Prologue

Minas Tirith, 15^th March, 3019

He reeked of death. Éomer pushed open a window and stared out into the night. Below him, campfires dotted the Pelennor, mirroring the star-strewn sky above him. Acrid smoke hung in the air and the sickly sweet smell of carrion filled his nose. From below or from his clothes? He wondered if he would ever get rid of the stink. The harsh cawing of crows carried up from the battlefield, for not even the darkness put the birds off their feast.

Éomer was beyond exhaustion, yet he did not think he would be able to sleep. He cast a look over his shoulder. The old woman – Ioreth – who sat beside Éowyn's bed, watching over her, gave him a reassuring smile. At least Éowyn had finally slipped into much needed slumber and he felt confident about leaving her in good hands here at the Houses of Healing. Now he just had to wait for Prince Imrahil to find him a room in the Citadel, as he had promised earlier on.

Yet though he was bone weary, he could not calm his thoughts. Like the waters of a stream swollen with snowmelt, they churned through his mind. He could not shake the picture of Éowyn's still face as she lay amongst the trampled grass. Of the mad charge that had followed, only fragments remained in his mind: the rising sun glinting on a curved blade, a young Haradrim, his eyes wide with terror, blood flecking Firefoot's coat. Éomer shook his head. His mind had not become clear again until the black ships had sailed up the river.

And now his uncle lay in state in the Citadel and he was King of the Mark. The last one? Éomer sighed and turned his back on the view below. Time to find the Prince of Dol Amroth and take him up on his offer. Tomorrow would bring many decisions and he needed to get what rest he could.

After a last lingering glance at his sister's slumbering form and a nod to Ioreth, Éomer left the room and softly closed the door behind him, finding the hallway deserted and only lit by a few struggling lamps. It felt as if he was the only person left awake and the whole Houses of Healing had succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion. Now where had Prince Imrahil disappeared to?

Choosing the general direction of the exit, he walked along the corridor and turned a corner. Suddenly a muffled noise reached his ears. Éomer paused. Was that somebody crying? Yet the rooms on both sides all had their doors closed. He shrugged: probably a patient waking from a nightmare, hardly surprising after the events of the past day.

The sound came again. And then he noticed that one door stood slightly ajar. It was so small that he had taken it for a cupboard door, but when he took a step closer he definitely heard stifled sobs emanating from it.

Éomer hesitated. He was tired and had just fought from dawn to dusk – and that after riding over a hundred leagues in five days. His mind might still be wide awake, but his whole body ached and longed for rest. He only wanted a bath and a bed. No, make that simply a bed. It was none of his business if somebody had sought a quiet corner to cry. He began to walk down the corridor again.

Another sob.

Something in the choked off sound stopped him as if he had hit a wall. A note of desperation, of some poor creature reaching its breaking point. Éomer closed his eyes. He did not need this. Not now.

A smothered sniffle.

With a sigh Éomer turned back to the door and pulled it open. Ducking low under the lintel he stuck his head in. At first he could not make out anything, but as he pulled the door open wider, the light from one of the lamps in the corridor lit up the small space. He had been right; it was just an airing cupboard containing shelves of folded linen sheets. In one corner sat a huddled figure. One of the young lads assisting the healers? He perched on an overturned bucket, face buried in a crumpled sheet of linen, so that nothing showed but a few strands of black hair escaping from under the hood of his shapeless brown robe. The lad hadn't noticed Éomer's presence yet and his shoulders shook with suppressed sobs.

Éomer reached out a hand and touched him lightly on the arm. “What's the matter?”

With a shriek the lad fell backwards, to end up sprawled on the floor. Éomer winced as the metallic bucket clattered against the wall. Frightened grey eyes stared up at him.

“Easy!” he exclaimed and crouched down by the boy's side. “I mean you no harm.”

The lad scrambled back to his feet, all long legs and awkward grace, reminding him of a nervous colt being handled for the first time. Then the hood fell back and black hair tumbled across his shoulders.

Oh! Not a colt. A filly.

Éomer slowly straightened up and held his hands out before him. “My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you.”

The girl drew a shuddering breath. “I...I didn't hear you come in. You startled me.”

Obviously. She was a small thing, barely reaching his shoulders, with her face red and blotched from weeping. But her voice held the pure accent of Gondor's nobility.

“I'm sorry,” he said. Taking a step back, he hit his head on the lintel and winced.

She peered up at him and he realized that to her he was probably just a tall silhouette outlined against the light from the corridor behind him, so he moved aside to let her get better view of him.

“You are one of the Rohirrim?” she asked.

He nodded.

The girl straightened up and pulled herself together with obvious effort. “Do you need assistance?” She pushed her tangled hair out of her face. “I'm afraid I'm not a healer myself, but I can take you to them. Where are you hurt?”

“I'm not.”

“But...” she motioned at his clothes.

Éomer looked down at himself. His squire had collected his hauberk for cleaning earlier on, so he only wore the shirt that went underneath it. Everywhere large rusty stains dotted it, witnesses to the battle just fought. He shrugged. “That's not my blood.”

“Oh!” Her eyes went wide. “I see.” Uncertainly, she smoothed down the front of her brown smock, which had its own share of stains. “So what are you doing here?”

“I was actually on my way out,” he explained, “for a friend has promised to find me a bed for tonight.” Éomer gentled his voice. “Then I heard you crying.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I'm sorry,” she answered, looking utterly forlorn. “I didn't want to disturb anybody. That's why I chose this cupboard. Nobody ever comes here.”

“Please,” Éomer interrupted her, “you weren't disturbing me. I just wanted to help.”

She tried to smile, but it came out all shaky. “You already have. You and your countrymen saved us all, didn't you.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “This morning I was certain we would not see another dawn.” She closed her eyes. “The First Circle was burning and you could hear the orcs singing and laughing. Smoke everywhere. And then suddenly the horns...” A single tear escaped from under long lashes and ran down her cheek. “The great horns of the North!” She bit her lips, but a choked off sob emerged anyway.

Somehow it was the most natural thing in the world to gather her close. For a moment she resisted, but then she clutched his shirt. “It was so horrible,” she whimpered. “All night the wounded arrived, burnt or hacked to pieces. And we could do so little to help them!”

Feeling her tremble with suppressed anguish at the memory, he rubbed her back. “I’m sorry, little one.” If only he could do something to comfort her.

She didn’t seem to hear. “We ran out of poppy syrup by midmorning,” she whispered. “There was a boy...one of the lads who had stayed behind to help run errands for the healer. He had joked with me earlier on.” Her fingers tightened their grip. “And then he got trapped in a burning house. The entire left side of his face... it was gone. But he still breathed!” She leant her head against his chest, her whole body cold and stiff. “I was glad when he died.”

Hesitantly Éomer brushed back a strand of hair. “The pain can no longer touch him. He’s safe now.” Not the most eloquent words, but it seemed to be the right thing, for some of that awful tension left her. “It’s all right to grieve,” he added.

Suddenly she started crying again. Violent, choking sobs, like those of a hurt and bewildered child. Éomer held her patiently while she hid her head against his chest and let her tears flow. He had not before considered the situation of the people of Minas Tirith, for in his mind they had just been a faceless mass. Besides fulfilling their oaths of assistance, it had also made sense to meet the evil tide out of Mordor before it could reach the borders of the Mark.

Now suddenly the people of Gondor had a face. A small, tear-splotched one. What if they had arrived too late? The thought sickened him. She would have been lucky to find a quick death. Far more likely was a life of slavery amongst the Haradrim, and if the orcs had captured her... He could not finish that thought. And it might yet happen. Rage swept through him and he tightened his grip on her. No it wouldn’t! Not while he drew breath.

Her sobs had slowly quietened, but she still had her head buried in his shirt. “I'm sorry,” she said, her words muffled.

“Why?”

“For breaking down like that. You must despise me for being so weak.”

He looked down at the crown of black hair pressed against his chest and had to suppress the impulse to stroke it. “No, I don’t,” he answered gently. “There is no shame in crying.” He had done so himself at the knowledge of how many of his men would not ride home to their wives and children. So many deaths! His responsibility now.

A defiant sniff. “But your own women fight!”

The words were like a stab straight into the gut. “Only one,” he answered, trying to keep his voice level. “And with all my heart I wish she hadn’t.”

She must have heard something in his tone, for she raised her head. “Oh! I didn't realize. You know Lady Éowyn?”

“My sister.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she pushed herself away from his chest. “You're the King of Rohan!”

“Yes.” The words tasted like a draft of bitter poison. What wouldn’t he have given to have his uncle back. And Théodred!

The girl seemed to have an instinctive understanding of what he had left unsaid. Hesitantly she reached out a hand. “I heard of your loss, my lord. I’m so sorry.”

His throat tight, he nodded. “Are you all right now?” he asked, his voice harsher than intended. “If so–”

That moment steps sounded in the passage outside. “King Éomer?” somebody called. It sounded like Prince Imrahil.

Éomer turned to answer, but the girl was quicker. With a gasp she darted past him and pulled the door closed. Darkness enveloped them.

Éomer grabbed her. “What–”

“Shhh!” she hissed.

“Is something the matter?”

The girl pulled him back from the door. “Please!”

“Surely–”

“Shhh!” She reached up and pulled his mouth down on hers, extinguishing his protest before it could form properly. Soft curves pressed against him, barely disguised by the thin fabric of her robe. His mind was taken by surprise.

But his body knew exactly what to do. Of their own volition his arms went round her, drawing her to him. Sweet as honey, warm as a hearth fire in the depth of winter, vibrant and alive in the midst of so much death. He wanted her as he had never wanted anything before. In her arms he might forget for a moment the heartbreak and carnage of the day. It would be a gift beyond compare.

Seizing the nape of her neck with one hand, he deepened the kiss, devouring her. In response a quiver ran through her and she clutched his shoulders. At the back of his mind Éomer knew that he should stop, that she was nothing but an innocent, yet he just couldn’t. Outside the city, men he had known all his life lay cold and lifeless, the crows feasting upon them. Knowing that they had been right to come did not make it any easier to bear. 

“Please make me forget,” he whispered, taking a quick breath, before claiming her lips again.

And by some leap of understanding she grasped his need, or perhaps she felt the same, for she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His hands traced the gentle curve of her back and her hair whispered through his fingers, silky and scented with soap. Such a wonderful everyday smell, far removed from the field of battle. If only he could lose himself in this pliant, yielding body.

Hungrily, he began to explore the silken softness of her skin with a series of kisses trailing down the arc of her throat. Darkness surrounded them and only the sound of their fast breathing broke the silence. It was as if they had stepped out of the ordinary world they inhabited into a space where only the needs of the heart ruled. Where between them they might soothe each other’s hurts, at least for a brief moment.

Refusing to consider what he was doing, he tugged at the laces at the back of her robe. The girl trembled, but surrendered into his embrace. As he sought her lips again, he tasted the salty remnants of tears.

“Lady,” he breathed, “I want you so much.”

At their movements a broom fell over with a loud clatter and she jumped in his arms. Yet still she did not pull away. Her warm breath ghosted across his cheek as she exhaled shakily. He hesitated.

“Who’s in there?”

The girl started violently at the muffled call from outside the door. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “He mustn’t find me, please!”

“Hello?” the enquiry came again, closer this time.

Maybe the Valar were sending him a sign. Éomer sighed as he came to a quick decision. “Stay in here,” he said and pushed her to the back of the linen cupboard.

Then he whirled round and ducked outside, quickly pulling the door closed behind him. The lintel not having moved, he hit his head again. Éomer swore. He should have kept his helmet on!

Prince Imrahil jumped back in surprise. “My Lord King,” he exclaimed, “what were you doing in there?”

Rubbing his aching forehead, Éomer bowed to the older man. “My apologies, Prince. I needed a quiet moment to compose myself. The cupboard seemed as good a place as any.”

With a compassionate smile, Imrahil clapped him on the back. “I understand. But you must be dead tired; let me offer you a bed in my town house and whatever hospitality Dol Amroth can provide to ease you.” He lowered his voice. “Do not worry about your sister, she is in the best of hands here.”

To his shame he had to admit that he had forgotten Éowyn for a moment. “You are most kind,” he murmured.

Prince Imrahil led the way towards the exit. “Believe me, I understand your concern for her only too well. This is no place for women. In fact I thank Elbereth every day that my daughter is safe and sound in Dol Amroth.”

Only listening with half an ear, Éomer nodded politely. He could not help himself, as they reached the end of the hallway, he cast a look back over his shoulder. The door to the airing cupboard stood open a crack and he could almost imagine a pair of large grey eyes watching him from within.

Was it so very wrong to hope that she might still come looking for him?

A/N: Well, here we go again. Many thanks to my beta Lady Bluejay and the people at the Garden for their comments!

And if you want to keep up with what I’m doing writing wise, I’ve got my own website now: www.liapatterson.com

Chapter 1

Dol Amroth, a year later

Lothíriel stared out her window. The setting sun lit up the White Horse upon Green flying from the highest tower of the keep in honour of their royal guest. Time for a last council of war. Soon she would have to face what she had done her best to avoid for the last twelve months – or rather who. She huffed a sigh. You’d think the man would have the decency to stay put in his own country like his ancestors before him, but instead he’d befriended King Elessar and even her father, who had invited him for a visit to Dol Amroth.

She pushed the casements open and a bee buzzed past, homeward bound for the skeps kept behind the castle. If only she could follow it! How she longed for a few hours of puttering around her beehives, or better still, an evening spent in her tower, pouring over the new books Faramir had sent her from Minas Tirith. When she had been a child, she had once invented a sister who would do all the boring chores for her, while she ran wild to do as she pleased. However, there was no way she could excuse herself from tonight’s entertainment. She had even considered feigning an illness, but had then decided that some things were best faced head on. Sooner or later she would have to meet their honoured guest, the way the man kept hanging about Gondor. And then...

Fleetingly she wondered if her father would listen to a plea of temporary insanity. Rumour had it that her uncle Denethor had gone mad before the end. Could she tell her father that it had been catching? Lothíriel shook her head. No, Father would never find out. The man was only here for three days, surely she would be able to scrape by somehow. She had it all worked out, had even drawn several diagrams before hitting on the final plan. Everything was under control.

A knock on the door heralded the entry of her youngest brother. Amrothos whistled when he spotted her. “You’ve dolled yourself up very prettily, Sister.”

Once she might have thrown a slipper at him for his teasing, but that would not agree with her new role. She glided across the room, careful to keep her back straight. “Do I look elegant?” The silk whispered around her legs.

He shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s certainly not your usual style.”

Since her usual style consisted of throwing on the first dress to hand, that could only be constructed as an affirmative. Lothíriel cast him a grateful smile, but then quickly composed her features. A polite but distant expression, she reminded herself, elegant carriage and regal bearing was what she was aiming for tonight. Her first line of defence.

Her brother watched her with a quizzical expression. “So what’s all this in aid of?” He motioned to her hair, plaited and curled into an elaborate knot at the back of her neck, the silver dress with matching slippers, the string of pearls fastened round her throat. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you so ladylike. Surely it’s not in honour of our guest?”

Lothíriel dropped her eyes. She hadn’t told anybody, not even her favourite brother. “He’s a king,” she answered. “Father would want me to dress accordingly.”

“And of course you always do what Father wishes you to do...”

That drew a reluctant grin from her. “Well, most of the time.”

“Not according to him,” Amrothos chuckled and flopped down on her bed. “So why did you want to speak to me? Or is it a full council of war?”

She nodded. “The General should be here any minute.”

As if on cue, the door opened again and her aunt swept in. Ivriniel still favoured the voluminous and heavily embellished skirts fashionable fifty years ago in her youth and the pink lace frothing across her chest contrasted sharply with her aquiline features. In the past Lothíriel had frequently regretted that she had not inherited the height of her father’s family, but on the other hand the famous Dol Amroth beak had also passed her by. A small mercy to be grateful for – it would have made her unmistakable!

Catching sight of her Ivriniel broke into a wide smile, her stern face transformed. “Why, Lothíriel!” she exclaimed. “You look the perfect princess.”

“You think so?” Lothíriel asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. If only her plan would work! But it had to, after all it was practically foolproof. Or so she had told herself.

Amrothos regarded her with narrowed eyes. “And perhaps you will finally explain what you have been up to? For weeks now you’ve been closeted with dressmakers, dancing masters and comportment teachers. Please don’t tell me it’s all for Éomer’s sake.”

Lothíriel took a deep breath. Time to own up – at least partly. “Not exactly,” she answered.

Her aunt regarded her with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean, not exactly? I thought you met him and thought him a nice young man and that is why...” She motioned at the silver dress as her voice petered out.

“A nice young man?” Amrothos echoed in disbelief.

“I never said that!” Lothíriel protested.

“You told me he was kind to you,” Ivriniel pointed out.

Lothíriel hesitated. She had given her aunt a carefully edited version of the events that had taken place in Minas Tirith when she had first come home, for though she loved Ivriniel dearly, not even to her could she tell the whole unvarnished truth.

“He was,” she admitted. The memory of being in his arms rose to her mind, the way he had held her so patiently while she cried out her terror and heartbreak on his chest. She had felt so sheltered – only to ruin it all a moment later.

Ivriniel had watched her closely. “I thought as much,” she said with satisfaction. “And indeed that’s why I talked Imrahil into inviting him to Dol Amroth. It might have escaped your father’s notice – though not that of the ladies of Minas Tirith – but King Éomer is sorely in need of a noble born bride. And who better equipped to meet that need than the House of Dol Amroth?”

Rendered speechless by the realization whom she had to thank for this unwelcome visit, Lothíriel could only stare at her aunt in stupefaction.

Amrothos recovered first. “You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed. “Lothíriel to be Queen of Rohan?”

Lothíriel was torn between annoyance at her brother for his lack of confidence in her and sheer unadulterated horror at what her aunt had done. The latter won. She sank down on a chair. “I’m lost.” If her father took that notion in his head, he was bound to push her in King Éomer’s way at every opportunity. How long would her defences hold then?

She looked up to find an anxious frown on Ivriniel’s face. “Have I done wrong?” her aunt asked.

Lothíriel sighed. It was her own fault really, for giving the wrong impression. “What is done is done.” She got up and paced to the window to stare out at the darkening sky. Bats flitted by and briefly she was distracted by wondering how they found their way in the dark so unerringly. Despite observing them many times, she had never been able to find out. Carefully she closed the window, so no insect would fly in and seek its death in her candles. Then she swallowed and turned round.

 “I only met King Éomer briefly, after the battle of the Pelennor Fields, but it’s true he was kind to me,” she said. “However: he must never know I was in Minas Tirith.” Confused silence met that statement. Perhaps she hadn’t phrased it very clearly. 

Ivriniel frowned. “What do you mean? You just said you met him there.”

“Only briefly,” she reminded her aunt. “And I never told him my name. I doubt he remembers me.” Or more precisely she prayed he didn’t! Perhaps King Éomer did that sort of kissing girls in cupboards all the time? He had certainly seemed to know what to do. She bit her lip, wondering as she had done so many times since, if he had found somebody else to help him forget after parting from her. Still, that was none of her business.

Amrothos, who had been watching her intently, suddenly groaned. “Lothíriel, what have you done? I can see it in your face that you’re not telling us everything.”

If only her brother didn’t know her so well! “It’s a little bit complicated,” she temporized.

Ivriniel sat down in one of the chairs and smoothed out her skirts. “Start at the beginning, Child,” she advised.

Lothíriel smiled at the familiar words and felt a little better. Her mother had died giving birth to her, so she had been brought up by Ivriniel, who had thrown all her heart into the task of looking after her brother’s lively brood. Yet not even to her could she tell all the truth.

“It was on the night of the Pelennor battle,” she began her tale. No need to explain what had taken her to Minas Tirith, for Ivriniel had helped her get a berth on one of the supply ships and covered her absence at home so none of her family had been the wiser. In retrospect it might not have been the most sensible action to travel into the midst of a war, but she just hadn’t been able to stay away when all her loved ones were in danger.

She sighed. Of course there had also been that unfortunate quarrel with her brother Elphir, who’d been left in charge of Dol Amroth. But what if something had happened to her father or brothers and she had never known! Although Amrothos had been horrified when he had finally stumbled upon her in the Houses of Healing and had sent her home at once. By then of course, she had wanted nothing else.

Lothíriel began to pace. “I was tired and exhausted. King Éomer...” she hesitated. “He happened upon me when I took a break.” A break from soothing men crying with unbearable pain, from easing others into their last sleep, from witnessing horrible injuries. “He took the time to talk to me, though he must have been completely spent.” She had heard it in his voice how close he had been to breaking and with all her being had wanted to soothe that hurt. With disastrous results...

“And then?” Amrothos interrupted her musings.

“Let your sister tell her story in peace,” Ivriniel reprimanded him.

