I can only be glad I rid the world of him, my lady.”

So, Thorongil had picked up on that. Her attention flew to him. “Thank you, Captain Thorongil.” She looked between both of them. “And thank you, Prince Imrahil, your Captain told me who had come to our rescue.Whatever happens in the future, I shall ever be grateful to you both.”

Thorongil sheathed his sword; his eyes were filled with compassion. “I think we must prepare to leave. How is Ohtar? Have you managed to staunch the bleeding?”

Imrahil knew Thorongil was striving to take her mind from her troubles, time to deal with them later, and he glanced over to the injured warrior. “Ohtar’s on his feet, but then he has the hide of an ox.”

“He would be better if he had not changed his mail for leather,” Oriel answered. “We have bound the wound tightly, but it will need bathing and stitching.”

“The fool!” Imrahil glared at the warrior, but understood the man’s wish to keep salt water from his hauberk.

“I’ll be all right, lord,” Ohtar struggled towards them, Sergion propping him up.  “If you can get me home.”

“We’ll go now…”

“We can’t.” Sergion shook his head. “I had to let the boats go, they were down to the gunwales. There is us and six others left. A boat is coming back.”

Damn! The last thing he’d wanted to happen. “Then let’s get over there.”

He’d been concentrating so much on the fight, he hadn’t noticed that the quay had emptied of people. Bodies littered the length of the waterside, curls of smoke whispering around them, but doors that had stood open were now shut. Those staying must have locked themselves in, perhaps wanting to distance themselves from the carnage to avoid reprisals. The place stunk of burning wood and tar. A black cloud all but obliterated the corsair fleet, but the occasional crackling flame shot skywards, staining the smoke red.

The men waiting at the top of the steps straightened up as he approached. They had been watching the fight from a distance and were buoyed up by Thorongil’s victory, and the success of the raid, but now their eyes stole to Oriel, taking in her scanty clothing that lifted in the fresh wind. For the first time Imrahil saw her cheeks flush. But he had nothing to give her: his cloak was on one of the squid-boats and there was nothing unless he robbed the dead of some stinking garment.

“Take care of Ohtar,” Sergion snapped at the gawkers. He handed the warrior over and immediately turned and ran back to the house where the sheets still hung down the wall. He jumped onto the sill of the ground floor window, reached up and pulled himself onto the roof of the porch. A stretch, with his sword extended at arm’s length, and a sheet was cut and hooked. 

“I think your captain is playing the gallant,” Thorongil murmured.

Oriel thanked the gallant with a sigh of resignation as if she expected more unwelcome attention and tied the sheet around her so only her bare feet poked out. Imrahil moved to her side and took her arm.

“We’ll get you home and you can start to recover your life.”

“Do you think so?” Her pretty face sagged and she blinked back a tear. “I suspect that when I get home my life will be over.”

“What do …”

“Lord! I hear horses.”

“Shh… listen,” Thorongil hissed as muttering started. They all heard galloping hooves growing louder every heartbeat. “How many?”

“Only a few,” Imrahil judged. “The vanguard. But what’s coming behind them? They will have sent a force.”  They needed to get out now, but the boats would barely have had time to drop their loads before starting back. They would be dead men before that. Hoping against hope, he scanned the water thinking he caught the sound of oars, but could see nothing through the thick haze. Giving up, Imrahil peered over the wall to where the flotsam bumped against the stone. “Is there nothing that floats?” 

“We used everything,” Sergion told him. “They even towed a raft, loading it with men and flour.”

“Then we’ll have to hold them off for as long as we can,” Thorongil said. “That or swim out of arrow range and wait for rescue.”

The men mumbled reluctant agreement, but Oriel caught her breath.  “I can’t swim.  But I’d rather drown than stay here.”

“Don’t worry,” Sergion reassured her. “There’s plenty here that can. We’ll keep you afloat.”

Swimming meant removing mail, and what about Ohtar. It would be slow going with him and the girl to deal with. “Look for decent pieces of wood amongst the flotsam,” Imrahil ordered. “Anything that will support us.” The water would be cold, and limbs would soon cease to function. He looked pointedly at Thorongil. “If there are more than a few then I don’t think we have any choice. Others will come.”

“Agreed.” Thorongil started to undo the straps on his mail. Imrahil did the same. He didn’t care about the mail, but his sword contained steel that had cut flesh at Dagorlad and the Battle of the Camp, and he would hate its last resting place to be at the bottom of Umbar’s harbour.

“Too late, I think.” Sergion drew his sword and almost immediately horses rounded the houses at the end of the quay, hooves sparking on the cobbles. But their riders, armed men with long spears, pulled them sharply to a halt. Keeping a fair distance.

“There’s only four,” one of the men muttered. “They don’t fancy their chances.”

But Imrahil was listening to something else. “Thorongil, do you hear that?” At first he had thought it was an echo of the roar of the waves on the cliffs, but now he could hear the regularity of the tramp of feet. Hundreds by the sound of it, moving at speed. No wonder the horsemen were waiting.

To be continued.

Chapter 7

“Into the water,” Thorongil commanded. 

“Move!” Imrahil yelled as shock paralysed them all. “Two of you take Ohtar.” He grabbed Oriel and pulled her towards the flight of steps. “You come with me.” Having rescued her, there was no way he’d let her be taken again. She stumbled behind him, tripping on the sheet. It would have to come off when they got in the water.

“Wait!” Sergion shouted to him just as he put his foot down on the first step. “Look!”

“Great Ulmo!” Imrahil’s heart leapt, he could hardly believe it. A huge shape materialised out of the smoke, the swan-head rising from the murk like some fabled sea monster. “Windsong!”

“Saved!” A man laughed with relief.

“She’ll never get off again,” one of the men cried back. “The wind will pin her to the wall.”

“A clever seaman can do it,” Imrahil contradicted him. And Captain Arandir was very clever. But could he get them off in time? “It looks as if you’ll be spared a cold swim,” he murmured to Oriel, as he watched the ship approaching.

Arandir brought Windsong in with her starboard bow canted towards the wall, using the wind and tide to ferry-glide the big ship into the quay. But he would need to get her back through the wind, and there would be no room to use the oars. Imrahil had a fair idea of what he would do and there would be little time to board. “Get ready,” he told the others. “We won’t have long.”

The seamen were prepared with a plank to span the gap, but there was also a great spar protruding from one of the oar slots ready to push the bow back out. Just as he’d thought.  “Thorongil, I suggest you get everyone on board. We’ll be needed at the stern.”

Thorongil nodded agreement and started issuing commands, calling Oriel to his side. Imrahil and Sergion rushed to a bollard further back along the quay. Seamen had a heaving line waiting to throw to them, which came over and landed at their feet. Imrahil grabbed the thin line and together they started to pull the heavy mooring warp across. With a great tug they dragged the eye over the bollard.  It could be left to the sailors to winch in the stern and so help force the bow back out, but the sound of hooves on the cobbles made them spin around.

Four of them, spears levelled – seeing the escape going on, the horsemen had decided to attack. Imrahil grimaced, already hefting his sword. “We’ll have to hold them off long enough to let the others get on.” He took a step forward, wanting to be ready. The horsemen were trotting their mounts down the quay preparing to charge. “But we’ll have a fight on our hands.”  His stomach cramped: a fight they might not win.

“Get past the spears and they’re dead men,” Sergion muttered, standing by his side.

Imrahil slanted him a forced grin. “Did anyone tell them that?”

“We’ve practiced for it!”

True, they had. But seeing four well-armed mounted warriors coming for you in earnest was horribly different than the training exercises on the beach at home. He pushed the fears away, refusing to believe he was destined to die here.

Sergion winked at him, and stepped away so they could take the first horseman from each side. It took discipline and training to stay in a line and Imrahil doubted these had it.

“Do you think he’ll swop his spear over?” Sergion yelled as four horses charged down the length of the quay. One already led by yards.

 “I doubt it.” The rider didn’t look good enough, which meant they should be able to take him. But they would need the Valar’s help with the other three. Imrahil just had time to see there was some confusion at the back of the foursome before two ton of horseflesh bore down on them.  The spear was on Sergion’s side. The man would be a fool if he threw it, and Sergion should be able to get out of the way.  He had to forget him and go for the horse, just as they had practised so often. He didn’t like it, but with no more thought he jumped forward, grabbed the reins of the sweating beast as it went by and wrenched its head around. Its rider screamed a curse. The horse’s front legs buckled, and it went down, crashing onto the cobbles and sending the man sprawling.  Then mayhem ensued.

A firestorm erupted overhead. It took Imrahil a moment to realise blazing arrows were raining down from Windsong’s stern. A horse bolted straight past him, too fast for him to react. The other two shrieked in panic as streaks of flame shot around them, their riders desperately trying to bring them under control. One fell, and Sergion was on him before he’d a chance to get on his feet.

 “Get out of here!” Thorongil yelled, running towards them, sword drawn. He finished the first rider as he lay on the ground.

Imrahil swept his sword in an arc; the fallen horse had struggled up and gone, where was the fourth? Wild-eyed and lathered with foam, it still held its rider, but the man now faced three warriors. A moment's hesitation, then he yanked the tormented animal around, clattering away down the quay.

 “Come on,” Thorongil shouted, pointing to the ship.

Windsong’s bow had started to swing from the quay as the spar levered against the stone.  The plank had already been drawn back on board.  Oars appeared through the forward slots as the gap opened, searching for space to bite.

Sheathing their swords, they ran for the stern. Imrahil dived for the mooring warp, hearing the first fearful sounds of the approaching force as he struggled to release it. Sergion added his weight, but the rope was taut, making it difficult to shift.

 “Leave it!” a voice yelled from the ship and a sailor started hacking at the rope with an axe.

Down came a net, the sailors shouting for them to jump.  The warp parted, splashing into the harbour, and the stern began to swing. “Come on!” Imrahil launched himself, slamming into the ship’s side with an agonising thump. Thorongil had leapt with him, but he slipped, clutching frantically at the ropes to save himself.  Imrahil grabbed his tunic and held him until he found his feet. Sergion landed on his other side, grunting painfully as he hit the wood.

“Quickly, they’ve got bowmen.”

Imrahil looked back and saw men swarming along the quay; he started hauling himself up, the ropes biting into his hands.

The ship drew away, the oars digging in hard to stop the wind blowing the bow back onto the dock. Imrahil reached the rail, an arrow thudding into the wood next to his ear as hands stretched out to help him over.

“Ahh..  I’ve been hit.” Sergion was only steps behind him.

Imrahil slithered back down to his side. “How bad?”

He sucked in breath. “Just my arm.” An arrow stuck out below his shoulder.

Thorongil got the other side; together they heaved Sergion up until a sailor grabbed him from above and pulled him over the rail. Imrahil felt an arrow clip his boot, but the next moment he was dragged over, landing heavily on the deck. He lay for a moment winded. What with Oriel falling on him, and slamming into the ship, his ribs felt like they’d been kicked by a mule. 

Wincing, he forced himself to his feet. “Are you all right?” Sergion was sitting on a barrel, white faced.

“Yes, it’s only a flesh wound.” He probed the piece of arrow still in his arm. “More blood than anything else.”

“Then get below and stop dripping it on my deck!” Captain Arandir strode towards them. “And clear that mess up,” he commanded a sailor, pointing to the net that had been dumped on the deck, the buckets still full of smouldering wood and the leftover strips of oiled cloth.

Imrahil choked back a laugh, Thorongil inclined his head. “Thank you, Captain, for rescuing us.  That was very well done.”

Arandir scowled, his white eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t leave it so late next time. I had to leave those poor people tossing in the boats when they told me of your plight.”  He threw a glare that encompassed all three of them.  “Plus you cost me a good piece of hemp.”

Imrahil burst out laughing as the Captain stomped off bellowing orders to the sailing master to get the oarsmen moving. Thorongil flashed a grin and walked over to Sergion. He had a quick look at his arm and together they made for the stairwell.  With his friend taken care of, Imrahil stayed looking back, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ancient fortress as the first light of dawn paled the eastern sky. But he could discern nothing, a low haze hanging over the land. Disappointed, he turned his eyes to the harbour.

The ship had opened up a fair distance from the throng on the quay; a few arrows still winged towards them, but fell short, splashing dispiritedly into the water. Soon there would be nothing for the corsairs to shoot at as acrid smoke from the burning ships rolled across the deck, starting him coughing. Within moments the harbour and its buildings disappeared behind the choking cloud. They were free and clear, for the corsairs had no ships with which to follow or attack. He could safely go to rest, but as he moved, his head spun, the relief of escape making him light headed.  He hadn’t slept for two nights and his eyes were gritty as well as stinging from the smoke.  A drink for his parched throat; food; and find somewhere to lie down – as soon as they had got their quota of persons on board. But first he must check on Oriel, he wanted her to have some decent accommodation.

At the top of the steps he paused. Two boys waited at the bottom looking up at him: Jibran and Gornon. Both grinning white teeth, their urchin faces smudged with soot.

“We helped shoot the fireballs,” Gornon told him proudly, not even waiting until he had reached the lower deck. “You should have seen the ships burn. The masts crashed into each other.”

Imrahil smiled at the lad’s excitement. “I did manage to see a bit of it. You did well.”

Jibran fell into step with him, clutching at his tunic. “We saw you bring the horse down. I thought he would trample you, but Captain Arandir said you knew all about horses because you’re a knight as well as a prince.”

Imrahil laughed. “I had to train hard to do that, but believe me, I was very glad when the Captain ordered the fire-arrows.”

 “He said that it was typical for soldiers to need rescuing by sailors.” Jibran let out a huff of disgust.  “But I think it was because you tried to save everyone instead of escaping yourself.”

Imrahil smothered a chuckle. It sounded as if he was now in favour. “We could have done with a few more boats, I didn’t expect so many.”

“You’ll find them somewhere to go, lord?” The boy stared right into his eyes. “There’ll be room for all of us in Belfalas?”

“A lot will have family to go back to…” He broke off seeing a cloud pass over Jibran’s face. “But you all will be found homes; we’ll talk about it later. Right now I need something to wash the taste of smoke from my mouth and see the lady who came on board.”

“She’s already gone to a cabin,” Gornon piped up. “Captain Arandir gave her a key.”

“Well, in that case I might have the chance to get a drink before we pick up the boats.”

---

Twenty-four hours later and Imrahil felt a lot better, probably because he had slept for most of that time.  That was until he moved and his ribs reminded him of the battering they had taken. An examination showed a tapestry of colourful bruising, but a bit of hard prodding persuaded him there were no breaks and he didn’t need to strap them – nothing to do but ignore the pain.  It was a few hours after dawn and he needed fresh air – the space was hot and foetid with so many crowded below. Sure that the stiffness would soon ease, he left Sergion still dozing and made his way up to the deck, opening the door to a fresh wind. And people.  Freed slaves packed the main deck; Imrahil knew some of the men had spent the night there under a hastily rigged canvas awning.

But in spite of the constraints of the accommodation, he could see nothing but smiling faces. Hardly surprising, he felt elated himself for having contributed to such a successful rescue. A job well done with minimal loss.  A shame Thorongil had a couple of dead, but they had been revenged. And how! The hostility he had harboured against the mercenary was now replaced with total admiration. Gondor could do with a few more of his ilk in the coming years.

“Imrahil!” Thorongil stood on the afterdeck, wrapped in his customary grey cloak. He certainly showed no desire to proclaim his exalted standing as Captain of Ecthelion’s forces. A cheer went up as the men on the deck saw him and Imrahil felt like cheering too, knowing much of the success of the raid belonged to this man.

Acknowledging the exuberant greeting of some of the freedmen, Imrahil strolled over to the steps to go up and join him. As he ascended he realised that the fleet had left the open sea and sailed into a small cove. A moment’s thought told him it must still be the coast of Umbar.

“You’re moving a bit stiffly.” Thorongil said after watching him climb the steps.

“Nothing time won’t cure,” Imrahil dismissed any concern with a wave of his hand. “What’s going on?”

“We need water, so a party is going ashore. They will want some protection just in case, but not from any of your men, they have done enough.”

Imrahil nodded and scanned the shoreline. It looked deserted, and he could see why they were going in here: a waterfall plummeted from a high cliff onto the beach below.  Voyager had her canvas down, and just at that moment Arandir ordered Windsong’s sails to be dropped.  Sailors were already rolling empty water barrels across the deck shouting at their passengers to get out of the way.

“We certainly got our share; I hope the food will hold out.”

Thorongil grinned. “There’s plenty of flour, courtesy of some of your men. In fact we could probably have got away in a boat if they’d left it behind.”

“It looks as though it’s going to be used,” Imrahil retorted. Two braziers had been lit in the middle of the deck and a couple of women appeared from below carrying alarge wooden bowls filled with dough. Henan followed them. She limped along, lugging a metal skillet. And then he saw Gornon and Jibran struggling with a wicker basket that brimmed over with glossy silver fish. Some of the other boys ran to help, pushing it towards the braziers.

“They’ve been fishing!” he said, surprised.

“Up at dawn evidently.” Thorongil answered, “The sailors showed them how to trail lines behind the ship. For some reason the fish jump on the hooks.”

“They do if the speed is right,” Imrahil agreed. “And we have been moving fast; every time I stirred I was aware of the water rushing past the hull.”

“A very soothing sound.” Thorongil flashed him an amused glance. “It must be why you spent so long in your cot.”

“How long have you been up?” Imrahil shot back. “I heard you muttering something to Sergion not long ago.”

“Just checking that he had no infection, but he’s fine. In fact here he is now.”

Sergion emerged from down below, his arm in a sling. But he held the door open and a moment later Oriel followed him out. She still had bare feet, but her lovely hair had been confined to a plait and someone had given her a change of clothing — sailor’s breeches and a thick woollen surcoat. In spite of the odd garb she looked entrancing.  Glancing around warily she hesitated, but Sergion smiled encouragement.  After a few words they went over to the rail together to look at the boats heading for the shore.

“Perhaps he will find out about her,” Thorongil remarked. “All I have heard from Arandir is that she is a noblewoman taken in that raid near Linhir. Visiting relatives or something and the carriage lost a wheel on the way home.”

“Ah, I thought she was a lady.” Imrahil would have taken a bet on it. “So I find it strange her capture was never made known. You would have thought her father, brothers, or whoever, would have been jumping up and down.”

“Very true,” Thorongil agreed, “but we heard nothing.”

Imrahil didn’t answer for a moment as his stomach growled: an appetizing smell wafted past him. Fish had been laid out on a metal rack over one of the braziers and Henan, having patted a piece of dough flat in her hands, slapped it down on the skillet that rested on top of the other. Hopefully he would soon get to taste her cooking.

“I’ll find out more when we deliver Oriel home,” he said as the delicious tang of grilled fish increased. But Henan was hidden from view as hungry people crowded around her. He sighed, knowing he would have to wait. “It’s going to take a bit of sorting out when we get to Tolfalas. We will need to put those for Belfalas on Windsong and Osprey. In fact it may be that one of your ships needs to come back to Dol Amroth with us.”

“Hmm…” Thorongil mused. “I am hoping that you will agree to put off going home for a while, and travel to Minas Tirith.”

What! Not him as well. But that was very unlikely. Imrahil chuckled. “Surely you are not trying to get me to pay court to Lady Mirineth?”

“Lady Mirineth? No. Why, is someone trying to push you in that direction?”

“Our worthy Steward. And he’s got my father on his side. Which is why I am not at all keen on paying a visit to the White City at this time.”

Thorongil twitched his lips at that. “Ahh….well she is very beautiful and has suitors falling at her feet.”

“I have no intention of joining them, especially as I imagine their interest is more to do with her father’s riches,” Imrahil reiterated.

“True, but anyway, that is not the reason I am asking you. It is a favour to me and one I would ask you to keep to yourself for the time being.”

“Oh…well if I can assist you in any way, of course I will,” Imrahil answered, intrigued.

“I would be grateful if you will give the report of the raid to Ecthelion and also pass a personal message from me…”

“But why can’t you give the report yourself?” he asked, surprised.

Thorongil hesitated a moment, his expression guarded. “Because I’m not going back to the City.”

“You’re not going back?” Imrahil frowned, not understanding. “Why not?”

“I have other places I need to be. The attack on Umbar was my last campaign for Ecthelion.”

“Your last?” It couldn’t be. “You mean you are leaving his service?”

Thorongil nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“But why?”  He couldn’t believe it.

Thorongil’s face remained impassive, the grey eyes shielding his thoughts. “Other tasks call me. Maybe I l might once again look upon the White City, but I perceive many perils ahead before my feet bring me back to Gondor.” 

Imrahil’s stomach went cold. Had his first instincts about the man been right after all? All his resentment flooded back. “You’re moving on, like the sell-sword you are!”

The words came out before he could stop them. He felt let down; the admiration and trust that had been so hard won by the man during their shared campaign had been thrown back in his face.  "What is it? Are you incapable of constancy and loyalty? Or have you had a better offer elsewhere?”

He turned on his heel and strode to the rail looking out to see that the boats had landed on the shore. Bitterness soured his mouth.  He’d thought he had found a friend, one who would be around to help him in the difficult years ahead as enemies closed on their borders, one whom he could trust as his father aged and more responsibility fell to him. But the man he thought to be dependable and honourable had turned out to be a fraud.

 Imrahil stiffened as soft footfalls approached him.

“Imrahil, my loyalty to Gondor is absolute. I understand your resentment, but it is not possible for me to stay here any longer. One day I may return, and if I do, I hope I can count on you as a friend. But for now our ways must part. I am sorry I cannot explain further, I can only ask you to think back on the last few days and remember what we have achieved together. Nothing can change that.”

He didn’t look around. “I will play your errand boy. But don’t ask me to like it.”

“Lord! Lord!” Jibran’s voice came from behind him. “I have brought you some food.”

Imrahil twisted his head and saw that the lad was holding out an offering of a fish wrapped in a piece of flatbread. But all appetite had left him.

To be continued.

Chapter 8

Imrahil stretched his fingers, wiggling them about until the cramp had gone. He’d been incarcerated long enough; they’d had to light the lamps a while ago. Sitting back in his chair, he watched the dust devils dancing in the last rays of sun that slanted through the narrow opening in the stern. No more! Sufficient writing had been done to last a lifetime! With a great deal of relief he started to tidy the papers, looking up from the desk as pounding feet rocked the ship in her berth. The movement caused the shaft of light to flicker like fire over the back of the sailor still bent to his task.

“We must have taken on half the stores in Tolfalas,” Imrahil remarked, hearing the raucous shouts of the shoremen calling to one another, and something heavy being lowered through a deck hatch.

“We’ve farthest to go, lord. It’s a fair mile to Dol Amroth, with plenty to feed on the way.”

The sailor continued scratching, concentrating on the lists he was making. A good man: Arandir’s store clerk. The Captain had loaned him, as he had loaned the cabin and his desk. Imrahil pulled his arms behind his head and eased his ribs.  If he sat here any longer they would stiffen even more. Duty had definitely been done for the day, the tavern called.

“I think that’s it for now. We’ll carry on tomorrow.”

“Right you are, lord. I reckon I’ve got ‘em all down. Just need to make sure everyone goes where we’ve put ‘em.”

Imrahil stifled a bored yawn. “Well, if they don’t, they’ll have a long walk home.” They’d had to take the details of each freed slave, where their home was – not that they all wanted to go home – and work out which ship would take them.

The sailor stood up, put his quill in its holder and wiped ink stained fingers down his trousers. “I’ll be off then, lord.” He winked, his broad grin showing uneven black teeth. “Mayhap I’ll see you in the tavern tonight.”

 “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Imrahil answered with a matching grin, but hopefully better teeth.  Very likely, in fact, he and Sergion being bound to gravitate to the roughest and sleaziest drinking houses Tolfalas could offer.

With a respectful nod, the sailor rolled across to the door, a gait earned by years at sea. But as he put his hand to the latch there was a brief knock. The door opened, and Sergion was there, his tall, straight frame totally contrasting with that of the hunched seaman. He stood back to let the man out before ducking his head under the lintel. No sign of his injury, Imrahil noted – the sling being dispensed with some days before – now a long-sleeved tunic covered the bandaging.

 Sergion stared at the mound of papers Imrahil had piled up, before his shoulders shook as amusement got the better of him. “This is when I am glad I am not a prince. I have been out and about making sure our deserving soldiers do not upset the local inhabitants with their exuberance, and you have been cooped up here all day.”

“Not by choice,” Imrahil admitted. Sighing, he shoved his quill back in the stand and examined his own fingers – not quite as bad as his assistant’s, but they would need a good scrub. “I’ve written letters of introduction for those who wish to start a new life, signed travel warrants, made requests for accommodation and clothing. Most have nothing, and the charge on us will be extensive. I never thought of this when we decided to liberate so many.”

“But you would not have done anything else.”

“No, of course not.”   His lips twitched, before he broke into a grin, hesitating to admit how much taking part in the raid pleased him. “You must know I enjoyed it. And the letter I took most pleasure in writing was to Ivriniel.  My mother just likes to know I am well, but Ivriniel delights in stories of battles. I knew she would appreciate an account of Oriel’s rescue and Thorongil’s fight. Plus our escape, of course. She likes Arandir.”

Sergion chuckled at that, he knew Ivriniel well. “She should have married a warrior, not a scholar.”

 “She loves him Galuion.” Imrahil retorted.  “Anyway, her feisty spirit makes up for both of them.” He picked up a large sheaf of papers. “But I am only halfway through the report to my father. I must finish it tomorrow. Do you wish to read what I have put so far?”

Sergion took the papers and scanned the top one. “Why are you writing a report? Have you changed your mind about going straight home? I thought you were adamant you would not pursue the lady.” He grinned over the top of the papers.  “Or perhaps your father’s coffers will need replenishing.”

“We’re not paupers yet!” Imrahil responded crossly. Damn Thorongil for putting him in this position! “I certainly haven’t changed my mind about Lady Mirineth and intend to avoid her.” He sighed, feeling guilty he hadn’t told his friend of the alteration to his plans, but he had given his word not to divulge Thorongil’s intentions. “No, I am going to Minas Tirith because Thorongil has asked it of me. But I have agreed not to say why for the moment.”

Sergion frowned, giving up on the report. “I have noticed a certain coolness between you. Which I thought strange.”

Imrahil twisted his lips, acknowledging the awkward few days, and glad the man was back on Voyager.  Although he would have to travel to Pelargir with him. “We did have words. In fact I lost my temper.” Something he regretted now, knowing he had no right to judge Thorongil’s decisions about his own life. “Anyway, Windsong will be leaving on the tide tomorrow evening and going straight to Dol Amroth. She will take my report along with those wishing to go that way.”

“So which ship will be going to Linhir?” Sergion asked, drawing his brow into a frown.

“One of Ecthelion’s.   Ah… You are thinking about Oriel. Did you want to deliver her home? I will not force you to come with me.” He’d noticed Sergion in close conversation with her on more than one occasion and couldn’t blame him for that. She was a very desirable lady, but although she had been incredibly brave she would need considerable time to get her life back together. In fact, he was not sure whether she would ever respond to any courting after such awful experiences.

“No.” Sergion shook his head. “I will of course go with you. But she has opened up these last few days and something worries me.” He pulled the vacated chair around, sat down and stretched out his long legs, dropping the report onto his lap. “I haven’t got a sister, so you tell me – what would you do if one of yours had been abducted, raped and abused. How would you react when she came home?”

Imrahil inwardly shuddered, but he didn’t have to think. “I’d hug her until she’d cried out all her anguish and sit with her every night until the dreams faded.” He paused to clear the awful image of dear, sweet Finduilas being ravished by scum. “Mind you, Ivriniel would probably have knifed the bastard in his sleep, roused the slaves and stolen a ship to get home.”

Sergion smiled, but his eyes were troubled. “That’s what I would expect: a loving, caring welcome home.”

“But you are guessing something else will be waiting for Oriel?  Surely her parents will be overjoyed to have her returned to them.”