Lothíriel took up her pacing again. She might as well tell the worst – or at least as much as she was willing to divulge. “We ended up kissing,” she stated.

“What!” Amrothos sat straight upright. “Éomer did what?”

“We kissed,” Lothíriel corrected him.

She couldn’t bring herself to voice the whole awful truth, that it had been her initiating that disastrous kiss. All to keep her father from finding her! And then Éomer had sounded so desperate, so hurt, that she had wanted to ease him any way she could. It was not only that she owed the Rohirrim her life, but she just couldn’t bear to see him in pain. Not after he had held her so tenderly. In the dark of that cupboard she would have done anything to make him forget his heartbreak. For a moment nothing had mattered, no propriety, no conventions. There were just the two of them and he needed her.

Lothíriel pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. Madness! It was as if she had been a different person from the properly brought up Princess of Dol Amroth. She hadn’t even protested at his actions! And it was not as if she couldn’t defend herself against unwanted advances. After all she had grown up with three older brothers, so knew exactly where it hurt.

Ivriniel cleared her throat. “But if he kissed you, surely he’ll remember you?” she asked with her usual common sense. “Wouldn’t he?” She looked at Amrothos in enquiry, for he was their authority on male behaviour.

“I should hope so,” her brother snarled. “Who does he think he is to go round kissing my sister! Let me tell you, I intend to give him a piece of my mind.”

“Amrothos, no!” Lothíriel exclaimed. “Please let it rest. It was late, we were both tired and it just happened. Anyway, he never got a proper look at me, so I’ll doubt he’ll recognize me.”

These words failed to soothe her brother’s wrath. “What do you mean, he never got a proper look at you? Are you telling me Éomer is in the habit of just randomly mauling the females of my family without even sparing them a glance?”

Really, her brother was making a hash of it! “King Éomer does no such thing,” she snapped. “He was perfectly polite! But I had hidden from Father in one of those linen cupboards, so it was pretty dark. He probably thought I worked in the Houses of Healing.” What she had repeated to herself over and over during the past months: there was nothing to connect a dishevelled, grubby servant girl with the elegant and refined Princess of Dol Amroth. Her best defence. It had to hold!

Aunt Ivriniel had followed their argument with a frown. “Yes, I suppose it’s better if we hush that up. Imrahil probably wouldn’t like Lothíriel kissing the King of Rohan in a linen cupboard all that much.”

Amrothos groaned. “Not like it? Father would throw a fit!”

Lothíriel nodded unhappily, for once in perfect agreement with her brother. And they didn’t even know the worst. The memory of calloused hands roaming possessively over her body sent a flush of heat through her. That rough, strained voice in the dark had robbed her of all her senses and she had responded as no gently brought up maiden had any business to do. King Éomer would think her no better than a common harlot!

A spark of rebellion flared within her at the unfairness of it all. If you looked at it logically, they had both done the same: King Éomer had kissed her and she had kissed him. As simple as an equation. Yet if the truth ever came out, he would at worst face some censure for wanting to take advantage of a servant girl, whereas her reputation would be ruined. Where was the justice in that? But she doubted her father would weigh the facts so dispassionately. In her experience men didn’t respond well to rational arguments. Unbidden the words he had uttered at the last unfortunate incident involving her came back to her.

She turned to her two co-conspirators. “No, Father must never find out. Remember what he said when I made those experiments before the war?”

“You blew up your shed,” Amrothos reminded her. Rather unfairly she thought, for she had only been trying to help and after all, accidents happened.

Ivriniel tapped her foot thoughtfully. “Yes, dear Imrahil was rather vocal about the affair at the time. If I remember correctly, he threatened to let Elphir find you a husband. Still, he has probably forgotten about that.”

“Then I don’t want to remind him!”

“A wise decision,” Ivriniel agreed. “Your brother might well make a hash of it.”

Amrothos crossed his arms on his chest. “So you’re hoping Éomer won’t recognize you. But what if he does?”

“I’ll pretend he’s mistaken,” Lothíriel replied. Her second line of defence. And surely the man would have as little interest in explaining the circumstances of their meeting to her father as her?

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I’ll improvise,” she snapped. “After all he’s only here for three days.” It had to work!

Her brother still looked unconvinced, but that moment her aunt heaved herself up from the chair with a decisive nod. “I agree, it will definitely be best to hush up the whole unfortunate incident. King Éomer might even think that you tried to trap him into a compromising situation.”

Lothíriel stared at her aunt in horror. The thought had not occurred to her before. Compromising did not even begin to describe it!

Ivriniel shook out her voluminous skirts. “Yes, that’s the best option. I’ll pass the word for everybody not to mention your absence during the war.”

Lothíriel relaxed slightly. That took care of the servants’ gossip. Her father might suffer under the happy illusion that he was the head of the household, but in reality Ivriniel, fondly called The General by her niece and nephew, ran Dol Amroth.

“Thank you,” she sighed.

“I still don’t like it,” Amrothos grumbled, but subsisted at her imploring glance. “Oh very well, I promise not to give you away.”

She hugged him. “You’re the best of brothers!”

Affectionately he squeezed her shoulder. “Enough flattery, honey girl,” he answered, using an old childhood nickname. He must have seen the anxiety in her eyes, for he gave her a reassuring smile. “And don’t worry. I’m sure you’re right and Éomer will long have forgotten you.”

Chapter 2

The mead was excellent, the best he had ever tasted outside the Mark. Éomer let the liquid roll round his mouth for a moment longer. In fact it might even surpass the Hornburg’s famous brew. When he said as much to Imrahil, his friend beamed with pleasure.

“My daughter’s work. She supervises the whole process personally.”

Ealdred, one of Éomer’s advisors, caught his eye at those words and shot him a significant glance. Éomer sighed inwardly. The ceremonial offering of mead played an important role in the Riddermark and it was considered auspicious to have a wife who made a good brew. As the old saying went: strong mead makes strong sons. He wondered what other perfections this princess sported – besides her impeccable bloodlines of course. Although to give him his due, Imrahil had not made the least push to fix a match. On the contrary, the princess had attended neither the Fields of Cormallen nor Aragorn’s coronation, quite unlike the rest of the female population of Gondor.

As a result his advisors had been delighted at this invitation to visit Dol Amroth, for it provided the perfect opportunity to inspect what surely had to be one of Gondor’s most eligible females. He sighed again. In the past months, Éomer had increasingly begun to feel like a stallion that had a string of likely mares paraded before him. With the only difference that the stallion could enjoy himself and move on to the next one, whereas he’d be shackled to the one he chose for life. And all for the good of the Riddermark!

He let his glance roam over the assembled nobility of Dol Amroth that mingled with the Rohirrim to fill Imrahil’s hall. Hundreds of beeswax candles lit up the huge space, an extravagance that showed the wealth of his host. Their scent warred with the extravagant perfumes worn by the ladies of the court, who seemed to be out in force tonight.

Suddenly black hair tumbling down a slender back caught his eye, but as the woman turned round the movement held none of that awkward grace he’d hoped for. No grey eyes regarded him gravely, instead he recognized the daughter of a minor lord he’d already met in Minas Tirith. Éomer frowned. A year had passed and still she intruded on his thoughts at the most inopportune moments! But only because he owed her an apology, he reminded himself. If only he had asked her for her name, then he could have settled the whole affair ages ago and regained his peace of mind.

His discreet enquiries at the Houses of Healing had yielded no results; the girl seemed to have vanished without a trace, as if the earth had swallowed her up. In fact he sometimes wondered if he had dreamt the whole encounter. If so, the dream might at least have continued a little longer!

A flutter at the other end of the hall drew his attention as people moved apart to make way for some late-comers. First to enter was Amrothos with an elderly lady of regal bearing and then...

He caught his breath. Could it be? She smiled politely at the courtiers greeting them and paused to exchange a word every now and again, never once looking toward him.

“Ah, here come my sister and my daughter at last,” Imrahil said as the two women ascended the steps to the dais.

Of the elderly lady’s introduction, Éomer only took in a confused impression of a profusion of pink lace. Then Imrahil led the princess forward and still she would not meet his eyes.

“Éomer, may I introduce my dear daughter, Lothíriel.”

She sank into a flawless curtsy. “It is a great honour, King Éomer.” A low voice with a tremor of nerves, speaking Westron as only the highest nobility did. And that moment he knew. It was her!

He took her hand and bowed over it. “The honour is mine.” The wave of pure pleasure rushing through him took him by surprise. “But I think we’ve met before?”

Her fingers trembled and she looked up at him at last. “We have, my Lord King?” Her face held polite surprise.

His certainty faltered. She looked so different with her hair put up and the long flowing dress somehow made her seem taller. Had he been mistaken? But the eyes!

Imrahil looked from one to the other. “What is this? You know each other?”

Princess Lothíriel graciously unfolded a fan. “I’m afraid not, for I’ve not yet had the pleasure of making King Éomer’s acquaintance.” A bland smile. “Perhaps you have me confused with somebody else?”

His mind belatedly caught up with his tongue. Did he really want to explain to her doting father how he thought he had met her? And suddenly he remembered how she had hidden in the cupboard at Imrahil’s approach. What was going on here? However, clearly he needed to use a more indirect approach. “I’m sorry,” he said with another bow. “I beg your pardon, Lady Lothíriel.”

She assured him of her forgiveness and then effortlessly led the conversation onto the kind of topics that the ladies here in Gondor could spend a whole evening discussing: the weather, his journey to Dol Amroth, their fellow guests.

Éomer’s uncertainty grew. This refined young woman bore no similarity to the waif with a tear streaked face that he had last seen peeking out of a linen cupboard. Yet he couldn’t just let the matter rest, he had to know. However, trying to draw Imrahil’s daughter aside after only just meeting her would only call undue attention to them.

So he endured a little more of her insipid conversation, before excusing himself to talk to another acquaintance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her relaxing as he moved away. She exchanged a quick smile with her brother Amrothos, the first unguarded expression he had seen on her face.

After that he circulated amongst the other guests, yet always kept an eye on her. Éothain, the captain of his guard, noticed and lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

Éomer grinned back. “Just a little genteel hunting...”

He still couldn’t quite make up his mind. And as she glided across the dance floor in the arms of one young man after another, he could have sworn she kept up an equally furtive observation of his movements. Then he saw his chance.

A dance had just come to an end and she stood with her partner near one of the doors leading out onto the gardens. Éomer bore down on them and the man most conveniently faded into the crowd with a deferential bow.

“Would you grant me a dance, my lady?” Éomer asked.

She fanned herself. “You’re most kind, my Lord King,” she replied, “but I really think I need a quick break, so-”

“Very wise,” he agreed. And before she could add anything else, he placed her hand on his arm and whisked her out the door. At a nod, his guards stayed behind.

On the terrace outside, servants proffered trays of refreshments and he picked up two shallow cups of mead. “A drink?”

She accepted one of the cups with a stiff nod. “You’re most kind.”

He grinned to himself. She objected to his treatment of her, did she? Well, she could always blame it on his barbaric upbringing. “Shall we sit by the fountain?” he suggested.

“Whatever pleases you, my Lord King.”

He ignored the lukewarm enthusiasm with which she received his proposition and led the way to one of the stone fountains gracing the formal gardens. Water spouted in a jet from the mouth of the statue of a giant fish and he wondered how the effect was accomplished.

“We don’t have anything like that in Rohan,” he remarked as he settled her on the rim of the fountain. “It’s most ingenious. Do you know how it works?”

 He hadn’t really expected an explanation, but to his surprise she nodded. “My grandfather came up with the design himself. There’s a big water tank on one of the towers with a series of pipes and valves leading down to the gardens.” She motioned at the gravel paths. “After the water emerges in the fountain, it’s channelled along underground pipes back to the bottom of the tower, from where it’s pumped up again.” She smiled. “We only have the fountains running on feast days, or the poor donkey that turns the pump would be worn out.”

She had a nice smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Trying to put her at ease, he indicated her drink. “The mead is excellent. Your father mentioned that you take a personal interest in the brewing?”

“You’re too kind,” she murmured. “Indeed I only supervise the servants.”

As befitted a Princess of Dol Amroth? The moonlight cast its cool light over her silver gown, calling up shimmering highlights. After having paid for Éowyn’s wedding dress made from Harad silk, he had an idea how much it must have cost. The casual way she wore such wealth alone marked her for a princess. Nobody could be more different from the little healer girl clad in stained brown robes he remembered from Minas Tirith and yet his instincts still insisted he had met her before.

She fanned herself. “How warm it is. Do you have such mild weather in Rohan in the spring, too?”

They seemed to be back to polite conversation, which invariably involved the weather. He sometimes wondered what highborn Gondorian ladies talked about in bed – about balmy night breezes?

“Back home it’s not as mild as here,” he replied. “I suppose it must be the moderating influence of the sea.”

“Yes, indeed.” She nodded as if he’d just said something exceedingly clever. Then she set down her cup on the rim of the fountain. “Well, thank you very much for this brief break, my Lord King.”

Clearly she wanted to end their private conversation. Éomer decided to be brutally direct. “It is you, isn’t it,” he said.

She froze in the process of rising from her seat. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re the girl I met in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith.”

She frowned. “My lord, you are mistaking me for someone else. I haven’t been to Minas Tirith in years, not since the Shadow grew so threatening.”

Why couldn’t she just admit it? “You needn’t be afraid that I would give you away,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.” He knew pressing her so hard was not well-mannered, but he wanted the truth from her. “On the night of the Pelennor battle, your father told me his daughter was safe and sound in Dol Amroth, yet I wonder how much he really knew about your whereabouts.” He fixed her with a stern gaze. “Well, my lady?”

Those grey eyes regarded him as if mesmerized. “My father!”

“Should I go and ask him?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Anyway, what would you say? That you think you ki–” She stumbled to an abrupt halt.

“...kissed his daughter in a linen cupboard,” Éomer finished for her triumphantly. “Yes, indeed! Ha, I knew it was you!”

Her face drowned of all colour and he felt a flash of remorse. But really, she should have admitted it from the start. After all, he was perfectly ready to apologize for his behaviour.

She had sunk back on the rim of the fountain and gripped her cup of mead so hard, her knuckles stood out white. “Please, it’s not what you think...” She took a large gulp of drink.

A group of young noblemen spilled out of the doors to the hall that moment, laughing and shouting, and momentarily distracted him. However, they moved down the other end of terrace.

When he turned his attention back to the princess, he found her regarding him steadily. “It wasn’t me,” she stated.

“What?”

She lifted those lovely grey eyes to his face. “It was my sister.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Imrahil has no other daughters,” he pointed out, his temper fraying. What did she take him for to try and feed him such an obvious lie?

She licked her lips. “The family doesn’t like to talk about her... Gliwen is actually my half-sister.”

Surely she was lying through her teeth! But before he could tell her so, she continued her tale. “Everybody says we look a lot alike, almost like twins, but she’s actually a little younger. It happened after my mother’s death... Father sought comfort... and one of the servant women...” She blushed furiously.

Éomer closed his mouth with a snap as it finally dawned on him what this refined princess was telling him. A by-blow? Imrahil? He couldn’t believe it.

“Are you telling me your father has an illegitimate daughter?” he asked, brutally blunt.

She blushed even harder and ducked her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

Was that really the truth? Yet why would a well brought up Gondorian princess invent such a preposterous lie? That was even harder to believe. The ladies here were so prudish and prim, they even considered the discussion of horse breeding an improper subject. “Tell me more,” he demanded.

“I will, but...” she swallowed, “...my lord, do you promise me you won’t mention this to my father?”

He frowned. “And why not?”

“Father doesn’t like us talking about Gliwen to outsiders – to spare her embarrassment.”

There was no shame in being born outside the wedding cloak in the Mark, but he knew Gondor differed in that respect. As if it were the child’s fault! Well, he didn’t want to carry tales to Imrahil anyway. He could get to the bottom of things perfectly well himself. “All right,” he agreed. “But only if you tell me the whole story.”

Relaxing slightly, she took another gulp of mead. “There is not much more to tell,” she answered, staring down at the silver reflections in the fountain. “Gliwen was always a lot wilder than me – she got me into trouble more than once. During the war, she decided to travel to Minas Tirith and was helping in the Houses of Healing when you happened upon her. However, Father never found out. When she got back, she told me what had happened...”

Truth or lie? Yet in a way that would explain why the girl he remembered differed so much from Princess Lothíriel. Well, he could always put it to the test.

“I want to meet this Gliwen of yours,” he said.

“What?”

“Why not? If she’s Imrahil’s daughter, I presume she lives in Dol Amroth as well, doesn’t she?”

“Why yes, but...” She seemed to hear the challenge in his tone. “Very well,” she agreed.

He rose and extended a hand to help her up. “Tomorrow.”

Her fingers shook slightly. “Tomorrow.”

Gliwen = honey maiden

“You told him what!”

Lothíriel winced at her brother’s exclamation. “Do keep your voice down,” she entreated him.

Her head pounded and the bright morning light flooding into Ivriniel’s solar hurt her eyes. Perhaps she should have waited to call this renewed council of war, but her worries had hardly let her sleep.

Her aunt poured her a cup of tea. “Here, have something to drink.”

Lothíriel nodded gratefully and stirred in a spoonful of her special honey. Reserved for the family’s use, it came from the beehive she kept in what had been her mother’s private garden, but today not even its delicate taste could cheer her up.

Amrothos began to pace the small room. The whole solar was decorated in shades of pink and lavender, giving his face an unhealthy hue by contrast. “Have you gone out of your mind?” he demanded to know. Suddenly he cast her a sharp glance. “Or were you drunk?”

“No, I wasn’t!” Lothíriel snapped back. Though she’d had more mead than was usual for her. It was all that man’s fault for not even giving her a choice of drink. Let alone of what company she wanted to keep!

Her brother raked a hand through his hair. He looked rather worse for wear after the night’s festivities, but probably so did she. The thoughts tumbling round and round in her mind had given her no rest and dawn had painted the sky a delicate turquoise before she’d slipped into a brief sleep of exhaustion.

“Have you any idea of his temper?” Amrothos asked. “Why, Éomer is famous for it! Believe me, you don’t want that directed at you.”

Ivriniel stirred in her seat where she sat contemplating Lothíriel’s words. “Surely he wouldn’t hurt a woman, would he?”

“No,” Amrothos admitted grudgingly, “but he wouldn’t hold back with his words. Lothíriel would receive a right tongue lashing.”

Lothíriel shivered. Just having those steely blue eyes boring into her had been quite enough. How could he be so different from the patient man who hadn’t minded her crying all over him. “I might have panicked a little,” she admitted.

“A little?” Amrothos barked in disbelief.

“It’s not my fault if the man can’t take a hint!” she shot back, her sense of grievance returning. “I tried everything short of bashing him over the head to get rid of him. Not even talking endlessly about the weather put him off.”

“Well, what do you expect,” Amrothos answered. “He’s not one of your soft courtiers. The man is used to battling Uruk-hai.”

“And that’s exactly how he holds a conversation! He just kept pounding away at me and wouldn’t take no for an answer. And then he threatened to ask Father, so I had to come up with something fast. It was the best I could think of on the spur of the moment!”

One disaster after another. It seemed the man only had to get near her to make her behave in a manner completely inappropriate in a properly raised princess. She’d felt like a hapless deer being cornered by a pack of hounds and had said the first thing that had come to her mind, using an old childhood nickname Amrothos had given her. Oh, if only she had that imaginary sister to take the blame for kissing King Éomer in a cupboard! It was a mystery to her how matters had gone from bad to worse so quickly. In a single evening all her carefully planned defences had been swept away.

Amrothos seemed to read her thoughts. “So much for your wonderful plan,” he said. “What are you going to do now?”

She took a deep breath. The answer had come to her just before she fell into an exhausted sleep. “There’s only one thing I can do.”

“You will tell him the truth?” Amrothos asked, undisguised relief in his voice.

“What and have him run to Father with his tale?” Lothíriel exclaimed.

She couldn’t even imagine what her father would say, confronted with his daughter’s invention of an illegitimate child for him. And the necessary confession of her earlier encounter with the King of Rohan would put the last nail in her coffin. Though usually an indulgent father, Imrahil could be strict and inflexible when provoked. Lothíriel wondered what he would do to her. Close her tower and take all her projects away? Exile in some far off place? And there was always Elphir’s offer to find her a husband. She shivered. Even disgraced, she’d still have a large dowry, and for the right price there would be those willing to take on the taming of a recalcitrant princess.

She pushed her cup of tea away and rose. “No. He wants to meet Gliwen. Very well, he shall.” Forward, the only way to go when you were cornered.

Amrothos choked out a sound between a croak and a splutter. “What?”

She hugged herself and turned to Ivriniel. “And that’s where I need your help.”

Her aunt looked troubled. “Child, you know I would do anything for you, but is this wise?”

“What other choice do I have?” She crossed to the mantelpiece. A picture of Ivriniel and her sister Finduilas as young women hung there. While the younger sister looked out at the world with a dreamy smile, Ivriniel standing behind her faced the artist almost warily, her nose prominent in her face. “Were you never in any trouble when you were younger?”

Ivriniel sighed. “I had my head in my books all day: reading brave tales of long dead heroes. At one time I could have described the Battle of the Camp blow by blow.” She gave a deprecating laugh. “I must have been a sad bore! Too late did I discover that the real world had passed me by.” She looked away and stirred her tea. “You are right to fight. I was always far too docile.”

Lothíriel exchanged a worried glance with Amrothos. Due to some disappointment in her youth, their aunt had never married, instead taking on a mother’s role to her niece and nephews. She hardly ever spoke about those times.

Impulsively Lothíriel knelt by her chair and hugged her. “I’m sorry.”

Ivriniel stroked her cheek. “Never mind, Child, that was long ago. We need to address your troubles now. What do you want me to do?”

Lothíriel took a deep breath. “I’m not sure if King Éomer believes my story.” She ignored a sarcastic humph from Amrothos. “But if you were to arrange the meeting, surely he would change his mind. You appear so very respectable!”

“A meeting with whom?” Amrothos interrupted. “Lothíriel, where do you think you can find a young woman looking enough like you and willing to play such a role?”

Really, her brother was a bit slow this morning. Ivriniel caught on quicker. “You will go yourself,” she stated.

While Amrothos gave a good impression of a fish out of water, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly, Lothíriel nodded. “Yes.”

“It will never work out,” he protested. “Surely Éomer will recognize you for the same woman.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “No, he won’t. I’ve thought it all through logically: I’ll wear the old clothes I use for looking after my bees and will try to appear as different from last night as possible. I’ve already told him we look enough alike to be taken for twins.” She chewed her lower lip as a new thought struck her. “You know, it’s a shame I didn’t think to invite a real twin last night. Somebody nobody mentions because she’s put away or something...”

“If you’re not careful, Father will put you away!”

Really, Amrothos was not very helpful this morning. “No, he won’t,” she said in her most reasonable tone. “Once King Éomer has spoken to Gliwen – as briefly as possible – that will be the end of the matter. He’ll leave here after three days none the wiser and Father need never know.” A solid, simple plan. The problem with the old one had been that she hadn’t included King Éomer’s forceful personality into her calculations – a mistake she wouldn’t repeat. She was beginning to feel more cheerful again.

“The end of the matter?” Amrothos groaned. “Really, how can you be so naive! Éomer kissed you-”

“Kissed Gliwen,” Lothíriel corrected him. Somehow it was easier to think of that happening to somebody else.

“Kissed Gliwen,” Amrothos complied, “and then he wants to meet her. Do you really think he has nothing but talking on his mind?”

“Oh!” Lothíriel straightened up from kneeling by her aunt. “You think that...that man wants to...”

“I don’t know!” Amrothos exclaimed. “Éomer is a good fellow, as honourable as any of us. But the fact remains that he can’t very well have serious intentions in seeing her – she’s completely unsuitable as Queen of Rohan after all. Perhaps a gentle dalliance, if she’s willing?”

“Well she’s not!” Lothíriel snapped. The cheek of the man!

Amrothos rubbed his temples. “I should have kept my mouth shut,” he murmured. “It’s too early to think straight.”

Ivriniel tapped her fingers on the table. “Perhaps it’s best if we have Gliwen married?” After accepting the need for deception, her aunt seemed to enter into the spirit of it. She was not called The General for nothing. “We could even borrow a baby! The cook’s niece has a sweet little baby boy who’s only four months old.”

“No!” Lothíriel and Amrothos both protested in horror.

 Lothíriel could just picture the scene of confronting King Éomer with a baby on her hip. What would he think of her! That she’d wasted no time moving onto the next man?

Ivriniel looked a little hurt at having her suggestion refused so summarily, so Lothíriel gave her a smile. “Let’s just leave it at Gliwen telling him to let things rest. We shouldn’t complicate our plan.”

“Our plan?” Amrothos asked. “I had nothing to do with it, Sister! You’re the one with the death wish.”

Lothíriel began regretting that she had included him in her council. “Is that all you can contribute?” she asked. “If so, maybe we should finish here.”

“Actually I have one more fact to contribute,” Amrothos answered. “I talked to Lord Ealdred last night.”

“Who is he?” Ivriniel asked.

“One of Éomer’s councillors. He hinted that if the King of Rohan finds the Princess of Dol Amroth attractive, he might suggest an alliance to the lady’s father...”

Lothíriel sank down on a nearby chair. “An alliance!”

Amrothos put his hands on the armrests of her chair and fixed her with an imploring regard. “Think about what you do, Lothíriel. The man you deceive might one day be your husband.”

Rohan! They had nothing but horses there – or at least the few Rohirrim she’d met the night before had talked of nothing else. They probably even compared the finer points of horse configuration in bed. Then it hit her. To be in bed with... no, she definitely did not want to contemplate that!

“Does Father know?” she asked and was surprised how hoarse her voice sounded.

Amrothos hesitated. “Probably.”

So now her foolish action in Minas Tirith not only threatened to ruin her reputation, but an alliance between their countries as well. As for what she’d done last night... She closed her eyes. Yes, King Éomer would no doubt have something to say about being offered a bride with the manners of a harlot and the truthfulness of an orc chief.

She opened her eyes again and stared her brother straight in the face. “This changes nothing. On the contrary, don’t you see?” Despite her best effort, she could not prevent a note of pleading creeping into her voice.

Amrothos let out his breath with a sigh. “I feared as much.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So what do you want us to do?”

She gave him a shaky smile. “Help me convince King Éomer that he wants to forget about Gliwen.” After that she could always see to it that he did not find the Princess of Dol Amroth attractive enough to offer her his hand in marriage. After all, he had not seemed particularly taken with her last evening. Unless that type of bludgeoning conversation was his way of expressing an interest? Hopefully not!

Her brother nodded. “Oh very well. But I just know I will regret this.”

“I’ve got it!” Ivriniel, who had been sunk deep in thought, suddenly exclaimed. She looked at them triumphantly. “Garlic!”

***

The poor donkey would be worn out by the time the Rohirrim left, Lothíriel thought to herself. Her father had decided to hold an informal court gathering in the gardens, so the fountains were running again and everywhere small groups of people strolled along the pebbled paths or sat in the screened off alcoves provided by the privet hedges.

For once fortune seemed to favour her, for her presence or absence would not be particularly noted, as long as she made sure her father thought her in the company of the other ladies. So she moved through the throng, exchanging greetings and meaningless compliments, careful to always stay within his sight.

The Rohirrim looked a bit ill-at-ease at what had to be an unfamiliar setting to them. She got the impression they would really much rather have done something – riding, hunting or whatever – rather than stand around aimlessly. Feeling sorry for them, she chatted to some riders and found that a few simple questions as to the difference between Rohirric horses to those of Dol Amroth sufficed to get a lively discussion going and make them relax. They had an endearing, childlike enthusiasm for their favourite topic, quite different from the guarded conversation of Gondorian courtiers.

Every now and again she felt the gaze of their king on her, but he made no move to approach her and she in her turn traced her path so she stayed well away from him. Now it just remained to wait for Ivriniel to make her move. They had hammered the plan out between them, but it depended on fine timing. She began to edge towards one side, where Amrothos waited by a rose arch spanning the entrance to a path between two high hedges.

That moment she had a glass of wine thrust into her hands. “A drink, Lothíriel?”

She looked up to find her father by her side. A bolt of alarm shot through her. Had he found out? But no, he was smiling benignly down at her. “Daughter?”

She accepted the glass gingerly. At least her father knew she preferred dry white wine. She couldn’t have stomached more mead, not this early in the afternoon. “Thank you.”

“You look very pretty,” her father complimented her. “That’s a new dress, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” she replied. Since when did her father notice what she wore? She had chosen the pale green dress mainly for the ease with which she would be able to slip out of it, but she couldn’t very well tell him that.

“Very fetching,” he commented. “Even Elphir remarked how much like a princess you’ve been looking lately.”

“How kind of him,” she murmured.

Her father heard the edge in her voice and the corners of his mouth twitched. “And you’re learning to be diplomatic as well, who would have thought that.”

Guiltily Lothíriel looked away. Little did he know what diplomatic quicksand she had got herself mired in – but she would clear up the situation today, she swore to herself.

He took her arm and strolled with her between some flowerbeds. “I do appreciate the way you’ve started to step into your proper place.” He slanted her a sideways smile. “Though I know you prefer the company of your books to that of the court.”

“There’s nothing wrong with books,” she protested.

“Of course not. However, a Princess of Dol Amroth must be aware of the position she fills.” He squeezed her hand. “As you’ve been doing most admirably.”

She had a hollow feeling in her belly. What would he say if he ever found out the truth about her behaviour! “Father...”

“I’ve been absent so much during these past troubled years,” he continued, “Perhaps too much. And you’ve really lacked the right female role model while growing up.”

Lothíriel followed his glance to see it lingering on Ivriniel. “I never lacked for love!”

“For which I’m grateful,” he agreed. “Yet I have often thought that your aunt would have been better off with a family of her own. Finduilas married so well that our father saw no need to make a match for Ivriniel and let her linger amongst her old tales.”

Lothíriel well remembered her eccentric grandfather, who had died when she had been eleven. He had been a favourite with her and many of the books in her tower had been his.

Her father patted her hand. “But we were talking of how proud I am of my daughter who is growing up into a beautiful and accomplished princess.”

A lump in her throat, she shook her head. “I don’t deserve such praise.” How ironic that he should choose this moment to tell her that.

Her father smiled. “I think you do.” And with a last affectionate squeeze of her arm, he went on to talk to some newly arrived guests.

Lothíriel set down her glass on the rim of one of the fountains. She intercepted a questioning look from Ivriniel and gave a nod. Time to set their plan in motion. While her aunt threaded her way through the guests towards the King of Rohan, she went to join Amrothos.

“What did Father want?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

But as they hurried along the path that would bring them back inside the palace, she couldn’t help thinking that it would have been so much easier if only she had told King Éomer that Gliwen had died. It would have served the woman right for all the trouble she was causing!

Chapter 4

Lady Ivriniel walked slowly, pausing every now and again to catch her breath. Éomer paced beside her, slowing his steps to hers and waiting patiently as she stopped at the top of some stairs to lean on her cane. The old lady had seemed quite sprightly really, but she had to be over seventy years old.

Imrahil’s palace was a bit of a maze, with the oldest part in the centre and annexes built on haphazardly. He didn’t know his way around it yet, but the route Lady Ivriniel took him on seemed rather circuitous.

As if reading his mind, she paused on a walkway connecting the keep to the outlying battlements. “We don’t want to set any tongues wagging, you know,” she said in a dignified manner. “Gliwen might be a little wild, but she’s a good girl.”

This was accompanied by a sharp glance cast his way that made him feel like a little boy caught filching honey cakes. Their housekeeper in Aldburg had often fixed him with an identical look!

Éomer reminded himself that he was a grown man now. And a king. “I know, my lady,” he answered.

She resumed walking, her cane tapping the wooden floor lightly. “She consented to see you as a favour to her sister, but only briefly.”

He nodded in agreement. “I only want to clear up a small misunderstanding.”

They descended from the walkway and passed through a small postern gate watched by a couple of bored looking guards. A path led along the foot of the walls to a kitchen garden filled with orderly rows of vegetables. Beyond that a meadow sloped down gently, dotted with apple and cherry trees that were in full bloom at this time of the year. A low stone wall bordered the field, with a weathered tower looking out over the salt marshes spreading to the north of Dol Amroth. Suddenly Éomer spotted a figure sitting on the wall, huddled in a large cloak, and with the wind tugging at her loose black hair. So she really existed!

Lady Ivriniel took his arm to steady herself while walking across the grass. “Poor Gliwen is often mistaken for Lothíriel,” she commented. “The two look as much alike as two peas in pod. Of course her mother resembled poor Sílavain, my brother’s dead wife, which is probably why he...” she coughed delicately.

“I understand,” he assured her. Next time he saw Princess Lothíriel, he would have to apologize for doubting her!

“I can tell them apart with no trouble,” Lady Ivriniel chattered on, “but then I’ve known them from birth. You see, I brought Gliwen up after her mother’s death. Lothíriel is a couple of inches taller and her eyes are bluer, whereas Gliwen’s face is rather rounder and her hair darker.” She gave him a triumphant smile. “And they smell different.”

He blinked. What a strange thing to say. But then the girl turned her head towards them at their approach, watching them from her perch on the crumbling wall. Grey eyes regarded him gravely and impulsively he smiled up at her.

She didn’t smile back.

His smile faltered under her penetrating gaze. “Lady Gliwen,” he said, “well met.”

“King Éomer.”

Lady Ivriniel had watched the two. Now she pointed her cane at a bench next to the entrance to the tower. “I’ll sit there and warm my old bones in the sun for a moment. Don’t be too long.”

Éomer would have assisted her, but she waved him away. “I’m not decrepit yet, young man.” And with livelier steps than she had yet displayed, she crossed the lawn.

He looked back up at Gliwen. Now that he’d had the differences pointed out to him, he thought he could spot them, but the resemblance between the two sisters was really most remarkable. However, Gliwen’s faded red dress and sturdy working shoes clearly belonged to no refined lady. And Princess Lothíriel most certainly had never in her life sported a streak of dirt on one cheek as her sister did.

 She swung her legs over in preparation to sliding down from the wall, but he stayed her with a gesture. “Let me come up.” And giving her no time to reply, he scrambled up the uneven stones and sat down next to her.

She drew her cloak around her and turned her head to watch the view again. Below them spread the flat marshes that bordered the sea, a maze of sandy humps, clumps of reeds taller than a man and narrow channels that reminded Éomer of the Westemnet. Further out the sun rippled on sheets of brackish water, incongruously pink where Dol Amroth’s salt pans lay.

Shouts drew his attention as a tight group of riders trotted past on the small white horses the people of Dol Amroth kept running half wild in the marshes. He realized they were herding something in their middle when he spotted a pair of curved horns.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

“Herding cattle.”

Now he made out a black bull in the middle of the group, occasionally poked by a lance to keep him there. “But why?”

“Father has donated ten head of cattle to the town,” Gliwen replied.

“What for?”

“For the festivities tonight.”

“I see.”

She didn’t seem in a talkative mood, but stared out over the magnificent view. Éomer took the opportunity to study his companion covertly. Her clothes might once have been fine enough, but the rich red had faded to brown and stains and clumsily mended tears marred it. In her hands she held some kind of veil that looked even shabbier. He frowned. Illegitimate or not, surely Imrahil’s daughter deserved better than that?

She still presented her profile to him and involuntarily he tried to trace the differences between the two sisters. Perhaps a gentler curve to her cheekbones, the nose turning up at the tip a little, a slightly rounder figure? The wind dropped for a moment and he caught a whiff of garlic. Definitely not the expensive perfume of a Gondorian lady!

As if she’d read his mind she turned her head abruptly. “Well, my lord, are you satisfied?”

“My apologies for staring at you, Lady Gliwen,” he replied, realizing this had to happen to her often. “The likeness is really most astonishing.”

She shrugged. “We are both my father’s daughters.”

This gruff, prickly creature bore little resemblance to the girl he’d comforted in Minas Tirith. What had happened to make her so guarded? “Lady, have I offended you?” he asked.

Her eyes shifted away. “Of course not.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, while he tried to think what he could have done to make her so antagonistic. The way he had kissed her on their last encounter? Yet she had not objected to it – quite on the contrary!

Gliwen cleared her throat. “King Éomer, you have seen me and talked to me. So now if that is all, I have work to do.” She gathered herself as if to get up.

Éomer grabbed her arm. “Please, Gliwen, stay a moment longer!” They put her to work? Imrahil couldn’t care much for her if she had to earn her living!

Pointedly she looked down at his hand on her arm. “My lord, I don’t know what your purpose was in coming here, but let me tell you that you are very much mistaken if you think I am that kind of woman.”

He could only blink at her stupidly. “What kind of woman?”

“The kind who would welcome your touch on her,” she fired up. “And you might have kissed me, but that does not mean I gave you leave to make free with my name!”

He released her as if she had burnt him. “I know that!” He cast a wary look towards Lady Ivriniel and lowered his voice. “In fact I came here to apologize.”

“To apologize?”

“For my behaviour in Minas Tirith.”

“What!” She sank back down on the wall.

Faced with her stunned surprise, he coloured. “Believe me, Lady Gliwen, it is not my customary habit to take advantage of innocent girls.” No matter how tempting they were... Involuntarily his mind went back to how she had fitted into his arms. He pushed the thought away. “You must blame it on my exhaustion that night. Will you forgive me?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered, still sounding stunned. “So you won’t tell my father?”

Really, both these girls seemed to think he had nothing better to do than go running to Imrahil and telling tales about them! “I won’t,” he assured her, only to hesitate. “Although if he asks me directly, I will have to tell him the truth. I wouldn’t want to lie to a friend.”

Blood rushed to her face. “No, of course not.”

He wondered how she had managed to get to Minas Tirith without her father knowing. Probably not by being truthful! “Did you talk one of your brothers into taking you with him?”

“No, I managed to cadge a berth on one of our supply ships.” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “It was a foolish idea, I know.”

Éowyn’s white face came back to him as she lay lifeless by the carcass of the great beast she had killed. His blood had turned to ice that moment. Slayer of the Witch King or not, he still wished she had remained behind. Yet how could he deny her the right to fight? Had this girl faced similar despair?

He studied her face. “Why did you do it?”

She chewed her lower lip. “I suppose I wanted to be with my family. Father had taken Erchirion and Amrothos with him. We’re very close...”

“That’s understandable,” Éomer agreed. There was more, he thought and waited patiently.

“I wanted to prove something,” she suddenly burst out, “wanted to show that I’m not useless with my head in the clouds all the time.” It sounded like a quote. She hugged herself. “The only thing I proved was that I do not have the stomach for war.”

“That’s not something to be ashamed for,” he said in a gentle voice.

She tossed back her hair. “Being useless?”

“To have no stomach for carnage.” He frowned. “And who said you were useless?” He had a good mind to exchange a few words with the person responsible for her dejection.

She began to tear at a clump of grass growing in a crack of the wall. “My brother Elphir!”

“Oh!” It might not be the most diplomatic thing to do to chew out Dol Amroth’s future prince. “Do you want me to whack him over the head the next time we practise sword fighting?”

A reluctant grin blossomed. “That won’t be necessary. Amrothos and I came up with a wonderful plan to give him an accidental ducking on our last sailing trip.”

He laughed out loud. “A shame I missed that.”

She smiled reminiscently. “Yes, he made a splendid splash.” Then she sobered. “Although I suppose he was right in the end. Father left him in charge of Dol Amroth and the very first day we had a horrible quarrel. That’s when I decided to hide on one of the boats and show them that I could help, too.” She sighed. “I thought to assist in the Healing Houses – of course I didn’t know at the time that it mostly involved fetching linens and wiping up vomit.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And holding dying men’s hands.”

It pained him to see the shadow of pain flitting across a face that had held a smile only a short moment ago. She should smile more often! It gave him a pang to think of her innocence lost to the reality of war. And in all truth he’d played a part in that as well, by forcing his attentions on her.

“Lady,” he said, “when you’re in pain and far from home, a hand to hold is worth more than all the gold in the world.”

Gliwen regarded him with those large grey eyes. “You’re very kind.” She sounded surprised.

Red clover bloomed in pockets of soil on the wall, and attracted by the flowers, a bee landed on her arm. Quickly he moved to brush it off. “Gliwen, careful!”

She withdrew her arm. “No! Don’t frighten it.” Patiently she waited for the bee to take off again, which it did after a moment. “They’re mine,” she explained. “I believe they know me by now.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.” She showed him the old veil she held in her other hand and he realized it was the kind of headgear beekeepers wore to protect their faces. “You could say I’m the mistress of Dol Amroth’s bees. Although old Hingam holds the title officially, I do most of the work.” She grinned. “Somebody has to brew all that mead your riders are drinking so enthusiastically, you know.”

He frowned. “Surely your father has servants to help with that?” Suddenly he remembered what Princess Lothíriel had said the night before. “And I thought your sister supervised the mead making?”

“She...she does,” Gliwen answered with a stutter. “That is...she oversees the whole process, but I look after the bees and collect the honey.”

So Gliwen ran the risk of being stung and her sister got all the praise for the excellent mead? Unaware of his thoughts, she beamed down at another bee that had landed on a flowerhead. “They’re such interesting creatures! When I was a child, I got stung by one and demanded that my father ban them from the garden and have their homes destroyed. So Aunt Ivriniel took me to see the beekeeper who explained all about them.” She gestured enthusiastically. “Did you know a queen bee rules the whole hive? And the worker bees are all female, the drones do no work at all.”