“Her father’s dead, although her mother still lives. But it is the brother. Evidently he is a bit of a prig, and has always guarded her honour zealously. She doesn’t think he will cope well with what has happened. In fact she is intending to live with her grandmother and planning to retire from life. Unable to face the gossip and speculation, I think.”

“Hmm…”   Imrahil thought for a moment, acknowledging the truth of Oriel’s fears.  “Unfortunately there is likely to be some, and I am afraid dishonourable men might think they can take advantage. Her family will need to support her.” In fact he couldn’t imagine that they would not. A bolt of anger shot through him – if it was one of his sisters, he’d take a whip to any man who looked at her with even a hint of disrespect.

Sergion nodded. “She is going to find it difficult enough to put the horror behind her. The excitement of being rescued kept her buoyed up for a time, but now the full implications of the weeks of torment have hit her.”

“I am afraid it’s bound to take a while to recover from her ordeal,” Imrahil agreed.  “She’ll never forget, of course, but perhaps it will eventually sink into the recesses of her mind. Hopefully she’ll not hide herself away forever.” He eyed Sergion speculatively. “Do I detect a special interest?”

Sergion pursed his lips, thinking. “She’s a very lovely and spirited lady. I feel for her and hate the thought that her life is ruined, as she thinks. But as for anything else, I just don’t know.”

“It’s a pity Linhir is such a distance from home, but …” Imrahil stopped as a knock came at the door. Sergion picked up the report, rose to his feet and went to open it, standing aside to let Jibran through.

The boy rushed in, halted in front of Imrahil’s desk, and treated him to a quick bob of the head. “You wanted to see me, lord. I couldn’t come earlier because I was helping…”

Imrahil waved his hand; “It doesn’t matter, Jibran.” The boy was always doing something, it just meant less time in the tavern. He shuffled the papers he had been working on and pulled out the private letter he was writing to his father.

“You said you wanted to go to Dol Amroth?”  Jibran nodded eagerly. He already looked a lot healthier than when they had picked him up; his face had lost the wan, pinched appearance, and his dark eyes were clear. It would give Imrahil great pleasure if he thought Jibran could totally move away from his old life.  He looked the lad straight in the eye. “I am making arrangements for you and Gornon to go. Captain Arandir will deliver you safely and you’ll be given lodgings with a married couple.” He hesitated, not quite wanting to put it into words because he didn’t know if such a past could be put aside.  “Jibran, you’ll be under my father’s protection. No one will ever make you do anything you do not wish to do… you understand me?”

Jibran stiffened and he blinked a couple of times. “Yes, lord.” Then the full implication must have sunk in, because his face crumpled. “But won’t you be there?”

Imrahil smiled at the look of dismay. “Not for a while, I have business in Minas Tirith. But I have told my father all about you and he and my mother will make sure you settle in.”

The boy nodded, still looking a little crestfallen.

There was nothing Imrahil could do about that. He continued cheerfully, “Now, Gornon has told me he would like to be apprenticed in the palace kitchens, but I rather suspect you would prefer something different.”

The smile returned. “Yes, lord. I want to be a knight.”

“A soldier?” That was promising.

“No, lord,” he drew himself up, forcing his thin shoulders back. “I want to be a knight. I want to wear blue and silver with a Swan-ship on my breastplate.”

Imrahil glanced at Sergion, who raised his brows, lips twitching.

Jibran caught the communication between them. He visibly drooped. Eyes fell to his feet and he scuffed his toe on the wooden floor dejectedly.

“I suppose that’s only for nobles. A boy like me wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Damn! Imrahil chided himself. What right had he to knock down dreams? And though unlikely, it was just possible. “That’s not quite true, Jibran. Most come from noble families, but there are also places for those who show skill in arms, loyalty and resolve.”

A determined chin shot up. “I can learn. If someone will teach me, I’ll spend every moment learning.”

Imrahil considered what best to do. He owed the boy a chance, although he would probably end up as a common soldier. “Jibran, you have been a great help to us, and I have told my father how you contributed to the success of our venture. I’ll ask him to send you to work in the armoury, that way you will learn to handle weapons and care for them. You’ll also be given time to practice at the training ground. After that it’s up to you.”  He didn’t say that a knight would have to take him as an esquire – not yet.

“Thank you, lord.” His shoulders went back again and he pulled himself up as tall as he could.  “I’ll do it, you’ll see.”

“I hope you will.” Imrahil stood up. “Windsong will be leaving tomorrow evening and in a few days you will be in Dol Amroth, starting a new life. I shall look forward to seeing how you are getting on when I return.”

“I’ll be fine, lord.”  With a quick bow he turned to go, but Imrahil stopped him.

“Jibran, a knight has to ride well. I suggest you spend any free time you have in the stables.”

The boy’s face broke into a grin. “I’ll have to learn to bring a horse down, like you.”

Chuckling, Imrahil waved him away with his hand. “Not until you’re a lot bigger.”

“And he will need a benefactor,” Sergion murmured as soon as the door closed behind him. “Are you sure you’re right to give him hope?”

Imrahil stared out at the fast coming darkness. “Hope is a precious thing in this world of ours.”

---

“Three fathoms, Capt’n.  I reckon we’re right in middle of the channel.” The leadsman’s voice broke the eerie silence.

Imrahil stared out, but he could see no sign of the banks, just swirling thick fog, which muffled sight and sound.

The journey from Tolfalas to Pelargir had started on a bright cloudless day with everyone in high spirits, but was ending in murky gloom and despondency. Sometime the previous day Thorongil must have told those dear to him of his plan to leave.  Misery etched a dozen faces; the rest shook their heads with wonder and disbelief as rumour raced around the ship.

Except for common politeness, Imrahil had kept up his stance of cold indifference. He glanced towards Thorongil, who stood a few yards away, wrapped in his customary grey cloak and surrounded by a group of his closest comrades. They hemmed him in, as if they thought to physically stop him going, a couple clutching at his arm and murmuring into his ear.

“They are not going to let him go easily,” Sergion remarked as voices rose in argument. “It sounds as if they are vowing to accompany him.”

Imrahil shrugged. “I doubt he wants that. Mighty secretive is our Captain Thorongil.”

“Well, he’ll soon be on his way, wherever it is he’s going.” Sergion wrinkled his nose, pulling a face of disgust. “We’re getting near, you can smell it.”

Sergion was right – Pelargir could not be far ahead.  Imrahil smelt the smoke of many fires, but also fish, and more unpleasant things. The heavy grey fog that had settled on the river trapped the stench of the port. 

“There!”Sergion pointed to where high walls loomed out of the haze.

Imrahil nodded, putting his hands on the rail, and watched the grey stone slip past.  Moments later the fog thinned slightly and he glimpsed the unmistakeable arched columns of the house built by Tarannone that thrust out into the river.  Now he knew where he was –the junction with the River Sirith, and the entrance to Pelargir’s harbour, lay just ahead. 

The ship turned, and as they reached the wide opening the mist swirled away. Imrahil blinked and stared. “Great Ulmo! Look at that!” he gasped as the first quay came into view. Every part of it was crammed with people. A great commotion of shouting and cheering went up as they saw the ship, levelling out to a regular chant. Imrahil tried to pick out the words from the general noise.

“A welcome party!”  Sergion said.

“A welcome party indeed.” But why not?  Whilst they had been sorting everything in Tolfalas, word had been sent by one of the river boats of the success of the raid. Although no one but those on board Voyager knew of Thorongil’s plan to leave.

 “You hear what they’re shouting?” Sergion muttered beside him.

Imrahil nodded, he’d heard all right.  It seemed he was the only one not fawning over the man.  He turned around to Thorongil. “They’re calling for you!”

Thorongil looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was acknowledge the adulation of the crowd, but after encouragement from some of the men who revered and respected him, he moved to the rail next to Imrahil and Sergion.

A great cry went up from the crowd around the harbour as they saw their champion, which changed to a holler of disappointment when Voyager headed for an empty pier where soldiers had cleared a space, using a few crates as a makeshift barricade.

The well-wishers surged against the barrier.  Imrahil saw one man being roughly pushed back by a guard. Thorongil had been popular before, but wiping out the threat of the Corsairs for the foreseeable future must have raised his standing tenfold. Grudgingly, for the people’s sake, he felt he ought to make some effort to make him stay. For a while, at least. Would that he himself might arouse such devotion and loyalty in the coming years.

 “Are you sure you want to leave straightaway? You’re going to upset a lot of good people.”

Thorongil sighed, a flash of regret passing across his stern features. “I am sorry about that, but I have no wish to set myself up as a hero. We all contributed to the success of the raid.”  For a moment his eyes gleamed with a flicker of amusement. “I am sure they will transfer their admiration to you as soon as they realise I’m gone.”

“String me up from the nearest tree, more like,” Imrahil retorted, turning away.

Thorongil touched his arm. “Imrahil, if we cannot part as friends, I would hope that we can at least respect one another.”

“I did respect you. And I still respect your fighting and leadership abilities,” he reluctantly admitted.  “But I find it hard that a man who I’ve no doubt has noble ancestry can so easily give up on his obligations to those that trusted him.”

“I only ever promised Ecthelion a few years of my time,” Thorongil answered.

“Maybe. But I imagine he would expect you to bid him farewell in the Hall of Kings. Not sneak off like a thief in the night.”

“I did not intend for it to be like this, but there are other calls on me. We cannot always choose the path we take.”

Imrahil folded his arms, stopping himself from pointing an accusing finger. “Some of us are born to duty. I envy those who can step aside to pursue their own course.”

“But what man can judge another,” Thorongil shot back at him. “The ways of service are many and varied.”

“That’s true,” Imrahil agreed, sighing. “And perhaps I have no right to condemn you for living life as you see it. Gondor will ever be grateful to you, even if she won’t understand your reluctance for praise.” He indicated to where the crowd surged at the barrier, determined to meet the incoming ship. But Thorongil said nothing. “And what about them?” Imrahil continued, nodding towards the group of Gondorian soldiers. “Are they going with you?”

 Thorongil dropped his voice. “They wish to escort me, but I am afraid they cannot. For a short distance, perhaps.”

“No doubt you will lose them in your own time.”

 “No doubt I will,” Thorongil agreed with a twist of his lips. He lifted his hand and waved to the people on the quay, invoking another bout of cheering.

 “And how do you think you are going to get away?” Imrahil asked. The crowd had got past the guard, running on to the pier they were heading for. “Whether you like it or not, you are liable to be carried shoulder high around the city.”

“Hmm.. .” Thorongil looked over his shoulder. “I need to get across the river.”

“East? You are going east?”  Imrahil’s heart jumped. No, he couldn’t be! Had the man fooled them all?

His face must have betrayed his thoughts, because Thorongil put this hand on his shoulder. “Imrahil, do you really think that I am going to sell my services to Gondor’s enemies. Do you think so little of me?”

Imrahil searched his face, detecting no hint of evil, only an allusion of veiled nobility. Who was this man? And what secret did he carry?

Thorongil’s grey eyes seemed to reach his soul. Damn, there was something about him that got to you, making it impossible to doubt his truth. “No. No, I don’t.  I cannot believe that of you.”

“I’m glad. My journey will end far from here, my feet crossing many lands before I can rest. Before there is any hope of returning.” 

Strangely convinced that there was something hidden from him, something unexplainable, but good, Imrahil came to a quick decision.  “Look, why don’t we get the Captain to hold off on lowering the gangplank.  You can get away in a boat from the other side of the ship. By the time that lot realises, you’ll be halfway across the Anduin.”

Thorongil’s expression lightened. “A good idea.  I will speak to Captain Carafin.”

“I’ll go,” Sergion offered, speaking for the first time since they’d started talking.

“Thank you.” Thorongil looked a bit surprised, but Imrahil knew Sergion had thought a lot of the man from the beginning.

“Well, that means the time has come,” Imrahil said when he saw Sergion explaining what they wanted to the Captain. “I am going to have to give Ecthelion some reason for your leaving so abruptly. What do you want me to tell him? He will not be pleased.” Whatever the excuse Thorongil gave, Imrahil didn’t look forward to the moment he had to tell the Steward.

“It cannot be helped.” Thorongil reached inside his cloak and pulled out a roll of paper. “Would you pass him this?  It’s all the explanation I can give.”

 A written message, which at least made it easier. Imrahil put his hand around the roll, surprised at the sense of loss he felt knowing he might not see Thorongil again. He covered his unexpected reaction with humour. “I’m still not sure making me go to the City isn’t a ploy to force me to meet Lady Mirineth.”

A rare smile passed across Thorongil’s face. “There is another favour I would ask you, one that may turn out to be to your advantage.”

Imrahil didn’t answer. He hadn’t wanted to do the first favour, let alone another. And if Thorongil hadn’t led them to such success, he’d never have agreed and would be on his way home.

Thorongil carried on as if he hadn’t noticed his reluctance. “Lady Mirineth has a companion, a pleasant lady. She was kind enough to loan me some books. One is still in my quarters. I would be grateful if you could return it. It is one of a set, an heirloom of her house. I would like to know it will be returned safely.”

“You want me to call on the woman I am being pushed towards!” Imrahil erupted, feeling the ground opening up under his feet.  “That’s asking a lot when I’ve said I wished to avoid her.”

Thorongil waved him down. “But I remember you saying something about not wanting to join the line of supplicants. This way you have a perfect excuse to call without it looking as if you are one of them. You can take a look and retreat, or pursue as you wish.”

“There’s a boat waiting,” Sergion interrupted.

“Thank you.” Thorongil cocked one brow in question. “The book?”

“Oh, very well.” Imrahil sighed, giving in. “I’ll make sure it’s returned.” He could always get Sergion to do it.

“Good. I am sure you’ll not regret it.” He held out his hand. “I can only hope that you will remember the deeds we shared, and if I ever return will look on me with favour.”

Imrahil hesitated for only a moment before he clasped his hand. “Wherever your journey takes you, go in safety.”

“We’ll have to go, lord. Before the ship docks.” One of Thorongil’s followers hovered nearby, his face a mask of woe.

Thorongil clasped hands with Sergion, and then turned swiftly. A soldier passed him a sack which he slung across his shoulder and with a few strides he reached the steps that led to the deck below.

Imrahil went over to the other rail, and a moment later he saw Thorongil scrambling down a net to the waiting boat.

To be continued.

The Sell-sword and the Prince.

Part 2

Chapter 9

Dol Amroth TA 3021

Leaning over, Elphir topped up his father’s goblet. “And that was the last you saw of Thorongil until he turned up on the Pelennor as our long lost king?”

Imrahil took a swig before answering, his mouth dry from so much talking. “Yes, he was swallowed up by the mist and the next time I set eyes on him he came on a very different boat.”

Elphir fixed his eyes speculatively on his father. “Are you going to tell me how you greeted each other when you met after all those years?”

 “Very sparsely.” Imrahil chuckled. “A long day of fighting does not make one garrulous.” But Elphir waited for him to continue, so he cast his mind back to the Pelennor…

The noise had been nothing like he had ever heard: the terrible screams of dying horses; the awful cries of men spitted by swords and gisarmes; the bellowing of the Mûmakil – he shook his head to clear the memory away and started on the facts.

“Éomer had cut a great wedge through the Southrons, but he had outdone himself and his situation was dire. I urged my knights forward to try and go to his aid, but a new host came out of Osgiliath and cut me off from him. As my men cleared the enemy from around me, I paused on a hillock and looked over the battleground to try and form a new plan. Thankfully, I saw that Amrothos had managed to drive his foot soldiers towards Éomer’s right flank and so give him a little time.” Imrahil sighed. “I don’t need to tell you what I thought when I watched Amrothos being pulled from his horse into a cauldron of fighting men.”

Elphir smiled. “But he got up and carried on.”

“Amazingly, he did,” Imrahil said, not hiding his pride. “Helm gone, he led his men magnificently. They barged through the Haradrim to try and reach Éomer. But then, even over the noise of the battle, I heard the bells tolling disaster.” He stopped, remembering the numbing hopelessness he had felt at the sight of the Corsair fleet.

“When I saw the Black Ships, my spirits sank; I thought it was over for us. Then, unbelievably, I saw Éomer cheering his head off, and the banner.” Imrahil looked over to the small display of ancient heraldry at the end of the hall. Treasured and preserved, ragged and fragile – the banners of the old sea-kings of Gondor, given to his illustrious ancestor, the first lord of Belfalas, to keep safe in case those in Minas Tirith were ever lost. Now, with Aragorn in residence, a bright new one hung alongside.

Elphir followed his eyes. “You must have been surprised when you saw it.”

“Well, I knew to expect something from Gandalf. He hinted at his hope of help being borne to us on a wind from the sea. Besides, Denethor was in a foul temper, castigating Gandalf for plotting against him and reviling Théoden for harbouring a usurper.”

“I don’t suppose Denethor would have accepted being displaced by a king easily,” Elphir speculated with a frown.  “But when Angbor and I saw Aragorn appearing out of the mist at the fords with the army of the dead at his back, it was a legend coming to life.” He smiled, prompting his father to continue. “But your astonishment didn’t last for long?”

“No. Although I had no time to question the whys and wherefores, only to be thankful that a chance had been given to us. And the tide of battle swept over me, so I didn’t realise that Isildur’s heir was none other than Thorongil for quite some time. I witnessed him greeting Éomer only from a distance, and they were both soon in the thick of it again. I caught sight of our deliverer on one more occasion and remember thinking he looked familiar, something about the way he held his sword. But at that moment he was really just another black-haired warrior, and there was no time for introductions.”

“Who did introduce you?” Elphir asked grinning.

“Well, there was no one to conduct formalities. I hadn’t even met Éomer face to face at that time. But at the end, when the fighting stopped, I made my way towards the banner.” He shook his head at the memory. “What a sight that was, one I thought I’d never see. The white tree sparkled red as the gems lit with the sinking sun.”

“You must have been so excited to think you were about to meet our lost king,” Elphir said.

Imrahil smiled. “I might have, had I not been so weary.  But in spite of that I naturally could hardly wait to study him closely. Already he had wrapped himself in his grey cloak, which should have given me a clue, I suppose. But my mind was so far from expecting to see Thorongil, that it was not surprising I didn’t recognise him at first.  I saw a man not in his first youth, but whom I considered to be at an age with myself, holding the reins of a rough-coated horse. The horse’s head hung in exhaustion, and its master was smoothing its brow and talking into its ear. One of his men saw me approaching and drew his attention. He looked up, and smiled. And something about the smile pulled at my memory. But don’t forget, it had been thirty-nine years.”

“Who spoke first?” Elphir asked.

“He did. He passed the reins of his horse to another and took a step towards me. I dismounted and when I faced him, he stood up straight in spite of his obvious tiredness. Pride flashed in his eyes and they bored into mine as he addressed me: 'I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Will you welcome me, Prince Imrahil?’

Startled, as much by some elusive familiarity in his features, as by the words, I answered cautiously. ‘I cannot but welcome one who comes so unexpectedly to give us victory, lord.’

His smile deepened, and he came close, clasping his hand on my upper arm and speaking softly. ‘I once expressed the hope that when we met again you would look on me with favour, remembering the deeds we shared.’

‘Thorongil?’ I uttered, the years rolling away as I gazed on his face. He nodded, amusement sparking in his grey eyes. ‘And perhaps, Prince Imrahil, you will now forgive me for my long ago reticence.’ 

Maybe it is an overstatement to say that enlightenment came in a blinding flash, but although I didn’t expect Ecthelion’s favourite captain to turn out to be Isildur’s heir, I was not astounded, as many others were. And I suppose I’d thought of Thorongil over the years, wondered what had happened to him.  I always had the notion I might see him again.”

“Did he mention your long ago hostility?”

“Not then, not until much later when I tried to apologise.” Imrahil put the goblet up to his mouth, taking another long draught.  He slanted his son a sideways grin. “We have sorted that out between us. Late one night at Cormallen just before the coronation, we talked about those times.”

Elphir smiled and pondered for a moment. “I’m glad you told me the story, it has made some things become clear, especially why you accepted Aragorn from the beginning.  But also Jibran, I often wondered where he came from, but never liked to ask. He became a knight when I was only a child.”

Imrahil sighed, as a wave of sorrow washed over him. So many lost, but some he regretted more than others. “Jibran…”

“That’s a name I haven’t heard for a while.” Sergion interrupted him. He had Meren on his arm, and Elphir immediately stood up and pulled out a chair for his wife.  With a nod of thanks, she sat down next to him, her pretty face thoughtful.

“Jibran? Wasn’t he one of the knights killed when Lothíriel was attacked?” she asked.

“Yes, I am afraid so,” Imrahil said, sadness causing his voice to break. He looked up at Sergion. “I have been telling Elphir of the time we raided Umbar.”

“Ahh…” Sergion nodded.

“It couldn’t have been easy to go from slave to knight,” Elphir mused.

Sergion acknowledged the truth of that with a wry smile. He sat down opposite Imrahil, stretching out his damaged leg to get it comfortable. “Jibran had a lot of help, but well repaid everything your father gave him. He fought like a demon to stop Lothíriel being taken. The possibility of the Haradrim snatching her horrified him.”

“I regret all who have died in my service, but Jibran I feel more than most.” Imrahil sighed. “I can only be thankful that he had many good years with us.”

Meren frowned, “Where did Jibran….?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Elphir put his hand on his wife’s arm, and leant close to her. “Father is going to recount how he met my mother. You will want to hear about that.”

Only because Aragorn had more or less forced him into telling the story! Imrahil took a deep breath, knowing Meren would especially appreciate the tale. He turned to Sergion. “Do you mind, it concerns you as well?”

“No.” Sergion laughed and sat back in his chair, “but I will interrupt if you get anything wrong. Strangely the memories are clearer now than they have been for many years. I still recall your anger when you found out what your father had done.”

“So do I!” Imrahil responded, turning with a frown to Elphir. “You have accused me over the years of being high-handed, but compared to my father…” He shook his head, finding it hard to understand, even now, why his father had been so sure that his wishes would be heeded. “See what you make of this – we arrived at the Harlond to find an escort waiting to lead me into the City. Six knights – fully booted and spurred – a chattering clutch of esquires, plus a standard bearer. But worse than that, he had sent our horses.”

“But you’d told him you weren’t going to the City,” Elphir interrupted.

“Exactly! And if Thorongil hadn’t intervened by asking me to see Ecthelion, Blade would have undergone a sea journey for nothing.” Imrahil waved his hand towards Sergion. “Father trusted Sergion to persuade me to go, but he’d misjudged badly.”

Elphir looked across the table expectantly. Sergion chuckled. “Before we left on the raid Adrahil charged me with making sure your father would go to Minas Tirith to try his hand at courting. But I chose to ignore those orders and did nothing to try and sway him. ”

“That was brave of you,” Meren said, frowning.

 “Not really.” Sergion’s eyes gleamed amusement. “I thought it worth risking Adrahil’s wrath, as his lordship over me was likely to be of short duration in comparison to the friendship with his son. Which I hoped would last a lifetime.”

And it had! Imrahil smiled. “As it turned out he risked nothing.”

 “I can understand why you were mad,” Elphir sympathised. “It must have made your arrival in the City rather noticeable.”

“You could say that,” Imrahil agreed ruefully. “My intention had been to slip in quietly, pass the message to Ecthelion, see my sister and get back to Dol Amroth. But I told you about the reception in Pelargir – well, Minas Tirith was worse. We had to run the gauntlet of the disappointed crowds – there was no getting away from them with that rig-out. Hundreds had gathered to welcome the returning heroes, but they felt let down when they discovered their champion had disappeared.”

He stopped and took another sip of wine.  “Ecthelion blamed me. The only one with a smile on his face was Denethor.”

“Yes, I bet he was glad to get rid of Thorongil,” Elphir agreed. “But I can’t see why Ecthelion would blame you.”

“I don’t think he did, until I told him I had no intention of staying in the City, and even less of calling on any ladies. He threw everything at me after that. I stalked out, saying I would see my sister and return home.”

“But it didn’t work out like that.” Sergion chuckled.

“No. But it could have. Once Finduilas started on me, I’d really had enough.”  Not that she had kept it up. One thing about Finduilas – honesty shone out of her.”

---

Gondor TA 2980

“Now I know why you sent Boromir away with his nurse-maid,” Imrahil accused his sister, “so that you could add your voice. Well, you are wasting your time. I’ve made it plain to Ecthelion that I am not ready for marriage, and when I am, I shall find my own wife!”

 “But you could at least take a look at her,” Finduilas pleaded. “She’s very lovely. Somewhere in her ancestry there is Rohirric blood, I think, which gives her unusual colouring.”

“No! I’m too young,” Imrahil barked, moving away from her.  “Whatever’s got into you!”

Finduilas wrung her hands together nervously and turned to look out of the window.  She sniffed.

Imrahil knew she hated being shouted at, and he took a deep breath to regain his temper.  Relenting, he took a few strides back towards her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Fin, I am sorry, but I hate being pushed.” She didn’t answer, and he squeezed her shoulders. “I suppose Denethor put you up to it.”

She nodded, but didn’t look around.

“Why? Why are they so keen?”

Finduilas slowly turned, letting out a long sigh, but still didn’t say anything. “Come on, you might as well tell me,” he coaxed.

His sister’s face fell in defeat, she could never hold out against him for long. “Her mother was a relation of Ecthelion’s, but it’s more that they owe her father, Lord Glavror, a favour. I am not sure what it’s about.”

“Owe him a favour! And they are expecting me to pay their debts!” Imrahil’s ire rose again.”You can tell that husband of yours that I’ve no intention of marrying to get him or his father out of some hole.”

“No, of course, I understand that,” she put in quickly. “But Denethor asked me to speak to you, so I did. I told him it would be no use.”

Imrahil folded his arms. “Good, then he won’t be disappointed.”

Finduilas nodded, biting her lower lip nervously, her big grey eyes glistening. Imrahil studied her –she still looked as pretty as ever, but perhaps more drawn. The cherry red dress certainly accentuated her pale skin; didn’t she get any fresh air? But no doubt dealing with a lively toddler took its toll, that and trying to play her husband’s subtle games.  He sighed, and drew her against his chest, kissing the top of her head.

“You can tell Denethor that you tried to influence me, but I’m a lost cause.”

A little gurgle of laughter escaped, and she looked up and tweaked his collar playfully, more like her bright self. “To be honest, Imrahil, Mirineth is very sweet and good natured, but I think you would soon become bored, however beautiful she is.”

Imrahil chuckled. “In that case I can forget all about her. We can enjoy a few days, and I will be away before the end of the week.”

“Oh!” Her disappointment showed straightaway.

“Now what?” He cocked one brow.  “Do you relish my presence so much?”

“No, I mean yes,” Finduilas dithered, her colour rising. “But if you go so soon you’ll miss the dancing… and,” she gave him a lopsided smile, “well, there’s another lady I have in mind …”

“Fin, no!” Imrahil pushed her away irritably. “I won’t put up with this!”  Her face blanched, and he moderated his voice, fearful he’d have her crying again. “Why this obsession with finding me a wife?”

 She hesitated, but Imrahil fixed a determined gaze on her until the answer quivered on her lips. “Father wrote to me. He’s keen to make sure of the succession. He wants me to introduce you to other suitable ladies if you reject Mirineth. His worst fear is that the title will go to his dim-witted cousin.”

“Tarandor?  But why should it? What does Father think is going to happen to me?”

Finduilas stepped forward and clutched his arm. “Imrahil, we live in dark times.”

“Oh, for all that’s ….”Imrahil swore under his breath. His father had never baulked at steering him towards dangerous ventures like raids on Umbar, so why suddenly bother about the consequences. “I’m going, I have something to do.”

He slammed the door behind him. It was not often he got cross with his sister, but she had never tried to steer him towards a woman before.  