Éomer grinned. “Sounds good.”

She laughed. “I’m not sure, for they don’t live long at all. Although I suppose they enjoy their life while it lasts.”

Struck by a thought, he put his head to one side. “What a funny coincidence that your mother should have given you the name ‘honey maiden’.” Although the name suited her.

She looked away, her smile fading. “Yes, it is.”

Regretful of having reminded her of her dead mother, he looked around for something else to talk about. Another group of riders had appeared in the distance, moving their charge along with loud whoops. Trying to distract her, he motioned at them. “So what kind of festivities will they have in town tonight?”

 “Oh, the usual.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides the cattle, Father has also gifted them a dozen casks of ale, so they will be pretty merry. I suppose there will be bonfires, the usual competitions, music, dancing...”

He noticed her voice had taken on a wistful tone. “Would you like to go?”

She shrugged. “I doubt Amrothos would want me to tag along with his friends, so with Erchirion away that only leaves Elphir, who is much too dignified for that kind of thing.”

“I could take you.”

“You?”

An evening spent away from the court suddenly seemed very attractive. “Look on it as an apology for my behaviour in Minas Tirith,” he suggested.

She hesitated. “That’s very kind, my lord, but-”

He held up a hand to forestall her refusal. “If you want to, I’ll ask Imrahil for permission.”

“Ask Father!”

“Surely he wouldn’t object.” Wasn’t she allowed any time off to enjoy herself?

“That’s not necessary,” she protested. “But, really it wouldn’t be seemly to be alone with you, even if you had a guard along.”

He raised an eyebrow at such high standards of propriety in a girl who kissed strangers in cupboards. However, it would be unkind to say so. “Very well, we’ll ask your aunt to accompany us and lend us respectability,” he suggested.

“My aunt! But–”

“Doesn’t she like the celebrations?”

“She does, very much, but...” Gliwen bit her lip. “...it’s just... I don’t like to go out, people stare so at me.”

Was that the true reason? He could well imagine that people would whisper behind her back, discussing her. Then he had an idea. “Nobody need know who you are!”

“What do you mean?”

He grinned triumphantly. “Just borrow one of your sister’s dresses and everybody will assume that I am accompanying Princess Lothíriel and her aunt for an evening out. We don’t have to tell people you’re not the real princess. So what do you say?”

She looked stunned. “But...but...”

Éomer took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Please?”

“I suppose so...” Gliwen shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had said.

He gave her his best smile. “Good, that’s settled then. And I promise to behave.”

***

The way back seemed just as roundabout, even though Lady Ivriniel took him by a different route. Gliwen had asked him not to speak to the old lady about their planned excursion yet and he wondered how she would greet the news.

In the garden, Éothain hailed him with relief. Éomer had noticed that his captain increasingly gave the impression of a mother hen who had lost one of her chicks when the last male descendant of the House of Eorl was out of his sight too long.

“I have survived the odd battle,” he reminded Éothain, accepting a cup of ale from him, “so I doubt that a seventy year old lady would provide a significant threat to me.”

“I’m not worried about the seventy year old lady,” his captain shot back, “but I bet you didn’t spend nearly an hour chatting to her.”

“You know me too well,” Éomer murmured.

“My Lord King,” his friend said, provoked beyond endurance, “may I remind you that we’re here on serious business! The Mark needs a queen.”

“I know,” he snapped, suddenly no longer in the mood for teasing. “But I’m the one who will have to spend the rest of his life bound to her.” Meduseld simply wasn’t big enough to avoid a person you didn’t like – especially if you were expected to do your part in filling the royal nursery.

“What about Princess Lothíriel?” Éothain asked, motioning to the lady in question, who had just emerged from a walkway between some shrubs, accompanied by her brother. “Ealdred is in raptures over how well connected she is. I thought you liked black hair and she’s pretty enough, isn’t she?”

Éomer pondered the question. The flowing pale green dress displayed a slender figure and she moved gracefully amongst her father’s courtiers, a polite smile fixed to her face. Yet who lived behind that refined facade? He had no idea, except that she didn’t particularly relish his company.

“I hardly know her,” he pointed out.

Éothain sighed. “Really, Éomer, you weren’t half as picky as a Marshal.”

Éomer choked on his ale. “That’s not the same,” he hissed.

“I know, but...” His captain shrugged. “It seems quite simple to me: you need to marry and beget an heir, so why not pick one of these beauties the Gondorians keep throwing at you and get it over and done with?”

“Because it won’t be over and done with for me!” Simple! Feeling a headache forming, he tossed back the rest of the ale. “Unlike you, I happen to care who lies in the bed I crawl into at night.”

“I do care,” Éothain protested. He put his head to one side, considering the matter in more depth. “At least when I’m sober.”

Why had he started this! Éomer held up his hand. “Thank you for your valuable advice, Éothain, but I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

His friend grinned. “I live to serve you, my liege.”

As he lived to serve the Riddermark. Éomer frowned down at his empty cup. So why did this prove so difficult? Before the war, he had never given the matter serious consideration, as he would only have made a wife and children into targets for Wormtongue’s malice. Yet he wanted a family, wanted a son to show the delights of racing across the green plains of the Mark. But beyond that, he wanted to come home to a wife who greeted him with more than a cup of mead and a polite smile. Was that so much to ask for?

Morosely he watched the Princess of Dol Amroth listen to the words of the elderly Lord of Lamedon, a captivated expression on her face, as if she had never listened to more interesting conversation. The man was a bore and talked of nothing but wine making! Surely she had to be screaming with boredom inside?

He couldn’t help thinking how different the two sisters were. They might look like twins, but whereas Gliwen was all fire and spirit, this one had the warmth of a winter storm. Even so he supposed he would have to seek out Princess Lothíriel eventually and apologize for having forced her to talk on a subject which had to be distasteful to her sensibilities. And would she mind lending her sister one of her dresses? Gliwen hadn’t seemed to think so, but it would also mean that the princess had to stay in for the evening to avoid having two Lothíriels walking about. Éomer frowned. He had not before considered this aspect. Hopefully he hadn’t got Gliwen into trouble!

Then he became aware that he was not the only one watching the Princess of Dol Amroth. “Lothíriel has much improved, don’t you think?” he heard somebody say.

Éomer turned his head and spotted her brother Elphir talking to one of his friends behind some ornamental bushes. Talking of bores! Luckily the man hadn’t seen him yet, so Éomer stepped back into the shadow of a tree. Silently he signed to Éothain to retreat back the way they’d come.

“I agree,” he heard Elphir’s friend reply. “Probably due to your esteemed father’s presence. Some women need a firm hand on the reins.”

Éomer shot a look of distaste over his shoulder. The other man had to be nearly double the princess’s age. Did he fancy himself in the role of providing such firm guidance? The woman was mild as milk anyway!

Still, it was none of his business. But it would be nice to get away from this place, even for a short time. He was looking forward to an evening of simple pleasures, not complicated by dynastic considerations or diplomatic quandaries.

A/N: I will be going away on holiday next week and I'm not sure if I'll have internet connectivity, so you might have to wait a little longer for the next chapter - I will just have to see.

Have a good time!

Chapter 5

Amrothos put his head in his hands. “All right,” he groaned, “let me see if I got this right: you are Lothíriel, who’s pretending to be Gliwen, who’s pretending to be Lothíriel?”

“Yes, that sums it up pretty well,” Lothíriel had to admit. When had life got so complicated?

They were back to holding a council of war – the second one of the day. She stared out her window at the setting sun. Had it really only been twenty-four hours ago that she’d stood in this same place, confident of the success of her wonderful plan? How badly she had underestimated her opponent! She might as well have tried to drive away a mûmak with a toothpick.

Amrothos slumped down in a chair, making it creak alarmingly. “Scrubbing floors in Tolfalas,” he moaned. “Ten years at least.”

Lothíriel frowned. Miscreants in Dol Amroth were often sent on guard duty to the barren island at the mouth of the Anduin, yet surely Amrothos was exaggerating. “All’s not lost yet,” she said. “And anyway, nobody need ever find out your part in all this. I won’t give you away.”

“You won’t have to. I believe Father is astute enough to be able to put two and two together, don’t you think?”

Ivriniel patted his arm reassuringly. “Have a cup of tea, my dear,” she advised. “I thought it went rather well. Do you think he noticed the garlic?”

Lothíriel gave her a weak smile. “I’m sure he did. It was a splendid idea, Aunt.” Although it hadn’t seemed to put the man off – she wondered if anything could.

“Well, if I am to wither away my poor life far from home,” Amrothos interjected, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “Can you at least tell me why?”

“Why what?” Lothíriel snapped. They might have suffered a setback in their plans, but surely her brother didn’t have to overreact in such a way?

“Why did you do it? You said yourself you wanted to keep his conversation with Gliwen as brief as possible!”

“I did.” Trying to gain time to order her thoughts, Lothíriel crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Why had she agreed to King Éomer’s suggestion? She wasn’t sure herself. Part of it was his strong personality, but beyond that? “I just felt so bad about lying to him, when he was so unexpectedly nice about me being in Minas Tirith,” she sought to explain.

In fact it had been a relief to talk to somebody about her experiences. And to somebody who knew, who’d been there! His kindness had taken her by surprise and disarmed her defences. It was as if he were a different man with Gliwen. When he had approached her in the garden later to apologise for doubting a princess’s word, the abrupt, cool king had been back with none of his former warmth.

“I know it wasn’t very wise,” she admitted, “but we’ll just have to make the best of it.” Then she brightened up. “Think of it this way: perhaps it will distract him from pursuing his match with the Princess of Dol Amroth?”

Amrothos stared at her so long, Lothíriel began to fidget. “That,” he finally said, “doesn’t even make sense by your twisted standards of logic.” Then he frowned at her still standing in front of the open wardrobe. “What are you doing there anyway?”

“Trying to decide what to wear,” she snapped. Why did he always have to be so negative about her plans!

“My sister is thinking about what to wear!” he exclaimed. “Oh, that I’ve lived to see this day.”

She gritted her teeth. “It’s not easy,” she pointed out. “I need something that I – that is Lothíriel – would lend to me – I mean Gliwen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you still know who you are?”

“Peace, children!” Ivriniel intervened as Lothíriel reached for a brush to throw at her brother. “I for one am looking forward to going to the spring festival. I haven’t been for ages.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “How kind of your King Éomer to include me in his party.”

“He’s not my King Éomer,” Lothíriel protested.

“And kindness had nothing to do with it,” her brother added.

Their aunt frowned. “Gliwen will be safe with him, won’t she? You don’t think he’ll try to...”

“Of course not!” Lothíriel and Amrothos said at the same time.

Amrothos shrugged. “He’ll take care of her, I’m sure.” Then he pointed an accusatory finger at his sister. “What I’m worried about is whether you can take care of yourself and your loose tongue!”

Lothíriel finally chose a gown, an unadorned dark red dress with a matching cloak. “Don’t worry, everything is under control,” she assured them. “I’ve got a plan.”

Amrothos groaned again. “Tolfalas. Twenty years,” he predicted gloomily.

***

The King of Rohan awaited them in the courtyard and bowed over her hand with practised courtesy. “Princess Lothíriel, you honour me.”

His eyes danced, inviting her to share the joke, but she could only think of what he would say and do if he ever found out the truth. He must have sensed her nervousness, for he gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “You’re doing fine,” he whispered. “Shall we go?”

Lothíriel hesitated. Whenever she visited the town, she went on foot along the servants’ shortcut, but she could hardly drag him along there. But just then his men led up the horses and she spotted the pillion seat behind his saddle.

“Meet Firefoot,” King Éomer introduced his stallion, a big grey fellow.

Since it seemed to be expected, Lothíriel extended a hand to stroke his neck. However, Firefoot laid back his ears and showed a formidable array of yellow teeth. Hastily she withdrew her hand.

“Never mind him. He can be a bit jealous,” King Éomer explained and scratched the animal fondly under his quiff. The stallion somehow managed to bare his teeth at her at the same time that he nudged his master for more caresses. “Stupid animal,” King Éomer said.

Lothíriel held her peace. Stupid or far too perceptive?

Then King Éomer mounted the stallion and motioned to one of his men. “Éothain, would you be so kind as to assist the lady?”

The man nodded and a moment later she found herself hoisted up behind King Éomer and had to grab his waist to keep her balance. Wasn’t she going to be given any choice? “I can ride, you know,” she pointed out, piqued by his high-handedness.

“Ah, I wasn’t quite sure,” he replied, sounding annoyingly placid. “Still, now that you’re up here, you might as well stay. Your aunt can ride with my captain Éothain.”

However, Ivriniel proved a tougher nut to crack. “Nonsense,” she said when Éothain offered his services. “I will take my donkey cart.”

Anticipating her wishes, the stable master had already readied the small cart varnished in pink that Ivriniel used whenever she wished to make any purchases in town. Her aunt climbed on, huffing a little, but then grabbed the reins and clicked her tongue. Recognising his mistress, the little donkey stepped out smartly, leaving the surprised Rohirrim behind.

Belatedly King Éomer urged his stallion forward to fall into place behind the old lady. Lothíriel had to smother a grin at the picture they had to present. As if reading her mind, King Éomer threw her a wink over his shoulder. “With a vanguard like that, I would have felt a lot more confident on the march to the Black Gate.”

Lothíriel chuckled and settled more comfortably on her saddle. “My father once said that Aunt Ivriniel is unstoppable as the tide, but a lot less predictable.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. The evening being mild, he only wore a linen shirt and as she rested her hand on his waist she felt a warrior’s firm muscles. Since she was no great horse rider, she had ridden pillion behind her brothers before, yet it was slightly disconcerting to be so close to a strange man. Although she’d been much closer... She pushed that memory firmly from her mind.

“Do any of your men know about me?” she asked, lowering her voice.

King Éomer shrugged. “They don’t need to know, it’s none of their business. Although I’ve told Éothain, as I wouldn’t want to deceive him.” He sounded apologetic.

“Of course not,” she agreed. Why did he have to make her feel like the lowest worm!

The sun had set, but the memory of its glory still lingered above them in streaks of orange and red, and was reflected back by the sea. Some of the Rohirrim had torches along and one of them urged his horse forward to light the way for Ivriniel. Since King Éomer seemed to be quite happy to ride along in silence, Lothíriel turned her mind to the problem at hand. She had dissembled when she had told Amrothos that she had a plan. But as her plans so far had disintegrated at the first contact with the King of Rohan anyway, perhaps the time had come to improvise?

They passed one of the watchtowers that an earlier Prince of Dol Amroth had built and her aunt’s words about being a sad bore came back to her. Could that be the key to putting King Éomer off? Well, she didn’t know anything about ancient battles, but where her family’s heritage was concerned her tutors had drilled her mercilessly.

Heroically she launched into a history of the building of the keep and how the town had later grown around it. He listened patiently, but to her dismay a few pertinent questions distracted her and suddenly she found herself telling him about her grandfather letting his daughters name his ships for him. King Éomer laughed out loud at the story of how Dol Amroth’s sailors had refused to serve on the Pink Primrose.

“I can guess who proposed that name,” he said.

“Actually that was my aunt Finduilas,” she replied. “Ivriniel suggested The Scourge of Umbar, so Grandfather settled on Pink Scourge in the end. The sailors actually vied to serve on her and wore pink bandannas to show their allegiance.”

He guffawed. “I think I would have liked your grandfather.”

She smiled reminiscently. “He was a wonderful man. My tower used to belong to him.”

“Your tower?”

Lothíriel bit her lip at letting too much information slip. “Just a place where I keep my books.” She thought longingly of the peace and solitude found there, uncomplicated by having to be two different people at the same time. Ever since the Rohirrim had arrived, she had spent hardly any time there at all and needed to slip out early in the mornings in order to keep all her babies fed.

He didn’t notice her preoccupation and asked another question about her grandfather, so she told him about the old man’s inventions, the most famous of which was of course Dol Amroth’s harbour chain. One thing led to another and before she knew it, they had reached the town and threaded their way through the narrow streets down to the harbour.

The whole population seemed to be about, but Ivriniel’s cart was a well-known sight and people made way for it readily. All along the quay, merchants had set up temporary stands selling exotic wares and food, but Ivriniel ignored them and headed for her favourite tavern, where she usually refreshed herself after strenuous sessions of haggling for the keep’s supplies. King Éomer watched with bemusement as the staff swarmed around the cart to help Ivriniel down and unhitch the donkey.

“I take it your aunt has been here before?”

“The Jolly Jellyfish is famous for its delicate blends of tea,” she murmured.

“I’m sure it is.”

With a laugh, King Éomer swung his leg over the stallion’s withers and slid down. In the same smooth motion he turned round and simply plucked her off the saddle. She yelped with surprise as he seized her round the waist and swung her down as if she weighed no more than swan’s down. Caught off balance, she stumbled and ended up with her face squashed against his chest.

“I’m perfectly able to dismount on my own!” she hissed as she pushed herself off.

“No harm done,” he soothed her, but amusement coloured his voice.

A strand of her hair had got tangled around a button on his shirt and she had to yank it free. The man was insufferable with his domineering ways!

“Do you always do whatever you want?” she snapped.

“It comes with being a king.”

“Well, I might only be a...” she stopped abruptly when she remembered that she was supposed to be a simple beekeeper. But playing at being her royal sister! “... I’m only a princess,” she continued, “but let me tell you that I will not let you manhandle me as you please.” She swept past him towards the door of the inn.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught his riders exchanging amused grins, which only annoyed her further. At least the innkeeper, Morion, bowed most obsequiously and showed the way to a table outside on the terrace overlooking the harbour. She joined Ivriniel there, who had already been installed with extra cushions and the best view.

King Éomer had caught up with her by then and settled her in her chair. “Very well,” he whispered in her ear as he did so, “next time I will let you manhandle me again.”

For a moment she stared at him in confusion, until it dawned on her that he was referring to their encounter in that infamous linen closet. Blood rushed to her cheeks. He dared! She caught her breath to give him a scathing reply, but one of his men joined their table just then, so she had to content herself with looking daggers at him.

“Ealdred of Norweald,” King Éomer introduced the man, a grey haired warrior with a faded scar along one temple. “One of my advisors.”

The man looked rather uncertainly at the teapot decorated with flowers that Morion himself set down reverently in the middle of the table. Recognising her aunt’s favourite beverage, Lothíriel declined a cup, as to her regret did King Éomer. Ealdred however was too polite to do the same, so Ivriniel poured him a glass of colourless liquid. “A speciality imported from Harad,” she told him, then added some water from a jug one of the servants offered her. The liquid turned milky white.

Before Lothíriel could warn him, Ealdred took a large swig. His eyes widened and he exhaled his breath in a strangled gasp. Water rose to his eyes.

“The Haradrim call this beverage ‘lion’s milk’, because only people strong as lion will drink it,” Ivriniel informed him.

“I can see why,” Ealdred said with a raspy voice. Then he extended his glass. “May I trouble you for another helping, my lady?”

“Of course you may!” With obvious approval her aunt poured him a generous measure, before leaning back in her seat and sipping contentedly at her own glass. It quickly became clear to Lothíriel why the man had been included in their party, for he at once engaged Ivriniel in conversation. Amrothos had disappeared during the ride through the town, presumably to spend the evening in the more congenial company of his friends, which left her with the King of Rohan as sole companion – which was probably exactly what he had intended. Grudgingly she had to admit that as far as executing battle plans went, he had got the better of her so far. Probably all that practice against orcs!

But she was not completely defenceless. King Éomer might have escaped the arak, but there were other culinary weapons in her arsenal. “A plate of your famous seafood for our guests,” she told Morion who was hovering about, “and a bowl of your special for my aunt and myself.”

“At once, my lady,” he assured her and disappeared.

The servants had brought wine for them and now King Éomer clinked his glass to hers. “To our little escape from duty,” he said. “May it prove to be enjoyable, my Lady Princess.”

Still miffed with him for his cavalier treatment, she inclined her head in her most dignified manner. “My Lord King.”

He captured her free hand and raised it to his lips. “And will you forgive me for my teasing, Gliwen?” he whispered.

His eyes held hers, crinkling with laughter at the corners, but filled with warmth. Suddenly the awareness of him flooded her senses: the hairs of his moustache tickling her skin, fingers calloused from wielding a sword curling gently against her palm, soft breath brushing across the back of her hand. A jolt ran through her, leaving her tingling deep inside her belly. When she stole a quick glance at King Éomer, the amusement had drained from his face. For a fleeting moment it seemed to her that she saw a shadow of that overwhelming need which had driven him in Minas Tirith, but the expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Confused she looked away.

What was happening to her?

With a loud clatter Morion set down a plate of seafood on their table, pricking the bubble of silence that surrounded them. “Dol Amroth’s best,” he announced proudly.

Ealdred gave a startled grunt at the forest of lobster claws facing him.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, but I really needed that holiday. We actually went to Dol Amroth - or rather the Camargue, the place that inspired the Dol Amroth of this story with its wetlands, white horses, black bulls and pink salt pans.

Chapter 6

The man liked seafood! Lothíriel watched in quiet resignation as another of her plans floundered ignominiously before her very eyes: skilfully King Éomer cracked open a crab claw and teased out the last morsel with a toothpick while comparing the taste to the crayfish he used to catch in the streams of Rohan as a boy. Not even the speciality of the house - jellyfish salad - put him off.

As a last resort Lothíriel ordered a plate of grilled baby squid, but though poor Ealdred looked suitably nauseated at the tiny tentacles, the King of Rohan simply munched down the chewy things, only commenting that they tasted a bit rubbery.

Eventually he stretched his legs before him. “An excellent meal,” he said, “and finally I got to taste some of Dol Amroth’s specialities. People always assume we Rohirrim like nothing but bland food.”

Lothíriel gave a weak smile. “They do?”

She picked at her own meal, beef stewed in a sauce as black as the hide of the bull it had come from. Usually this was a favourite dish, but she had lost all appetite for it. What more could she do to put this man off?

Then she encountered another warm smile from him and impulsively decided that perhaps for tonight she could let her efforts rest. After all she only had to keep up her deception for another day and then he would be gone. That thought gave her a sudden pause – somehow she found it difficult to imagine life without his powerful presence about.

Lothíriel mentally shook herself. Nonsense! What had got into her tonight? Soon she’d have her peace and quiet back and could return to working on her projects.

King Éomer touched her lightly on the wrist. “What are you thinking about?”

She shrugged with a smile. “Nothing important.”

“In that case let’s go for a stroll.”

Giving her no chance to either assent or decline, he pushed back his chair and held out his hand. Lothíriel crossed her arms on her chest and looked up at him, her eyebrows raised.

He grinned. “Princess Lothíriel, you would put me forever in your debt if you’d have the kindness to accompany me on a walk along the harbour.”

He wasn’t slow, she had to hand him that. Lothíriel waited a long moment before giving a nod. “Since you ask so politely, my lord.”

King Éomer pressed a hand to his heart. “You overwhelm me with your graciousness!” he answered, his face all sincere, but his eyes teasing her. “I shall always remember your condescension in granting me the honour of your company. Indeed this moment will remain imprinted in my memory indelibly.”

The man jumped from one extreme to the other! But he still somehow managed to whisk her away before Ivriniel and Ealdred had made up their minds whether to join them. Their guards got shed as well, leaving them with only Éothain for company.

After that he slowed down as they strolled amongst the stalls that had sprung up all along the quay. The place thronged with travelling musicians, story tellers, acrobats and even a troupe of fire breathers displaying their skill. King Éomer exclaimed in amazement as with a loud whoosh one of them spewed a jet of fire into the night air.

“I wonder how they do it?” he said as they walked on.

This was a topic Lothíriel had actually done some research on. “They fill their mouth with very fine flour,” she explained, “and when they blow it over an open flame it ignites.”

“Really? That’s amazing.”

She nodded. “Unfortunately in my experience the effects are very difficult to control.” With regret she thought of the small shed that used to hold her gardening tools, blown to smithereens. A necessary sacrifice in her view, but sadly her father hadn’t seen it quite that way.

King Éomer gave her a funny look. “What do you mean, in your experience?”

Lothíriel hesitated. “Well... before the war I conducted a few experiments with...eh... combustible substances.” She warmed to her subject. “Just imagine, according to my old histories, the Númenoreans used to have some kind of liquid fire that burnt on water. Regrettably the formula for it got lost.”

“Regrettably?” he exclaimed. “I’ve seen such devilry at work and wouldn’t want anything to do with it!”

“When your people face a corsair fleet and nearly all your fighting men are off defending Minas Tirith, you might change your mind,” she snapped.

He mulled over her words, not the least offended by her tone. “I grant you that,” he said. “Nonetheless I would not use such devices – they reek of the Enemy’s hand. Better to fight cleanly and find an honourable death.”

“That’s all very well for you,” Lothíriel threw at him as suddenly her own situation came back to her. “You’re a man, you can fight! When you have nothing but your wits to defend yourself with, honour and truthfulness are a lot less easy to come by!” Tears of rage rose to her eyes.

He took both her hands in his. “Lady, forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.” With a sigh he brushed a finger across her cheek. “You should never have needed to fight. That is our burden.”

Lothíriel suddenly became aware of curious glances sent their way, while Éothain was intently studying a honeysuckle plant climbing up a nearby wall. She gently disengaged her hands. “Thank you.” Trying for lightness, she smiled at King Éomer. “It never worked anyway. All I managed to do was to blow up the garden shed.”

In an abrupt shift of mood he snorted with amusement. “It’s a good thing Imrahil never mentioned how redoubtable the ladies of his family are or I might never have come to visit!”

And then the ladies of Imrahil’s family would not have needed to proliferate as they had! However, Lothíriel kept the thought to herself. They strolled on, letting the crowd carry them along. As adventurous as ever, King Éomer purchased a bag of almond sweets at one of the stalls, a speciality from Harad, which he generously shared with her and Éothain.

As Lothíriel licked sticky fingers, she couldn’t help thinking how different this relaxed man was from the King of Rohan who had intimidated her so the night before. A fanciful thought struck her - perhaps he had a twin brother who did all his formal appearances for him, while he enjoyed himself!

“What’s happening over there?” King Éomer interrupted her thoughts. “Isn’t that your brother?”

Lothíriel looked up to see Amrothos standing on a row of overturned barrels lined up along the quay. She groaned. “Probably the swimming competition.”

Other competitors joined her brother, some of them definitely the worse for drink. “The winner gets a barrel of ale, which makes it very popular,” Lothíriel explained. “However, Amrothos is just in it for the glory.” She winced as one man lost his balance and fell in the water with a splash.

“How far do they have to swim?” Éothain enquired.

Lothíriel pointed to the far side of the harbour, where torches winked in the night breeze. “Over there and back again. And as an extra challenge the competitors have to down a mug of beer halfway.” She had always considered that a supremely silly rule, but both the Rohirrim nodded approval.

Éothain laughed. “That should sort out the chaff from the grain.”

A group of sailors staggered by, singing off-key, and reminded Lothíriel that her father probably wouldn’t appreciate her watching the race as it tended to attract rather a rough crowd. Though only somebody completely out of his mind would try to accost her with a hulking warrior either side. She had noticed how even strolling through the market and chatting with her, King Éomer always stayed aware of everything around them. So far a single glance from him had sufficed to dissuade troublemakers from approaching.

“Does your brother stand any chance?” he asked.

“That depends on how much drink he’s imbibed already,” she answered, pondering the matter. “Some of our sailors are pretty good, they have to be. I suppose just as the Rohirrim are considered the best riders of Middle-earth because they learn to sit a horse from an early age, so the people of Dol Amroth are the best swimmers.”

He frowned. “Most Rohirrim can swim, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure they can,” she replied with a placating smile. “I meant no offence. But swimming in the sea is a very different matter from splashing about in a pond.”

“I’m not talking about ponds! We have plenty of rivers in the Mark.”

Why did he sound so offended? “The tide’s coming in and the currents will be tricky in the dark,” she pointed out. “You have to know what you’re doing.”

His frown deepened. “Crossing the Entwash during the spring floods is tricky, too.”

“Yes, I imagine it must be,” she tried to soothe him. “But just as you wouldn’t put up a green rider on one of your warhorses, so we tell novices to beware of the sea. Especially in the dark.” It seemed perfectly logical to her, but for some reason her words didn’t quite have the desired effect, on the contrary.

“Let me tell you that I’m considered the best swimmer of my éored,” he informed her and strode forward.

She stared after him in surprise. What had got into him? Then she encountered an anguished look from Éothain.

“My lady,” he whispered, “please watch what you say! He’s the last scion of the House of Eorl. The Mark needs him.”

Belatedly she realised what King Éomer intended to do. Stupid male pride! “Well, in that case I hope he’s as good a swimmer as he says,” she snapped.

“Please, he’s the only king we have! You have to stop him.”

At Éothain’s anxious face she relented. But what did the man expect her to do to dissuade his king? “I can hardly order him about,” she pointed out.

“Try to talk him out of it,” Éothain begged. “I know Éomer King, he won’t listen to me in that kind of mood.”

She rolled her eyes, but hurried after the King of Rohan, Éothain in her tow. By the time she caught up with him, he had already stripped off his shirt in order to take his place on one of the barrels. For a moment she got distracted by the sight of the many faded scars crisscrossing his chest. It brought home to her that here stood a man who had spent all his life since early manhood fighting for his life and that of his people. Her heart ached in sympathy. Yet the scars did not deflect from the simple power of his form. He reminded her of the great cats of the south depicted on the pages of her books.

Éothain cleared his throat, making her realise that she was staring at his king. She coloured and fixed her eyes on King Éomer’s face, ignoring the state of his dress - or undress. “My lord, I beg you will reconsider.”

He glared down at her. “My lady, I’m afraid my mind is set.”

It would serve him well to drown for his stupid pride! However, she was aware of Éothain at her back radiating silent entreaty. “Please, my Lord King,” she said and sank into a deep curtsy. “I have so looked forward to your company on a stroll through the market. You would put me forever in your debt if you’d have the kindness to agree to escort me. Indeed it would quite overwhelm me…” She saw the corners of his mouth twitch and pursued her advantage. “Besides, the water’s cold and mucky.”

He laughed out loud, all sternness wiped from his face. “Oh very well, you’ve convinced me.” He shrugged his shirt back on and offered her his arm. “The lady has a point, don’t you think, Éothain? The night is too nice to waste on getting wet and chilly.”

“Absolutely,” Éothain agreed as they strolled on, towards the night market with its colourful stalls. Lothíriel cast a last look over her shoulder to see Amrothos in the middle of a row of staggering figures. She had a feeling he would not be in the best of shape the next morning.

King Éomer seemed to have forgotten all about the challenge. “This reminds me that I need your help,” he said and drew her towards a booth selling scarves and cloaks. “Whenever I’m away from home, I take back a small gift for my sister. Will you help me choose?” Then he checked his steps so abruptly, she nearly ran into him. “I forgot,” he said, “of course Éowyn lives in Ithilien now!”

At his crestfallen face, a wave of sympathy swept through Lothíriel. Did he miss his sister? “Will you see her soon?” she asked.

“Not for a few months. Though she and Faramir might come for a visit in the summer.”

“You could send her a present by courier,” Lothíriel suggested. “My father’s men ride to Ithilien quite often, they could take it for you.”

King Éomer nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I just like to watch her face when she opens it and finds something completely frivolous.”

Lothíriel laughed. “Is that what you buy for your sister?”

“Most of the time. She usually sighs and calls me a fool, but wears it anyway.”

How strange to have the slayer of the Witch King described that way. “So what did you have in mind?” she asked.

He fingered a scarf of pink silk. “I’m not sure. What do you think of this?”

Lothíriel looked at the flimsy fabric edged with lace. Was he serious? “For Lady Éowyn? Wouldn’t she want something...well...more martial?”

King Éomer picked out a flame coloured scarf instead. “Do you think she’d prefer a brighter material?” He looked rather doubtful.

Lothíriel inspected the silk, as always envious of the smooth finish and rich colour. How did the Haradrim make such brilliant dye?

That moment the owner of the stall, smelling a wealthy customer, came forward to greet them. “A present for the lovely lady?” he asked.

“No indeed,” Lothíriel assured him. “We’re just looking.”

“I have the best quality silk in the whole of Gondor, shipped directly from Harad,” the man said with a deep bow. “May I show you more?”

“From Harad?” King Éomer interrupted. “Unfortunately I’m looking for something characteristic of Dol Amroth, but thank you.”

He pulled her along to the next stall, which sold an assortment of pottery. “I know the type,” he whispered to her while pretending to admire an earthenware jug. “Within five minutes he would have talked me into buying half his wares. I’d rather face a Nazgûl!”

Lothíriel chuckled. “You should have taken my aunt with you. Then the poor merchant would probably have ended up selling you half his stall for a pittance instead. Her bargaining skills are legendary.”

He put his head to one side. “Well, since I’d really much rather have your company than your aunt’s, I will just have to rely on you to protect me from myself. You’ll tell me the truth if I get carried away, won’t you, Gliwen?”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured, but couldn’t meet his eyes. Oh, let him never find out that truth and Gliwen didn’t mix! He had a special way of saying the name, the hard consonant softened, that gave her a pang every time she heard it. And when had he dropped the ‘lady’?

With a conspiratorial smile, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come on, we’ll find something for Éowyn yet.”

Lothíriel had given up fighting his overbearing ways, so let herself be swept down another row of stalls. Suddenly a display of belts caught her eye and she tugged at his arm. “What is that?”

Readily he stopped to have a look at the table covered with a simple black cloth, on which lay a selection of girdles and ornamental belts. One in particular stood out, composed of circular plaques of chased silver, set with tiny pearls.

“Éomer Cyning!” the man behind the stall exclaimed. A gush of incomprehensible words followed, greeted with pleasure by King Éomer and his captain.

“A fellow countryman,” Éothain explained to her.

Lothíriel forbore to say that she had guessed as much and waited patiently for them to finish.

“Beocca was with me at the Black Gates,” King Éomer translated for her, “but he married a Gondorian woman after the war and lives here now.”

At the back of the stall, a pretty young woman curtsied shyly at his words. Lothíriel smiled at her. “Do you make your wares yourself?”

“Some of them,” the man replied with a thick accent, “but we import most of our materials from home – the Mark that is.”

She picked up the silver belt. The plaques were joined together so cunningly that it had the same flexibility as a leather belt. “Do you think your sister would like this?” she asked King Éomer.

“It seems rather wide,” he answered hesitantly. “Éowyn is very slim, just like you.” He gestured at her waist.

“The belt is worn low on the hips, that’s why,” Beocca interjected. “I’m told it’s all the rage amongst the ladies in Minas Tirith.”

King Éomer grinned. “In that case I need to have it. I can’t let Gondor’s ladies outshine my sister.” And he settled down to haggle, though it seemed to Lothíriel that he didn’t put in much of an effort.

“Thank you for spotting that,” he told her when the merchant wrapped up his purchase. “Rohirric workmanship combined with Dol Amroth pearls make the perfect gift. Yet what about you, don’t you want to buy anything?”

She had been idly playing with one of the girdles, but at his words she shook her head. “Oh, don’t bother about me. I’m not fashionable and never have been.”

He frowned. “You sound like a staid matron. Yet surely a young woman like you wants to buy pretty things every now and again. Doesn’t your father give you a suitable allowance?”

Aware of listening ears all around them, she blushed. “He does! I just spend it mostly on books.”

“Books!”

“That’s all I need,” she soothed him. “Anyway, beautiful things don’t last long around me. I tend to spill ink on them.”

King Éomer still didn’t look satisfied with her argument. But that moment Beocca’s wife cleared her throat. “Perhaps one of our belts would suit the lady,” she interjected timidly. “We have more of them, but they’re only made from brass.”

“No, no,” Lothíriel waved aside the offer.

However, King Éomer would have none of that. At his orders, the merchant brought out the rest of his goods, chattering away in Rohirric again. She felt rather forgotten as the two men compared belts and even Éothain got drawn into the discussion.

Then suddenly King Éomer exclaimed with pleasure and plucked something from the pile of metal and leather littering the orderly display table. “This one!”

Proudly he presented her with his find. Lothíriel took it gingerly, wondering what had caught his eye, but ready to admire it. The brass circles glinted warmly, decorated with stylised flowers made from small chips of amber. Then she spotted it: around each flower the artist had engraved swarming bees, perfectly formed down to their tiny wings.

King Éomer was already haggling away again without waiting for her opinion. Lothíriel suppressed a grin. Apparently she was meant to have this gift, whether she wanted it or not.

The bargain was clinched quickly, but when Beocca’s wife reached for a piece of linen wrapping, King Éomer held up his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

He took the belt and turned to Lothíriel. “Allow me.”

Before she knew it, he had knelt down in front of her. Reaching round her waist, he placed the belt on her hips and the metal links settled around her, solid and heavy, encircling her. The clasp closed with an audible click.

King Éomer stepped back. “I knew it was made for you.” He looked inordinately pleased with himself. And for a moment something else flashed across his face that she couldn’t quite make out. Possessiveness?

She shook herself mentally at her fancies. He had given her a gift, nothing more. “Thank you, my Lord King,” she said in her most formal tone.

They took their leave of the Rohirric merchant and his wife, who looked well pleased at having such illustrious customers, and the stall got surrounded by people after they had left.

“I’m surprised the Rohirrim decorate their accoutrements with bees,” she commented. “Somehow I would have expected them to use horses.”

“Oh, we do,” he answered. “However, we value bees for the mead that is brewed from their honey. No festive occasion would be complete without it. So bees really stand for prosperity.”

“I see.” Something that Faramir had written in a letter came back to her. “My cousin mentioned that Lady Éowyn and he were expected to drink mead for a month after their nuptials.”

“Yes, it’s supposed to ensure a...prosperous... marriage.”

“That’s a nice custom.” She still had to get used to the feeling of a weight encircling her hips, almost like an arm resting there, but she liked the idea of all those bees buzzing round her. “Thank you, King Éomer,” she said again, but this time with real warmth.

He smiled down at her. “Won’t you do without the title? I’ve dropped yours.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She had meant to infuse her voice with sternness, but instead it wobbled with amusement.

“The Rohirrim aren’t formal amongst friends,” he explained. “So will you call me Éomer?”

She hesitated. Her teacher of comportment of course would have pointed out that a lady did not call a lord by his first name unless she was related to him within three degrees. Even amongst husband and wife, titles were sometimes used in public. On the other hand, those rules applied to noble ladies, not to lowly beekeepers.

“Very well,” she agreed. “After all nobody need ever hear me – nobody at court, I mean.”

He frowned. “Don’t you ever go into society?”

She squirmed, reminded of her deception. “I don’t particularly like it. I prefer the company of my books.”

“Your father seems to keep you very close,” he said, still scowling. “Aren’t you allowed to just enjoy the pleasures of life like any other young woman? I have a mind to talk to Imrahil.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Please don’t! You’ve promised not to speak to my father.”

“I won’t, if it upsets you,” he assured her. Yet still the frown lingered as he mulled over her words. “I bet it’s that prig Elphir,” he said suddenly. “Does he object to having your low birth paraded around? Just you wait, next time I see him...”

Panic swept through her. The threat was clear. “No! You mustn’t do anything.”

He took her hands. “You’ve gone ice cold,” he exclaimed. “What has he threatened you with! He’s not going to find you a husband as well, is he?” His voice had dropped to a whisper, heavy with rage.

“As well?” Lothíriel repeated, feeling faint.

Éomer hesitated. “I overheard something last night,” he admitted, “while your brother was talking to a friend of his. A lean, dour fellow about the same age as him. I believe he fought on the Pelennor. Elphir fancied him as a husband for your sister, I thought.”

“Lord Dorgam,” Lothíriel confirmed her worst fears. “He has a large holding to the east of here where he breeds horses.” And tamed them. She swallowed. “His war steeds are said to be the best trained in Dol Amroth.”

“You know him.”

“Yes, I-”

“What did he do to you, Gliwen?”

She stared at him, hearing the angry hiss in his words. The use of her false name reminded her that she had to be careful not to give herself away. Oh, but how tempting to pour her fears into his ears! However, that was out of the question. “He did nothing,” she answered. “I’m merely worried about my sister. Beekeepers are below Lord Dorgam’s notice. He thinks that his rank and wealth entitle him to marry a princess.”

“What an innocent you are,” muttered Éomer. “He might have no intention to marry you, but that does not mean he would have no other plans...”

It dawned on Lothíriel what he was speaking of. What an irony! “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know of my existence.” After all nobody did, except for Éomer and her band of co-conspirators. If only she could rip apart this net of lies that choked her! But if she did so, surely that would deliver her right into Dorgam’s hands.

Unaware of her thoughts, Éomer was still brooding on the man’s iniquities. “Those prim and proper ones are the worst. You’re a beautiful young woman, the picture of your sister. Who’s to say what he’ll do if he can’t have her? And it’s not as if your father and brother look after you particularly well either.”

Lothíriel felt as if she was going to break down screaming if this conversation went on much longer. And what were his intentions anyway, taking a lowly beekeeper for a stroll through the market, buying her expensive presents and making her enjoy herself much more than was good for her?

“No, they don’t,” she agreed. “Perhaps we should return to my aunt.”

That brought him up short. “Gliwen...”