Once outside Imrahil took some deep breaths to calm himself and spent a moment considering if he was overreacting. He liked women; in fact he liked them very much. And normally they liked him. But now was certainly not the right time to find a permanent one. And definitely not one of another’s choosing.  No, by all custom he had years to go before he needed to think of a wife. Chuckling, humour restored, with the thought that whatever pressure they put him under he’d do as he pleased, he left the King’s House and headed across the courtyard to the wall. At least he’d got his sister to admit that Lady Mirineth was not an option, however lovely looking she might be.  And that decided him – he wouldn’t go near her. He’d get the book as promised, but his esquire could deliver it. That way no hopes would be raised.

He’d discovered that Thorongil’s quarters were in one of the small dwellings built into the wall of the citadel. They were kept for favoured visitors and high-ranking officers, so with luck a servant should be around to show him the exact direction. He could retrieve the book, organise its delivery and then, after a bite to eat, take Blade for a gallop. It looked like being a fair afternoon: rain clouds on the horizon, but he doubted they’d amount to much.

In answer to his enquiry, a passing laundry-maid pointed to a door in the end building, one that would have a particularly fine view over the Pelennor.

“We got word an hour ago, and I’ve just been clearing out, lord.” She sniffed, heaving the bundle of linen higher in her arms. “It’s a real shame. Captain Thorongil had better manners than many a nobleman I have to work for. We’ll all miss him.”

Imrahil smiled, he could believe that. “I promised Captain Thorongil I would collect something, is anyone there?” He didn’t like to walk straight in.

She nodded. “Old Cúnir. He looked after him. But I’ll warn you, lord, he’s pretty cut up.”

Weren’t they all! Thorongil clearly was out of the ordinary, but Imrahil shoved aside more speculation on his ancestry, thanked the girl, and made his way to the door she had pointed out. It opened onto a small windowless hall, but light flooded through from a room on the left. He heard mumbling coming from it.

“Anyone there? I am looking for Captain Thorongil’s quarters,” Imrahil called out.

The mumbling stopped and he heard the shuffling of feet. A wispy-haired old man appeared in the open doorway, his lined face grey with misery.

“Good day,” Imrahil greeted him. “I am Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Captain Thorongil asked me to return a book he had borrowed.”

Cúnir stared at him with undisguised hostility.  “Captain Thorongil read lots of book, lord. I’ll return them to their proper places. No one need think I’ll neglect my duty.”

“No one will think that. Captain Thorongil spoke highly of you, Cúnir.” The white lie came easily to his lips, the man looked distraught.

His face brightened for a moment. “Did he? Well, I’ve served him ever since he was given quarters up here and a nobler man you couldn’t wish to meet.” He paused as realisation dawned. “You was the one that went on that raid with him, weren’t you, lord? Did he say why he was leaving? No one’s told us anything.”

“I am afraid I have no more idea than you, Cúnir. But when we said goodbye he asked me to do him a favour. The book he wants me to return is the personal property of a lady…” Imrahil stopped, realising he had never been told her name. “She’s a companion to Lady Mirineth.”

Cúnir nodded. “Lady Aearin, she lent the Captain her set of books, the last one is by his bed.” He shuffled back into the room, flinging his displeasure over his shoulder. “I’d have returned it. I know how precious it is to her.”

Imrahil followed him. The room was small and sparse, but filled with light.  The deep window cut through the citadel wall, he could see right down to the Harlond. A good place for a soldier to lodge.

Cúnir picked up a small book, wrapped in a linen cloth, which rested on the top of a chest and held it out to him. “I can’t read the old script, but the Captain was much taken.  He said it’s very old, written by one of Lady Aearin’s ancestors, about the battles long ago.”

The book was worn, bound in what had probably once been blue leather, but it had aged to an iron grey. He supposed he could get Cúnir to return it, but he fancied a look. If it interested Thorongil it would probably interest him. Imrahil glanced at the first page, struggling a moment with the faded ink.  Yes, definitely worth more than a glance. “It’s a soldier’s memoirs.”

 “All her family were soldiers,” Cúnir replied. “That’s why she had to go as a companion. Her brother was lost a few years ago, and then her father, not three months back. He was leading one of Captain Thorongil’s companies in Ithilien, when they tried to drive marauding orcs back across the river. The Captain took his death bad because it left Lady Aearin on her own. They got to know one another quite well after that.”

Imrahil choked back a comment. Had he stumbled on a romance? After all, Thorongil was not so old, and could look quite favourable on occasions.  Those being the times when he smiled. Maybe a woman was responsible for his sudden leave-taking.  But Cúnir would have known, servants knew everything.

“Always concerned about those left behind, was the Captain,” Cúnir interrupted his deliberations. “Especially Lady Aearin, with her being in straightened circumstances.”

“So he arranged a position for her?”

“I believe that was Lord Ecthelion, my lord. Lord Glavror brought his daughter to the City after the raids on Linhir. She needed someone to show her how to go about things.”

“I see.” It sounded as if he could dismiss his suspicions, not that it was any of his business anyway.  He wrapped the book back up carefully. “Well, perhaps you could put me in the way of finding her.”

Cúnir pointed out of the window in the direction of the stables. “Lord Glavror has rented a house on the fifth level, the big one just below the Healing Houses, on the corner. You’ll find it easily, lord.”

“Thank you, Cúnir. I’ll make sure the book gets back to its owner.” He’d just read it through and then arrange for it to be delivered.

---

In Imrahil’s opinion there were only a handful of good reasons to come to Minas Tirith. One was that he could see his sister – although he could shove that particular one aside for the present.  The libraries were always worth a visit, but mostly, if he came at all, it was because he liked the family house built high up on the sixth level, just along from the stables. It had belonged to the Dol Amroth princes for generations, and his great-grandfather had sensibly purchased the house next door to provide more accommodation for knights and horses. The view from most of the windows was stupendous, and the courtyard profited from the shade of one of the few large trees in the City.

Another benefit to be considered was that their cook, Niram, made the best raised mutton pies he had ever tasted.  It was a bit of a tossup whether to start on the book or the pie, but the pie was better when still warm. Imrahil put the book aside – too valuable to risk getting grease on it – and sat down with Sergion. A relay of his spat with Ecthelion, and his subsequent conversation with Finduilas, told over the meal, sent his friend’s black brows soaring skywards.

“Allow me to congratulate you,” Sergion said with no more than a flicker of a grin. “It seems that we’ll be celebrating your nuptials in the very near future.”

“Watch you don’t get posted to Tolfalas!” Imrahil growled, pushing his plate away. He got up abruptly and washed his hands in the bowl left by the servant, but found himself on the edge of laughter. “You don’t think I’m a match for them?”

“The odds are against you – your father, sister, our venerable Steward, Denethor…”

Imrahil glared at him again. “I won’t even answer that!” He picked up the book, went to the chair by the window and started reading. A little while later he put it down, full of amazement. “Do you know, this is the recollections of one of Eärnil’s captains.  It starts with Eärnil riding to claim the kingship, and it’s the last of a set, so the others should be about the battles.”

“Written by someone who was there?” Sergion’s face lit with interest.

“Well, it was scribed some time later by another, but from original writings. I have ancestors who were at the Battle of the Camp, but not many of the firsthand accounts have survived, and nothing so personal. No wonder Thorongil wanted to make sure the book was returned. It should be kept in the library.”

“And copied by the look of it. It’s not in prime condition. Though I suppose one would hardly expect it to be after all this time,” Sergion conceded.

“I would like to read the others,” Imrahil mused. “And suggest the books are kept somewhere secure.” He came quickly to a decision. “I‘ll take it back myself, maybe find out a bit more. You’d better come with me.”

“Why me? With all those days at sea, I had every intention of going for a ride,” Sergion protested.

Imrahil glanced out of the window, it had started to drizzle. “It won’t take long, we’ll go riding later. I’m not going into the lion’s den on my own.”

“Lion’s den?”

“The beautiful Lady Mirineth, you might have to save me from her.”

Sergion chuckled. “A lioness then, rather than a lion.”

“Exactly! And they hunt by instinct. But with you there, she won’t know which one to go for.”

“Imrahil,” Sergion flashed him a wry look, “unless she is a complete fool, she will know exactly who to target.”

How true that was. “Well, since I’ve come of age I’ve had a little practice sidestepping the odd predator; just don’t let me overdo it on the wine.”

“I doubt there will be much on offer in the early afternoon,” Sergion remarked.

Imrahil had a thought and it started him chuckling. “If I feel threatened, I’ll ask her father to get out his best red, imbibe heavily, and he will think I’m a sop. That should make me an undesirable catch.”

Sergion twisted his lips into a sardonic smile. “I feel you’ll have to do a lot more than get drunk to counter the lure of a princedom.”

Grinning, Imrahil stood up. “Come on, we’ve never faltered in the face of the enemy yet.”

---

They found the house easily, large and imposing, it had obviously been recently cleaned up. No weeds poked from between the stones and here and there Imrahil saw the signs of fresh mortar. The door had been oiled and the iron knocker blackened; he rapped it sharply.

A few moments later they were greeted by a lavishly dressed retainer, the embellished tunic more suited to a formal feast than an unremarkable afternoon. The man weighed up their worth in an instant, and bowed low. “My lords.”

Imrahil introduced himself and Sergion. “Is Lord Glavror at home?”

“He will return shortly, my lord,” the man said with a lofty air. “If you have business you are welcome to wait.”

“My business is with Lady Aearin.” Imrahil said.

That brought a flicker of surprise, but he opened the door wide, inviting them in. “She is with Lady Mirineth, my lord’s daughter. Lady Mirineth is receiving visitors in the solar.”

Sitting around waiting for the legions of suitors to call, no doubt. Imrahil nodded, and he and Sergion followed the man into the flagstoned hall, divesting themselves of their damp cloaks. He looked around:  the floor was the only bit of stone to be seen, and that was mostly covered by richly woven rugs that could only hail from the East.  Every wall had been hung with tapestries, and dark carved furniture overcrowded the space. A great silver candleholder, held up by a pair of huge ornate dancing bears, sat on top of a tall coffer that guarded the stairs. Imrahil’s lips twitched as he glanced at Sergion, his friend eyeing the monstrosity with undisguised loathing. They hesitated, expecting to be asked to wait, but the man beckoned them up.

The stately figure ascended at a dignified pace. Reaching the top he led them along a passage, heavily rugged, and tapped on a door at the end.

“Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Lord Sergion,” he announced and stood back to let them in.

Imrahil stepped into the room and stopped. Facing him was a lady of extraordinary loveliness. Of good height, her trim figure sheathed in a sapphire gown, she looked pretty enough to eat. Delicate features, a peaches and cream complexion and rosebud lips were framed by a mass of burnished curls. Quite devastating.  But as he drank in her beauty he got a big shock. Fright! No mistake: the huge blue orbs shrank from his gaze in fright.

He’d no chance to think what this might mean as a movement on his right drew his attention. A lady rose from a chair in the shadows and moved towards him and the light. She bowed her head when he looked her way, but when she levelled her gaze again he found himself under the candid scrutiny of a pair of cool grey eyes.

To be continued.

Author’s note.

Jibran died at about forty- five years of age in the summer of 3015 when Lothíriel was attacked by a force of Corsairs and Haradrim. Two knights and four men were killed, Sergion was badly wounded. The account of the attack appears in Chapters 9 & 10 of Tide of Destiny. LBJ

Chapter 10

Quite why an ordinary, dark-haired woman caused his insides to flip, whilst the accredited beauty a few yards away did not, Imrahil had no idea. True, she had the air of Númenor about her – tall, with high cheekbones and a graceful carriage to her neck – but so did many ladies of his acquaintance. However, they did not all have slanted, almond-shaped eyes that gazed at him with what he could only deduce to be veiled hostility. Surprised, plus a little amused – for some reason both women thought him an ogre – Imrahil twitched his lips into a smile and blatantly returned her appraisal.

A slight flush stained her pale cheeks and she shifted her attention to Lady Mirineth expectantly, but when it became obvious that the daughter of the house had been struck dumb, and was nervously twisting a handkerchief in her fingers, she turned back, fixing her intent gaze on him again.

“My lord Prince,” she said with another bow of her head, “I am Lady Aearin. Lord Glavror is expected back shortly, but allow me to present his daughter, Lady Mirineth.” A long-fingered hand gestured towards the anxious beauty, who reddened.

“So pleased you called, my lords,” Lady Mirineth stuttered out, “I am sorry my father is not here to receive you.”

What the blazes was wrong with her? She could hardly meet his eyes. Anyone would think an orc had come to call!  Pushing his irritation aside, Imrahil bowed. “It’s no matter, my lady. I really came for a word with Lady Aearin.”

“Oh!”  Some of the fright left her eyes, and a wave of relief crossed her lovely face.

 “You came to see me, my lord?”  Lady Aearin’s well modulated voice betrayed her astonishment at being singled out. But she quickly brought it under control and spoke to him politely, if a little frigidly. “Is there any way I can help you?”

Imrahil reached under his tunic to where he had been keeping the book safe from the rain. Now he had got this far, he was not going to be put off by a less than enthusiastic welcome. “Captain Thorongil asked me to return your book, my lady. But having taken the liberty of flipping through this one, I confess I was hoping to take a look at the others in the set, read them in order in fact.”

“Ah, that is kind of you, my lord. I did wonder when we heard he had not returned.” She took the book from him, and smoothed her hand over the cover as though she had missed it, struggling with good manners. “You may of course borrow the books; I will pack them up and make sure they reach you.”

“Thank you. And I would like to hear more about their provenance. Perhaps we could arrange a convenient day for me to call again, when you would be willing to talk to me.”

For the first time she seemed confused; a pulse throbbed in her throat. “My duties here keep me rather busy…”

“Nonsense, Aearin,” Mirineth butted in, sounding much more confident, “of course you must talk to the prince. Think how much Captain Thorongil enjoyed the books and he often came to discuss them with you. You know you are always free when I have my music lessons.”

Imrahil choked back a laugh as he caught Sergion’s amused look. It seemed Lady Mirineth was no predatory lioness, and quite willing to let him go. Lady Aearin looked as though the thought of meeting him was entirely repugnant, but before she could make any response the door opened and a tall, brown-haired man entered, beaming from ear to ear. A richly embroidered velvet tunic stretched across his ample belly, his girth accentuated by a fancy gold-embossed sword belt. It had to be Lord Glavror.

 “Well, the heroes of the hour have called. Honoured we are, aren’t we, my love?” His daughter nodded, looking anything but pleased. But whether it was her father’s arrival or the reference to his and Sergion’s visit that had subdued her again, Imrahil wasn’t sure.

Lord Glavror looked between his guests, trying to work out their identity, but he and Sergion were dressed similarly for riding. “Introduce me,” Glavror prompted when his daughter stood mute.

Taking pity, Imrahil stepped forward and gave his name, before introducing Sergion.

Lord Glavror flashed his daughter an irritated look. “Haven’t you offered our guests some refreshment, Mirineth?”

“I…” she started to stutter an excuse, her cheeks flushing, but Lady Aearin quickly came to her rescue.

“I was just going to do so, my lord.” She pulled a corded rope that hung by the fireplace, but Imrahil held up his hand.

“No, please, we cannot stay. I merely called to return a book,” he excused himself to Glavror. Their visit seemed to be causing Lady Mirineth such distress he thought it best to leave. “We have horses to exercise, and the day is waning.”

“Oh, yes, your horses.  You have many, don’t you? A lot of work, they are, but useful in their way, I suppose.” Lord Glavror dismissed Dol Amroth’s pride and joy with a frown. So much for his Rohirric ancestry!

“But you must come to dinner, Prince Imrahil. And Lord Ser…Sergion, of course,” he added magnanimously. “Tomorrow night.”

Imrahil started to protest, but Glavror bustled on. “I insist. You can tell us all about your adventures and enjoy some good food at the same time. You’ll not find a better table anywhere in the City than you will here. And I bet you’ll be glad of it after spending days on that ship. They’re very welcome, aren’t they, my love?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, we would love to see you.” Mirineth had got herself under control, although her eyes were still wary.

Imrahil was not sure he could stand the thought of an evening spent with a beautiful ninny-hammer, a hostile attendant and a man who thought too much of himself, and started to make excuses, but Lady Aearin intervened. “I will have the books ready for you, my lord, and I am sure that during dinner I will be able to answer any questions you have.” Even the forced smile softened her fine features, transforming her face to near beauty.  The stir of interest he had felt when first setting eyes on her deepened into a stab of desire, and awoke his hunting instinct. Damn it, he had done nothing to warrant such shabby treatment.

“That is kind.” After a glance to Sergion to confirm his agreement, Imrahil turned his attention back to Glavror. “Thank you. We shall look forward to sampling your cook’s best.” He bowed to Lady Mirineth, half hidden behind her father’s bulk. “And I shall enjoy furthering our acquaintance, my lady.”

She inclined her head and managed to meet his eyes, but no one could ever think the prospect delighted her.

Moments later he and Sergion had retrieved their cloaks and were outside in the drizzling rain. “What do you make of that?” Imrahil asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

“You mean why did you frighten Lady Mirineth out of her pretty skin?”

“That’s exactly what I meant. I think I will have to revise my opinion, I have the feeling she wants to be pushed towards me as little as I want to be pushed towards her.”

 Sergion cocked a brow. “Understandable. She obviously took one look and panicked. I bet she’s telling her father right now that there’s no way she’d have such an ugly looking dog, even for a title.”

Imrahil laughed. That certainly suited him. “What did you think of Lady Aearin?”

“I thought she was trying manfully to do her job, which I imagine is to bolster up her employer’s daughter. She put aside her own disinclination and encouraged you to accept the dinner invitation because that was what was wanted, I imagine.”

“You thought that.” Imrahil considered it, and sighed. “You’re probably right, but why should she be so unfriendly when we have never met before.”

“I have no idea, but there is no understanding the workings of a woman’s mind…” Sergion suddenly stopped, his face breaking into a grin. “You’re attracted, aren’t you? You’re so used to being fawned over by desirable ladies, that meeting with the cold shoulder sparks your interest.”

Imrahil shrugged; trust Sergion to see right through him. “I could be, but even if I managed to get past her aversion to me a dalliance would complicate our stay, and if I am unlikely to get anywhere with her, I might just as well go home.”

“True, and anyway, I am not sure she is the type of woman you could dally with,” Sergion pointed out.

“No, I don’t imagine she is,” Imrahil agreed. “Which is all the more reason to leave very soon.” Putting temptation out of the way was always a good idea, it saved any difficulties. He would go to dinner, which would mean he could talk to her about her books without any private meeting, read through them, and that would be the end of it. Although it would be interesting to find out what ailed Lady Mirineth, maybe that would become clear tomorrow. Right now a good gallop over the Pelennor sounded a great idea.

The surprise was that when he returned – wet but exhilarated, Blade having fulfilled his early promise of speed – a neatly tied package awaited him. Lady Aearin had sent her books.  Imrahil left it until he had changed his wet clothes, wrapped his fingers around a goblet of rich red, and taken a seat in front of the big fire before he unfolded the note she had enclosed with them.

It didn’t surprise him that her writing was as pleasing to the eye as the lady herself, and he idly wondered why when she so obviously had noble ancestry she needed to earn a living. But then a soldier’s pension paid to a daughter would be small.

My Lord Prince,

I feel it would be advantageous to you to be given time to peruse the books before we meet tomorrow night. This will enable you to clarify any information you require.

Lady Aearin of Lanthir

She was making sure he did not need to call again! Imrahil put the note down, thinking hard: Lanthir? Where was that? He looked around to the big bookcase, somewhere there would be maps. Tossing off the last of the wine, and getting to his feet, he scanned the bursting shelves: it would be quicker to consult the map on the wall of his father’s study.

He bounded up the stairs two at a time. Lamps had already been lit in the passageway, and Imrahil hooked one off the wall, seeing the room still in darkness.

“Going somewhere?” Sergion poked his head around the study door moments later, attracted by the glow. “Or have you forgotten the way home?”

“No,” Imrahil muttered, his finger tracing over the detailed map. “I am looking for somewhere called Lanthir.”

 “Lanthir? I’ve never heard of it. Why do you want to know?” Sergion stood alongside him, adding his eyes.

“Mmm …? Oh…” Damn, it could be anywhere. Imrahil sighed. “She’s Lady Aearin of Lanthir.”

“I see…” To be fair, it was a moment before Sergion’s lips twisted into a sardonic grin.

Imrahil shrugged nonchalantly. “Just interested, I wondered why she has to go as a companion.”

“You’ll be able to ask her tomorrow.” Sergion tapped his finger against his lips thoughtfully. “But there are many places on our borders that have fallen to ruin because of the incursion of our enemies.”

“That’s what I was thinking; Lanthir is an old name for a waterfall so it seems likely to look in Ithilien, but I can’t find it.”

Sergion shot him a shrewd glance. “What’s the interest, I thought you had no intention of following that particular scent.”

 “I haven’t, but now it’s a puzzle and I want to find out the answer.”Imrahil grinned, dismissing any idea that he was more than mildly interested.

“You’re impatient as always.” Sergion chuckled, peering at the map.

Imrahil studied the area of Ithilien between Osgiliath and Cair Andros, he’d already been over it once. “One would think it should be near to one of the tributaries but …” he stopped, squinting at an age mark on the map – about time his father commissioned a new one. “I think this might be it, only antir is readable, but surely it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Probably.” Sergion agreed after scrutinizing the spot. “It’s in the area one would expect anyway.”

“Well, I am pretty sure that’s the right place.”

“Good, although I can’t see it matters to know,” Sergion observed. “But now perhaps we can get some dinner, which is why I came to find you. Niram has roasted a goose and made a fig tart.”

 Imrahil’s stomach growled at the thought of food – he could eat a horse, let alone a goose. And after the meal he could settle down with the first book. “Lead me to it.”

Both dinner and book lived up to his expectations: the goose succulent, its skin seared to a golden crispness, the book a fascinating account of Eärnil’s ambush of the Haradrim at Poros told by one of his commanders, a man called Alagaron.

He couldn’t get to the end of it, his eyes sore from trying to decipher the writing in the candlelight. There would be time the next day.

But in that he was mistaken, a summons from Ecthelion to give a personal account of the raid on Umbar to the Council, and time spent with his sister and nephew meant that when he and Sergion presented themselves at Lord Glavror’s house the following evening, he had read no more.

The entrance hall was filled with light.  Most of it came from the huge candleholder at the bottom of the stairs – the dancing bears glowed, their hideous grins showing long glittering teeth. They dominated the space with their size and awfulness.  Sergion shuddered, and as he passed his cloak over to a servant, whispered in Imrahil’s ear. “Whatever wonderful food he is going to give us, I’m not sure it’s worth having to put up with that monstrosity.”

This time the steward led them to a long room that ran along the back of the house and Lord Glavror hurried up to them as soon as they were ushered through the doors.

“Ah, on time, that’s what I like.”

Imrahil  made some polite response and immediately bit back a groan: they were not the only guests. What misguided notion had persuaded Glavror to invite Lady Halien, whom he considered to be the most arrogant woman of his acquaintance, and Lagor, her equally pompous husband? A tall, bony woman with swept back black hair and a thin mouth, he had always disliked her. Lagor was shorter than his wife, which probably accounted for the air of consequence he armed himself with. Imrahil listened to their pretentious greetings with practised indifference and turned to Lady Mirineth. She certainly would please the most jaded eye, the flush in her cheeks and innocent quality adding greatly to her appeal. But during the few moments he talked to her – trying his best to put her at her ease, seeing that her hand shook when he kissed it –  his body quivered awareness of the woman standing behind her.

“Lady Aearin, good evening.” Dressed simply in a gown the colour of a misty morning, her elegance and poise contrasted sharply with the diffidence that characterized Lady Mirineth. Imrahil took her knuckles to his lips, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. But she gave nothing away, any dislike hidden behind an expression schooled into a polite welcome. “Thank you for sending the books, I am three quarters through the first and find it fascinating.”

 “Most warriors appreciate the detailed accountof the battle, my lord, but I imagine you will be surprised by the end of it.”

“Oh, is there something unexpected?”

A flash of amusement sent green lights dancing in her eyes for a moment, hinting that a lighter temperament lay concealed behind the controlled face she presented to him. “I think so. But I will leave you to discover it for yourself.”

“I shall look forward to it.”  Whatever it was, it would give him the excuse to meet her again. Also, he wanted to discuss the preservation of the books, even if he had to fight past her heavy guard, but Glavror was already waiting impatiently for him to finish talking. Imrahil had a sinking feeling he would enjoy little of her company tonight.

Seeing her employer hovering, Aearin bowed her head and stepped back.

“Let me lead you to your place, my lord.” Glavror shepherded him towards the table. Great Ulmo! Another monstrosity adorned the centre of it. This time it was a sculpture carved from shiny black rock – two snarling lionesses quarrelling over the body of a desert antelope. Enough to put the squeamish off their dinner. He dared not look at Sergion or he’d be unable to control his laughter.

The long table would seat many more than the seven of them, but only one end had been laid and Glavror sat at the head, putting Imrahil on his right and Lady Halien on his left. Having guessed Mirineth would be put the other side of him, Imrahil found it easy to hide any disappointment, only throwing a wry look at Sergion when his friend sat down next to Lady Aearin. Putting her out of his mind, he turned to Lady Mirineth determined to see if he could quell the anxiety she obviously felt in his company. He talked commonplaces, as their goblets were filled, and a first course of smoked eel and cucumber was put in front of them.

“I remember we had eel at your sister Finduilas’ wedding, Prince Imrahil,” Lady Halien observed in her haughty manner, poking at the fish suspiciously.

“Did we?” Imrahil answered, “I am afraid I can hardly remember the food.”

She pushed the cucumber to the side of her plate, screwing up her nose. “I confess I was a little surprised the ceremony took place in Dol Amroth and not Merethond. But in spite of my doubts, I admit it didn’t go too badly.”

The rude woman! Imrahil stared at her, biting back the retort that came to his lips. “My father likes to see his daughters married from their home.”

“So the hall at Dol Amroth is big by the sound of it?” Glavror enquired, a satisfied smile on his lips.

Imrahil shrugged. “The Great Hall can seat a thousand at a squeeze, so it’s about the same size as Merethond.

“A thousand!” Mirineth echoed, losing all colour.

Now what had upset her? “It’s not used every day. We have a small hall and a family dining room,” Imrahil pointed out. But she still looked shocked.

“I get anxious if we have more than a dozen to dinner,” she admitted with a shaky intake of breath. “Even though we have a lot of servants.”

“I imagine that when the Great Hall is used all the organising is not left to your mother, Prince Imrahil.” Lady Aearin spoke to him, but her reassuring smile was for Mirineth.

“No, we have a very efficient steward. My mother likes to do the flowers, but even then she has an army of women to help her.”

“Dol Amroth must be a huge place.” Mirineth swallowed, her blue eyes wide and apprehensive.

Imrahil smiled at her. “It’s quite a large city. Built on top of a cliff, so it’s a natural fortification. But the palace is homely enough.”

“Homely? With a hall that seats a thousand.” She flashed a wary glance to her father, but Lady Halien had engaged him in conversation.

Imrahil wondered what had been said to her. The poor girl was obviously petrified she would be forced into a marriage that would mean her presiding over a vast household when she felt unprepared to do so. Manners forbade him telling her that there was no chance of it, but presumably – as he had repeated it today – the news of his refusal to cooperate would filter down from Ecthelion.

“I expect it seems comfortable to me, as I know no different. But I can understand that others might find it a little imposing.”

A laugh from across the table made him look up. Aearin and Sergion had their heads together, clearly enjoying their conversation.  Sergion was obviously recounting some tale and whatever it was, Aearin found it amusing. She looked relaxed and decidedly lovely.  Imrahil smothered a surge of jealous irritation, and returned his attention to Mirineth. “Minas Tirith is very different from Linhir, are you enjoying living here?”

She had composed herself again, but her mouth dropped at his question. “I enjoy the weekly dances; everyone is so kind and I am never short of a partner. Lady Aearin has introduced me to all the important people, and explained the traditions I needed to know. That has made living here easier, but the City is all stone. I don’t like that very much. There are hardly any trees and many housewives do not even put flowers outside their door.”