“Please,” she interrupted him. “It’s getting late and I’m tired.” Tired in heart and soul.

Silently he acceded to her wishes and offered her his arm to escort her back. The colourful tents of the merchants seemed garish and cheap now and the music blared in her ears. Her head started to ache. Oh, why had she come!

And all the while, the belt he had given her encircled her hips with firm weight.

Chapter 7

The silence was oppressive. Éomer sighed as he leant on the battlements and looked out at a landscape wreathed in morning mist. Except for the lookouts in the towers either end of the walkway nobody was about yet. Just him and Éothain - who had said no word beyond greeting his king as he fell into step behind him.

A chilly breeze tugged at his cloak. “Yes, I know,” Éomer finally snapped, pushed beyond his endurance. “I shouldn’t have bought her that belt.”

More silence. It was the bees of course. He might as well have shared his cup of mead with her. And since Beocca had witnessed it, the tale would probably be known to all his riders by now. He groaned. “She’s Gondorian. It’s just a simple gift to her, she doesn’t know.”

“You know.”

Yes, he did - and had at the time. Yet he hadn’t been able to resist. That belt had been made for her! And he had wanted to be the one who put it round her. He still remembered the primitive satisfaction he’d felt when the clasp had clicked close. And Gliwen, blissfully unaware that she had just accepted a courting gift, had thanked him!

He rubbed his temples, wondering if he could blame the wine for his conduct. Yet the intoxication had originated from a very different source - an evening enjoyed far more than was reasonable. For a short while he had merely been a simple rider strolling through the fair in the company of a pretty woman and his best friend.

He didn’t even know what it was about Gliwen that attracted him. True, she was pretty enough, but so were many other women in Gondor’s court. And Queen Arwen’s unearthly beauty put all of them in the shade anyway. Perhaps the way Gliwen seemed completely oblivious to his station as a king? She certainly didn’t hesitate to let her displeasure known if she considered him overstepping his authority. He grinned reminiscently, remembering their sparring.

Éothain cleared his throat. “So what will you do now?”

“I’m not sure,” Éomer admitted.

“Lady Gliwen deserves better than being gossipped about,” his friend declared.

“I know!”

In his experience, Éothain only distinguished between two categories of women - those he could introduce to his aged mother and those he couldn’t. His captain had been a bit doubtful about Gliwen at first, but apparently by saving his king from what he perceived as a watery death, she had firmly placed herself in the former category. Unfortunately, to Éomer the world wasn’t as simple as that.

“They won’t gossip about Gliwen, they’ll gossip about Princess Lothíriel,” he pointed out.

“Oh!” Éothain scratched his chin. “I hadn’t considered that. That’s quite a pickle you’ve landed yourself in.”

Truer words were never spoken! Éomer stared out over the marshes stretching to the north of the castle. A rising wind from the sea tore the mist apart so the ghostly forms of trees emerged. Amrothos had promised to take them riding there in the afternoon, but Éomer wondered if he would be up to it. The prince had looked like something dragged out of the gutters, wet and none too clean, when they had met him on the way back.

He drummed his fingers on the cold stone of the battlements. It had been wrong to talk Gliwen into posing as her sister and twice wrong to gift her with that belt for all to see. Neither of the two sisters deserved the gossip that would accrue from his actions. But then deception rarely paid off, so it was hardly surprising this one had already come back to haunt him.

However, he would be leaving tomorrow and surely with time the whole affair would be forgotten. By the participants as well, Éomer told himself firmly. He thought of returning to Meduseld, to the royal chambers behind the great hall, which he inhabited on his own now that Éowyn was gone. They still felt like that of a stranger to him with the richly carved, enormous bed and the faded tapestries. Luckily he could spend most of his time on the practice grounds and in the stables. As for the Queen’s Room and the nursery, frozen in time decades ago, he had only taken one look before ordering them closed until needed.

Until needed… Involuntarily the picture of Gliwen standing in his bedroom, twirling round and laughing at him flashed through his mind. Or lying in his bed, her rich wealth of hair spread across the pillow, smiling up at him. The sudden surge of desire coursing through him took him by surprise.

He fought it down. It could not happen. For though she would make a fitting bride to any other man, the King of the Mark could not have her. A queen’s lineage had to be impeccable, the claim of her progeny without doubt. He smiled bitterly. What would his people say to mingling the blood of the line of Eorl with that of the daughter of a common servant? No, you did not breed your only stallion to a mare of questionable parentage, not if your future depended on the offspring.

And what if he did not marry her? After all her mother… Éomer stopped his train of thought, appalled at himself. How could he even consider suggesting such a dishonourable thing to Gliwen? Exposing her to the censure of his own people and the contempt of the Gondorians would be the least. And what would she do when he did marry, as he must? All to get her in his bed. His bed…

Éomer took firm hold of himself. What had got into him? It was not as if Gliwen were the only woman with whom he could spend a pleasant evening, or who had ever stirred his blood. He hardly knew the woman anyway! There was nothing special about her. 

No, he knew what he had to do. Tomorrow he would ride out of the gate below them, not looking back - forgetting her as a passing fancy, just as she would forget him. And then he would find himself a queen. Preferably with blond hair.

“Éomer?” Éothain enquired worriedly. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing.” He turned to face his captain. “Leave me now. I want to be alone.”

“But-”

“Now.”

After a look at his face, Éothain dipped his head and left.

The wind sighed round him, tugging at his hair. The castle was waking up, with servants hurrying across the courtyard, carrying baskets of logs to stoke the fires for the morning baths of the ladies. A gaggle of geese protested loudly at being driven in the direction of the kitchen.

Suddenly he spotted a furtive figure wrapped in a faded red cloak slipping past the guards and hurrying towards a postern gate.

After a moment’s hesitation he followed her.

***

The boughs of the apple trees hung down dejected and the grass was slippery with dew as he walked through the fruit grove. He stopped outside Gliwen’s tower and hesitated. What did he want with her anyway? Then he kicked himself mentally at hanging around her door like a lovesick youth. There might not be another chance to see her, so surely it would only be polite to take his leave of her and thank her for her company the night before? Firmly he knocked.

“Is that you, Hingam?” she called. “Do come in.”

He pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold into a lofty room only sparely lit by a couple of candles. Bookshelves lined it from floor to ceiling and a large table dominated the centre, littered with unidentifiable bits. He stared. Was that the skeleton of a bat hanging from the ceiling? One cupboard held a row of bottles, some of which seemed to have things floating inside.

It took him a moment to spot Gliwen who was kneeling by a row of baskets lined with white cloth, a crate by her side. She hadn’t looked up, being too busy cooing to something inside the baskets. “I’m coming, Hingam,” she said, “I just need to feed my babies first. They’re hungry.” Her voice grew soft and tender. “Aren’t you, my sweet little ones.”

Her babies? Incredulously Éomer stared at the basket. Her words were like a punch to the stomach, delivered out of nowhere. After the first unbelieving surprise a wave of blackest rage rushed through him. He would kill the man!

With a couple of strides he crossed the room. “Who was it?” he snarled.

Gliwen yelped and fell over to land on her backside. “Éomer! What are you doing here?”

“Who was it!”

She went white and scrambled to her feet. “It was my idea, mine alone. Nobody else had anything to do with it.”

“Nobody else? Ha!” The poor innocent was even defending that piece of orc bait. Another thought struck him. “Did Dorgam do this to you?” He clenched his fists. “The pig! Just wait till I catch him. I’ll slit his throat!”

“Lord Dorgam?” she stared at him in incomprehension. “Of course not. He would never-”

“I swear scum like that doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Who was it? Tell me, Gliwen!”

She staggered as if he had hit her. “Gliwen?” she whispered.

The poor dear. She looked as if she had seen a nazgûl. He gentled his voice, for he did not want her to think he blamed her. It was all the fault of Imrahil and those useless brothers, for not taking better care of her! “Just tell me the father’s name and I’ll take care of him. He will never bother you again.”

She clutched her head. “What name? I told you, Imrahil is my father-”

“Not yours! Their father.” He motioned to the baskets by her feet.

Her mouth fell open. “Theirs?”

“Yes, of course!” What did she think.

Then Éomer followed her glance to see that the baskets were filled with leaves. Leaves? Suddenly he saw something small wriggling amongst the greenery. He recoiled. “What is that!”

Gliwen made a helpless gesture. “Just my newest project.”

Her project? He grabbed a candle from the table and took a closer look. The basket was full of whitish caterpillars crawling over the fresh leaves in a feeding frenzy! What?

Gliwen snatched the wavering candle from his hands. “Be careful!”

An awful suspicion dawned on him. Had he just made a complete fool of himself? “No,” he groaned.

She still stared at him as if she feared he had gone out of his mind. “No, what?”

“Don’t tell me you are raising butterflies.”

Gliwen shrugged. “Well, something of the sort.”

He felt exceedingly foolish for jumping to conclusions like he had done. But really, she had no business to use that tone of voice to a bunch of repulsive insects! “Why didn’t you say so,” he snapped.

“You never gave me the chance,” Gliwen bristled. “Instead you simply burst in here, startling me. I was really scared when you-” She bit her lip. “Never mind. And I don’t see why it should bother you anyway, what I do here. This is my tower and Father gave me permission to use it as I please.”

 Éomer gave a stiff bow. “I’m sorry for startling you.” He felt rather ill-used for having to apologise when he had only been concerned about her.

Gliwen frowned. “And anyway, why did you shout at me that way?”

“It is nothing, just a misunderstanding,” Éomer answered. “So is this where you live?” He looked around the room.

However, Gliwen refused to be distracted. She tapped a foot, obviously following some thought through to its logical conclusion. “What did you think I had in these baskets?” she murmured. “And why did you ask after the father?” Éomer watched helplessly as she put two and two together.

“Oh!” she breathed. “You thought…”

He braced himself for the inevitable explosion of outrage and mentally mustered his excuses. A bit of grovelling for the implied slur on her reputation might be in order, for they took that kind of thing rather seriously here in Gondor.

Gliwen started laughing. She laughed so hard, she had to hold onto the table and clutch her stomach to keep from keeling over. Éomer watched with rising irritation. Really, he would have preferred grovelling to being made fun of in this manner!

“Enough!” he finally snarled when she showed no sign of reaching the end of her mirth.

She touched his arm, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry! But Amrothos always says that if I ever have children they will have antennae, six legs and tiny wings. You should have seen your face when you looked in there!” Suppressed laughter shook her again.

With a reluctant grin, Éomer shrugged. “I might have been overhasty. My famous temper, I’m afraid.”

She sobered. “Yes.”

Had he frightened her? He took her hand. “I’m sorry, Gliwen. I should have known you wouldn’t keep that kind of thing from me.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “Éomer, listen…I…I…”

“It’s what I like about you,” he told her with a smile. “You’re not one of those priggish court ladies, all of them smiling, polite liars, saying one thing and thinking another.”

Her face drained of colour. “You don’t know me very well,” she whispered.

“I think I do.”

He felt Gliwen’s fingers tremble in his grip as the words hung between them, brittle and fragile in the sudden silence. She would not meet his eyes. What did she think of his intentions, Éomer wondered suddenly. He felt like cursing. Damn Imrahil for not marrying her mother and giving his daughter the protection of his name! Instead he neglected her and left her vulnerable to the world.  A beautiful young woman like her, had she had many dishonourable suggestions made to her? He would not add to that burden.

“I consider you my friend,” he said gently and released her hand. “Indeed I came here this morning to thank you for showing me around the town. We’ll be leaving tomorrow, so I thought I might not have another chance.”

She took a step back. “You’re most welcome. And anyway, you gifted me with that lovely belt, didn’t you.”

Which she didn’t wear, but he forbore to say so. It would have been the perfect opportunity to take his leave now, but instead he found himself casting around for something more to say. “So this used to be your grandfather’s tower?” he asked.

“Yes.” She seemed to be grateful for the change of subject and motioned to the bookshelves. “I inherited a fair share of his personal library as well.”

He had a look at some of the titles. A Treatise on the Nature, Economy, and Practical Management of Bees - no surprise there. Travels through Northern Harad, containing an account of the natural productions of those regions, together with observations on the manners of the Haradrim. He raised his eyebrows at that one. The next one was titled Seaweeds and their Uses. Well, nobody could accuse her of having a narrow field of interest!

Then another volume caught his eye, lying open amongst the clutter of the table. It contained a beautifully illuminated drawing of a building high on a hill, the sun gilding its roof. He turned it over to read the title embossed on the spine: Land of the Horselords - a history of Rohan.

He looked up to find Gliwen blushing. “I like to read on a variety of subjects,” she said, sounding defiant.

“So I see.”

He studied the picture of Edoras again. With a few sparse lines, the artist had caught the line of the mountains floating in the air behind the great hall of Meduseld, reaching for the skies. He traced them slowly. Starkhorn, Hwítberg, Irensaga. Almost he could feel a gust of cold, bracing mountain air.

Gliwen put her head to one side. “Do you miss your home?”

“I haven’t really got one.” The words were out before he thought about them. At the confusion on her face, he shrugged. “My uncle presented me with my father’s sword when I was sixteen. I joined my first éored and from then on we were always on the move.”

“Always?” She sounded incredulous.

“Not always, I suppose, but it felt that way. Field camps and barracks are not very homely.” He closed the book and handed it to her. “Then three years ago I was made Third Marshal and moved to Alburg, to my father’s old house. However, I never really settled in there.”

She took the book from him and hugged it to her chest. “Why not?”

He shrugged again. “With my mother and Éowyn gone, it didn’t feel like home.”

“But everybody needs one!” She gestured at the room around her. “A place where you belong.”

Éomer looked at the untidy shelves, full of old books and sundry odds and ends. The big central table was made from solid oak, scored here and there with burn marks. An assortment of things littered it: stones with strange striations, the paper nest of a wasp, large pine cones. Under some bird feathers lay a rough chunk of amber next to a dozen translucent snail shells.

“Is this where you belong?” What a strange life for a young woman like her.

“Of course!” She put the book away on one of the shelves. “I have everything I want here.”

“And what would that be?”

Gliwen stretched out her arms as if to embrace the whole room. “A place to work and to keep my things.” She motioned at the windows, where the sun was streaming in after melting away the mist. “Light. A view.” Her lips twitched. “Silence and solitude.”

He laughed. “Unless a certain King of the Mark interrupts you?”

Gliwen grinned. “Yes. My mornings are usually less eventful.” She cast a frowning look at the window. “And now forgive me, but I need to get on with my chores.”

“Of course.”

She obviously expected him to leave, but he ignored the hint and instead inspected the book shelves again. The nobles got up late here, so breakfast would not be served for a while yet and nobody would miss him. After a brief hesitation she knelt by her baskets again and continued to clear out the old denuded branches and put in fresh greenery.

A companionable silence fell between them as he studied her library, leafing through those volumes that struck his fancy. Her interests ran towards the natural world, with none of the books on strategy and warfare that made up the bulk of his own book collection. The only thing they shared seemed to be a love for maps, for she had a whole bookcase full of beautifully tooled leather tubes labelled with the names of different regions of Gondor.

By the window stood an old chair, covered in a much darned blanket and heaped with cushions, while on the windowsill lay little treasures, shells she must have picked up on the beach or curiously shaped roots and stones. Despite the untidiness - or perhaps because of it - it was a comfortable, welcoming room, very much filled with its owner’s personality.

She was still busy feeding her pets and he wandered over to have another look at the pale, wriggling caterpillars. On second sight they looked even less attractive. At least she had stopped cooing over them.

“What are they?” he asked.

She hesitated. “One of my father’s captains brought them back from Harad. They are silkworms.”

“Silkworms?”

“Yes. You see, we have long known that silk is made by insects, since the Númenoreans discovered the process. However, the secret was lost here in Gondor and until recently we dared not trade that far south for fear of the Umbarians.”

Éomer stared at the caterpillars. “These ugly things produce silk?” he exclaimed.

“They’re not ugly!” she fired up. “On the contrary, they are fascinating creatures. Granted, at the moment they spend all their time eating. But later they’ll spin themselves into cocoons and that’s when we harvest the silk.”

She fetched a wooden box from her table. Inside were a number of ivory coloured cocoons about the size of a quail’s egg, but when he picked one up, it was as light as a feather.

“Sadly we have to kill most of them in order to get their silk,” she said with a sigh. “But a few we let hatch to breed more silkworms. This is the second generation I’m raising.”

“Amazing,” he said and crouched down by the baskets with fresh interest. After paying for Éowyn’s wedding dress, he knew the price of high quality silk. “What do you feed them?”

“Mulberry leaves,” she answered, showing him a bough with fresh leaves. “It’s the only thing they eat. These are from Father’s gardens, but in time I hope to plant special groves of mulberry trees just for them. One day Dol Amroth might supply the whole of Gondor with silk.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “You have great plans for these little creatures.”

“Oh, yes! Just imagine, perhaps by the summer I will have the first handkerchief made of my own silk.”

Was that the only chance she’d ever get to own something truly expensive? He should have bought her one of those Harad scarves the evening before! Gliwen bent to her task again, replacing old leaves with fresh. While he still considered silkworms repulsive looking, he had to admit they had great potential to bring prosperity.

“The Mark has mulberry plants growing wild in the more sheltered valleys,” he mused and tentatively touched one of the caterpillars. “Will you let us have some?” A moment later he realised that he was asking her to give away what might turn out to be a major trade advantage one day. He opened his mouth to retract his request, but she beat him to it.

“Yes, I will. But you need to send somebody here to learn how to care for them first.”

“You would do that for us?”

“Of course. We owe the Rohirrim our lives - I owe you my life! You may have anything you ask for.” Then she blushed scarlet as she perceived the possible pitfalls to that promise. “I mean…” she stuttered.

Éomer turned a laugh into a cough. “You are most generous, my lady,” he replied, fighting hard to keep a serious face. “I will offer you one of our finest steeds in trade.”

“A horse?” Gliwen grimaced. “That’s very kind of you, but what would I do with a horse?”

It was his turn to be disconcerted. “Ride it! I thought you said you knew how to.”

“Oh yes, but one of your famous steeds would be completely wasted on me. I just use horses occasionally when I have to go somewhere I can’t reach by ship. I find them rather boring creatures.”

That pronouncement left him speechless. He wasn’t used to a Gondorian lady who did not at least pretend an interest in what they usually assumed to be his only topic of conversation. Did she realise what a challenge she had just issued to a horselord?

“How can you call horses boring,” he protested. “Firefoot is highly intelligent.” Far more clever than Éothain anyway!

“I’m sure he is,” she agreed. “And I know they’re very useful for transporting things. But for really interesting creatures you can’t beat insects. Take ants, for example.”

“Ants!”

“Did you know they build bridges across small streams by just using their own bodies? And I’ve seen ants carry what must have been twice their own weight. What horse could do that?”

Suddenly Éomer felt amusement bubbling up inside him at the comparison. This was not the kind of conversation he was used to from Gondorian ladies. He snorted. “Even so I don’t fancy riding an ant into battle.”

She looked at him with wide eyes, before starting to giggle. “You don’t?”

He rose. “No. And moreover I will prove to you that horses are anything but dull. You’re coming riding with me. This afternoon.” He would show her that nothing beat a day spent outdoors in the fresh air.

She crossed her arms on her chest and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “No.”

“Are you afraid?”

Gliwen scrambled to her feet. “Certainly not!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is you.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Stop ordering me about. I won’t have it!”

Enjoying the way she rose to his bait, he captured her hand. “But only a moment ago you said I could have anything I asked for.”

“Oh! You…you…”

He grinned down at her and after a moment received a reluctant answering smile. “Please, Gliwen?” he added.

“I can’t! People will start talking about you and Lothíriel - and anyway, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to stay in again for the whole day. Yes, I’m sure she wouldn’t, so it’s not possible.”

Éomer noticed she had changed from won’t to can’t, progress of a sort. And in any case he doubted the deception of the night before would stand up to plain daylight, for the sisters were too different in temperament if not in looks, so having her pose as Princess Lothíriel again was out of the question. However, there was more than one way to skin a warg.

“What if you wore a hood so people won’t recognise you and met us along the way?” he asked. “I’m afraid it will mean some walking, but I’ll bring horses along for you and Amrothos.”

She waved his objections away. “Walking is no problem. However, I don’t see why we need to drag Amrothos into this.”

Éomer grinned inwardly at her implicit acceptance of his plans. “I won’t have you going anywhere on your own,” he answered. In fact he didn’t like the isolation of her tower outside the castle walls. Why, anybody could just walk in and pester her! “Do you think your brother would agree?”

“I can deal with Amrothos, but-”

“Splendid,” he interrupted her. “So do you think you can manage to get away unobserved?”

“Of course I can…” She blinked in confusion. “What am I saying! I have in no way agreed to this madness.”