“And you like flowers” he prompted when her lips quivered.

“I do, and I used to like walking with my dog along the shoreline. There is nowhere to walk here, and I had to leave my dog behind because she was having puppies.” She paused, a wistful smile flickered on her lips. “They will be grown up by the time I see them. I asked Father if we might go home now that you have burnt all the Corsairs’ ships but…”

“No need to go home yet, my dear,” her father interrupted, having pulled himself away from Lady Halien.  “But we want to hear about the attack on the Corsairs, don’t we?” He beamed around the table. “Straight from those who took part.”

“I agree we are at an advantage, Glavror.” Lady Halien smirked. “Not many will hear the story of the raid directly from the Prince.” She tilted her head like a bird of prey, waiting.

Imrahil fixed his eyes on her sharp-featured face for a moment, tempted to tell her to go to Mordor, but he didn’t want to totally spoil the evening for Aearin and Mirineth by causing any embarrassment, so  after the plates had been removed, he started talking.

He didn’t tell them everything, glossing over some of the killing and the circumstances in which they had found the boys. Occasionally he asked Sergion to clarify something. Their audience listened open-mouthed when they recounted their escape with Windsong appearing through the smoke.

“You must have been so relieved,” whispered Mirineth.

“And I heard a rumour you brought out Lady Oriel,” Glavror interjected, alight with interest.

Startled, Imrahil glanced at Sergion. His friend remained tight lipped, but his eyes had hardened to shards of steel. Neither of them had mentioned her.

Mirineth looked enquiringly at her father. “What are you talking about?”

Glavror reached over and covered her small hand with his large one. “I kept it from you, my love. But Lady Oriel was snatched by the Corsairs in that terrible raid. It’s one reason I brought you here.”

“Kept it from me!” Her voice rose in distress. “I wondered why she had not written. Why should you keep it from me? She’s my friend!”

“Now keep calm, Mirineth.” Spots of colour appeared on his cheeks, as she stared at him accusingly. “That’s why I didn’t tell you, I knew you’d be upset. And also her brother didn’t want the news of her abduction to be generally known.”

Mirineth stared at him hard before swinging around to Imrahil. “What happened to her? Did you bring her home?”

Imrahil wasn’t sure how much to say, he certainly couldn’t deny it. “We did. Luckily she was still in the port and we rescued her along with many other women. She should be home by now.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Mirineth’s lips trembled and tears filled her eyes. “Is Oriel hurt?” she gulped, not bothering to brush the glistening droplets away.

Now, how did he answer that? “She is not badly hurt, but she has been ill used, and will need considerable time to recover.”

The impact of his words must have registered because Mirineth blanched, the tears overflowing down her cheeks.  “I must write to her. No,” she turned back abruptly to her father, “I must go home…”

“No, no, Mirineth,” Glavror said quickly, “we need to stay here for a while.”

“In any case, my dear,” Lady Halien sounded off. “I am afraid you will not be allowed to associate with the unfortunate lady any more. It would be entirely unsuitable.”

“What! Why shouldn’t she if they are friends?” Sergion glared at her, half rising in his chair. “No blame attaches itself to Lady Oriel for what has happened.”

Lady Halien shrank back a little, but gave no more ground. “That may be so, but Lord Glavror can hardly be expected to allow his innocent daughter to consort with a woman who…”

“A woman who acted bravely and needs the support of her family and friends,” Sergion snapped before she could finish.

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” Mirineth appealed tearfully to her father, “you can’t tell me it’s not right to see her anymore.”

The argument flustered Glavror.  Colouring even more, he looked from one to the other of them and then his eyes settled on Lady Aearin.

“If you are looking to me for comment, lord,” she said in her deliberate way, “then I must say that no person of noble mind would cast aside a friend who needed help.”

“That may be so normally, Lady Aearin,” Halien looked down her nose and sniffed. “But one cannot expose an innocent like Lady Mirineth to possible unseemly conversation.”

“Lady Aearin is correct, my lord,” fed up with the woman’s pontificating Imrahil stepped in. “I can assure you that if such a thing had happened to one of my sisters’ friends, then my parents would have urged their daughters to be as supportive as they felt able.”

Lord Glavror breathed out thankfully. “Then that settles the matter, Mirineth. If the Prince thinks it’s suitable for you to continue your friendship then we can have no worries. You shall write to Lady Oriel and tell her you will call the next time you are home.” He looked up as the door opened. “Ah, here it comes, you will enjoy this.”

The suckling pig was carried through with due ceremony, and when a portion arrived on Imrahil’s plate he had to admit that it had been cooked to perfection, but Mirineth only picked at hers. He kept up a flow of inanities, to which she made vaguely relevant answers. After a while she gave up on her food and, with a glance at her father to make sure he was not attending, moved slightly nearer him.

“Can you tell me what happed to Oriel,” Mirineth whispered. “Will she be all right?”

“I think it’s up to her to tell you about her ordeal, Lady Mirineth. But I thought Lady Oriel to be a strong person, so she will hopefully recover from her experiences in time. I will tell you that she has been revenged. Captain Thorongil killed her abuser.”

Mirineth gave him a wan smile. “I’m glad. And Oriel always had a lot of spirit, much more than me. In fact she always looked after me when we were little. And she stood up to my brother, who frequently tried to bully me. Mind you, she had a lot of practice with her own, who is even worse.” Mirineth went on to recount some of their childhood escapades, in which Oriel took the leading part. Her reminisces lasted them through the rest of the meal.

At least Mirineth had lost her shyness of him, but any hope Imrahil had that he would enjoy a spicier interlude with Lady Aearin when they had finished eating was firmly quashed by the lady herself. She tactically sat between Lord Lagor and his harpy wife, allowing no chance of anything other than general conversation. He had no doubt – by catching a sideways glance when she thought him not looking – that it was a deliberate ploy to keep him away. Why that should be when she knew he wanted to discuss her books, he had no idea.  She seemed perfectly happy to converse with Sergion.  Damn it! What game was she playing?  Well, he would see how her defences would hold up when he launched a targeted campaign.

To be continued.

Chapter 11

The first assault on Lady Aearin didn’t go well. Imrahil’s attempt to ask her about the books thwarted by the manoeuvrings of the lady herself, and efforts made by Glavror to hog his attention. The annoying man seemed determined to puff off his wealth. In the end, bored and irritated, Imrahil caught Sergion’s eye and they made their excuses.  He was heartily glad when the door closed behind them and they stepped out into a deserted street.

Halfway up the steep steps that connected the fifth level of the City to the sixth, Imrahil decided that sense dictated he should ignore his injured pride and forget a woman who obviously had no interest in him. Why waste his time! Frustration made him increase his pace, and he bounded up the next flight, not looking back to see if Sergion was keeping up. The shortcut hugged the outer wall of the gardens belonging to the Healing Houses, and the damp air hung heavy with the fragrance of night-scented flowers. He recognised evening primrose and sweet rocket from time spent in his mother’s garden, but no tang of the sea salted his lips. He should go home and enjoy some peace while it lasted. With the Corsairs out of action for a while at least, there would be time to sail and swim for pleasure….

“We were right about Lanthir being in Ithilien.” Sergion interrupted his musings, matching him step for step, his breathing still even in spite of the fast pace upwards.

 “Were we?” It annoyed him that Sergion had easily managed to get through Aearin’s defences, but he pushed the thought aside impatiently, having just decided not to pursue his interest. “So, I imagine whatever land they held was lost some time ago.”

“Yes,” Sergion confirmed. “When Eärnil was made king, he rewarded those who had served him well and granted the estates and title to Alagaron. But the family lost everything when Osgiliath and the surrounding area was finally overrun in 2475.”

“That’s interesting,” Imrahil mused, “because even though it’s obvious from his account in the book that Alagaron played a prominent part in the ambush at Poros, leading the diversionary force, he has not overblown his consequence.”

“But a commander always knows who has made a significant contribution.”

Imrahil smiled.  “Just so. And during the few words Lady Aearin deigned to speak to me she hinted that there was something surprising to come. Now that intrigues me.”

Settling down to read later, Imrahil found that surprising had been an understatement. “Listen to this, Sergion. There was obviously more to Captain Alagaron than I picked up from the early part of the book.

The Haradrim fled before our anger, leaving baggage, animals and their wounded to the mercy of our victorious troops.  My men were tireless, determined to drive the enemy from Gondor’s soil, and we hastened after the defeated army, catching up with the rearguard just north of the river crossing. True men all of us, but that day we showed no quarter, wanting the tale of Gondor’s fury to be carried back to the tented cities, a warning to the Princes of Harad to cleave only to their own land.

We reached a wooded rise that led down to the Poros. As I emerged from the trees, I saw a group of red-clad warriors clustering around a white pony. Desperately they urged their charge towards the crossing, and suspecting they were protecting a favoured leader, I called good men around me and sped to intercept them.  Fiercely they fought us, but we were many and skilled. One by one they fell, until only a single defender stood, holding the bridle of a wild-eyed pony in one hand and a curved knife in the other. I raised my sword, but before I could strike, the rider screamed at me to hold.  My sword arm dropped in my astonishment, for a woman’s voice, commanding but melodious, had stayed my hand. ‘Do not hurt her!’ she cried out in the common tongue. ‘My servant only seeks to protect me and has no part in this war.’

‘If war it is, lady,’ said I, ‘then it is not of Gondor’s making.’ Now I could see that I had been about to slice the throat of a woman. Lined and weathered of face she was, but although her hand shook she had not dropped the knife, ready to protect her mistress to the last.

‘Tell your servant to put down her weapon,’ I commanded the lady. ‘And show yourself, you will take no harm here.’ All I could see of the rider were her eyes. The colour of the finest emeralds, they bored into me, as if drawing out the truth of my words with their far seeing gaze. Slowly she pushed back the folds of her cloak, and I looked upon a dream.  As I stared in wonder at her beauty, she spoke softly to her servant in their own tongue and the old woman lowered the knife.

‘Catch one of their baggage animals,’ I ordered my men, ‘the servant will not keep up with us if she has to walk.’

‘You are taking us? You said we would come to no harm!’ the lady cried.

‘Nor will you,’ said I. ‘But neither will you return to your land, for I have looked upon a dream and I will not lose it now.’”

Imrahil closed the book, for that was the last entry. “Quite the romantic, our Captain Alagaron.”

“Hmm… surprising indeed.” Sergion chuckled. “I wonder what happened, and whether the lady went willingly. But also who she was and why she was there. She sounds an unlikely camp follower.”

“I’ll have to read the next book to find out. After Poros, Eärnil straightaway led his force north to rout the Wainriders, so I doubt there was much time for wooing.  If that’s what Alagaron intended.”

Imrahil read until his eyes stung: the tale of the march to Ithilien proved fascinating, enriched as it was by Alagaron’s frank account of his obsession with his captured lady. Sometime in the night he once again changed his mind, determined to try and initiate a meeting with Lady Aearin for no other reason, he told himself, than to add her family knowledge to the story.

His opportunity came sooner than anticipated. The next morning, coming out of the bootmakers on the third level, he spotted a slim, grey-clad woman gliding though the crowd.  Imrahil lengthened his stride and followed, keeping his eye on the tail of black hair that had been wound into a loose knot on the back of her head.  He dodged housewives who bartered at the market stalls, took a shortcut behind a fish seller, and caught her arm just as she turned to take one of stairways that snaked up to the higher circles.

“Lady Aearin, a moment of your time.”

“Oh!” she swung to face him, alarmed by his restraining hand. But her anxious start quickly changed to a frown of irritation when she recognised her captor. “Prince Imrahil, you made me jump. I was not expecting someone to make a grab for me.”

“No.” Imrahil didn’t apologise, but kept a light hold on her arm – swiftly deciding that the sensible approach could often turn out to be boring.  On this fine morning she wore a sleeveless surcoat over her plain dress and he could feel both the warmth of her flesh and the cold stiffness of her body through the woollen material. Equally amused and annoyed by the look of distaste she threw at him, he bit back a wry remark and said quietly. “I would like to talk to you.” At the same time he jerked his head towards a hostelry that had tables outside, ready to refresh citizens toiling up the thigh-burning roads of the City. Two ladies sat at one sipping cordial, so he thought it a respectable enough place. “Come, we can take some refreshment, and you can tell me more about your surprising ancestor.”

“I do not want a drink.”  Glaring at him with smouldering eyes, she resisted the pressure of his hand, and triedto shrug it off without attracting unwanted attention.

“Then just sit and talk.” Imrahil steered her towards the nearest table. He knew he was behaving boorishly, but, damn it, she had been cold to him right from the start and he had done nothing to warrant it. Whatever he did now was unlikely to worsen his standing.

“I know you are used to having your orders obeyed, my lord. However, I am not one of your vassals.” She hissed the words under her breath, and snatched her arm from his grasp as he pulled out a chair for her.  But since he had blocked her escape with his body, and probably not wanting to make a scene with so many people around, she sat down with no more persuasion.

Imrahil took a place opposite, put his elbows on the table and leant towards her, locking his amused eyes with her angry ones. “Tell me, do you dislike princes in general, or is it just this particular prince that raises your hackles?”

“As far as I know, lord,” she snapped back immediately, “you are the only prince I am likely to come across.”

“In that case, what have I done to upset you?” He grinned, finding the situation extraordinarily funny. “Besides forcing you to sit here with me, I mean.”

She stared at him for a moment, and he thought he detected a lessening of the animosity in her expression.  A deep sigh showed that at least she was reconciled to staying put for the moment.  “Let us just say that my experiences have given me no great respect for the high and mighty.”

“Have I acted high and mighty?” he complained, and then laughed. “Besides…

“Forcing me to sit here with you,” she finished for him, her lips twitching slightly.

“Look,” he said, encouraged, “why don’t we call a truce for a short while.  You can pretend you actually like princes, we can have an interesting conversation and then you can go back to loathing me.”

“I don’t loathe you,” she shot back quickly.

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

This time she laughed, her eyes lighting with the green glints he had spotted before. Imrahil felt he had worked a marvel. He signalled to the server. “I am going to have some ale, will you not have something to drink yourself.”

“Oh, very well.” Looking resigned, she put her small bag down on the table.  “I’ll have some spelt water.”

Imrahil pulled a face, wondering how anyone could drink the insipid stuff.

“It’s refreshing,” she countered, accurately reading his expression.

“If you say so.” She looked so lovely when she relaxed.  It would be good if he could thaw her a bit, if nothing else.Pulling his gaze away he gave the order to the server.

“I am really enjoying the books,” Imrahil said when the man went off to get their drinks. “And you were right: the end of the first one was unexpected. I started the second and have got as far as your ancestor Alagaron leaving his lady to wait for him when Eärnil’s forces attacked the Wainriders’ camp. I just couldn’t read any more last night, but something tells me she was still there when he got back. Although it’s not obvious why she was with the Haradrim forces in the first place. I thought you might be able to enlighten me.”

“Oh!” Her eyes drew together slightly as if he’d said something totally unexpected. “I thought you would want to know why Alagaron made an immediate decision to take Sawda with him on a fast march north, in spite of the difficulties of keeping her safe and making sure she could keep up.”

“No,” Imrahil said. “There’s no mystery in that.  It’s obvious he fell for her with such a force that it quite stunned him. Once that had happened, he couldn’t have left her unprotected, as she would have been in danger from corrupt mercenaries in both armies.”

“Hm…,” Aearin considered that, and lost in thought for a moment she tilted her head to one side, unconsciously twirling an escaped curl around her finger whilst biting the inside of her lip.

She looked quite captivating and he was sure she was completely unaware of it. Imrahil leant back putting space between them as a hot surge of desire shot through him. Annoying, when she so obviously felt nothing for him. “You think it strange that he lost his heart so quickly.”

“You don’t?”

Now why should she find that odd? “No. A similar thing happened to my older sister and her husband. They took one look at each other and both knew, although on the surface one would think them totally unsuited, as their characters are very dissimilar.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Your sister was allowed to marry for love?”

Imrahil laughed, pleased to be able to astound her. “Well, he came from a good family so my father gave in pretty quickly. Ivriniel is a very determined lady.”

Aearin’s brows drew together again, making little frown lines appear above her nose, which he found enchanting. The drinks arrived at that moment and Imrahil fished out some coins, deciding that he’d better get back to the original safe subject. “So, do you know why Sawda was with the Haradrim in the first place, and under considerable protection?  Alagaron doesn’t really say.”

Aearin sighed. “All the papers and letters were destroyed when my family lost its estates. They left it too late, thinking they were strong enough to repel any raiders.  The books were only saved because they were in Minas Tirith at the time. There are no other written records, but according to what has been passed down, Sawda was the youngest daughter of one of the Princes of Harad.”

“That might explain her escort, but it still doesn’t account for her presence,” Imrahil mused.

“She was a seer,” Aearin sipped at her drink, her eyes on him waiting for his reaction.

“A seer?”

“Evidently it was common to ascribe such powers to royal daughters as long as they were untouched. The Haradrim liked to have a seer with them to decree on the auspicious days for attack and to warn them of unexpected dangers.”

“She didn’t earn her pay then,” Imrahil chipped in with a grin. “The Haradrim were totally out manoeuvred by Eärnil and your Captain Alagaron.”

Aearin opened her mouth to say something, but snapped it shut before the words left her lips.

“Yes? You were going to say…,” he prompted.

 She fought with indecision for a moment, and then let out a giggle of pure amusement.”Perhaps she cheated, and was not a maiden at all.”

“Well, I bet she certainly wasn’t for long after she met your captain.”Imrahil risked, glad she had a sense of humour.

 Aearin put the mug back down on the table and leant on her arms, a quiver of a smile on her lips. He grinned back, enjoying the moment.  “Alagaron did marry her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did,” she confirmed. “But in spite of that, and her failure at Poros, Sawda was reputed to be fey. In fact, it’s family history that green eyes appear in the women every so often and those that have them enjoy the gift of sight. My great-aunt was the last, and although I never met her, she was said to be gifted.”

“So, you have a Harad princess as an ancestor.” Imrahil smiled. “It’s a lovely story and I am enjoying the books, but they must be quite valuable and really should be kept somewhere safe.”

Her face saddened. “So Captain Thorongil said, and I will put them in the library when you have finished reading.” She paused for a moment, hesitating to disclose her feelings, he thought. “I know it’s silly, but I have so little family left that the books are precious to me and I have been loath to part with them.”

“I am sorry,” Imrahil said, realising that he had given little thought to the fact she must be grieving. Would that explain her initial coldness to him? “I heard that you lost your father recently and your brother before that. But are there no other relatives? Surely it is not necessary for you to be a paid companion.”

“One pays a heavy price for loyalty to Gondor, my lord. All my father’s family were soldiers, and many did not marry.”

He could understand that, and it was true that many warriors shunned family life. It must be very hard for her. “Your mother, she had no relatives?”

“My mother died of the fever. She was an only child, the daughter of a scholar who could trace his ancestry back to the first ships bringing the Faithful. But he married late, as many before him, seemingly more interested in our illustrious past than providing for a golden future.  I do have some cousins who live in Lossarnach, and I have stayed with them from time to time. But I prefer to order my own life, and although I enjoy the beauty of the countryside, I confess to finding life there a bit dull. The City may be made of stone, but it is a vibrant, cultured stone.”

Just when he was about to ask whether the marriage between a lady of high Numenorean decent and a professional soldier had been a love match, the clanging of the noon bell caused Aearin to jump to her feet.

“I must go; I have to walk home with Mirineth when she comes out from her music lesson.” She picked up her bag. “Thank you for the drink.” Before he could stop her, she pushed the chair back and walked quickly away, turning up the nearby steps.

So, Imrahil smiled to himself, he had managed to prise open a chink in the lady’s armour! Perhaps all was not lost.

 It was this realisation that made him susceptible later that afternoon to Denethor’s suggestion that he join him in a reconnoitring trip to Osgiliath in a few days’ time. It meant he would be around for the weekly feast and dancing held in Merethrond, and he knew from his conversation with Mirineth that she and Aearin always attended. To Sergion he said it would be good for them to see Gondor’s front line defences at first hand.  His friend, unaware of the morning meeting with Aearin, accepted the plan with his usual equanimity. 

---

The next morning started very differently than the one before – Imrahil immersed himself in purely male company.  Feeling he couldn’t neglect the escort his father had provided, he organised for them all to go out at dawn for an early ride to enjoy the sun rising over the Ephel Dúath.  Riding for pleasure was something few did in the City, the only horses, besides those used for hauling goods, belonging to the errand riders or a few favoured captains. But the knights of Dol Amroth thought much of their horses, treating them as friends and companions as well as aids to battle.

Thus, after their mounts had been restored to their comfortable stables and snaffled up their ration of oats, a happy group of men sat down to a late breakfast at the long table in the Dol Amroth town house. Esquires ran to and from the kitchens bearing great platters of food, and the steward, knowing how thirsty men could get after a fast ride, left tall jugs of ale on the side table. As always, Niram had provided a meal of gargantuan proportions and exquisite flavour. Imrahil thought her bread had the softest insides and the crispest crust of any he had ever tasted, surpassing even the bakers at home. And the ham, roasted in a glaze of honey and wine, was good enough to start a war. Luckily there was plenty of it, or it might come to that. Imrahil wiped a piece of bread around the last smearing of baked egg on his plate, loaded it with a slice of ham, put it in his mouth, and sat back. He could force no more down.

“Do you want any more ale, lord?” Halmir, his esquire, asked.

Imrahil shook his head; he hadn’t an inch of space to spare. Just as he took a deep, satisfied breath, hands resting on his stomach, the door opened and the steward, Falason, entered, looking across to get his attention.

“See what Master Falason wants, will you, Halmir.”

Halmir hurried across, but after a few short words with the steward was back. The boy dropped his head and spoke close to Imrahil’s ear. “Lord, there’s a lady called to see you?”

“A lady?”

Halmir nodded. “Falason says she’s definitely a lady. She’s waiting downstairs.”

Imrahil shrugged. No point speculating, he might just as well go and see. Throwing his napkin down on the table, he pushed back his chair and went to the door. Still entrenched in ham and ale, nobody made any comment.

“Who is it?” he asked Falason, after he’d closed the door on the gathering.

As all good stewards, Falason‘s face remained impassive. “She gave her name as Lady Aearin, lord. But she won’t say what she wants and insists on speaking only to you. If I hadn’t taken her for a lady, I would have sent her about her business.”

Aearin? This could be interesting. “No, you did right, Falason. Thank you. I’ll go and talk to her.”

Obviously in some distress, she was anxiously pacing the floor at the bottom of the stairs, but stopped and looked up immediately she heard him coming down. Two spots of colour stained her cheeks, and her grey eyes blazed with anger, the green glints flashing brightly.

He stopped a couple of treads from the bottom, arrested by the rage in her face. “Lady Aearin, whatever’s the matter. How can I help you?”

“It’s Mirineth,” she snapped in a voice that could have cut steel.  “She’s run away. Back to Linhir if I have deduced correctly.”

“Oh, I see.”  No wonder she was upset, but why was she coming to tell him. Where was Mirineth’s father?

“You have to go after her straightaway,” she carried on, gaining volume. “Bring her back before anyone finds out.  Her reputation will be ruined otherwise.”

“Me?” Had he missed something? “Why do I have to bring her back?”

“Why?” Her brows flew up, her hands clenching in fury. “Why do you think! It’s your fault!”

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To be continued

Hi everyone,

First of all I would like to apologise for the huge time gap between this chapter and the last, and also for missing out on answering a whole load of reviews.  I have been quite ill over the past few weeks and have had to spend some time in hospital. But all better now.  So on with the story.LBJ

Chapter 12

“My fault! How do you make that out?” Advancing down the last few stairs, Imrahil glared back, incensed by the resumption of her hostility towards him.

Aearin didn’t retreat a step; lifting her chin she looked up into his face with eyes full of accusation. “Surely you saw how anxious Mirineth was. You, her father and Lord Ecthelion have, between you, turned that sweet girl into a jittering wreck.”

“Now just a minute! I have done no such thing…”

“Her father was on about it last night, but she has no wish to be a great lady,” Aearin interrupted before he could finish. “And you, Prince Imrahil, should take your title and your grand palace elsewhere.”

How dare she!  If she’d been a man…  But she wasn’t –  her shapely bosom heaved quite effectively to show as much.  Pulling his eyes away, Imrahil made an effort to control his fury. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he hissed through his teeth, “but for the sake of peace let me tell you that I never had the slightest intention of offering Lady Mirineth anything. I have made that plain to Ecthelion. If he did not pass it on, then I am sorry for it.”Her brows drew together, and in spite of his anger he noticed those cute little frown lines. Infernal woman! She had totally unsettled him, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Aearin opened her mouth to say something and closed it again. A heartbeat later she got her thoughts enough in order to voice them. “What do you mean? Lord Ecthelion particularly wanted me to take the position for that very reason. He thought Mirineth might need some help in how to go on in the City.” She scowled at him. “And now you say you had no intention.”

 “I cannot make it any clearer,” Imrahil said, taking a calming breath. “I will not be making any offer for Lady Mirineth’s hand, whatever you have been told. Perhaps I should have advised the lady herself, but forgive me, I would have considered that rude.”

Disbelieving, she rounded on him. “You don’t want to marry her, in spite of Lord Ecthelion’s wishes and Glavror’s wealth?”

Imrahil flared up again; he should throw her out, she obviously had a very low opinion of him and he needn’t listen to it. “I am not interested in marriage at the moment, but if I was then I assure you I would be looking in an entirely different direction than Lady Mirineth, however beautiful or wealthy she might be.” In fact he’d make sure he looked nowhere near Minas Tirith or Linhir!

That stopped her, but only for a moment. She soon hurled another accusation. “Then why did you call? It would have been better to have stayed away!”

“Too right! I could be on my way home at this moment!”  Imrahil shot back. Indignation flashed across her face but she held his eyes, still waiting for his answer.  He struggled to speak coolly. “I called because Captain Thorongil asked me to return the book to you.” After a slight hesitation, innate honesty made him add. “I was going to pass the errand on, but the book intrigued me, so I thought I would deliver it in person. In fact,” he fixed her with a hard stare, “one of the reasons to bring it myself was that I intended to offer to have your books copied, but meeting with such unfriendliness from you, I never quite found the opportunity.”

Her face flushed red, and she dropped her eyes. Imrahil acknowledged that he probably should have offered   on the morning he’d met her in the market, but at the time he’d thought it would give him another opening with her. What a fool to think that!

A moment later, Aearin sought his eyes again, this time with a plea on her lips and the fire gone. “I am sorry. I was under a misapprehension.” She took a deep breath. “But would you please go after her.”

“Why should I? It’s none of my business.” Imrahil folded his arms and leant back against the newel post. He felt no compunction about refusing; it would be better for his peace of mind if he never saw Mirineth or Aearin again.

A pulse throbbed in her throat and her eyes glistened. “But there’s no one else I can ask who has horses. It’s the only chance of catching her.”

“But if she’s going home what does it matter?” Imrahil replied with a shrug.

“It’s all very well for you!” Aearin snapped, getting angry again. “You do not have to worry what people think. But she has not got generations of noble ancestors. One step out of line for someone like Mirineth and haughty shoulders will be turned against her. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“Well,” Imrahil retorted, “tell her father, and get him to send after her.” She did have a problem with his rank, but he pushed aside the idea of trying to find the reason. Why should he care?

“I can’t.  Lord Glavror has taken a boat to Cair Andros to visit his son, who’s stationed there. He won’t be back for a couple of days.”  She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Look, I came because I thought you were going to offer for her and you wouldn’t want her to be put in danger.  She has gone with the two men that bring salted mutton and fish from the coast to the City. Most goes to the market, but Lord Glavror has a regular order. You have to catch her before tonight. Her maid says the driver, young Lainor, is besotted with her, which is why he agreed to it, I imagine.  Lainor seems harmless, but whether they both can be trusted, I do not know. She is so trusting herself, but they will be a week on the road. And how she intends to get from Pelargir to Linhir, I have no idea.”

The stupid girl! But it was nothing to do with him. Except perhaps that he should have made plainhis intentions – or rather non-intentions – to Glavror when accepting his hospitality. Or better, not to have accepted it at all, which he wouldn’t have done had he not set eyes on Lady Aearin. Imrahil sighed. “You are sure she is heading back to Pelargir on this cart?”

“I wheedled it out of her maid; she was in on the scheme. Mirineth rose early and took a bag.”

“It seems a ridiculous thing to do. Why not just tell her father of her fears.”

“I agree on the face of it. But you do not know how much she was pressured. Whatever you said to Lord Ecthelion, your feelings were not passed on.”

Imrahil sucked in his breath. He should have known: the honourable Steward was used to getting his own way and probably meant to try again.

Aearin acknowledged his response with a lift of her brows. “And also I have a suspicion there is something Mirineth has not told me – some reason she really wants to go home. I have not been with her that long, and she knows Lord Ecthelion was responsible for my appointment, so she does not confide everything.”

Not such a little sap-skull as one might think. Imrahil frowned. “But surely she knows Glavror will fetch her back, he seemed bent on keeping her here.”

 “From what I can gather,” Aearin said, shrugging her shoulders, “she thinks her grandmother will shield her from her father’s wrath. But please, none of that matters, she is so young and innocent, anything could happen to her on the journey.”

Imrahil considered for a moment. It would take him little of his time, he should be able to catch a cart with only a few hours start easily.  And just maybe Aearin would look on him with some favour. Although why he still wanted that after the insults she had hurled at him he couldn’t fathom – probably because he hated giving up. His damn pride again! 

Aearin was watching him intently, all hostility gone from her eyes; they now only held mute appeal. He put his hand out and brushed an escaped curl back from her cheek. “I must be mad.” 

Apart from the look of surprise, and a quick lowering of her eyes, he saw no more of her reaction because he immediately swung around and called up the stairs for Falason. “Ask Lord Sergion and…Lord Baranor to come down, would you, Falason,” he requested when the steward appeared. “And send Halmir with a message to the stables. I want Blade and Lord Sergion’s horse saddled immediately.”

Not ideal going back out, but the horses had not been worked hard over the previous weeks when they had been in Umbar, and they’d take it easy on the return. He turned back to Aearin. “I think you need to follow on in a wain, I can hardly bring Mirineth back to the City on my horse if you want to keep this a secret.”

“Thank you. I thought I could trust you when you tried to keep Lady Oriel’s name from being bandied about.”

Well, that was something! He thought for a moment. “Can you trust her maid as well?”

Aearin nodded. “She’s devoted to Mirineth.” 

“Then two women will leave the city … two will come back, the maid will have to hide on the return. But you need to tell me how I will recognise the cart, in case Mirineth is concealing herself.”

“By the smell, I imagine,” Aearin said, wrinkling her nose. “All the empty fish barrels go back. They wash them out, but they still reek.  Oh… and it’s pulled by two brown and white horses.”

“You mean Skewbalds?”

“I have no idea, they just have brown patches.”

Imrahil smiled to himself, looking up as he heard footsteps on the stairs. Sergion and Baranor were coming down. He introduced Baranor to Aearin, making no apologies to himself for choosing an older married man to go with her.

He got some pleasure from the situation by seeing Baranor’s reaction to being asked to hire a wain, and take Lady Aearin and a maid out on the South Road. But Imrahil didn’t explain much — there wasn’t time  – and Aearin could do that on the way. He wanted to get going, and stopped only long enough to tell the men he had to go out, obtain his cloak and send Falason to open the strongbox. Baranor would need some coin.

“Get away as quick as you can, Baranor, and keep it to yourself,” he said, handing him a purse.  “Sergion and I will probably be out of the City before you. We’ll meet you on our way back.”

The astonished knight stared at him for a moment, but when Imrahil did nothing except grin slightly, he bowed. “Very well, lord.”

Baranor took Lady Aearin’s arm, but she turned and gave Imrahil a lovely smile. “Thank you, my lord. I am very grateful.”

Imrahil smiled back. Well, perhaps it would be worth the effort!

On their way to the stables, Sergion listened to the justifications of Imrahil’s decision to get involved with nothing more than an amused glint in his eyes, waiting until he had come to a stop before responding. They had reached the door to the stables and Sergion pulled it open, letting out the warm smell of horses, hay and leather.

“You’re saying Mirineth begged a lift in a cart full of stinking barrels?”

“So it seems.” Imrahil confirmed.

Sergion started laughing. “Must be pretty desperate to get away from you.”

“Oh, go to Mordor!” Chuckling, Imrahil thumped him on the arm. “You can’t say you won’t enjoy the ride.”

“No, but I also say you’re mighty keen to impress a certain lady.”

Imrahil flashed him a scornful look. “I’d do it for anyone.”

---

Every trader that visited the city must have chosen that very day to head home. Wains pulled by oxen, or great feathered-legged horses and carts with no more than a small pony in the shafts were strung out along the length of the South Road. Where they could, Imrahil and Sergion galloped along the grassy sward that bordered the beaten way and only went back to the road when they encountered grazing cattle and sheep. The day warmed, and a league out Imrahil wished he had not eaten quite so much for breakfast, or drunk so much ale.

They drew many stares: from men working in the fields and from the occupants of the carts they passed. The quality of their horses and the richness of their raiment attracted attention – only errand riders usually rode fast in pairs. Imrahil blessed the chance that he wore no devices which would give away his identity; if he had, it would be difficult to get Mirineth back to the City without invoking comment.  And he hoped that Baranor and Aearin had got away quickly, and that the lure of good payment had persuaded a carter to hire out his outfit with no quibbling.

“I reckon we’ll catch our quarry around noon.” Sergion broke in on his thoughts.

 Imrahil agreed. He had worked out the timings, knowingthe carters usually took an hour or two over their midday meal to allow the animals pulling the wagon a chance to step out of their traces. If they kept up a good pace without pushing their mounts, they would probably come upon Mirineth and young Lainor resting. Farther from the City the traffic thinned, many wains having taken the turning for Lossarnach. And already some travelling further on had stopped, their drivers sitting with backs against the wheels munching on bread and cheese, whilst heavy horses cropped the grass. But no skewbalds, or any reeking fish -barrels.

“They must have got away early,” Imrahil mused.

“Probably anxious to put as many leagues as possible between them and the City,” Sergion offered.

“Yes, but they will have to rest soon.”  Imrahil scanned ahead, but could see nothing, as the road disappeared into a stand of scrubby trees. “I wonder. I seem to remember the road dips in those trees, where a stream comes down from the hills.”

“Yes.” Sergion followed his eyes. “You can see the line of lush vegetation where it winds through the meadows. It would be a sensible place to stop, which they must do soon.”

“As long as we’re not on a wild goose chase,” Imrahil muttered.

They slowed when they reached the trees. Which was a good job, as they might have missed their prey otherwise: the cart had been hauled up a rough track that bordered the stream. But a glimpse of a brown and white rump through the foliage gave the game away. “I wonder who they thought might be following,” Imrahil murmured.

“No one probably,” Sergion replied. “But I rather imagine Mirineth wouldn’t want to draw too much notice. Just in case they met someone on the road likely to recognise her.”

Imrahil grinned. “She’s in for a surprise, don’t you think.”

Sergion raised his eyebrows, silently laughing, as together they urged their horses up the track. The hooves made little sound on the dried mud and dead leaves, but one of the skewbalds gave them away, letting out a loud whinny when he caught wind of his distant kin approaching.

Immediately a figure emerged from the trees. It was a young man, and he eyed them belligerently. Stocky, clean shaven with black hair, he wore a leather jerkin and patched breeches. Not intimidated by the approach of two warriors, he thrust his chin up and weighed the cudgel he held with determined menace.  Imrahil choked back a laugh, wondering what the lad would do if he and Sergion really meant to threaten him. He certainly didn’t lack for courage.

“Keep away,” the boy bellowed at them. “I’ve nothing but empty barrels.”

“There’s no need for that,” Imrahil said, giving the lad a smile. “Lainor, isn’t it?”

Lainor’s eyes narrowed and he reluctantly nodded. “Well,” Imrahil carried on, “It’s Lady Mirineth we want, not your empty barrels.”

“She isn’t here!” Lainor lifted the cudgel threateningly.

“Don’t be a fool,” Imrahil snapped. “My knife would be in your throat before you could take a step.”

“No!” Mirineth suddenly appeared through the trees, stopping dead when she realised just who the visitors were. “Prince Imrahil?” she mouthed in shock.

“Ah, I see she is here.” Imrahil slanted a wry glance towards Lainor.

The lad’s face flushed. Imrahil turned his attention to Mirineth. “Good day, my lady. I trust you have had a pleasant morning. But I am afraid we are here to take you back to the City.”

Lainor pushed out his chest, not giving Mirineth time to answer. “She don’t want t’ go.”

“Maybe not,” Imrahil agreed. “But you must see she can’t travel with you for days on end...”

Lainor glared at him. “She’ll come to no harm with me...”

“Of course I won’t ...” Mirineth moved to stand next to Lainor.  She faced Imrahil defiantly, only her red face and her nervously twitching fingers betraying her anxiety. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, lord, but I told my father I couldn’t marry you.  He didn’t believe me when I said I’d run back to Nethon. But that’s what I’m doing, even if it means I can never come to the City again.”

Ah! So Aearin was right: there was something more to this. “Who’s Nethon?”Imrahil asked her, intrigued.

She dropped her eyes. “The man I am going to marry.”

“Oh, I see.” Imrahil’s lips twitched, she looked like a naughty child caught out in some misdemeanour.  “Mirineth, I think there has been some confusion. Without wishing to be insulting I must tell you that I never had any intention of making you an offer...”

“What!” Her eyes shot back to meet his, and her face blanched.

“It was an idea cooked up between Lord Ecthelion and your father, with a small contribution from mine,” Imrahil explained. “I have informed Lord Ecthelion of my feelings, as I have my father. And I apologise for not directly telling yours. Had I done so, it would have avoided the need for you to run away.”

“Then why are you here?” she demanded, flushing again.

“Lady Aearin begged me to bring you back. You must know that running away is very foolish, anything could happen to you.”

“Not with me around, it wouldn’t.” Lainor took a step forward.

Imrahil ignored him. He’d realised from the start that there was no harm in the boy – for the moment. But who could tell after he’d been with such a desirable woman for more than a few days. And he still hadn’t set eyes on the other lad. He smiled reassuringly at Mirineth. “I have promised Lady Aearin I will take you back to the City. We’ll meet up with her on the way. If you go back now, no one will know anything about this. And I will make it plain to your father that whatever Lord Ecthelion thinks, I will not be requesting your hand.”

This comforting speech didn’t have the desired effect as large tears started rolling down her cheeks. “He still won’t let me marry Nethon,” she sniffed. “He’s bound to find someone he considers more worthy of me. I can’t convince him that I don’t want a high position, I only want Nethon.” She started sobbing in earnest, leaning against Lainor’s shoulder.

With a weary sigh, Imrahil swung his leg over Blade’s back and jumped lightly to the ground. He felt hot and sticky in the heavy tunic he had chosen to wear for the ride at dawn, and his patience was wearing thin.  Barely an hour past midday and already he had faced an angry woman hurling insults at him, been threatened by a yokel with a cudgel and now he had to contend with a beauty in distress. War was simpler.

Lainor stood rigid, an expression of acute embarrassment on his face. The cudgel still in one hand, he hesitated to actually touch Mirineth with the other.  Imrahil had no such compunction; his dealings with Findulais over the years had taught him to cope with tearful women. He handed the reins to Sergion, encountering an amused but sympathetic look.

Imrahil took hold of her shoulders and eased her away from Lainor. Not brave now! The poor boy looked scared to death at having the woman of his dreams clinging to him. He spoke sympathetically, quashing the desire to tell her to shut up.  “Running away won’t convince your father to take you seriously, Mirineth.” All that did was to make her sob more and bury her head into his tunic. Patting her back he fumbled for his handkerchief, thankfully managing to produce a pristine piece of white linen, which he handed to her. 

“Here, wipe your eyes.”

After a few moments the sobs eased.  Mirineth gulped and blew her nose delicately and then sniffed. “He’ll never let me marry him.”

Imrahil gave her a squeeze. She was one of the few women who still looked wonderful with red eyes. Pity she didn’t stir his heart, or perhaps a good job if she was set on someone else. “Is your Nethon so ineligible?”

Mirineth shook her head, still trying to stop the tears. “No, his father’s a lord, although Nethon has two older brothers.  But,” she looked up to Imrahil’s face imploringly, “now Lord Ecthelion has put the idea of you into father’s head, he has become much more ambitious.  He won’t entertain the idea of me marrying Nethon at all. But if I disgrace myself, he’ll be glad to see me married. That’s why I must go to Pelargir.” 

Imrahil could understand why Glavror, with his wealth and connections, wished for someone other than younger son for his daughter. But in the end happiness came above social standing.  Not that he could help her. There was no way he should encourage her to disobey her father. And Pelargir was not a place for an unaccompanied lady to go.

 “Why Pelargir, does Nethon live there?” he asked when she finally got control of herself.

“No! But he has a ship that he runs from Linhir to Pelargir. He’s doing really well. You would think my father would admire him for his enterprise.”

“I see. But if you went there, do you know if he would be in port?”

“No,” Mirineth answered, “I would wait there until he came.”

Imrahil glanced at Sergion; they shared a look of disbelief. “I am sorry, Mirineth,” Imrahil said and put a consoling arm around her. “I do have sympathy for you, but there is no way I can let you go on. Besides the impropriety of you travelling with two men” – he had spotted the other lurking in the trees – “you cannot stay on your own in Pelargir. It’s a port visited by all the raff and scum of Gondor, you would not be safe.”

“She could stay with my mother,” Lainor interjected hotly.

Imrahil shook his head, scowling at him. “And what would Nethon think about you hanging around in Pelargir for days, Mirineth?”

The shot went home, he could tell, although she said nothing. He followed it up quickly. “I have to take you back.  I am afraid that the alternative is for me to return to the City and, in your father’s absence, inform Lord Ecthelion.  He will send a guard to fetch you. It’s much better if this is kept between us.”

Mirineth hung her head, and Imrahil knew she had capitulated. He felt so sorry for her and gave her another squeeze. “I can only suggest that you stand up to your father, but behave with dignity and composure. Show him you are not a child to be bullied and that you know your own mind. He loves you and will not want you to be unhappy.”

She smiled wanly. “I sometimes think he’s forgotten he loves me.”

“Come on,” Imrahil patted her on the back, “get your things. You’ll have to ride with me until we meet up with Lady Aearin.”

The preparations for them to leave went on accompanied by sullen looks from Lainor, Imrahil having favoured him with a few words about the iniquity of aiding Mirineth to fly from her home. But all in all he couldn’t come down too hard on the lad. He imagined Mirineth had been quite persuading.

But it was a very subdued Mirineth Imrahil lifted onto his horse. She had put on a cloak, edged lavishly with colourful braid, which she wrapped around herself like a shield.  Imrahil had no choice but to hang onto her, as she had no experience of being on a horse. Her body was warm against him, her lovely hair blew in his face and in spite of travelling with the fish barrels she smelt of some sweet flower.  He smiled inwardly, in fact he laughed at himself: he had one lovely woman in his arms who didn’t want to be there, and he was about to meet up with another who held him contempt.  Yes, war was definitely simpler.

To be continued.

Chapter 13

Merethond started to fill. Imrahil cast his eyes around the great feast hall, remembering Mirineth’s unease when he had nonchalantly admitted that the one at Dol Amroth was virtually as big. But there the resemblance ended: this hall a vast cavern of marble and stone unadorned by the banners and hangings that softened and ornamented his own. There, the devices of generations of princes marched down the walls, with the banners of the last kings of Gondor taking pride of place. Merethond was stark and bare. It would also become unbearably hot later with the number of people likely to be present. Here the windows only looked out to the stone-walled Citadel gardens, not like Dol Amroth where they opened high above a sheer cliff-face to catch the fresh sea breezes of the Bay of Belfalas. But for now, the temperature was tolerable, and the austere hall enlivened by the myriad of colours of the ladies’ dresses. Always a full turnout, the weekly evening of dance and music was one of the few times when the nobles of the City could all get together to preen and gossip.  And gossip they would! With an inward chuckle Imrahil scanned the crowd again to see if Aearin had arrived, so engrossed that he jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Ah, Prince Imrahil, I believe I am in your debt.” Glavror favoured him with a quick bow of his head, his portly figure not conducive to anything more servile.

Imrahil quickly tried to assess from his demeanour how much the man knew of his daughter’s escapade. Glavror must only have returned from Cair Andros that day, and Imrahil had not heard anything from Aearin or Mirineth. In fact, he had not seen them since he had escorted them back to the City the day before.

“You didn’t think it would remain a secret did you, my lord,” Glavror carried on, expertly reading the flicker of uncertainty. “Servants talk. The matter was recounted to me before I had scarce removed my cloak.”

“Indeed, but I don’t think it’s generally known,” Imrahil conceded. “You have Lady Aearin to thank that the matter was speedily put to rights.” Just in case Glavror put the blame on her. But she had not known of Nethon, and Glavror certainly had.

“Hmmm...” Glavror patted his arm in far too familiar a manner, leant towards him and lowered his voice. “You must not take any notice of foolish whims, my lord. Mirineth is a good girl, but she is young and took fright at the thought of fulfilling such a high position...”

“Lord Glavror,” Imrahil interrupted him sharply, and pulled his arm away, determined to put an end to this. “I am afraid there has been a misapprehension. I am not going to ask for your daughter’s hand...”

“Oh, I know she behaved badly, my lord.” Glavror hurried to reassure him with an ingratiating smile. “But I am sure you will forgive her silly lapse, she is generally perfectly dutiful.”

Imrahil drew himself up and fixed the man with a steely stare. He’d heard enough. “I must make myself plain; I never had any intention of offering for Mirineth, even before her flight. But let me tell you, Glavror, that had I’d that intention I would have pulled back immediately on discovering that her heart belonged to another.”

“Ah...,” Glavror waved his had dismissively “... a silly girl’s fancy!”

“A fancy that led her to leave her home and undertake a week’s journey on a cart,” Imrahil retorted. “If I were you, Glavror, I would accept the inevitable.”

Glavror’s complacency vanished abruptly, his face flushing dark red. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, poorly stifling his anger. “If she thinks I am going to let her throw herself away on a...a... nobody...” Words failed him, and Imrahil took the opportunity to nod politely.

“It’s none of my business, so if you will excuse me, my sister has entered the hall.”

Imrahil didn’t particularly wish to talk with Finduilas, but it gave him the opportunity to slip from Glavror’s clutches. He listened to his sister with half an ear, all the time searching the vast space for a glimpse of the person he did want to converse with. Finduilas prattled on about him and Denethor going to Osgilath the next day and how it would be good for them to become better acquainted. But Imrahil could only think about the now inescapable fact that he would like to be better acquainted with Aearin. The gratitude for bringing Mirineth safely back to her care had taken the form of an appreciative clasp of his hand, a smile that lit her grey eyes with a soft green radiance, and kind words which hopefully put an end to the hostilities between them. But that was all, because he’d had no chance for a private talk on their way back to the City, and had to content himself with a request for the next book in the series. It had arrived that morning and gave him the perfect excuse, were one needed, to seek out her company tonight and enjoy a dance.

What with trying to attend to Finduilas and keeping watch on the crowd, Imrahil almost missed the feel of hard eyes on the back of his neck. He turned quickly, in time to see Ecthelion staring at him from under thunder-brows.  The Steward, old and frail as he was, rarely missed anything and Imrahil had no doubt his clash with Glavror had been witnessed, and understood, from the dais. Imrahil bowed to acknowledge Ecthelion, but was saved from any other communication by the auspices of the chief musician who mounted the dais to request leave to start playing. Imrahil took the opportunity to get out of range of the Steward’s displeasure. After a quick word to Finduilas, assuring her he was looking forward to the next few days, and a squeeze of her hand, he disappeared into the crowd and headed to the other end of the hall.

By the time he had run the gauntlet of obsequious nobles, fluttering eyelashes and a friend of his father’s whom he promised to visit before returning to Dol Amroth, the crowd had thickened even more. A knot of hopeful young nobles in the corner of the hall finally showed him the whereabouts of his quarry. But by the time he reached the spot, the musicians had struck a lively tune and Mirineth had been coaxed onto the floor. He had a glimpse of a pale face as she twirled past him. A slight smile turned her lips as she caught his eye, then she was swallowed up in the crowd.  It was a moment before Imrahil realised that Aearin had not joined the dancers, but sat on one of the seats that circled the hall talking to a young man who was failing to stop his eyes from following Mirineth. How rude! Why didn’t the nobcock ask Aearin to dance instead of behaving like a moon calf? Imrahil had no patience with such flummery but at least it left the way open for him. 

Aearin saw him approaching and immediately got to her feet, a welcoming smile on her face. The young man gave a swift bow, muttered a few words and slunk away into the crowd. Aearin laughed.

“You gave him the perfect excuse to leave. I made a poor second to Mirineth.”

Not in Imrahil’s opinion. She looked cool and elegant even in a grey dress that struck him as sad-coloured compared with the vibrant garb of the other ladies. “I am glad he’s such a bonehead, or you’d be whirling around the hall and I’d have to wait to dance with you.”

The laughter left her face to be replaced by a grim smile. “You’ll have to wait anyway, lord. With my father barely three months dead, I can hardly dance.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Imrahil sat down beside her. “I should have realised, but you seem to be coping so well.”

She gave a deep sigh. “Sometimes it feels no different, as he was away so much. But then I remember that this time he will never come back and...” she shook her head, unable to say anymore.

Without thinking Imrahil grasped her hand, but she let him hold it for a second only before gently extracting it. She sniffed, and cleared the sadness from her face. “I am afraid that Lord Glavror knows of your part in Mirineth’s little adventure. They had an awful row, but I am still not sure he believes you’re not interested.”

“I’ve spoken to him, he believes it now. And I consider the matter closed. Let’s talk about something else.”

She looked surprised. “What do you suggest?”

“There are any number of things. Your books for a start. Will you let me have them copied? I can arrange it before I go home, or I could take them with me. We have fine craftsmen in Dol Amroth and my father would be interested. Especially in the one I am reading now about the intrigues of making Eärnil king.”

She stared at him for a moment, slight puzzlement on her face. “Don’t worry,” Imrahil reassured her, “I would make sure they were kept safe and returned to you.”

“Yes, yes of course, I know that, but I was just wondering why you would put yourself to so much trouble.”

Why indeed, but before he could answer Mirineth reappeared, trailing a thin-faced young man whom she dismissed with little nod of her head. And although she might be dressed brightly, she was not quite in her best looks.  Heavy-eyed and wan, her pretty face had lost its vivacity. “Good evening Mirineth.” Imrahil stood up and bowed.

“My lord.” Mirineth flashed him a sad smile and immediately turned to Aearin. “It’s no good, Aearin, I want to go home. I never wanted to come and now I have a headache.”

“Oh, Mirineth, have you? What a shame.” Aearin straight away got up, gathering up their shawls.

Heartache more like! But Imrahil said nothing, stifling a sigh: his luck was out again. Then a smile twitched his lips – but maybe not, all situations should be turned to advantage. He waited until Aearin had put a shawl around Mirineth’s shoulders. “Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you, as I imagine Lord Glavror will not be leaving.”

Aearin’s eyes flew to his face. “There’s no need...”

“There’s every need. It’s always lively in the City when there is festivity in Merethrond.” It was true –stalls appeared down the main way, offering all kinds of sweetmeats and refreshments to the nobles returning to their homes. And this of course attracted other citizens who made their own entertainment. The ladies would likely be perfectly safe, especially this early in the evening, but it gave him a good excuse to accompany them and he had no interest in dancing if Aearin wasn’t going to be there. He bowed. “I’ll be happy to go with you.”

Aearin accepted his escort with no more protest, Mirineth with her head down obviously didn’t care one way or the other. Even the beautiful evening with the peaks of the Ephel Dúath fired by a flaming sun failed to invoke any interest. Imrahil made a few comments to try and lift her out of her gloom, but Aearin shook her head and he gave up.

Nothing much happening on the Sixth Level, but once they reached the Fifth there were many more people about. Stalls had been erected further down and coloured lanterns hung on the poles that bordered the main way. The tempting smell of gingerbread wafted up, as did the haunting notes of a flute. Imrahil tried hard to think of a way of detaching Aearin, as in another few minutes she would be gone into the house. But he was saved from coming up with some wild scheme by Mirineth herself, who on reaching her door turned to Aearin with a despondent look on her face.

“There’s no need for your evening to be spoilt, Aearin. Go back to the hall with the Prince. It’s early yet.”

“But Mirineth,” Aearin protested, “if you have a headache I can make you a tisane.”

“No!” Mirineth shook her head decisively and rapped on the door. “I want to be alone.”

Aearin started to remonstrate, but taking his opportunity, Imrahil put his hand on her arm. “Perhaps she’s better left. Come on, I imagine you could do with a little relaxation.”

The door opened, and Aearin hesitated, but Imrahil made up her mind for her by holding on tight. With a swift smile Mirineth disappeared inside, and the door shut again. Aearin stared at it for a moment and then cast him a fuming look.

“I remember saying before that I am not one of your vassals. You have an overbearing way with you, my lord.”

“It must come from my generations of noble ancestors; something else you accused me of, if I remember rightly,” Imrahil remarked with a grin.

“I didn’t accuse you of that..,” she started to say, but gave up when he grinned more. Instead she took a calming breath. “Anyway, I don’t want to return to the hall. I only went to chaperone Mirineth, there’s no point otherwise as I can’t dance.”

“No, I agree, it would be a complete waste of time as it’s difficult to hold a conversation with the noise up there.” What was more, he would no doubt attract amused attention from his men and undesirable attention from Ecthelion and Denethor, not to mention Finduilas. Sergion would wonder what had happen to him, but would be unlikely to be concerned. Imrahil started to steer her towards the road. “Far better to enjoy the evening in the City, listening to the music and the storytellers.”

“I ought not to leave Mirineth,” she made a last protest, looking back at the closed door.

“Yes, you should. It’s something she needs to sort out for herself. I told her she must stand up to her father. I can think of nothing worse than to be leg-shackled to someone for whom you have not the slightest affection. Especially if one’s heart is already given to another.”

Aearin looked up at him surprised, but he only smiled and gestured down the street. “Forget Mirineth for a while; let’s see what there is to entertain us.” The crowd had thickened in the few moments they had been arguing, and within fifty yards the stalls started. Imrahil handed over a coin to a fat man supervising one and picked up a bag of honeyed almonds. He didn’t relish many sweetmeats, but had a taste for almonds.

“Do you like these, or shall I get something else?” he asked Aearin.

She delved her fingers into the bag. “No, these are one of my favourites. But I also like the lavender cakes they often sell.”

“We’ll look out for them. But they’re a bit scented for my taste.”

“Not normal fare for a warrior, I imagine.”

Imrahil pulled a face. “No. It’s usually dried meat, twice-baked bread and rancid cheese.”

“Now I don’t believe that!”

“Well, only sometimes,” Imrahil admitted, grinning. “If we didn’t feed our soldiers properly, they wouldn’t be able to fight.”

“That’s what my father used to say...oh, look, there’s a story-teller. Can we listen for a moment?”

“Of course.”

She smiled up at him gratefully, looking so lovely that his breath caught in his throat. Within minutes of letting go her responsibilities, how much more alive she seemed to be.

“I do enjoy nights like this,” she confided as they eased their way into the group of people clustered around the story-teller. “Mirineth and I came out for a short while a few weeks ago, but of course Glavror sent a servant with us and he was afraid to let us mingle with the crowds too much.”