He still held her hand and took the opportunity to stroke his thumb across her knuckles. “Madness perhaps,” he whispered. “But what is the harm in stealing a single afternoon away from your chores?” Unacknowledged between them hung the fact that he would be gone by the next day.

She swallowed. “But what will your riders think? And Éothain?”

“I’ll deal with him. As for my riders…” He frowned. There was no need to take a full escort and he’d make sure to choose those who knew to hold their tongue. However, perhaps another small falsehood would be needed. He didn’t like it, but was willing to countenance it for the sake of Gliwen’s reputation. “I could let it be known that Lady Lothíriel wishes to go on an outing without being recognised as a princess,” he suggested. “Then you can just be yourself.”

Her fingers trembled in his hand like a captured bird. “Éomer…”

“I know you don’t like it,” he hastened to assure her. “And indeed I abhor having to use such deception. But it’s only this once. Please Gliwen, humour me…”

She looked up at him, her face cast in soft shadows, the eyes enormous. The sudden impulse to trace the graceful line of her neck ran through him and the memory of burying his hands in the rich, silken softness of her hair came back to him as if had been yesterday.

Gliwen dropped her eyes. “Very well,” she whispered.

Éomer swallowed, his throat gone dry. Was he playing with fire here? He shook himself mentally. Nonsense. He was a grown man, well able to control himself. He would prove his point to her and that would be all.

And anyway, what could happen if he slipped away from his obligations for a single afternoon?

Chapter 8

Mechanically Lothíriel tidied up her crates. Éomer had left to check on his stallion before joining her father for breakfast and she knew she should return to the castle too, but at the moment she just felt numb. Taking a broom, she swept a few wilted mulberry leaves out the door. One of the castle cats, which had been sunning itself on the wall, strolled over to rub against her legs. The big ginger coloured tomcat was the undisputed lord of Dol Amroth’s feline population and had fathered a large progeny, causing Amrothos to name him after the High King of the Noldor.

Lothíriel bent down to stroke him, finding comfort in the soft fur. “Oh, Fëanáro, what have I done?”

Unsurprisingly the cat did not reply, just purred in contentment, but Lothíriel knew the answer anyway. She urgently needed to learn how to say no to that man! But he had a way of looking at her – of touching her – that just made her want to agree to whatever he wanted from her. As for his smile, it simply played havoc with her sense of self-preservation. She cringed at the thought of what Amrothos would say to this newest plan. Foolhardy? Reckless? Raving mad?

And she wouldn’t even be able to fault him – playing Gliwen impersonating a Princess Lothíriel who wanted to remain incognito surely had to rate as one of the more insane ideas she had ever agreed to. How could she hope to keep up the deception when every meeting with Éomer frayed her nerves to the point where she wanted to scream out the truth?

She closed her eyes and pictured him as he’d stood in her tower, looking through her books, touching her possessions. Large, strong hands that had nevertheless handled her things with surprising gentleness. His restless energy had filled the room, yet she had not minded sharing her solitude with him. Where her brothers at best teased her indulgently about her projects, he had shown real interest in her ideas. Lothíriel grimaced self-deprecatingly. Of course she hadn’t blown up any bits of Rohan yet, which probably helped.

But what had possessed her to agree to this second outing? Now that he was gone, she could think of half a dozen reasons for declining Éomer’s request – or rather command. For one, Amrothos would be in no condition to go anywhere today from what she’d heard from the servants. Having won the swimming contest, he’d been expected to finish his barrel of ale the same night, so she had been unsurprised when her maid had reported him feeling rather poorly. Could she use his absence to excuse herself from accompanying Éomer on his ride? Or would that forceful king simply drag her brother out of bed? She would put nothing past him to get his way.

If only she’d had the strength of mind to deny him. “I won’t come!” she said experimentally, startling the cat, who stared up at her through slit eyes. “No!” she repeated with more emphasis, “I won’t.” Fëanor yawned contemptuously and started to lick his fur. Wonderful, she couldn’t even impress a cat; what chance did she have to assert her will against the King of Rohan!

And what did that king want with a humble beekeeper anyway? Amrothos would no doubt have laughed at the question and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Nothing honourable would have been his answer. Yet though they’d been completely alone, Éomer hadn’t tried to take liberties. Only at the end had she felt a brief frisson of nervousness, but nothing had come of it. She frowned. Did that mean he didn’t find her attractive? Then she shook her head. What was the matter with her today! Why should she worry what Éomer thought of her? She didn’t want him to grope her after all, did she? Once had been quite enough!

The kiss in the cupboard that she’d been trying to thrust from her mind for months came back to her. At the time she had felt an odd mix of terror and exhilaration at her daring. She touched her lips. What would it be like to repeat the experience? To have those powerful hands moving upon her, crushing her against his chest as he’d done that night? Holding her helpless while he traced a trail of fire across her skin with his mouth… Her heart beat more rapidly at the memory.

Sudden heat flushed her cheeks. No gently brought up maiden should even consider such thoughts! What had that man done to her? It was as if the world, so certain and solid all her life, had started to pitch and yaw under her feet like a boat caught in a storm. All his doing!

That moment the bell up at the castle rang the eighth hour. Lothíriel started, realising how late it was. Surely she hadn’t spent all that time mooning over Éomer like an infatuated servant girl? Then it hit her.

“No!” she exclaimed and surged to her feet. Fëanor gave an outraged hiss at her sudden movement and stalked off, tail in the air.

“No,” Lothíriel whispered again, “it can’t be.”

She wasn’t falling for the man, was she? The thought staggered her, yet when she looked at the idea dispassionately, she had to admit that she displayed several symptoms she had observed in her maid amongst others. A couple of years ago, Aeves had conceived a passion for an extremely handsome Swan Knight. Why, the girl had been absolutely useless, daydreaming constantly. And that inability to refuse the object of her passion anything…oh yes, definitely!

Lothíriel took a deep breath to steady herself. Every problem had a solution, she just had to work it through logically. So she might like the King of Rohan rather better than she should. On the other hand she wasn’t yet blind to his faults – and the man had many, chief amongst them his overbearing ways! So perhaps there was still some hope left. Also, unlike Aeves with her Swan Knight, she didn’t consider Éomer the most handsome man who had ever drawn breath. Admittedly his height and unruly blond mane made him rather striking, but his features were too harsh for the Gondorian ideal of beauty. Although when he smiled…

Lothíriel strangled that train of thought, realising it led onto a slippery slope. No, the solution to her problem was quite simple: she only had to guard her heart another day and then he would be gone. At the thought of that she felt a funny constriction, as if somebody had tightened a bond around her breast cage, but she chose to ignore the sensation.

One more day of pretending to be Gliwen, of lying to a man she’d come to respect and like. But she had to hold out, for if she didn’t… She tried to picture Éomer’s face at the revelation of her duplicity. He would despise her! And she wasn’t sure if she could bear that.

She bit her lower lip at the realisation of how firmly she had tangled herself in the nets of her own making. What should she do? If she owned up to the truth of being Gliwen he would hate her, but if she didn’t, there could be nothing between them. And did she want there to be something between them? Perhaps, she admitted to her innermost self. Oh, why had she gone to Minas Tirith! It would have been nice to blame Elphir for that wretched quarrel, but in all honesty she had to shoulder the blame herself. Her impulsive decision to shut up the King of Rohan with a kiss – though certainly effective in the short run – had brought down nothing but disaster on her.

Lothíriel straightened her shoulders. There was nothing for it, she simply had to see this through. He would be gone by tomorrow and then she could settle into her old life again. Surely in a few months’ time she would have forgotten all about Éomer and his dangerous smile, after all it was not as if she lacked occupation.

The decision taken, she turned to the practical considerations of tidying the broom away and locking up her tower. Soon after she trudged up the path to the castle in Fëanor’s wake.

Time to change into a princess again.

***

Breakfast was the most informal meal of the day, with people arriving and leaving as they chose, so Lothíriel had hoped that her tardiness would make her miss their Rohirric guests. However, she had no such luck. Upon entering the airy breakfast parlour, she found herself at once hailed by Lord Ealdred. And next to him… Her heart sank at spotting Éomer. King Éomer she reminded herself as she swept him a curtsy.

“Princess Lothíriel,” he greeted her politely enough, but with no real pleasure.

They shared a small round table with Éothain and Ivriniel, who beamed at her niece. “Lothíriel, won’t you join us?”

Having no choice in the matter, Lothíriel assented, her appetite gone. The Rohirrim at least seemed to have made a hearty breakfast, for empty dishes littered the table, but what did they need all these salt cellars for? As one of the servants served her scrambled eggs, she reached to pick one up, but Ivriniel stayed her with an exclamation.

“Oh, not that one, that’s Eorl!”

Had she heard correctly? “Eorl?” she asked. A lifetime of her aunt’s company had inured her to surprises, but even so that statement needed an explanation. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Éomer exchange a wry grin with Éothain.

Lord Ealdred smiled at her. “Our apologies, Princess, but we were just re-enacting the Battle of the Field of Celebrant.”

“Ealdred has made a study of it,” her aunt threw in. “He has the most amazing knowledge of the events and has been so kind as to share it.”

“Not at all,” he demurred. “It was the least I could do after your fascinating discourse on the Battle of the Camp last night.”

Under Lothíriel’s unbelieving gaze, her aunt actually blushed. “You flatter me.” Her dress sported even more lace than usual and on her head perched a velvet cap with a pink feather trailing down coquettishly. Lothíriel couldn’t help staring. Were those red patches of paint on her aunt’s cheeks? “It’s such a pleasure meeting a fellow scholar,” she sighed.

Instinctively Lothíriel sought Éomer’s eyes to share her amazement, but he wasn’t paying her any attention, being too busy observing the other guests. She felt a stab of irritation. Would he ignore her in this fashion if Gliwen instead of Lothíriel shared his meal? Lady Cadworwen of Ethring, recently widowed in the war, swept by that moment in a wave of perfume, a morning robe floating around her that surely belonged more in a bedroom than a breakfast parlour. Just as she passed their table, the robe got snagged on a chair, providing a glimpse of a long length of leg. She moved on unhurriedly, well aware of the Rohirrim’s eyes following her.

Lothíriel would have liked to kick Éomer. Didn’t he realise that Lady Cadworwen had the heart and morals of a praying mantis? She would fawn over him mercilessly until she had fastened his interest and then she would gobble him alive. Rumour had it that her late husband had preferred facing a mûmak head on, rather than return to his wife and her sharp tongue.

“So what are your plans for today?” she asked Éomer, endeavouring to regain his attention.

This had the desired effect as he turned a guarded regard on her. “Why do you ask, my lady?”

The sudden urge to see him squirm for a change took her. “It’s going to be a lovely day,” she commented with a bland smile. “Perhaps you would enjoy a tour of the gardens this afternoon. They are at their best this time of the year. Just imagine, we have over fifty different types of lilies and irises blooming.”

Lord Ealdred leant forward. “What a splendid idea! I’m sure you would enjoy that, especially with such charming company.” Being the only one at their table who did not know about the substitution of Gliwen last night, he was obviously eager to further the acquaintance of his king with the well connected Princess of Dol Amroth.

Lothíriel turned an innocent face to Éomer. To her satisfaction a slight tinge of red coloured his cheeks. “What a shame to miss such a treat,” he answered. “Unfortunately I have already got a prior engagement.”

Éothain shot him a surprised look at that, but said nothing. Lord Ealdred however, frowned. “Surely you could cancel that, my lord? After all our time here is limited…” He let his voice trail off suggestively.

Lothíriel folded her hands in her lap and said nothing. Why should she be the only one telling half-truths?

Éomer cleared his throat. “I have long promised Prince Amrothos to accompany him on a ride, so I really feel I cannot break that engagement.”

“But Amrothos will be going nowhere today,” Ivriniel innocently threw in. “He’s been asking his valet to put him out of his misery, a sure sign he’ll spend the rest of the day in bed.”

Lord Ealdred beamed at his newfound ally. “Well, in that case-”

However, the King of Rohan proved to be the better tactician. “How unfortunate,” he said and rose, “I will have to visit him at once to enquire after his health. Will you excuse me?”

Grudgingly Lothíriel had to admit that he had extricated himself in a masterly fashion. It did not help her temper that Lady Cadworwen had lingered at the exit to the room and now exchanged a few words with him. It would serve the man right to fall into that particular trap, she thought savagely.

***

Lothíriel had not expected that a small problem like a missing escort would put Éomer off his plan and she was proved right almost at once. Upon returning to her room, her maid delivered a hastily scrawled missive from Amrothos. If you love me, Sister, it read, go on a long ride with your barbarian king. My delicate constitution really cannot tolerate much more of his presence, so just take him away! At the bottom of the page her brother had added a postscript:  If anyone asks, I will swear you were with me the whole afternoon.

She grinned, mentally depicting the scene of Éomer getting that promise out of her brother. Poor Amrothos! It seemed to her that with the King of Rohan you either had the choice of fighting him at great personal effort, or letting yourself be swept along by him. In a sudden reckless impulse, she decided to do the latter. They would have to part soon enough, why shouldn’t she enjoy a last afternoon with him? The alternative, to show King Éomer ‘The Icicle of Rohan’ the garden in her role as demure princess did not appeal to her in the least.

So she dismissed her maid with the information that she would be with Amrothos for the rest of the day. Ivriniel would not miss her either, as she and Lord Ealdred planned to spend the afternoon in the library, looking at old maps. Her aunt had even hinted at the possibility of a match of Shah and Lothíriel wondered if Lord Ealdred realised that he would play the best tactical mind in Dol Amroth? Probably not until it was too late!

Her wardrobe yielded only a small supply of riding dresses, so after a brief hesitation she settled on a russet coloured gown with a split riding skirt, for somehow she couldn’t imagine Rohan’s ladies riding sidesaddle. A bright orange scarf added a splash of colour and she freed her hair from the hasty bun that she had arranged for breakfast and brushed it out. When she gave a last twirl in front of the mirror, she wasn’t dissatisfied with the result.

Slipping downstairs, she suddenly realised she had no idea where Éomer expected her to meet him. At the stables or somewhere outside the castle walls? As she hesitated on the bottom step of the staircase, her brother Elphir entered through a door, Lord Dorgam at his side. The older lord was accompanied by one of his hunting dogs, an elegant, lean creature that obediently followed at its master’s heel.

Just what she did not need! Lothíriel looked round for an escape, but it was too late to avoid meeting her brother. Hoping to keep the encounter brief, she tried to look busy and nodded at them while she made for one of the other doors. However, Elphir stopped her with an outstretched hand.

“Sister, where are you going?”

She gave him a noncommittal smile. “I just need to check on my bees.”

Lord Dorgam captured her hand to bow over it. “How lovely you look today, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She motioned at his dog that at a soft command had sunk down. “You are planning to ride out hunting?” Hopefully not in the same direction as Éomer!

“Oh no,” Lord Dorgam assured her, “we are going to the kennels to observe the training of your brother’s hounds.”

“How nice,” Lothíriel said and would have moved on, but Elphir frowned at her.

“You spend too much time with your bees, Sister,” he said. “Why don’t you let Hingam do his job, that’s what we pay him for.”

“He’s old and needs help,” Lothíriel pointed out. “Besides, I enjoy looking after bees, it’s an interesting and useful occupation.” The Rohirrim at least certainly enjoyed the fruits of her work!

Lord Dorgam cleared his throat, a grave expression on his face. “I’m afraid I have to agree with your brother,” he said. “Though it is of course commendable to take an interest in the details of running your father’s household, beekeeping is below your station, my lady.”

She bristled at his tone, which implied he had every right to judge her conduct. “Thank you for your opinion, my lord.”

The irony went right over his head. Dorgam nodded, as if it were only right that she should look to him for advice. “If your man is not up to the work, you should get rid of him. I do not keep useless servants.”

Even Elphir looked a bit uncomfortable at that.

“Hingam has been serving the family for all his life!” Lothíriel protested. “It would break his heart.”

Dorgam bowed to her with a condescending smile. “Your sentiments do your feminine nature honour, but luckily you have men to relieve you of such burdensome decisions.” He turned to Elphir. “I believe that misplaced sentimentality will only hamper you when dealing with your subordinates, so I keep tight reins on my household.”

Lothíriel’s feminine nature strongly prompted her to kick him in the shin, but she resisted the temptation. “Oh, do you?” she asked in a sweet voice. “How marvellous.”

His eyes narrowed. “My lady, I have found that people are happiest when they know their proper place.” His dog gave a soft whine at the sharp tone.

Blood rushed to her cheeks. Where did he think she belonged? Ruled by some man’s firm hand, to keep her suitably timid and wifely? His hand? Lothíriel took a deep breath.

Then all of a sudden their attention switched away from her and they both bowed. “My lord,” Elphir said.

The hairs on the nape of her neck rose as she realised who stood behind her. She turned round and sank into a curtsy. “King Éomer!”

He must have come in through a side door, unnoticed by them. Panic flooded her. How much had he overheard? Frantically she tried to remember if her brother had called her by her name. Who did he think she was?

He bestowed a bland smile on them, but something in the tense way he carried himself told her that hidden anger smouldered inside him. “My lady,” he said to her. “I’ve been looking for you. Amrothos begs you to succour him, for he’s in a bad way.”

Subtly he shifted to stand beside her, somehow emanating a solid presence, warm and protective. Lothíriel smiled up at him. “Thank you, I will come at once.”

Elphir chose that moment to display his most pompous side. “Really, Sister,” he said, “Amrothos is only getting what he deserves. You should leave him, perhaps that would teach him to mend his ways.”

Lothíriel might have thought the same earlier on, but she wouldn’t let somebody else criticise her favourite brother. “Nonsense! Of course I will see him.”

Dorgam frowned at that outburst. “My lady, I’m afraid Lord Amrothos is not really fitting company for a delicate female like you.”

Éomer took a step closer. “I think Gliwen is quite capable of deciding that for herself.”

Lothíriel froze at the use of her nickname and saw with rising panic that Elphir sported a scowl of displeasure.

“My lord,” he said, “such familiarity with a lady, though no doubt completely acceptable in Rohan, is not quite appropriate here.”

Lothíriel held her breath as silence fell.

Then Éomer smiled. “Thank you for enlightening me on Gondorian customs, Prince Elphir,” he answered. “As always I find it a fascinating topic. However, since Gliwen has given me permission to dispense with titles, I will adhere to my own barbaric ways.” The smile vanished from his face abruptly. “And now permit me to enlighten you on something: I intend to ride to Gondor often in the future. And if I ever hear that you have forced your sister into something distasteful to her…” He shot a significant look at Dorgam. “…you will regret it.” His voice remained completely level, not raised above a conversational tone, but there was steel in it, sharp as an Elven blade. “Both of you.”

Flustered, Elphir began to protest. “I’m her brother, I-”

Éomer tapped his fingers on his sword-hilt. “Exactly. That’s why I would regret having to do something to compromise my friendship with your father.” His voice fell to a whisper. “Sadly my temper sometimes gets the better of me.”

Lothíriel broke out in a cold sweat, though the words weren’t even directed at her, and Dorgan had gone completely still, the dog at his side pressed against his legs. As for Elphir, he flushed, two bright red spots standing out on his cheeks. All his life people had treated him with deference, but his station offered no defence against this man.

Éomer held the two men motionless with nothing but the power of his eyes. Then he released them with a dismissive nod. “I think you were on your way to somewhere?”

Dorgan swallowed. “Yes, to the kennels.”

“In that case don’t let me keep you.”

Dorgan gave a jerky bow and pulled his friend away. Folding his arms on his chest, Éomer watched them go. When the door closed behind them, he turned to Lothíriel.

“Well, that’s taken care of those two.” He looked grim. “I find that the reputation for a temper can be quite useful at times.”

Lothíriel released her breath and gave a shaky smile. “Do you?”

His gaze sharpened with worry. “What’s the matter, Gliwen? I didn’t frighten you, did I?” He lifted his hand to her cheek, but did not quite touch her. “Believe me, you have nothing to fear from me. Not now or ever.”

Didn’t she? Lothíriel looked away from him, unable to bear the honest concern she saw on his face. How easy it would be to lean forward into his hand and claim the promise of comfort and shelter that he offered. But how could she with her lies forming an invisible barrier between them? For she knew with absolute certainty that she would rather die than have him use that tone of voice with her.

Chapter 9

Éomer cursed himself for his temper. He had meant to scare that oaf of a brother and his friend, not Gliwen! But surely she could not think that he would ever do anything to harm her.

She looked back up at him, those lovely grey eyes guarded. “Would you really hurt them?”

He hesitated, not over the answer, but over how to phrase it. In the end he opted for the unvarnished truth. “Yes.”