Imrahil laughed, and winked at her. “Keep close and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

Her lips twitched. “I am sure I will...listen!” she clutched at his arm, “I heard your name mentioned.”

Imrahil listened, laughter bubbling up inside of him. The story-teller, a thin man with protruding eyes that he flicked from one listener to the other with lightening speed, was relating the beginnings of the raid on Umbar. His face took on a mask of horror as he recounted the tale of a terrifying climb up a sheer cliff and the assault on a heavily armed fortress.

“You never said it was that bad,” Aearin whispered.

Imrahil tried to keep a straight face. “It was terrible; all of us were shaking in our boots climbing that cliff face. And we were outnumbered twenty to one, but I didn’t like to say before lest you accuse me of boasting.”

Aearin chuckled. “I don’t believe you.”

“Very wise.” Imrahil lifted his eyebrows, smiling at her.  “Come on, I can’t listen to any more of this.” The story-teller had started on the sail into the harbour with the wind howling and the waves twenty foot high.  Imrahil shook his head, disbelieving. “We would have capsized in a trice in those squid-boats.”

They strolled further down the road, stopping for a while to listen to a fiddler playing a foot-tapping tune. A few couples started dancing a lively jig, the crowd moving back to give them space. They swirled around, the girl’s full skirts twirling like handfuls of coloured ribbons as the pace of the music increased.

“It’s a pity you’re unable to dance,” Imrahil murmured in Aearin’s ear.

“You know you’re safe saying that,” Aearin retorted with a laugh. “I can’t imagine you’d want to dance in the street.”

Actually he’d dance with her anywhere if it meant he could slip his arms round her trim waist, but better not say that. “Perhaps when you get to know me a bit better you’ll imagine differently.”

She cast him a surprised look. Imrahil laughed and took her hand. “There’s bound to be other entertainment further down.”

“Yes, and the further down you go, the livelier it will get,” she agreed.

“Possibly, but it’s usually more interesting.” Imrahil stood on tip-toe for a moment looking over the wall as his eyes caught something down below. “There are fire-eaters down on the next level.”

“Oh, are there!” Aearin exclaimed. “I do love watching them, especially now when the sun has gone.”

“Then that’s what we will do,” Imrahil said, enjoying her excitement. “But first I must arm myself with a drink. I can smell punch, so there must be a stall around somewhere. Do you drink that, or shall I find you some plain wine?”

“No, I like punch as long as it’s not too much. And it’s just the thing on a night like this.”

The punch seller was doing a brisk trade, the aroma of wine, fruit and spices never failing to titillate the taste buds. The cheery man leaned over a copper pot perched on a small brazier, stirring his brew happily. Imrahil ordered a mug for Aearin and a large tankard for himself. The punch was ladled in, accompanied by good-natured banter.

“Just the thing to set you up for the night, lord.” The vendor winked at him.

Imrahil laughed; luckily Aearin’s attention was taken by the next stall which held an assortment of cakes. “They’ve got lavender cakes.” She looked up at him expectantly as he passed her the mug of punch. “I will need something if I am going to drink all this.”

Imrahil bought some lavender cakes and some buns dotted with caraway seeds of which he was particularly fond. He looked around. “Now we need somewhere to sit where we can enjoy our feast and watch the fire-eaters.” As the road turned a corner the wall lowered and Imrahil saw they were just above the entertainment. “It’s crowded down there, would you be happy to sit on the wall if I lift you up?”

When she nodded, he put both their drinks and the cakes on the wall and grasped her firmly around the waist. He had got his wish without the dancing, and revelled in the feel of the warm, firm flesh he could feel beneath the thin gown. Her face coloured slightly, but she said nothing and in a moment he had deposited her on the stone wall. “If I hold on to you can you swing your legs over?”

Again she nodded, and wrapping her skirt tightly around her lower limbs, swung herself so she could sit and watch the fire-eaters.

Imrahil put a foot on a protruding stone and heaved himself up. The wall still held the warmth of the day and, with the top worn smooth from years of weathering, it made a comfortable seat. Once up, he passed Aearin her mug and handed her a lavender cake. She took it from him distractedly, her attention focused on the colourful scene below. Two men stood in the centre of the open space; their torsos were bare and their brown skin, ornamented by traceries of blue and red dye, gleamed in the fire-light. Together they swung and tossed the lighted torches and the ribbon of sparks glittering against the black of the night sky reminded Imrahil of the firing of the Corsairs’ ships. Sipping her drink and taking an occasional bit of cake, Aearin watched entranced as the flames licked their bodies and disappeared between blackened lips.

Imrahil took a gulp of his own punch, the potent liquid warming him all the way down to his stomach. The spectacle unfolded beneath them, but his eyes were drawn to the woman beside him, rather than what was going on below. Absorbed by the brilliant display, Aearin was unaware of his scrutiny. Her lips were parted – red and luscious, they really were the most kissable ones he’d been close to for a long time.

“How do they do it?” she whispered, turning to him after a while.

“I imagine they coat their skin with some unguent. We have many who visit Dol Amroth, but I have never quite fathomed their secrets.”

“Is Dol Amroth anything like Minas Tirith?” she enquired. “We don’t really hear much about it and it was one place my father never visited.”

“Well, the city itself is smaller of course, and not built in the same way. It clings to the top of a cliff and virtually all the main windows of the Palace look out to sea. Many people work for us in one way or the other, be they soldiers, farmers or fishermen.  The most of the land of Belfalas is ceded to my family, but I hope we are fair landlords.”

“I am sure you are.” Aearin smiled at him, which brought a lovely sparkle to her eyes.

Imrahil laughed to cover the surge of desire that took him unawares. “It works two ways; if we didn’t treat them right they wouldn’t fight for us. Look,” he said pointing to the display below, “I think we are reaching the highlight of the show.”

The space, except for one brazier, had gone into complete darkness and a hush fell on the crowd. With a whoosh the scene erupted like a firestorm, whirling colours of light and flame streaking from man to man as they jumped and tumbled across the stone. Imrahil acknowledged that it was one of the best performances he had seen and they certainly deserved the thunderous applause that echoed around the high wall.

The lanterns were lit again and a troupe of mummers filed into the space. This time, rather than listen to an embellished account of the raid on the corsair ships, Imrahil was able to watch a stylised re-enactment. But Aearin was so obviously enjoying it, shamelessly laughing at the portrayal of the corsairs fleeing from angry Gondorians, that he didn’t like to suggest they move on.

They watched until the end, when the brazier came into use to fire the ships. All the cakes and the punch had gone, and the fire-eaters were preparing to start their routine again. Aearin gave a sigh of contentment. “That was fun, but I think I had better return now. I would prefer to be there when Lord Glavror gets back.”

The disappointment of the evening coming to an end was lessened by the further moment of intimacy as Imrahil lifted her down. She dropped her eyes from his gaze, but not before he had seen how alive they were, so different from the hostility of their first encounters. And on the way up the hill they continued their conversation on Dol Amroth and she told him of some of the campaigns her father and brother had been involved in.

But when they reached the fifth level, her easy chatter tailed off and Imrahil felt she had withdrawn again. Whether she had remembered her responsibilities, or it was something else, he didn’t know. In a moment he was going to have to say farewell for at least a week, and he had done no more than hold her arm. Not a satisfactory conclusion to such a wonderful evening. Just one kiss would be good. As they approached the house, he eyed a darkened ally longingly, but there were too many people about to even risk the chastest of kisses here, even if she allowed it. “I shall be off to Osgiliath in the morning, but aim to be back by the end of next week. Can I hope you will give me some of your time then, albeit dancing is forbidden to you?”

She took a moment to reply and then her breath came fast. “Prince Imrahil, I have enjoyed this evening. But I can’t imagine it will be repeated.”

Imrahil frowned. “Why not? I plan to be staying in the City for a few weeks.” At least he had just made a plan that very evening.

She looked him squarely in the face. “Men and women to not normally keep company like this.”

Imrahil shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“Tell me, lord, what exactly do you want of me?”

Imrahil laughed, her confused expression delighting him. That, and the punch, made him say flippantly. “Right now I can think of nothing nicer than pulling you down that dark alley,” he jerked his head to the left, “and kissing you senseless.” He grinned and stroked the back of his finger down her blushing cheek. “And after that I would like...”

“How dare you!” Eyes flaming, she put both hands on his chest and pushed. Caught off balance, he tripped on the cobbles. “I might have few protectors,” she stormed, “but that does not mean I am fair game for the likes of you.”

“Aearin, I did not mean what you are thinking at all!”

“Then what did you mean?” she hissed, rapping sharply on the door. “That you would kiss me senseless and then marry me?”

“Aearin I...” He faltered.

She laughed scornfully at his hesitation.

That moment a heavy tread approached. Imrahil swung around.

“Prince Imrahil?” Glavror sounded both surprised and angry.

“The Prince was good enough to escort me home, lord.” Aearin answered through clenched teeth before he could respond. The door opened at that moment and she slipped quickly inside, only turning her head to cast him a fuming glance.

“I doubt you will have reason to call again, my lord. Goodnight!”

“Where’s my daughter?” Glavror looked around as if he expected her to be hiding from him.

“Lady Mirineth retired early with a headache,” Imrahil managed to say through his anger. “Now excuse me,” he nodded to Glavror, ignoring the man’s affronted mien. “I have to be away early in the morning.” He left Glavror gazing after him, feeling that the sooner he got away from here the better.

Imrahil took the steps two at a time, the physical effort dulling his fury. Halfway up he realised how he must have sounded. Damn it! What a dolt! None of his previous dealings with women had caused so much trouble.  But the urge to kiss her – again and again – had been overwhelming. Sergion had been right: Aearin was not the kind to dally with. But he didn’t want to dally with her, so what did he want?

To be continued.

Chapter 14.

Nothing had really changed – the flag of theStewards still fluttered high above the Tower of Ecthelion– the afternoon haze hung over the ramparts and the smell of the cooking wafted towards the returning group of men as the citizens prepared for the end of another day.

But as he approached the White City, Imrahil knew that within himself he felt differently. For one thing, the past week had given him a greater insight into the fear and consternation felt by Ecthelion at being so close to the creeping terror, but it had also resulted in a greater respect for his son. Denethor had impressed him: as a warrior and an intelligent strategist. Even though he still found him cold, for the first time Imrahil harboured no qualms about Denethor replacing his father.

The other feeling was more difficult to quantify and he would have liked to have dismissed it entirely, but over the past two weeks, at the end of each busy day spent visiting the outposts or discussing the defence of the river crossings, he had found it difficult to rest. As soon as he lay down, a soft, cultured voice intruded into his thoughts, and when he closed his eyes he glimpsed laughter filled lips or felt the brush of tendrils of silky hair across his cheek. Only when fully awake did he remember the anger and disdain Aearin had shown him.  And then, he told himself repeatedly, he might have deserved some censure, but surely she had overreacted. He had only wanted to kiss her, and she had not given him time to explain... That was when the thought process hit a rocky path, because, deep within, he suspected he wanted much more. But did that mean he wanted to marry her? Hastily he pushed the thought away. As he had told his father repeatedly, he was too young for marrying. Or was he? Imrahil ground his teeth. Damn the woman for getting under his skin this way!

“How long do you intend staying?” Sergion broke into his deliberations.

Imrahil shrugged. “It depends; there is no rush to get back.” Although he was being a fool and might as well go straight home and avoid any more heartache. “I’ll spend some time with Finduilas before we leave.”

They clattered through the gate, acknowledging the salute of the sentries. Denethor’s bay sidled impatiently as his master stopped to talk to a captain, the horse fretting at the delay in reaching his comfortable stable and well-stocked manger. Riding on ahead, Imrahil and Sergion started across the open space beyond the gates and immediately got caught up in a throng of farmers returning with empty carts to their holdings on the Pelennor. Imrahil soothed Blade, the young horse shying slightly as one noisy cart rumbled right in front of him.   

“You’ve something on your mind?” Imrahil asked when things had quietened again. He’d seen a furrow across Sergion’s brow at the talk of going home.

Sergion eased his horse closer. “I am wondering if you would mind if I rode home instead of taking the ship with you. I would like to call in at Linhir and find out how Lady Oriel is getting on.”

Ah, that didn’t surprise him, Sergion having mused on her troubles a few times these past weeks. Imrahil thought for a moment. “We could stop the ship there anyway,” he suggested.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to delay you, and I might need more than a few hours. Also, she was unsure if she would be living with her brother, so she may be along the coast from Linhir.”

“Then we will ride,” Imrahil decided, pushing down his own preference for a sea voyage which might clear the clouds from his mind – they were sure to still be there if Aearin refused to see him. “You can stay as long as you wish.”

“You’ll come with me?” Sergion looked surprised.

Imrahil laughed. “Of course, you may need some help.”

“Help?” Sergion raised his brows in wry amusement.  “From the state of your temper lately I have concluded that it’s you that needs the help. Romance not going well?”

And he’d thought he had kept his feelings hidden. “I‘ve given up on women.” Imrahil answered with a laugh. It sounded unconvincing even to himself and Sergion’s lips twitched.

 “All women, or just one particular woman?”

“I...” Imrahil snapped his mouth shut. He didn’t want to discuss it, and Sergion, after a short pause, changed the conversation to how many of them would ride home and who would travel back by ship.  They decided that as they would find accommodation at various inns on the way rather than camp it would be foolish to take too many, and settled on four knights with their squires, which made a party of twelve. Safe, but not too unwieldy. 

By the time they had finalised the rest of the arrangements to their satisfaction, Imrahil realised they were approaching the fifth level. Passing Glavor’s house he was assailed by a great surge of regret for making such a mull of their last meeting. And by being away longer than intended, he had missed the dancing and so was unlikely to meet up with her unless he purposely sought her out.  He could call, but risked finding the door slammed shut in his face. He sighed; she did look splendid when she was angry. Damn it! Why couldn’t he put her out of his mind? Deliberately, he kicked Blade into a trot and hurried past the house, best to avoid even coming down here and so put temptation out of the way.

But the next morning, as he lounged with his sister in her garden, watching his young nephew pile stones into a heap, he couldn’t resist asking. “Have you seen anything of Lady Mirineth?”

“Oh, of course, you won’t have heard.” Finduilas threw up her hands and giggled. “Mirineth has gone back to Linhir.”

“She hasn’t run away!” Imrahil protested in astonishment, wondering if he’d wasted his time.

“Run away?” Finduilas frowned. “No, she wouldn’t do that; her grandmother came to collect her.”

A lot his sister knew about it! “Her grandmother,” he repeated. “Do you know why?”

Finduilas giggled again, and looked around as if to make sure no one was listening. “The whole court knows. Evidently you have never heard such a row; Lady Cuthwith wiped the floor with Glavror for upsetting Mirineth so much. She has a loud voice and a window was open.  According to what I’ve heard, Glavror is no match for his mother. Also she seems to have inherited the Rohirric taste for plain speaking, and I heard her telling Ecthelion that she didn’t expect her granddaughter to have to write to her for help and that he and Glavror could forget their plans because she was taking Mirineth home and if necessary would keep her there until she came of age.”

“By thunder,” Imrahil’s voice quivered with laughter, “what did Ecthelion say to that?”

“He agreed. I don’t think he dared to do anything else. Lady Cuthwith might be old, but she’s still a big woman and you could see she would stand no nonsense. I think she might have been pretty in her youth,” Finduilas mused. “I expect that’s where Mirineth gets her looks from, if not her temperament.”

Imrahil wasn’t sure, Mirineth could be pretty strong willed when pushed. But that didn’t interest him as much as something else. He kept his voice casual. “I suppose that means Lady Aearin is out of a job.”

“Oh no,” Finduilas exclaimed jumping up. “Boromir! You mustn’t eat slugs!” She rushed over to him and snatched the little boy’s hand away from his mouth. He grinned up at her, dirt oozing from between tightly closed pudgy fingers.

Finduilas prized open his hand and extracted half a slug, which she threw into the flower bed as though it had burnt her. “That’s disgusting, Boromir! Now you’ll have to go in and have your mouth washed out...”

Imrahil bit back a laugh. “Don’t fuss, Finduilas,” he told her affectionately, “I am sure we all did worse.”

She caught hold of Boromir as he tried to squirm away, resigning herself to wiping his face with her handkerchief. “I never ate slugs!” she told her brother with her nose in the air.

“I bet Ivriniel did,” Imrahil shot back with a laugh.

Finduilas glared at him in mock anger, and sat back down, keeping her eyes on Boromir who had resumed poking in the dirt. “No doubt, but she does a lot of things I don’t.”

That was true. Imrahil smiled at her. “You were going to tell me what has happened to Lady Aearin now. Is she going to take up another position?”

“Oh,” Finduilas tried to wrench her attention from her young rascal, “Aearin’s gone to Linhir with Mirineth. To keep her company.”

Imrahil opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. He took a breath and tried to look nonchalant. “Oh, really, then we might see them both. Sergion and I only decided yesterday that we would ride home by way of Linhir.”   That information put a different slant on the whole thing – the fates were playing their games again.  A visit to Linhir meant it would only be polite to call on Mirineth, and surely if he saw Aearin again he would be able to sort out his feelings. 

---

Three days later Imrahil again took the South Road away from Minas Tirith, this time not chasing a runaway, but perhaps chasing his heart. Without any hard pushing it should take three days to get to Pelargir, which meant two nights putting up wherever they could grab a bed in a village inn. Hopefully, with the promise of staying in a well-to-do hostelry when they reached the port.

Pelargir held its usual attraction for a group of young warriors, Imrahil having judiciously sent the older men home by ship, and back to their wives, keeping those he thought less likely to worry about what he was doing. Not that he and Sergion did more than partake of the ale, the ribald beauties of the port holding no appeal for those with their minds on other prey.

Sergion was unusually quiet, admitting, after Imrahil questioned him closely, that his feelings had grown for Oriel since parting from her. Although, so had his fears that she would shrink back from any show of a man’s desire. Imrahil sympathised with him, but had nothing to offer other than the hope that memories would fade with the passage of time. But how much time?

Another two days to get to Linhir – they arrived when the sun was low in the sky, turning the rooftops of the houses a fiery red.  A blacksmith was still working outside his forge, and with some pertinent questioning, he suggested that they could do no better than to lodge at The Grey Goose, set on the main way to the fords. The inn, when they reached it, looked prosperous and welcoming, spreading itself along the north side of the wide road.  With the landlord bowing so low his nose was in danger of hitting his knees, Imrahil was able to bespeak enough rooms for his party and order a hearty supper.

“I am going to see if I can find out where Oriel lives,” Sergion said when he had finished eating.

“Make some discreet enquiries,” Imrahil suggested, knowing his friend would attract less attention than himself. “And ask about Glavror’s place as well, will you?”

Sergion nodded, threw down his napkin and strode off to the common-room. Imrahil leant back with his goblet of wine and waited, mulling over what he would actually say to Aearin when he met her again. He came up with no real plan. In the end he decided to leave it to chance and try and think on his feet. He would have to apologise, that was for sure, but anything else would depend on her response. And what else did he want, anyway? Not long ago he had told his father that he was far too young to marry. So why was he even considering it? Luckily, for his peace of mind, Sergion came back at that moment, but one look at his face told Imrahil that all was not well.

“How I kept my temper I shall never know!” Sergion sat down heavily, a scowl on his face.

Imrahil topped up his friend’s goblet. “What happened?”

“The mere mention of Lady Oriel produced a snigger from some. Not everybody, of course, but the one I asked was quick to tell me that she’s barely seen in the town.”

“But didn’t she go to her grandmother’s,” Imrahil remarked.

Sergion shook his head. “The old lady died before Oriel came back.”

“Oh, that would have been a blow. So she must be with her brother.”

“Yes, he lives down river on the banks of the estuary. And I did find out that Glavror’s house is that way too, but set back on a rise a little farther on.”

“So, you are going to call in the morning?”

“Yes, what about you? Are you coming with me, or going to call on Lady Aearin?”

Imrahil considered. Having rescued Oriel, he was concerned for her welfare, but he didn’t feel the pull that Sergion did. And if there was any chance for his friend, he didn’t want that spoilt by some avaricious brother thinking he might snare a prince. There had been enough of that. “I would like to see her, but I think it would be better if you called on your own first. Register your interest, without me muddying the waters.”

Sergion realised his reasoning immediately and pulled a resigned face. “Yes, perhaps that is best, but I am not at all confident I will be well received.”

“Well,” Imrahil chuckled, “If not, I will call with all pomp and ceremony.”

---

They rode out together the next morning, no pomp and casually dressed, along the east bank of the estuary, where the rivers Gilrain and Serni poured fresh water into the salty inlet. At the moment it was low tide and dozens of men and boys were out filling baskets with the rich harvest of shell fish. Imrahil inhaled the familiar smell of salt, not as fresh here as in Dol Amroth, but welcome nevertheless.

The houses of the town followed the low banks, looking out across the water to the shore of Belfalas. It was obvious that here, away from the putrid air of the wharf-side, the more prosperous had built their houses. Imrahil left Sergion at the gates of a large dwelling surrounded by a thick wall made of shale and sand, so tall that only the upper windows of the house were visible. Imrahil rode on, looking for Glavror’s house, as it had been described to him. It stood out easily, perched on a rise; its grounds sweeping down almost to the river. The whole place was protected by a similar wall as Oriel’s house had been, but the height of the ground gave it a better view. Imrahil rode straight up to the gate which stood open, although a gatekeeper sat in a stone shelter whittling a piece of driftwood.

Imrahil realised that he had forgotten the name of Mirineth’s grandmother, so had to ask for Mirineth instead.  “Good morning, I’ve come to see Lady Mirineth.”

The man looked him up and down, speculatively. “Have you now? Then you’d best go up to the house, lord.”

Imrahil thanked him and rode on. Perhaps he should have found out the woman’s name, but it was too late now.

A liveried porter opened the door to his knock and Imrahil gave his name, which caused a faint change in expression. “Is Lady Mirineth at home?” he inquired.

The servant stared at him for a moment and then opened the door wider.  “Step this way, lord and I will tell Lady Cuthwith you have called.”

His horse having been led away, Imrahil followed the porter into a large ante-room. The man went off along a side passage with a ponderous step. Imrahil waited impatiently, tapping his foot on the stone floor. From somewhere he could hear the sweet strains of a harp being played expertly, but nothing else. The porter was taking his time, and looking around Imrahil’s attention was caught by a magnificent hanging which depicted the start of a battle. Mounted warriors swept across an open plain, blonde braids flying from under their helms. Imrahil realised that he was looking at a charge of the Rohirrim. A moment’s consideration told him that it was probably Eorl the Young driving the enemy from the Field of Celebrant.

Hearing footsteps approaching, he turned round quickly. The porter bowed. “Lady Cuthwith will see you, lord. If you’ll follow me.”

The passage took him to what he deduced to be the south wing, and the porter opened the door onto a stone-flagged room with deep windows looking out over the estuary.  Two grey lurchers raised their heads from the hearth rug, eyeing him unfavourably, and a woman rose from one of the padded window seats and bowed a greeting. “Prince Imrahil, I understand.”

Lady Cuthwith would once have been a lovely-looking woman. The deep age lines on her face could not disguise the fine bone structure and her grey hair, which still grew thick, was long enough to be plaited into a heavy braid around her head.  She stood tall, with no sign of a stoop, and Imrahil had no doubt she could claim kinship with the warriors he had seen portrayed on the hanging in the ante-room. She regarded him with a penetrating gaze from keen blue eyes.

“Forgive me for coming unannounced,” Imrahil said, not at all sure of his welcome. “But we unexpectedly found ourselves returning to Dol Amroth by way of Linhir. I could not pass so near without calling on your granddaughter.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I will tell you straight, my lord, as is my way, that I have been told by Mirineth that you have no wish to form a bond with her. However, if that is not right, and if you have come to further your suit, then you are not welcome here. I will not have her upset anymore.”

“A friendly call only, my lady,” Imrahil hastened to assure her. But the frown stayed on her face and he sighed, knowing he would have to be more direct. “In fact, if we are being honest, I would admit that it is really Lady Aearin I wish to see.”

She fixed him with a steely look. “Then why didn’t you say so straight away?”

His lips twitched. “Out of politeness, really.”

She had the grace to smile slightly, and the stiffness left her body. “What is your business with Aearin, lord?”

Imrahil thought about saying he wanted to return the book, but decided that the truth, or at least the near truth, would be better. “Our last meeting ended in a misunderstanding. I wanted to put that right and hope she will think better of me.”

Lady Cuthwith looked him up and down thoughtfully. “I see. It’s like that, is it?”

Imrahil said nothing, but met her eyes boldly.

“Hmm... well, as you can no doubt hear, Mirineth is practising her harp in the solar. Aearin is in the garden reading, so you will find her alone. Go back out into the passage and take the studded door at the end.”

Imrahil smiled his thanks and followed her directions, opening the outer door onto a peaceful, fragrant retreat.

He saw Aearin at once, sitting on a bench that had been placed in a niche in the wall. Her seat was half shaded by a large tamarisk tree so that her face was in shadow, but it was clear she had not noticed his approach.  Imrahil walked quietly across the lawn to within a few feet of her and then stopped.

Detecting another presence, her head flew up. She jumped to her feet, laid her book down on the bench and took a step forward into the sunlight. “Prince Imrahil?”

Imrahil bowed. “Lady Aearin.” Imrahil couldn’t help his eyes lingering: her cheeks had flushed becomingly and her eyes held a militant sparkle. Seeing her again awaked his latent desire and he could only hope his thoughts were veiled to her.

Her chin went up under his scrutiny and she met his gaze with unwavering eyes. Imrahil had rarely encountered an eligible woman who met his frank regard in quite that way. Usually they simpered or made some witless remark.  In that instant he knew with utmost certainty that this was the woman he wanted to make his wife. The realisation rendered him speechless, and his heart hammered in his chest.

 Not aware of his life-altering moment, Aearin continued with her frosty look. “Why have you come here, my lord?”

He took a calming breath and tried to appear nonchalant but sincere. “I have come to apologise, my lady.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “There was no need. I have given the matter no further thought.”

He didn’t believe her. The faint blush that coloured her cheeks had darkened, and her hands trembled slightly. He longed to put his arms around her and hold her close. Instead, he said, “Look, why don’t we sit down and talk about it. We were getting on very well until my folly. Please blame my bad behaviour on that tankard of punch. I promise, I really did only mean that I wanted to kiss you.”

Aearin stifled a gasp and her eyes widened. Imrahil continued quickly. “It was just that kind of night, and...” he spread his hands, searching for words to make her understand “... you are a lovely woman. Believe me, I did not mean any insult.”

He thought he detected a softening of her expression as she considered his words. “No, I suppose you didn’t,” she said at last. A smile quivered on her lips. “And the tankard was very large.”

Imrahil chuckled, feeling a bit easier. “Can we start again?”

She gave a long sigh, her shoulders drooping in quiet protest. “My lord, there is nothing to start. I appreciate your apology, but quite honestly I fail to see why you have come this far for something so unimportant.”

“I would have sought you out in Minas Tirith, Aearin,” Imrahil replied, keeping his voice light, “but Sergion wanted to call on Lady Oriel, and then I found out you were here.”  He hesitated, but tossing caution to the winds, carried on regardless. “To be honest, I would have come anyway. I didn’t want our relationship to be soured by my foolishness.”

Her eyes flashed. “There can be no relationship....” Aearin stopped mid sentence, focusing over his shoulder.

Imrahil spun around. Mirineth was tripping across the grass towards them. “I saw you from the window, lord,” she called out. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Damn it! Why couldn’t she have stayed strumming on her blessed harp! Imrahil fixed a smile on his face. “I came to see you both.” He moved towards her, took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. Something he had hesitated to do with Aearin. Mirineth smiled fondly at him. She looked as pretty as one of the flowers that graced the garden, and he felt guilty for his ire when she was so obviously pleased to see him. “How could I resist,” he said winking at her.

She giggled mischievously. “You didn’t make a special journey to see us, did you? I bet you are just on your way home.”

“Well, yes,” Imrahil admitted, laughing, “but we also wanted to call on Lady Oriel.”

Mirineth’s face dropped, and she opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment two servants came across the grass, one carrying a tray of refreshments and the other a chair. Mirineth sat down on the chair and Imrahil on the seat next to Aearin. His love didn’t actually pull her skirts away from him, but the gap between them could have spanned the Great Sea.

The servants dispensed wine to him, and lemon cordial to the two ladies, bowed and left. Imrahil took a sip of his wine – light and fruity, just right for the daytime. “What were you going to say?” he asked Mirineth as soon as the servants were out of earshot.

She passed him a small almond cake. “It’s just that I feel so sorry for Oriel. Everyone knows what happened and not all people are as sympathetic as they should be.” She frowned and her voice rose in indignation. “As if any blame lies with her!”

“There are those that think a woman should die rather than be dishonoured,” Aearin said, full of disgust.

“That’s ridiculous,” Imrahil snapped. “I hope no one says that in front of Sergion, he’s liable to run his sword through them.”

“Oh...!” both women looked at him expectantly, but Imrahil shook his head.

“That’s for another time, I’ll give away no secrets,” he said smiling, and changed the subject. “Tell me, Mirineth, has your father relented in any way about your wish to marry...Nethon?”

She sighed a little desperately. “I am hoping he will. Grandmother has told him her views on the matter and Nethon is going to see him. He’s taking his ship up to the Harlond to deliver a cargo of wool, so is going to call on my father in the City.”

“Well, I wish him luck.” Imrahil took another cake as Mirineth told him more about her sailor and her grandmother’s efforts on her behalf. Gradually, as the talk ranged over other subjects, he felt Aearin relax, but however much he racked his brains he could think of no way to detach her from Mirineth, or how to see her alone in the future. He had no doubt that if he suggested calling again to pick up the books she would contrive to have them packed up and waiting for him.

With no immediate answer in sight, although there was no way he would give up, Imrahil rose to take his leave. “No, don’t come with me,” he said to Mirineth when she went to rise from her chair. “Sit here in the sun. I know my way.”

“Someone will show you out,” Mirineth said, taking his hand.

Imrahil bowed to her. “I shall take my leave of your grandmother. Good luck with the plans for your future, Mirineth.”

He turned to Aearin. “Lady Aearin, if you pack up all the books over the next couple of days, I can take them home with me and have them copied.”

“As you wish, lord.” Aearin responded with a cool smile.

Great Ulmo! It was going to be like cracking ice. Imrahil strode back to the house, thinking hard. He would have given up there and then had he not thought that she was not quite as indifferent to him as she made out. Something told him that had she been completely disinterested, she would have been easier in his company, as Mirineth was.

“Prince Imrahil.” Lady Cuthwith came to greet him as he returned to the cool of the passage. “I hope you didn’t mind Mirineth interrupting you, but she was so pleased when she saw you in the garden.” She smiled. “I apologise if I was rude when you first arrived.”

“Not at all.”  He followed her back into the same room when she indicated him to do so. “I can only hope that she eventually finds happiness with Captain Nethon.” He paused. “I know it is none of my business, but do you think your son will relent?”

“He’s going to find it very uncomfortable if he doesn’t,” Lady Cuthwith answered with a grim smile. “I intend to keep Mirineth with me until he gives permission, or she comes of age. If I had not been away visiting my daughter, I would have intervened earlier and not let the situation build up into such a near calamity.” She flashed him a grateful look. “I understand I have you to thank for making sure it was no worse.”

Imrahil waved away her thanks. “I was glad to be of help. I would not wish anyone into a loveless marriage.”

“Neither would I,” Cuthwith agreed. “But Glavror married for position, whereas I married for love and was lucky enough to have parents who adored each other. My mother had to deal with all sorts of prejudice and opposition when she fell in love with a handsome Rohan soldier who came seeking his fortune in Gondor.”

Imrahil laughed. “There is no doubt of your ancestry, Lady Cuthwith. The Rohirrim are famed for their forthrightness and plain speaking.”

“So I understand.” Her eyes twinkled. “In that case, tell me how your own pursuit is going? I am right, aren’t I, you are serious about Lady Aearin?”

Imrahil dropped the corners of his mouth and sighed. “I am, but my pursuit, as you call it, is not going well at all. Although I have a slight hope she is not completely adverse to me.”

“I certainly have had the impression there has been something bothering her,” Lady Cuthwith mused. “Other than her recent bereavement, I mean.”

“Trying to find some time alone with her is proving difficult, but I am working on it,” Imrahil said with a wry grin.

“Ah ... now there I may be able to help you.” Cuthwith glanced at the two lurchers curled on the mat. “Aearin takes my dogs for a walk every morning, down by the estuary. I am getting too old to go very far now and the servants only do it under duress. Mirineth is a late riser, but Aearin likes an early walk.”

Imrahil smiled, and took Lady Cuthwith’s hand to his lips. “Thank you, my lady. I shall invite you to the wedding.”

She laughed. “Such confidence!”

Imrahil inclined his head. “To think one is going to fail is to make a certainty of it.”

To be continued.

Chapter 15

Hunting in earnest now, Imrahil knew better than to crowd his quarry.  Although when he was lounging in the private parlour of The Grey Goose, with a foaming tankard in front of him and contemplating his recent meeting with Aearin, the temptation to take an early ride along the estuary the very next morning tugged annoyingly at his resolve. Luckily, just as he started to get irritated with himself for his lack of determination, Sergion came in.   It only needed a brief look at his friend’s brooding expression to deduce that his morning visit had not gone well either.

Imrahil picked up the bell on the table and rang it loudly. “You look as though you need a drink.”

“More than one!” Sergion threw his gauntlets onto the table and unfastened his cloak, letting it slither over the back of a chair. He sat down opposite Imrahil and expelled an irritated breath. “It looks like Oriel is moving to some wretched hamletinthe foothills of the Ered Nimrais. The nearest town is Ethring, and from what I remember of my one and only visit, it was full of yokels and half-wits with a fair sprinkling of jackanapes.”

“You’re very hard on Ethring,” Imrahil remarked with twitch of his lips.

Sergion threw him a withering look. “They might as well bury her alive.”

His friend in no joking mood, Imrahil wiped the smile from his face and sat up straight. “Why is she going there, and who intends to bury her...?” He stopped as the innkeeper came in. “Hang on; tell me all about it when we won’t be disturbed.” Imrahil gave an order for a large jug of ale and the man bowed himself out.

They waited; Sergion drummed his fingers on the table, scowling down at the wood.  Meeting Oriel had certainly shaken him to the core, which somewhat reassured Imrahil that he wasn’t the only besotted fool around. A few moments later the innkeeper reappeared with their ale, filled two tankards, and put the jug down between them.

Imrahil waved the man away and sat patiently whilst Sergion drained half of the tankard. “Now tell me,” he said, as his friend wiped the foam from his mouth.

“Her brother should be supporting her! He should escort her round Linhir and kick any man who dares to insult her. Instead, he thinks she should hide herself away and is arranging for her to live with an eccentric cousin who, by all accounts, breeds cage birds and cats!”

“An unlikely combination,” Imrahil agreed.

Sergion grimaced.  “Exactly!” He took another gulp of ale. “And Oriel admitted to me that she doesn’t want to go, but if she stays here she is more or less confined to the house.”

Imrahil frowned. “Is her reception that bad? I would have thought it would be talked about for a while and then forgotten.”

“Her brother has made it worse. He thinks that she is disgraced, and if he thinks that, then so will everyone else.”

“But what about her mother, I am sure you said she is alive. What does she say about it?”

“Nothing much except wring her hands and shed tears. Neither mother nor brother know how to cope.” Sergion sighed. “But to be honest, I think Lagorn does care for his sister; it’s just that he sets such store by consequence and propriety.”  He mused for a moment, “I suppose that being a minor noble he feels he has to adhere to the accepted rules. Those of higher rank can get away with more unconventional behaviour.”

“I don’t think it’s unconventional to give support to one’s ravished sister,” Imrahil retorted.

“No.” Sergion let out a long frustrated breath. “I am merely trying to understand his reasoning. He was polite to me when he knew I had a hand in bringing Oriel back, but I swear the thought that I might be interested in her in any other way never crossed his mind. He must think she is no longer eligible as a wife.”

Imrahil raised his eyebrows, but said nothing for a moment, thinking hard. He could no more shirk from stirring himself to aid his childhood friend, than he could from helping his sisters in need.

 Sergion took another deep draught of ale. “And of course it is far too early for me to even hint of my feelings to Oriel. She is much more subdued than when we first rescued her, although after we had been speaking for a while some of her reserve fell away. Especially when we talked about the journey home and the others who were brought back. But if she goes to live with this cousin I am afraid she will wane into a grey shadow and fade out of my reach.”

“You say she does not want to go?” Imrahil asked sharply, an idea having come into his mind at the thought of his sisters.

“No, but with her grandmother’s death she feels she has little choice. There is nowhere else she can go.”

“Yes, there is. There’s Ivriniel!” Imrahil sat back, smugly pleased with his answer to a tricky problem.

“Ivriniel? What do you mean?” Sergion regarded him suspiciously through narrowed eyes.

“She could stay with Ivriniel. It’s the very place for her. Ivriniel will respect her privacy, but be a sounding block when she needs it.”

Sergion looked thoughtful. “But will your sister be happy to have her?”

Imrahil patted his pocket where he had put one of his sister’s letters. “She wrote to say she had great sympathy with Oriel.  And you know what she’s like with her waifs and strays. Not being luckily enough to have children has hit her hard, she’s glad of any diversion. Especially as her husband spends so much time pouring over his books.”

“It would answer well.” Sergion suddenly sounded much brighter. “Far enough away from Dol Amroth to give Oriel peace, but near enough for her to join in any festivities when she feels able. She can re-enter society at her own pace.”

“And only a ride away from you,” Imrahil voiced the obvious attraction. What a change when barely more than a month ago neither of them had given a thought to becoming leg-shackled. But here was Sergion trying to work out how to woo a lady who had good reason to loathe men, whilst as for himself? Imrahil groaned inwardly – it looked as if his chosen one despised only him. No, that was not true, as he didn’t really think she totally despised him. It seemed to be his rank she had a problem with. Which was the exact opposite of any other marriageable woman he’d encountered.

“It would certainly help for Oriel to be so close,” Sergion agreed after a moment’s reverie. “But what about her brother? I am not sure he will agree to it.”

“Leave that to me.” Imrahil laughed, brushing away his own concerns.  “I will overwhelm him with consequence.”

---

The next morning Imrahil pushed away his inclination to take a casual ride along the estuary in the hope of meeting up with Aearin. Instead, after a productive visit to the quay to gain information from the port-captain, he took a leisurely breakfast whilst his escort readied themselves to accompany him on his morning mission. Not expecting any formality on the trip, dress uniforms had been stuffed into saddlebags, along with embroidered saddle cloths and pennants. Now harassed squires heated irons on the kitchen range, getting in the way of the busy cooks, and his knights crowded the stables to supervise the brushing of manes and the oiling of black hooves.

A few moments after being told all was ready, Imrahil pushed his plate away and stood up stretching. He adjusted his sword belt and pulled his tunic straight, making sure the glittering swan-ship lay dead centre of his chest. The last time he’d worn this, he had been trying to impress Thorongil and had failed miserably. Hopefully it might have more success with Oriel’s brother. With a wry laugh at himself he picked up his cloak and gauntlets and went outside.

Having offered no explanation to his four knights as to why he wanted them honed, polished and ready to provide a princely escort, his stroll out into the courtyard was met with a plethora of questioning looks. But in no way was he going to tell them anything of Sergion’s business, so he just barked out orders, which resulted in a hasty assembly of a small column. He and Sergion made up the first rank, with two squires behind carrying pennants, then the four knights followed by their squires. If he hadn’t sent the majority of his men home, he could have made it really impressive. A pity his father hadn’t provided a trumpeter.

But even with no trumpeter, the unusual spectacle attracted attention – every servant in the inn left his duties to witness the display of pomp, and passersby waited outside in the road, peering and gesticulating towards him. Imrahil hid his amusement behind a schooled expression. Just sometimes he enjoyed doing this. 

“All’s ready, lord.” Sergion winked at him. Imrahil nodded, Sergion put up his hand, and they moved out onto the road.

“Have you worked out what you are going to say?” Sergion quizzed him once they had left the inn behind.

“As near to the truth as I can,” Imrahil answered. “I don’t like telling lies, so it will be a manipulation of the facts.”

“And the facts are?”

Imrahil patted his pocket. “I have letters here, from my father, my mother and my sister. I doubt Lagorn is going to actually ask to see what’s in them.”

Sergion grinned. “No, I don’t suppose he will.”

“Hopefully he will be so surprised we will catch him off guard.”

They caused a lot of surprise before they even got to see Lagorn. An awed gatekeeper stood open mouthed as the horses passed him, the column filing into a large circular area of stone in front of the double entrance doors. The next to be surprised was the manservant who answered the imperious ringing of the bell.

Imrahil stayed on his horse, looking down in a high-handed manner. “Be so good as to tell your master that Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth is here to see him.”

The poor man took one look at all the horses, blanched, and disappeared back into the dark recesses of the house. Moments later a tall man appeared, about the same age as Imrahil, but he was thin, and although he wore a sword, it did not sit easy on him. His eyes opened wide, and he hurried to make a bow.

“Prince Imrahil?”

“Yes, you must be Lagorn. I detect a likeness to your sister.” Not much of one, but it was there, although his mouth was weaker and his eyes showed little strength of character. All the better. Imrahil swung himself down from Blade and motioned Sergion to dismount. “The rest of you stay with the horses,” he ordered, “I have business with Lord Lagorn.”

Shock registered on Lagorn’s face, but he recovered quickly. “Yes, yes, of course, lord. Please come this way.”

He ushered them across the flagged entrance hall to a side room that looked out onto the garden. It was furnished with a selection of chairs and a large desk. Guessing Lagorn would put himself behind the desk, Imrahil chose a chair to the side, but rather than sit straight away, he stood by it looking out of the window. 

“Wine, my lord?” Lagorn passed him a goblet and then one to Sergion. “I was not expecting you to call, lord.”

“I can only assume that Lord Sergion must have omitted to tell you yesterday.” He threw an admonishing glance at his captain.

“I was not sure of the actual day intended, lord,” Sergion answered, his face expressionless.

Imrahil took a sip of his wine and fixed his eyes on Lagorn. “You will no doubt guess that I have called about your sister, Lady Oriel.”

Lagorn frowned. “I realise, lord, that you were instrumental in returning her to us, but I did not expect you take any further interest.”

“Really?” Imrahil shot his eyebrows upwards. “I’m sure that you know there were numerous captives to be returned to their homes and that by far the largest proportion of these were repatriated to Belfalas.”

“Yes, but my sister....”

“My father,” Imrahil didn’t let him get any more out, “Adrahil, the Lord of Belfalas, and my mother Princess Elphilin, have taken a personal interest in the welfare of all the captives, realising that for some the resumption of their previous lives will be impossible.”

Lagorn’s face flushed. “Yes. That’s true.”

“And that there are certain people who will wish to withdraw from society for a short time to enable them to recover completely from their ordeal,” Imrahil continued.

“Exactly what I have been saying, my lord.” Lagorn nodded enthusiastically. “I have told my mother that Oriel should go away ...”

 “Good,” Imrahil pounced, being given the very opening he wanted, “I am glad you agree.” He quickly pulled a letter from beneath his tunic and opened it, making sure the blue swan-seal was easily seen. He scanned the page as if he needed to be reminded of the contents. “My sister, Princess Ivriniel, is pleased to invite Lady Oriel to reside with her during her ... shall we call it her convalescence.”

“Stay with Princess Ivriniel, lord...” Lagorn stammered, “but I am arranging for Oriel to go to a cousin of ours.”

Imrahil puffed out his chest, glowered, and spoke in his haughtiest manner. “But surely you are not suggesting thatit would be better for Lady Oriel to reside with...a mere cousin, when she could live with my sister, and have her recovery supervised by my mother, Princess Elphilin.”

“No lord, you misunderstand me.” Lagorn quickly sought to excuse himself. “I cannot feel that it is right for Oriel to enter society at the moment. We are thankful that Oriel is not...” He stopped, his face flushing an even deeper red. “But still, there is so much...talk...”

“Talk!” Imrahil broke in ruthlessly, having seen Sergion stiffen. “Let me assure you that my sister lives in a castle, not precisely isolated, but a good distance from Dol Amroth. There will be no... talk.”

“No of course, not, lord. It sounds very suitable...but...”

“But you don’t know if Lady Oriel will agree.”  Imrahil smiled benevolently. “Well, you must send for her and put our proposition to her.” He had a job not to laugh, knowing Lagorn was not going to say any such thing. But his interruption worked even better than he had hoped as Lagorn drew himself up.

“My sister will do as I tell her, lord. I am the head of the family and will brook no nonsense from her. I want what is best for her and feel she is not in any state to make her own decisions at the moment.”

Sergion rose to his feet, his face a mask of fury, but Imrahil quelled him with a hard look. Luckily Lagorn had his head in the air and didn’t notice. Imrahil quickly drew his attention. “In that case let me tell you of the arrangements I have made.” He gave Lagorn no chance to disagree, and explained that there would be a ship leaving for Dol Amroth at the end of the week, with enough room to take Oriel. “I will of course be travelling as well, with a small number of my guard.”

“But, lord, it would not be seemly for her to go with you on her own.”

The prissy fool! Imrahil scowled at him. “If you are worried about any propriety, I am sure you can find a suitable maidservant to travel with her, and let me assure you that my sister will meet the ship!”

“I meant no offence, lord.” Once again Lagorn quickly drew back from his small show of spirit.

“I am sure you didn’t.” Imrahil picked up his gauntlets and pretended to prepare to leave.  He wanted to see Oriel, but he also wanted to leave Lagorn with the impression that sending his sister to Dol Amroth had been his decision, so he hesitated before saying. “Perhaps it would be polite for you to call for Lady Oriel. I am sure she would like to know at the earliest what arrangements you have made for her.” Hopefully she would be pleased, but if not he’d try and arrange for her to go somewhere else.

 “Yes, yes, I’ll do that.” Lagorn paused. “The castle is quiet you say?”

“Very,” Imrahil confirmed. “My sister, her husband and the servants. It looks out to sea and the location is reckoned to be therapeutic to the spirit.” He neglected to mention that he, Sergion and no doubt other friends would be regular callers.

Lagorn nodded, giving up, and reached for the wine jug. “If you would be so kind as to wait for a few minutes so that I can explain your proposal to my mother. She will want to know that Oriel is to be looked after.”

 After refilling their goblets, Lagorn went to the door. As soon as he had his back turned, Imrahil winked at Sergion. I couldn’t have gone better.

A short while later, Oriel came in, accompanied by a frail lady who looked as if she had the troubles of the world on her shoulders.

“Lady Oriel,” Imrahil bowed, “it is good to see you again.”

“Prince Imrahil.” Oriel smiled welcomingly, but Imrahil was shocked to see the black shadows under her eyes. And she had lost weight, too. Oriel introduced her mother and he took time to talk to her. It became plain that she was torn between her son and her daughter.

“My son has been telling me of your offer and the fact that he has agreed to it,” she said just above a whisper. “I can only thank you. Oriel is a shadow of her former self, but she brightened immediately she was told what you proposed. Lagorn had the intention of marrying, but put that aside with all the trouble. Then as he made the arrangements, Oriel came back and he did not know what to do for the best. I could not like the idea of her going to stay with our cousin, but you have answered a prayer.”

It wouldn’t surprise him if Lagorn wasn’t afraid that Oriel would contaminate his new wife. Imrahil bit down his urge to make a scathing comment, it would serve no purpose. “And what about you, my lady? You will miss her,” Imrahil responded.

“Yes, but I want her to be happy. I want her to laugh again.” She placed a thin hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about me; I will go to my other daughter’s, it will be better for Lagorn.”

Imrahil didn’t answer that and turned to Oriel instead. “You will like my sister. She is very forthright, but full of kindness.”

Oriel looked up at him her big eyes full of unshed tears. “You are sure she wants me?”

“You will be doing her a favour. She gets a little lonely, and will enjoy having a companion.”

He and Sergion stayed a time, really reassuring Oriel’s mother that her daughter would be free to return at any time she chose. But Oriel looked to need no reassurance. Imrahil guessed that she just wanted to get away from her brother’s over-solicitous protection, the curious eyes of the townspeople and the possibility of living with a cousin who bred cats. But after a short while he got up and said farewell, promising to confirm the arrangements for leaving in the next couple of days. Lagorn was all acquiescence, perhaps having had time to think, glad to have a problem removed.

He and Sergion kept counsel until they were back on the road, and then Imrahil turned to the two knights riding behind him. “I will be giving you some letters to take back to Dol Amroth. I want you to leave as soon as I have written them.” Apart from an assent, neither man said anything, guessing he wouldn’t explain. “One will be for Princess Ivriniel, and I am relying on you to get it there with no delay.”

Sergion drew his horse closer, a slight frown on his face. “You really think she will be happy to give Oriel a home.”

“Stop worrying. I have no doubt about it.”

His friend’s face lightened and he chuckled. “Well, you know her best. And I have to applaud you on your masterly handling of Lagorn, the poor man never stood a chance.”

Today had gone well. Would that he would find it as easy to deal with Aearin. But that was for tomorrow.  Imrahil flashed his friend a satisfied grin. “Lagorn did walk into it, didn’t he? But I’ve done my bit now; the rest is up to you.”

Dol Amroth TA 3021

Imrahil broke off as Meren let out a little squeak, and impulsively reached over to Sergion, her pretty face full of compassion.

 “Oh, Sergion, I never realised. Poor Lady Oriel. I am so glad it turned out so well for you both.”

Glad of the interruption, Imrahil took a much needed gulp of wine and studied his friend’s face. Sergion looked remarkably placid, giving away none of the anguish of that time. Even now Imrahil marvelled at the patience and tenacity he had shown.

Sergion smiled at her. “In the end it did, Meren. But it took a while.”

A typical understatement, but at least he had at last achieved happiness, even though they did not have so many years as could have been hoped. Imrahil flicked at a piece of fluff on his sleeve. Neither had he and Aearin. But all through the dark times Sergion had stood like a rock beside him, and maybe it had been his experiences with Oriel that had helped him to be so supportive to Lothíriel.

Meren sat deep in thought for a moment; undoubtedly reflecting on what could have so easily happened to her had not Elphir arrived in the nick of time. His eldest son, catching his eye and certainly thinking the same, pulled his wife against him and Meren snuggled closer. But she was still set on grilling Sergion.

“How long was it before you married Lady Oriel?”

“About two years.  With Ivriniel’s help, she gradually put the past behind her. I visited her as often as I could, and I taught her to ride.”

“To ride?”  That surprised Meren, but then it was something she would never consider herself.

Sergion nodded, failing to conceal a betraying smile. “She loved it. She loved the freedom of galloping bare-back along the beach, splashing through the surf. It was that which finally brought us together.”

“Ah,” Elphir flashed him an understanding look, “now I know why you could not part with Whitewing. But it must have been difficult letting Lothíriel ride her.”

“Whitewing was Oriel’s last horse, and her favourite. Seeing Lothíriel on her back was bittersweet for me.” He shook his head, lost in a memory for a moment. “From a distance they looked very similar.”

A shuffle, and cease of chatter from those around, made Imrahil look up. He saw that Aragorn had re-entered the hall. The King skirted around the few couples who were still dancing and headed towards them.

Imrahil rose to his feet and signalled to a guard for another chair. He grinned as Aragorn approached. “Duty done?”

Aragorn sat down next to him. “Fast asleep. And so is Arwen, just in case we have another wakeful night.”

Aragorn accepted a goblet of wine passed by Elphir. “Have you heard the whole story?”

Elphir laughed. “All about the raid, and about Sergion’s romance. But my father has yet to tell us how he managed to break down such high barriers to win my mother’s heart.”

“Hm...” Aragon took a sip of his wine.  “I doubt it was easy, but worth it, I imagine.”

Suddenly struck with a suspicion, Imrahil swivelled to look Aragorn in the eye. “Did you deliberately ask me to return that book, hoping I might fall for her?”

Aragorn raised his brows, a quiver of a smile on his lips. “I had no idea whether you might find her attractive, although something told me you would.”

Imrahil waited, sensing something else hovering in the background. After a moment he gave a long suffering sigh. “Go on.”

Aragorn let out the chuckle he had been holding on to. “I did know that she had no time for proud young men. I thought the experience might do you good.”

Elphir burst out laughing. “Poor father. He had such a torrid time.”

Imrahil glared at him. “I am glad you think it’s funny. I’ve a good mind not to say any more.”

“Oh, you couldn’t be so cruel,” Elphir said. “Never have you talked so openly about my mother. You can’t stop before the end.”

Imrahil hesitated, but Elphir was right. He took another sip of wine and sat back in the chair, looking around his audience who were all waiting expectantly.

To be continued.

Chapter 16

The morning held promise. At the moment only of the sun rising into a cloudless sky, but maybe, if fortune favoured him...  Throwing the thought aside with an exclamation of annoyance – he couldn’t stop thinking about her for one moment it seemed – Imrahil took his weight from the saddle and urged Blade to his full pace. The young horse responded instantly. As eager as his master to enjoy an unrestricted gallop, he thundered wildly along the hard sand.  Imrahil laughed out loud for the joy of it. True freedom – the vast open space of sand, mud and marsh grass that made up the estuary was inhabited only by sheep, shore birds and the occasional fox searching for stranded fish in the deeper pools.  He had beaten the cockle-pickers out this morning. 

But within moments Aearin invaded his mind again – he had got up before dawn because he didn’t want to miss her. Not that he really thought she would be out this early, but he intended to make sure he met her coming back from his ride, so that he would have every excuse to stop and walk with her for as long as possible. Or for as long as she would allow him.

He reached a place where the estuary widened, with the open sea a smudge in the distance. Time to turn around.  Time to see if he could find her. Although quite what he would do and say he had no idea. Unheard of for him to begin a campaign with no real plan. Never in his life had he been so unprepared for the task ahead. With an irritated sigh, Imrahil resumed his seat, eased Blade back to a canter, and turned on his tracks.  During his headlong dash along the estuary the sun had changed from red to orange and trees and bushes lining the banks had emerged from the grey shadows of dawn. He trotted Blade closer to the river’s edge, splashing though the rivulets of water that lingered in the little undulations left in the softer sand by the receding tide.  Staring towards the town, he realised that he must have ridden further than he’d thought: the rooftops of Linhir were only just visible. But it was still early, and he couldn’t believe she would have been and gone.

But it would be stupid to hang around and he increased his pace, raising his hand to a group of bait-diggers heading towards the muddy edges of the river with shovels and buckets. A couple of cockle-men pulling a sled loaded with empty baskets passed him with a cheery greeting – it was hard work collecting the shellfish with the heavy wooden rakes, but worthwhile. Those that dwelled on the coast could always glean a good living. And hopefully with the Corsairs out of action for the foreseeable future, it would be a safe one, too.

The houses were much nearer now and Imrahil scanned ahead. Nothing on the beach but fishermen. He moved his eyes higher up to where the marram grass edged the sand, squinting into the sun. No dark-haired woman in sight, or any sign of the dogs. But he glimpsed something white in the dunes between two clumps of tall grass. A little closer and he realised it was a gull, its wings flapping uselessly as it tried to leave the ground. Imrahil hesitated, but only for a moment— he hated to see anything struggling for life. If the bird was injured then a clean dispatch would be preferable.

Its feet trapped by a clump of unravelling net, weed and line that had caught on a piece of driftwood, the gull thrashed around, trying to free itself. Imrahil slid down from Blade and looked about him; he didn’t trust the horse to stand without being tethered quite yet. A stumpy bush would have to do. He pulled the reins over Blade’s head and looped them over a branch. The horse snorted, showing his disgust at being tied with the prospect of so little movement, and the gull glared at him with a malevolent eye. Imrahil took out his knife, but when he knelt down he saw that with a bit of care he might be able to free the bird.  Unaware of his intentions, the yellow beak stabbed at him viscously.

“Don’t be so ungrateful!” Imrahil chastised the gull with rueful laugh. Quickly, avoiding the bird’s lethal weapon, he grabbed it behind the neck, took the gauntlet off his other hand with his teeth, and shoved it over the gull’s head. He trapped gauntlet and head lightly under his arm, not wanting to suffocate it, and started to untangle the net. The strong fibre parted easily under the assault of his sharp knife but, with the need to avoid nicking the pink feet, the last fiddly bits took him time.

“There!” he said at last. A speedy examination assured him the bird had sustained no lasting damage and, holding its wings to its body with one hand, he pulled the gauntlet off its head. The gull immediately swivelled, lunging at him angrily, but holding it away from him, Imrahil stood up and threw it up into the air. A few frantic flaps and it soared upwards, heading for the river.

“That was kind.”

Still watching the gull, the sound of her voice startled him. Slowly Imrahil turned around. Aearin was watching him from a short distance away; she held the collar of a lurcher in each hand, both dogs’ gaze intent on the departing gull.  Her eyes held approval, which pleased him enough, but when she smiled at him his heart floundered and he could only stare, mute.  She might be wearing a plain blue dress and serviceable boots, with her hair dressed in a simple plait. But to him she still looked better than any woman he had ever met.  He was trapped, tighter than the gull. With no one to set him free.

“I saw what you were doing and held onto them,” Aearin went on, filling the silence between them. “They would have made short work of the poor thing. It was good of you to take so much trouble.”

Recovering himself, he smiled back. “I don’t think they’ll catch it now,” he said with a laugh.

“No.” Aearin chuckled, releasing her hold on the two dogs. They shot off in the direction the gull had flown, long legs flying over the sand. But anchored to the ground, they could only dream of pulling down their prey as the gull rose higher and higher.  “Oh, I shouldn’t have done that,” she exclaimed, watching them in dismay.  “They’ll go right down into the mud and will come back in a disgusting state. And they hate going under the pump.”

Imrahil put his fingers to his lips and let out a long piercing whistle. Without breaking stride the two dogs curved in a wide arc.  Aearin came to stand alongside him as the lurchers streaked back towards them. “They are obeying you,” she said, amazed.

“We have lurchers at home,” Imrahil explained.

The dogs slowed to a halt just in front of him, showing none of the disdain they had exhibited on their first meeting.  After fondling their ears he sent them to   hunt in the dunes with a click of his fingers.

Aearin looked a bit uneasy. “They will spend ages seeking out the rabbits; I just hope they don’t find any.”

“If you bring them here every morning and they haven’t yet, then you’ve been lucky,” Imrahil told her.

“Except when the tide is in, I encourage them onto the sand.” She shuddered. “But I suppose it’s only a matter of time.”

Imrahil retrieved Blade from his bush, and gave him a pat, still with his eyes on Aearin. “It wouldn’t be so bad. Lurchers kill quickly and cleanly, and if well fed would leave the body...”  He stopped abruptly. Great Ulmo! He wanted to woo the woman and here he was talking about dead rabbits!

But she didn’t seem to mind and those cute little frown lines appeared. “Lady Cuthwith says they are used a lot in Rohan and provide many a dinner. So I mustn’t mind too much.  And I could never walk down here without them.”

“I remember Mirineth saying she liked to walk along the estuary, doesn’t she want to come with you?” he said, glad to change the subject.

Aearin laughed. “Not at this time of the morning. But I have always loved the early hours. Even in the City I like to get up and watch the sunrise. You must like it too,” she glanced at his horse, “but I am surprised you are out here on your own, lord.”

Imrahil raised a wry brow. “You think I am in danger whilst enjoying a morning ride?” He took the opportunity to get himself between Blade and her, making it obvious that he intended to walk with her and not mount his horse.

“No, of course not.” Apart from an unreadable emotion that flickered in her eyes, she made no objection, but fell into step with him.

“Then why are you surprised?” he asked once they had left the soft sand of the dunes and gained the firmer footing of the beach. The dogs, after a quick check to make sure of their direction, resumed their hunt for game.

“Don’t the men you have with you need to exercise their horses as well, lord?” she responded.

“They have all day. I do like to be on my own sometimes you know, and partake of simple enjoyments. I am so often surrounded by protocol that mornings like this are a refreshing change. And besides,” he threw her a cheeky grin, “if they were here I would have to ride on, but now I can enjoy the much more pleasurable pastime of talking to you. And since we are walking together, perhaps you might learn to use my name.”

Her face flushed slightly, but although she agreed to his request, she laughed off his gambit with practised assurance, no doubt learned in the high circles of the City, and followed it up by talking of incidentals.  After that their conversation flowed easily: Imrahil told her of his invitation to share the board of the local lord the night before – once the word had got out of his presence in the district a visit to the castle above Linhir had been inevitable – and Aearin regaled him with the story of Mirineth’s intention to threaten her father that she would stow away on Nethon’s ship if the young man did not gain permission to marry her.

Although amused by Mirineth’s continued resourcefulness, he was not really interested in her plans at that moment and waited for a slight but perceptible pause in their banter before he caught Aearin’s full attention by bringing Blade to a halt. She looked at him questioningly, and Imrahil regarded with a steady gaze for a moment before saying with none of his usual humour, but in what he hoped was a voice that showed his sincerity. “I meant it, you know. I enjoy your company and am glad we broke our journey in Linhir.” She flushed again, but couldn’t hide the flash of excitement in her eyes, or stop the warmth showing in her shaky smile, before her face resumed its normal composure. The promising response decided him that, although it would be unwise to hope, there was no need yet to despair and he set the conversation going in what he hoped would be a positive direction without rushing her. Walking on, with just a laugh to show he had registered her discomposure, he waved his arm, to encompass the estuary and the scenery around them.

“It’s a spectacular place, are you enjoying your time here? I remember you once told me that you love the City and found Lossarnach pleasurable for a time, but too lacking in culture to consider as a permanent residence.”

Aearin, apparently grateful for the return to polite dialogue, gave him a real smile. “I expect I would feel the same if I stayed here for too long,” she admitted. “But I will certainly relish the summer here, it is not the best time to be in the City.”

“No, I think that is where Dol Amroth has the advantage. The sea breezes keep it cool and fresh. There is the beach and the pine forests to enjoy, but we have more than our fair share of culture. The library certainly rivals that in Minas Tirith, and our musicians have no equal.”

A wistful look crossed her face. “It does sound lovely; I am surprised you are not hurrying home.”

“I’m here till the end of the week.” No harm in telling her he only had a couple of days. “We are going by ship now that we are escorting Lady Oriel.”

“Oriel?” 

Imrahil frowned; she had looked stricken for a moment.  “Yes, she is not at all happy here, and I am taking her to stay with my sister for a while. I am certainly hoping that she will eventually be content to settle in Dol Amroth.”

“Oh, I see.” She looked down at the ground, kicking sand with her foot. “I had no idea she was going with you.”

“I only arranged it yesterday. I put the suggestion forward and both her mother and her brother were happy to let her come. We trust that after living quietly with my sister, Oriel will feel able to marry and put the past behind her.”

“Yes, one can only hope that,” Aearin said in a blank voice. “She is very fortunate that you are so considerate of her situation.”

“Well, having had her jump out of a window into my arms, I do feel responsible,” he replied. Why was she looking like that? He would have thought she’d be pleased he was putting himself out to help Oriel. There was no accounting for her moods, but he had so little time and having brought the conversation to this point, the urge to test the waters was irresistible. Sometimes a frontal attack was best. “And what are your plans when Mirineth finally gets her way and your companionship becomes unnecessary?”

“Back to the City, I suppose,” she said, avoiding his gaze

Now he was going to surprise her, but she must have an idea of his intentions. He’d made it plain he was interested. “You could come to Dol Amroth.”

She raised her head to search his face, total bewilderment written across hers. “Why should I go there? Does Oriel need a companion?”

He laughed at her prevarication, it had to be deliberate. “Aearin, I know I made a muck of that night in Minas Tirith, but I have ridden up and down the estuary this morning in the hope of finding you alone. I want you to come to Dol Amroth to be a companion to me, of course. Why do you think?”

Her eyes widened and she flushed red. “How dare you! You overbearing, insulting, insufferable... boar!” As he stood gaping, she turned on her heel and ran up into the scrub, reaching some rickety wooden steps that led to the road.

What the blazes...? No, she couldn’t have thought... “Aearin! You mistake me!” he shouted after her. But by the time he had turned Blade, she was halfway up and calling to the dogs. “Aearin stop!” She had gone. Damn! Why had he made a joke of it? Surely she knew what he meant.  What did she want – that he should have gone down on bended knee on the beach! He quickly mounted Blade and looked up to the road, but there was a wall at the top of the dunes and he couldn’t take the horse up the steps.  Well, he should easily catch up with her on horseback once he reached the road, so had no intention of leaving it there! How dare she think that he would make improper suggestions to a lady such as her!  Then he remembered his previous misdemeanour, but surely she had understood that? Oh... Morgoth’s balls, women were enough to send a man mad!

But to his mounting frustration it took him a while to find a way off the beach and by that time there was no sign of her; she had probably already reached the house. By then his anger, at himself and Aearin, had grown to boiling pitch, and he raced Blade down the verge after her, determined to have it out if he had to drag her screaming from the house.

“I’ve called to see Lady Cuthwith,” Imrahil shot at the gate-keeper as he swept past him.

“Lord, Lady Cuthwith has gone out...”

“Good!” Imrahil barked over his shoulder.

He tied Blade to a tree and hammered on the door. It was opened a few moments later by the same porter as before. Imrahil stepped straight in without waiting for an invitation. “Lady Cuthwith and Lady Mirineth have gone out, lord,” the man stammered a bit bemused.

Imrahil threw his gauntlets down on a table. “Lady Aearin?”

“She’s gone to lie down, lord. She said she had a headache.”

A headache! Well, he had heartache, so had no sympathy. But a moment’s consideration told him that a headache sounded promising; she wasn’t the type to languish over a spate with someone she considered rude and overbearing. “Tell Lady Aearin I’m here to see her.”

“I don’t think it will do you any good, lord. She went straight to her room saying she didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Tell her!” Imrahil snarled, advancing a step towards him. The man blanched, turned around and hurried up the stairs. Imrahil paced the hall, his mind in turmoil. If she really wanted nothing to do with him he’d have to accept that. But she had blown hot and cold, and just as he thought he was getting somewhere... infuriating woman!

“I’m sorry, lord.” The porter appeared at the top of the staircase. “Lady Aearin says she won’t see anybody.”

Imrahil took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the look of shock on the porter’s face. “Which room?”

The man put out his arms to bar his way. “I can’t let you, lord. Not to her bedchamber.”

Paying no attention, Imrahil grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and lifted him bodily out of the way. He had caught the sound of a bolt sliding on the second door along. He reached it in a few strides, and started banging on the door.

“Let me in, Aearin, or I’ll batter it down!”

“Go away, I have nothing to say to you.”

Imrahil kicked at the door. “You’ve made a mistake. Let me in!”

No response. He kicked it again.

“All right! All right! I will open it. And then you can go away!”

The door opened and Aearin stood facing him. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders and he suspected that she’d been crying. But now her eyes were blazing with anger, not tears. “If you’ve come to apologize you’re wasting your time. I only let you in because I didn’t want the door damaged. I never want to see you again.”

Imrahil advanced into the room, and Aearin stood her ground for only a moment before she retreated to stand with her back to the window, watching him warily. Imrahil closed the door with his foot. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he enunciated slowly so there was no mistake this time.  “I have not come to apologise. I have come to ask you to marry me.”

“Marry you?” she exclaimed incredulously.

“Yes, marry me. What in heaven’s name did you think I meant!” he shot back, nettled. She’d always had a low opinion of him.

She looked at him aghast, her face a picture of pure disbelief. “But what about Oriel?”

“Oriel? What in the world has Oriel got to do with it?”

“You told me you were taking her to stay with your sister until she was well enough to marry. Even a Prince of Gondor can’t marry two women!”

Imrahil stared thunderstruck for a moment as his conversation with her on the beach flashed through his mind. Fool that he was! He burst out laughing.

“I don’t find it funny,” she spat at him.

But he couldn’t stop, and spluttered out. “Not me. Sergion! I told you we came because Sergion wanted to see her. Had you forgotten that?”

She obviously had, because her mouth opened in shock. “But your sister. Taking her to live with your sister, I assumed...”

Getting his laughter under control Imrahil hurriedly made everything clear. “I am doing no more than trying to aid a friend. Two friends, because I consider Oriel to be one as well. But I have not the slightest wish to marry her. There is only one woman I wish to make my wife and that is you. Only why that is with the way you have berated me and scolded me since our first meeting, I have no idea.”

Her face had gone from red to white and back to red. Trembling, she moved a few paces and clutched at the bed post. “You can’t really want to wed me.”

Imrahil took a few steps and took hold of her hands. After a half-hearted protest she let him hold them; her fingers fluttered in his like a trapped bird. “Of course I do.  I think I knew from the first time I set eyes on you, although it took me longer to recognize the fact. Let me make it plain that the reason I accepted Glavror’s hospitality was not because I wanted a match with his daughter, but because I fell in love with his daughter’s companion.”

She stared at him in wonder. “You loved me from then?”

Imrahil pulled her into his arms, lifted her chin with his finger, and looked deep into her eyes. “How long does it take to fall in love? A day? An hour?”

With a choked sob she buried her head in his shoulder. “No, just a breathless moment.”

He laughed again, but this time with pure joy. He kissed her, spearing his fingers through her glorious hair so she could not escape, eager to taste her, love her. And be loved. “Is that why you were so awful to me?” he murmured when their lips parted.

“I...” But at that moment the door flew open and a short, round lady burst into the room. Behind her stood two young men who Imrahil guessed had been dragged from the garden to throw him out.

“It’s all right, Toreth, Prince Imrahil is just leaving.” Aearin forestalled her quickly.

The maidservant folded her arms. “He’d better be, my lady, and I’ll just stay here till he does.”

“No, you won’t,” Imrahil rounded on her, his patience exhausted after the strain of the past hour. “And if you think those two,” he indicated the boys who looked as though the last thing they wanted was to tackle him, “have got the least hope of removing me from this room until I am ready then...”

“Imrahil, please.”Aearin caught his arm.

But he ignored her; having finally won her, there was no way he was letting her go yet.  “Out woman!” 

He took one step towards the maid, who shrieked. “You wait till I tell Lady Cuthwith!”

He took another step. “I’ll tell her myself. Get out!” 

With a yelp of protest she scurried out of the door. Imrahil slammed it shut. He turned back to Aearin. “Where were we?”

She shook her head, passing a hand across her brow.  “Imrahil, this is madness. Are you certain you know what you are doing?”

“I know exactly what I am doing.” Now what! He grasped her hands again, but she didn’t look at him, dropping her gaze to the floor.

“Aearin, what is wrong? A moment ago you were hugging me.” She shook her head, but all he could see was a mass of shining hair. Sighing in frustration he let go one hand and used his finger to raise her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me what is bothering you?”

Her lovely eyes were heavy with tears. “How you marry me, Imrahil. You must see it’s impossible. We got carried away.”

“Carried away? What in Ulmo’s name are you talking about? There are only two reasons that would stop me marrying you – one is that you already have a husband and the other is that you don’t love me. Which is it?”

“Of course I haven’t a husband.” She tried to twist away from him, but he held on to her hand and pulled her back.

“Then you don’t love me.”

She let out a soft moaning sound, that he interpreted as a ‘yes I do’ before saying quietly, her voice breaking with emotion. “But you are a prince. Your parents ... the Steward ...they’ll never let you.”

Imrahil bit off the retort that came to his lips, and put his arm around her, hugging her to him. All the confidence and composure that characterized her had gone, and her whole body shook. “You’re talking nonsense. Come and sit down.”

He led her to a couch, nestling her into the crook of his arm when they sat down. “The Steward has no say in whom I marry, and what makes you think that you will be unacceptable to my parents.”

“Imrahil,” she said, searching his face with troubled eyes, “you are a Prince of the realm. I am a soldier’s daughter...”

“Good grief, Woman!” Imrahil exclaimed. “One only has to look at you to see you carry the blood of Numenor. There is nothing to blush at in your mother’s linage, and your father’s family might have lost their land, but you have proof that the title came from King Eärnil himself.”

“But my father only had his soldier’s pay and my maternal grandfather had nothing. His ancestors only cared for scholarly pursuits and accrued very little. I come without a dowry.”

Imrahil squeezed her arm. “That is of no importance.”

“It is, Imrahil.” She hung her head, staring down at her lap and twisting her fingers together. Then, as if she had come to a decision, took a deep breath and looked back up at him. “I had a suitor once, but it was soon made plain to me that I am not acceptable to be the wife of a high lord. It upset me three years ago, I am older now, and I thought wiser. I tried hard not to fall in love with you because I didn’t want to be hurt again.  I failed... but it is better that I face the truth now.”

“The truth is, Aearin, that nothing you have said changes anything.” He hesitated, whatever had happened had obviously had a great effect on her. “But tell me, this man –  did you love him?”

“I thought I did at the time, but I was very young. Maybe he dazzled me with his good looks and his title.”

More than likely, if she was young and impressionable. “And his parents forbade the match.”

She nodded.

“And your noble suitor meekly cow-towed to his parents.”

Her face flushed red. “He said he couldn’t go against them, and had realised that he owed it to his name to marry well...,” she paused, finding difficulty in saying whatever was coming next. “... but that we could remain friends....more than friends.”

Imrahil expelled a long breath: that explained a lot of things. “Then you were well rid of him.”

“I know that, and I suppose that I hoped I would eventually meet a worthy man to whom my circumstances would not matter. I vowed never to hanker after the unobtainable again. And I had never done so until I met and fell in love with a prince.”

He gave a short laugh. “And you have given that prince a very hard time.”

She flashed him a brave smile, but her eyes were still clouded. “I’m sorry. I tried so hard not to show my feelings for you. For a moment I felt I was soaring high in the heavens, but all too soon my feet touched the earth again.”

Imrahil took a strand of her hair, twisting the silken curl around his fingers. “I will always want you to soar, Aearin, and I want to be there with you. When I get home I will ask my mother to write to you. She will invite you to come to Dol Amroth as soon as your duties here are ended, so that you can be introduced to the court as my future wife. Will that convince you?”

Her tortured expression vanished, and her eyes lit.

 “You are sure?”

He pulled her against him, cupped her face with one hand and tipped her chin up with his thumb so he could look closer into those lovely eyes. “I’m very sure,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her.

He didn’t want to go, but after a while she pulled herself free.

“We must stop. Having set the house on its ears it wouldn’t surprise me if Toreth didn’t send to the castle for some men-at-arms to evict you.”

“That will be an interesting end to my morning.”

She laughed, and he kissed her again, withholding the passion that coursed through his body. He’d behaved badly enough for one day.

“Imrahil,” she whispered as he nuzzled into her neck, “as nice as this is, you must go. My name will be black here. And my head is in a whirl. I really do have a headache now.”

Aware that he had behaved abominably in forcing his way into her room, but not really sorry for it, Imrahil gathered her close again and dropped a kiss on her head. Aearin laid her head against his chest with a sigh, and a deep feeling of peace came over him. But some sense prevailed and as much as he wanted to stay like this, she was of course right – it would not do in her bedchamber. Anyway, the best thing might be to let her rest.  It had been an eventful morning. He murmured into her hair.  “I will come back later, and we can discuss everything sensibly. Don’t worry about Lady Cuthwith, she will be pleased: I told her I expected to see her at our wedding!”

 She leant back so that she could look up into his face. “What do you mean?”

Imrahil lifted an amused brow, and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Who do you think told me you took an early morning walk?”

Her mouth opened in a soundless Oh. Imrahil laughed, took her face between his hands and kissed her gently. “I’ll go, or your reputation will be past redemption. If I call again later will Lady Cuthwith be back?”

Aearin nodded, slightly breathless. “She’s only gone to the market.”

When Imrahil opened the door he was aware of a hubbub of voices. Reaching the top of the stairs, he saw that Lady Cuthwith and Mirineth had returned, and were surrounded by a gaggle of servants which included the maid and the porter. The dogs were joining in the hoo-ha, their tails thrashing madly from side to side as they eagerly welcomed their mistress.  Looking up and seeing him, Lady Cuthwith waved the servants away. With a livid glance in his direction, Toreth flounced off, the others following her.   Imrahil bounded down the stairs to face the lady of the house – he only hoped she would see the funny side.  But when he met her eyes she responded with a lift of her chin. “I hear you have been upsetting my household, lord...”

He opened his mouth to apologise, only stopping when he caught the twinkle in her eyes. Lady Cuthwith carried on, bestowing him an amused smile ... “but I am prepared to overlook the behaviour of a man deeply in love.”

He laughed, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, and reached out to fondle the dogs who had deigned to greet him. “I hope I will be welcome to call on Lady Aearin during the rest of my stay.”

“Of course, lord.”  She fixed him with steely gaze, “But I do not think it wise that you converse in her bedchamber!”

Hiding a smile, he bowed. “I assure you, my lady, that I have no intention of doing so.”

At that Mirineth let out a gurgle of laughter. “Are you really going to marry Aearin. How wonderful.”

Imrahil grinned, and flicked her cheek with a careless finger. “I am. And I hope that everything works out as well for you.”

Moments later he was riding back onto the road, waving a cheery goodbye to the gatekeeper. In only a few hours his life had changed.

Dol Amroth

The scribe reverently turned the pages, studying the ancient text with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. After a few moments he put the book back with the others. “It’s a task I shall enjoy doing, lord,” the man said, running his hand gently over the faded leather. ”It will be an honour to copy such work as this.”

Imrahil left him with an appreciative nod, reluctant to let go of the set of books which were his only tangible link to Aearin. He had only been home a few days, but he missed her terribly, even though most of his waking hours had been full. But today he had no major tasks. Oriel had been settled with his sister; his father and the rest of their knights had been regaled again and again with his firsthand account of the attack on Umbar, and he had answered all his mother’s questions as to the health and welfare of her daughter and grandson. He’d fended off his father’s questions on Mirineth, but now was the time to enlighten his parents to the fact that they would soon be having a new daughter.

Imrahil headed for his father’s study, knowing that at this hour his mother and father generally shared a quiet time to answer letters and talk over the running of the Palace. He knew he probably should approach the matter differently, but some perverseness in his nature had always made him rebel against the accepted way of things. At least when it meant forcing him to do what he didn’t like to do. And being a Prince, which he admitted he generally enjoyed, meant much of his life was controlled by his circumstances, and liable to be more so in the future. Therefore, in this, which affected him so intimately, he intended to have his way and take pleasure in the surprise his announcement would incur. 

His mother and father were drinking tea cosily together, but both welcomed him with a smile when he entered the room after no more than a soft knock. Imrahil waved aside the offer to send for another cup, kissed his mother on the cheek and pulled up a chair beside her.

“I thought you would be out riding,” his father volunteered.

“I shook the fidgets out of Blade last evening,” Imrahil told him. “I’ll take another out later, there’s plenty that need a gallop.”

“Then why are you here this fine morning?” his father quizzed him. “You usually keep well away from the boring parts of government.”

Too true, but for how much longer he would be allowed to do so... “I decided to take you up on your suggestion, father...,” Imrahil launched in and then stopped. Not finding it quite as easy as he’d thought.

“And which suggestion was that, my son,” his father enquired, with a flick of his brows.

“The one that it was time I got married.”

His mother gave a little gasp, but his father’s expression never altered. “I am overwhelmed that you took my advice to heart, Imrahil,” he said after a short silence. “And I assume that your efforts in that direction account for the lengthy sojourn in Linhir on the way home?”

Trust his father to be well informed! Imrahil worked hard to hide the ready laughter that threatened to erupt. “Yes, it does, I thought you would be pleased.”

His mother clutched his arm, “Have you settled the matter, Imrahil, shall I write to Lady Mirineth? More importantly, will I like her?”

“Of course you will, my dear,” his father interrupted impatiently, “Ecthelion recommended her.”

Imrahil put on a contrived expression of total bewilderment – his father didn’t know everything. “I definitely want you to write to her, Mother, to assure her of a welcome. But it’s not Lady Mirineth to whom I have betrothed myself. No, her name is Lady Aearin of Lanthir, and you will like her very much...”

3021

“Father....you...you...!” Elphir interrupted his narrative and brought him back the present. His son shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll never forget the shocked expression on your face when I brought Meren home unannounced.”

“Paid with my own coin, wasn’t I?” Imrahil chuckled. He looked across to Meren who met his eyes a little apprehensively. “Let me assure you, my dear, that the best thing Elphir has ever done was to marry you.”

Elphir squeezed his wife’s hand. “She’s a treasure, isn’t she?”

Meren blushed prettily. “I want to know if Lady Mirineth was allowed to wed her sea-captain. I am sure she would have contrived to do so.”

“Yes, she did,” Imrahil reassured her. “Glavror capitulated with his mother on her side. I went to the bridal celebrations a few months later and brought Aearin home with me.” He became lost in thought for a moment – twenty-two happy years, five pregnancies and four children. It could have been a lot worse.

“The one thing that puzzles me,” Elphir broke in again, “is that although I was aware that mother had an ancestor who fought with Eärnil, and that the family had lost its lands, I knew nothing of the books. Why did I never know of their existence until today?”

Imrahil hesitated, but Aragorn stepped in addressing Elphir. “The copies are in the private library in the King’s House. I never realised you had no knowledge of them, but as for the originals, I assumed they were here.” He turned to Imrahil with a question in his eyes.

Imrahil sighed, finding it difficult to explain the importance of the books to him, and why he had kept them from his children all these years. “They are safe, locked in a chest in my study. I would have told you of them earlier of course, but when your mother died you were all reasonably young. The books were, and still are, precious to me, and in my grief I kept them close. Later, we had all that trouble with Umar and I thought ...  well, I thought it best for Lothíriel not to know she had ancestors from Harad.”

“Oh, come on, Father,” Elphir scoffed. “That was hundreds of years ago, it wouldn’t matter a jot to her.”

“Now, it wouldn’t of course,” Imrahil agreed, “but then ...”

“Green eyes!” Meren interrupted with a gasp. “You told us that the women in Aearin’s family that were fey had unusual green eyes. Lothíriel always wondered why hers were so different, you must tell her, Father.”

Imrahil smiled. “I will, I’ll tell her before she goes to live in Rohan. And I’ll let you look at the books, Elphir. Perhaps we’ll have more copies made.”  He should have told his son before and felt better for having done so. And better for recounting the early days, his children needed to know as much as they could about their mother. He grinned and flashed a mocking glance at Aragorn. “You led me into a lot of trouble.”

Aragorn laughed, and then directed his eyes to where two women were making their way towards them. Imrahil started to stand, watching the two ladies approach – Marin, the war-widow with whom Sergion was enjoying a profitable relationship, and Calaerdis.  He inwardly sighed: eighteen years since he’d lost Aearin, and he had never stopped missing her – Lothíriel’s wedding had brought bitter-sweet memories, and heart rendering moments thinking how Aearin would have been so proud of their daughter.

But neither Lothíriel nor his sons wanted or expected him to spend the rest of his life alone. Calaerdis smiled as she got nearer.  She looked much like Aearin: her black hair, her fine bone structure, the same graceful posture...  and just as awkward too. The Lady of Dol Amroth in all but name – but reluctant to give up her freedom to marry him.

Why did he always have the hard time?

The end

See Tide of Destiny for more about Calaerdis.

My heartfelt thanks, as always, goes to Lia for her unstinting help.LBJ