The thought of Dorgam taking advantage of her made his blood boil. Quite obviously the man could have no honourable designs on Gliwen, for it was the talk of the court that he had his sights set on marrying Princess Lothíriel. But that fine lord now knew he was a dead man if he as much as touched Gliwen; Éomer had seen the realisation in his face. Her proper place! What did Dorgam consider that to be – awaiting his pleasure in his bed? Involuntarily he clenched his hands into fists. As for Prince Elphir calmly contemplating his sister’s dishonour, in the Mark he would have earned a whipping. Or a blade in the gut…

Gliwen interrupted his murderous musings. “Éomer, how did you know it was me and not my sister?”

That brought him up short. He had never for a moment doubted that it was Gliwen facing the two men with a vulnerable belligerence that just made him ache to defend her. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “I suppose I’m just getting better at telling you apart.” The softer curve of her back? Black hair not confined to rigid coils and braids, but tumbling loosely across her shoulders? A voice warm with anger instead of her sister’s frigid tones? “Princess Lothíriel is such a model of behaviour, your brother would never have criticised her anyway, so recognising you was easy,” he attempted a weak joke.

But instead of making her smile, his words caused her to look away again with that stricken expression on her face. “Lothíriel is not as blameless as you think,” she said.

That reminded him of something. “Tell me,” he said, “did you mention our plans for this afternoon to your sister?”

“Eh…why?” Gliwen stuttered.

He shrugged. “It’s just that at breakfast I could have sworn she knew more than she let on.”

“I told nobody about our planned excursion,” Gliwen assured him after a brief hesitation.

More people descended the stairs that moment, giving them curious looks, so Éomer took Gliwen’s arm and drew her towards the door to the courtyard. “Perhaps I was imagining things,” he said. “She wanted to show me the palace grounds, much to Ealdred’s delight. But why would I want to traipse through the gardens with your insipid sister when I can take you riding instead!”

Her mouth drew into a wry line. “Why indeed.”

No doubt her father’s courtiers saw things differently. Fools! But he would not let such considerations spoil their last day together. “Never mind,” he said, “let’s just forget about them all. I mean to show you the enjoyment found in a day outdoors; we Rohirrim are masters at living in the wilds.”

Perhaps he was finally getting the hang of the layout of the palace, for he managed to find the small postern gate that let out onto the kitchen garden at the first try. While they walked through the orchard, he told her about spending his summers under the vast skies of the East Emnet, riding guard on the horse herds. Those were some of his happiest boyhood memories and gradually he felt her relax at his side.

“I’ve told my men to await us at the bottom of the hill,” he explained his plan, “for I won’t have you walking about on your own. Do you need anything from your tower, a cloak perhaps?”

She nodded eagerly as she slipped inside, but when she emerged from her tower she carried not clothing but a pair of bulky saddlebags. Taking them from her he nearly dropped them in surprise, they were so heavy.

“What have you got in there?” he asked. “Bricks? We’re only going for an afternoon’s ride!”

“Just a couple of books I absolutely can’t do without and some other stuff. Although sadly I had to leave Turgon’s Aquatic Insects of Southern Gondor behind, it just wouldn’t fit.”

“What a shame,” Éomer muttered as he slung the bags over his shoulder. The corner of a book caught him painfully in the back, but he also felt something soft and yielding, like a full water skin. Something clanked inside. The Valar only knew what she’d packed!

He grinned at her. “Well, now that we’re properly equipped, shall we make our escape? How do we best get to where my men are waiting for us without anybody spotting us?”

She gave him an impish smile. “Follow me!”

Surefooted as a goat, she scrambled across the crumbling wall and then led him along a narrow path in the shadow of tall trees. “My father’s guards won’t spot us here,” she confided to him. “And anyway, nobody keeps tabs on me. They will assume I’m helping Hingam with his bees.”

While in principle he approved of the ease with which they got away, Éomer nevertheless frowned at the lax security of Imrahil’s castle. “This place has more holes than a Lamedon cheese,” he grumbled. “For an enemy it would be child’s play to take it.”

Gliwen shook her head. “Oh, it only looks that way, The General runs a tight ship. No stranger could come this way without arousing suspicion.” She called a greeting to a shepherd sitting on a fallen tree trunk surveying his herd. “If you weren’t with me, little Handir would already be carrying word up to the castle. But The General believes in seeming weak where we are strong to confuse the enemy. The idea’s from some book, I believe.”

Éomer wondered who this ‘General’ was, for he hadn’t been introduced to the man yet. At least he seemed to be doing a good job and knew Hyarmendacil’s Art of War. Very soon they reached the road to the northern beaches, less busy than the one leading to the town, and after a few bends found his riders waiting for them.

A fair number of curious glances were cast their way as he helped Gliwen onto her horse, a docile gelding taken along as a spare mount. She settled her voluminous riding skirts around her – so very Gondorian – when sudden doubt assailed him. “I’m not getting you into trouble, am I?” he asked. Young ladies were brought up so strictly here, should he have organised a female companion?

“No worse than I’ve been in before,” she answered with a grin. “Don’t worry, Amrothos and my aunt will cover for me.”

As they had many times before? But then she had sneaked off to Minas Tirith during the war, compared to which slipping out for an afternoon’s ride would be a breeze.

Éomer swung into Firefoot’s saddle and kept a close eye on her as they set out. However, to his relief she was a competent enough rider, if a little out of practice. Somebody had obviously seen to it that she received good schooling and Statholfeast, her horse, would do the rest. It might not have the spirit of a younger horse, but knew how to take care of an inexperienced rider. A good choice for a mount, he thought as he watched her riding by his side, back straight and concentrating on getting to know an unfamiliar horse.

Yet even so it would be interesting to see her on something a bit more exciting. Mentally he reviewed the horses currently in training in Edoras and in his father’s old stables in Aldburg. The Rohirrim might be famous for their grey battle steeds, but they also bred a number of lighter horses. Almost at once he knew which one would suit Gliwen: a sweet black mare called Aémette for her small size at birth. His stable master had not expected her to survive, but Aémette had surprised them all with her will to live and had matured into an elegant, long-legged beauty. Éomer tried to imagine Gliwen riding the mare – now that would be a sight to behold! Suddenly he grinned, remembering their conversation about silkworms. If she kept her promise, he would owe her a horse and Aémette would be royal payment indeed. Gliwen would be better mounted than any other lady in Dol Amroth! His grin faded as he realised that might not necessarily be a good thing for a humble beekeeper. Besides, Aémette was pure Mearas – to gift her to a woman was a proposal of marriage.

Suddenly he wanted to swear. Why couldn’t Gliwen be the princess and that icicle Lothíriel the by-blow? Or else him still the simple Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Curse fate for giving him what he didn’t desire and withholding what he wanted!

Sensing his rider’s frustration, Firefoot shook his head and neighed. Gliwen threw him a startled glance. “Is something the matter?” Her hands clutched the reins as Statholfeast picked up the stallion’s agitation.

Éomer calmed the horses with a few soft clicks of the tongue. “No, nothing.” Why pain her by talking about what could not be? She obviously cared deeply for her family though they treated her so shabbily.

Soon after they emerged from between some dunes to reach the flat sandy beach that stretched for mile upon mile north of Dol Amroth. A pair of tree trunks bleached bone white by the sun marked the entrance of their path, but otherwise unbroken sand stretched before them.

At first the horses sank up to their fetlocks into the loose sand, but where the receding tide soaked the ground, the going improved. Foam frothed across their path and the wind whipped Gliwen’s hair around her face, making her laugh out loud.

Éomer’s frustration drained away at the sound. He intended to enjoy this day with her and would not think of what would follow. Or not.

“Are you up for a run?” he called.

Eyes sparkling with challenge met his. “Of course!”

And as they pounded away across the sand, he let the salty wind blow away his cares. At least for a little while.

***

For their midday meal they set up an improvised camp in the shelter of some dunes. His men all knew their assigned tasks and while two of them looked after the horses, the others set off in pursuit of game and to collect firewood. Gliwen offered her services as a cook, but was summarily refused by old Beaduheard.

“Probably just as well,” she murmured to Éomer. “I tend to burn things. Amrothos claims I get distracted too easily.”

He grinned. “Beaduheard won’t let me near the food either. Even as a fresh rider in Elfhelm’s éored I was always assigned to brushing down the horses.” He motioned at the sand dune behind them. “Shall we climb up there and have a look around?”

Gliwen nodded. “Yes, let’s.” She lifted her arms over her head and arched her back. “I’m all stiff from riding.”

Éomer was suddenly very aware of that slim body displayed so admirably by the close fitting Gondorian riding habit. He would not mind at all exploring aching muscles and rubbing the stiffness out of them!

Then Éothain cleared his throat audibly. “A nice idea, my king. I’m sure it would do the lady good to move about a bit.”

Éomer coloured, wondering what his face had shown. He had not missed the emphasis put on Gliwen being a lady either. “Thank you for your concern, Captain,” he snapped in Rohirric. “Be sure to post guards.”

Of course Éothain had already done so, but tactfully refrained from pointing this out. In fact they could see one of his riders at the top of the dune as they scrambled upwards by holding on to scraggly bushes whose roots had somehow found purchase in the loose sand. Gliwen was somewhat handicapped by carrying a small wooden box, but she wouldn’t give it to anybody else. The rider offered her a hand up, but then walked away to take up his post out of earshot.

It hit Éomer that all his men had been exceedingly polite and respectful towards her. Also there had been none of the good-natured grumbling over having to wait for their king that he had expected from his decision at such short notice. On the contrary, the men had vied over who would be allowed to come along. And down below, old Beaduheard unpacked a bulging bag of supplies, obviously determined that only the best would do for their guest. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he realised that they set high hopes in this outing with the woman they thought Gondor’s most eligible maiden. How had he managed to land himself in such a tangle!

Unaware of his thoughts, Gliwen turned in a circle, taking in the sea stretching like a beaten sheet of silver on one side and the marshes on the other. As far as they could see, willows displaying the fresh silvery green of spring lined meandering channels, while reeds and sedges swayed gently in the wind, giving glimpses of hidden ponds. The muted sound of croaking frogs carried up to them.

“What is that?” Éomer asked, pointing to some white dots far away in the distance. “Are those wild horses?”

Gliwen shaded her eyes with a hand. “Quite likely. They share these lands with the black cattle that we raise. We call them water horses.”

“Why is that?”

She motioned at the wetlands with their pools twinkling in the sunshine. “They are perfectly adapted to their environment: superb swimmers and they even have wider hooves that help them spread their weight more evenly on swampy ground.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t interested in horses?”

Gliwen carefully put down her box on a bit of grass. “I just find it fascinating that without any human intervention they should be so well suited to their life. However, I’m hoping to spot much more interesting animals than that.”

Éomer grinned, pretty sure that her definition of ‘interesting’ would not match his. “And what are they?”

“Well, there are the birds of course, for example bee-eaters or spoonbills, which look really funny.” She peered under some scraggly tamarisks. “But what I’d really like to show you is an antlion.”

“You have lions here!” he exclaimed.

Crouching low on the ground, she laughed up at him. “Only tiny ones, not in the least dangerous. Unless of course you happen to be an ant.” She beckoned to him. “Have a look, here’s one.”

Intrigued, he squatted down beside her. In the dry sand under the small tree something had dug a small pit, circular and completely smooth.

“The antlion sits in the centre and waits for an insect to happen along and fall into the pit,” Gliwen explained in a whisper. She leant forward and her hair brushed across his bare arm, soft as silk. Éomer had to rein back the impulse to wrap his fingers in its silken lengths. Completely oblivious to his thoughts, she peered at the small insect. “Parphen writes in his Natural History of the Falas that it even throws grains of sand at its prey to make it fall in, though I’ve never seen that happen.”

“Fascinating,” Éomer croaked, still fighting his unruly thoughts.

“I have to draw it!” Gliwen decided and straightened up, briefly balancing herself by placing a hand on his shoulder. His thin linen shirt did nothing to mask her warm touch.

Then she was gone, only to return a moment later with the wooden box she had carried with her. Sitting down cross-legged, she flipped open the lid to reveal a leather writing slope. From a drawer in the side she extracted a fat notebook, while a compartment at the top held a writing quill and a small inkpot. “My grandfather used to take this with him when campaigning in Ithilien,” she explained, “but I use it for more peaceful purposes.” Lovingly she stroked the satiny wood. “He designed it himself.”

Completely irrational jealousy of a long dead man shook Éomer. To distract himself, he picked up the notebook and started to leaf through it. Tree frog, read the first page, length 1.5 to 2 inches, green with brown stripe along the sides. Has small discs on its toes like tiny saucers. Lives in trees. Well, obviously! Below she had drawn the picture of a small frog. The opposite page described a stag beetle and two different types of dragonflies.

“Did you draw these yourself?” he asked, inspecting the pictures.

“Yes. One of my science tutors had the idea of keeping a notebook of all the creatures we found in the gardens.” With a sigh of contentment Gliwen looked out at the view over the marshes. “Do you know, I’d forgotten how nice it is to get out,” she said. “When I was smaller, we used to sail to the outlying islands in the summer or spend time in our hunting lodge in the Tarnost Hills.” She put the writing box aside and drew up her knees to rest her chin on them. “But then war started to loom over us and my brothers were needed elsewhere.”

He sat down on the ground and stretched his legs out in front of him, careful to leave some space between them. The camp below might look busy, but he was only too aware that their every movement was keenly observed. “Yet surely now they could make some time for their sister again?” he asked. Or didn’t they consider it worth their while?

She shrugged. “Erchirion is out chasing corsairs a lot and even Amrothos is often away on some errand or other of my father’s.”

“Well, I think you deserve some time off,” he said. “Or does your sister expect you to produce her precious honey and mead without ever taking a break?” Princess Lothíriel’s words of overseeing the servants still rankled.

Gliwen looked away. As a couple of times before, he had the feeling of some invisible barrier descending between them. “I’m taking a break now,” she finally answered. “My thanks for the lovely ride.”

“Now you sound exactly like your sister!” he snapped, goaded by her chilly tone.

Gliwen whipped her head round, eyes large and startled, like those of a frightened filly.

Éomer relented at once. “Oh, forget I said that,” he groaned. How had he managed to spoil the easy mood between them? He picked up a stone and threw it at some bushes further down the hill where a magpie perched, observing them attentively. The bird gave a croak of protest and flew away. “Can’t we just forget about the Prince of Dol Amroth and his pesky family for a day?” Éomer asked. “If any of them show up, I swear I’ll dump them in the next swamp!”

A reluctant smile blossomed. “Even my aunt?” Gliwen asked.

Éomer gave the question grave consideration. “A daunting idea, I admit. Hopefully Ealdred is keeping her too busy in the library to come after us.”

Gliwen drew a pattern in the sand with a finger. “Do you think he likes her?”

Éomer hesitated. As a well-to-do widower, Ealdred must have had a fair share of women dangling after him, yet he’d never shown any inclination to remarry. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve never seen her so taken with somebody,” Gliwen answered. She furrowed her brow. “You see, she’s had some disappointment in her youth that she never talks about…I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”

“Yet wouldn’t you miss her if she moved away?” After all her aunt seemed to be the only member of her family to properly look after her.

But Gliwen shook her head. “Not if I knew she was happy. But do you think Lord Ealdred is serious in his attentions?”

Éomer decided on the spot that Ealdred would have to do the honourable thing, even if he had to force him into it. He would not see Lady Ivriniel, and by extension Gliwen, hurt by him. Although in all honesty the councillor seemed pretty smitten anyway.

“Well, I think he displays all the symptoms of falling for her,” he answered lightly.

Gliwen perked up. “Really? What are they?”

Éomer shrugged. “He’s oblivious to everything around him and craves her company, while thinking that nobody notices. And this morning he even admired her sense of dress! Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just wondered.”

That moment a commotion in the camp drew his attention. The two hunters returned, triumphantly displaying their catch, a brace of bright pink birds.

“What are they!” Éomer exclaimed.

“Just flamingos,” Gliwen explained. “They breed in the brackish lagoons between the marshes and the sea.”

“Birds? For a moment I thought one of my men had filched one of your aunt’s hats!”

Gliwen choked with laughter, while down below old Beaduheard started to pluck the birds while they were still warm. Pink feathers floated away to be picked up by the other men. Perhaps some wife or sweetheart in the Mark would get them as an exotic present.

“Flamingos?” he mused. “I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Oh, this place is very rich in bird life.” Gliwen pointed at a pond surrounded by a belt of bulrushes and sedges. “See, cattle egrets. And there, do you think that could be a purple heron or is it too early in the year?” She frowned. “I need to consult Parphen’s bird atlas for the exact migration time. I’ve got it with me, of course, but it’s still in my saddlebags.” She gathered herself to rise.

Éomer reached out a hand to hold her back. “Oh never mind about those birds.”

Her attention arrested, she looked at him, the jet black hair cascading down her back framing her face in a dramatic contrast to her smooth, pale skin. Unable to resist, he briefly touched her cheek. “Please stay.”

As a slow blush rose to her face, he felt a strange satisfaction that she should not be so completely oblivious to him after all.

“As you wish,” she assented. Then she picked up her notebook and settled the small writing desk back in her lap. “I never got round to drawing my antlion anyway.”

Content for the moment, Éomer watched her trace out the sandpit and its strange occupant on a new sheet of her notebook. With fierce concentration, she added some lines of writing, a vertical furrow between her eyes. Antlion. Length about half an inch. Dark grey colour. Lurks in bottom of pit, waiting to pounce on prey falling in. Dangerous to unwary ants crossing its path.

Aémette - ant

Chapter 10

Lothíriel was impressed with the quiet efficiency of Éomer’s men. A shout alerted them to the meal being ready, and down at the campsite she got shown to her seat, a fallen log covered with a blanket for a cushion. They would not let her do anything, instead one of the riders handed her a plate, another went round with a pile of soft flatbreads that he shared out and finally Beaduheard came round to place slices of roasted flamingo on the bread. Éomer’s squire Godwulf acted as his assistant and had a bowl full of salad made from spring onions, fresh mushrooms, cress and pieces of soft, crumbly sheep’s cheese.

Lothíriel noticed that she was the only one with a plate, the others just wrapped the soft bread around the filling and with a neat trick tucked in the edges, so they had a tidy parcel of food to eat.

“I’m afraid we didn’t have the time to hang the bird,” old Beaduheard said, “but I cooked it still warm, so hopefully it shouldn’t be tough.”

“It tastes excellent,” Lothíriel assured him and the old man looked pleased.

“Beaduheard is the best field cook in the Mark, that’s the only reason we have him in our éored,” Éothain threw in to general laughter.

“And because I can still cut you young ones to ribbons with one hand tied behind my back,” the other man shot back. Looking at his crooked nose and the scar running from one ear down to his neck, Lothíriel believed him.

“Éothain and I used to be his scullions in our first year as riders,” Éomer said with a dramatic sigh. “It scarred us for life.”

Beaduheard waved a ladle at him. “Don’t believe a word that boy says,” he said to Lothíriel. “Half my grey hairs I owe to him and his fine friend.”

It was obviously an old argument, enjoyed by all the participants, and Lothíriel was struck by the easy companionship Éomer had with his men. Even so she had no doubt that he expected to be obeyed swiftly and completely. Also the Rohirrim displayed none of the reserve her father’s soldiers would have shown her, instead they peppered her with questions about the use the wetlands were put to, Dol Amroth’s white horses, the salt pans with their strange pink colour and a dozen other topics. Some of the queries surprised her – why did they want to know if she minded the cold of winter? But she answered them all patiently.

“Let the girl eat,” Beaduheard finally intervened. He turned to her. “I’m sorry that we only have tea to go with the meal, my lady, but Éomer King gave us very little warning.”

At his words Lothíriel remembered the contents of her saddlebags. “Oh, but I have mead!” she exclaimed and put her plate down. “Let me fetch it.”

“You brought mead?” Beaduheard asked.

Lothíriel suddenly noticed that complete silence had fallen and she had everybody’s attention. Even Éomer’s squire had stopped wolfing down his bread and regarded her with big eyes. “Yes,” she said hesitantly, “I thought since Rohan furnished the meal, Dol Amroth would provide the drinks.” It had really been a spontaneous decision, but now she started to doubt the wisdom of it. Had she committed some terrible social gaffe?

Then Éomer cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you.” He added something in Rohirric, which made the men return to their meal. Next a quick command sent Godwulf to fetch her saddlebags. Conscious of the speculative glances cast her way, Lothíriel rummaged through them for the tin cups she had packed and the two wineskins full of her latest batch of mead. She liked to experiment with the process and the mead had come out a particularly rich golden colour, so she had thought they would like it.

Reverentially Beaduheard took the cups from her. “Will you pour for us, my lady?”

And so Lothíriel ended up offering each rider his mead in a dented tin cup, which they accepted with silent gravity. When she got to Éomer she was conscious of the Rohirrim holding their collective breath, but whatever they thought might happen obviously didn’t, for he just thanked her with smile.

The riders very politely complimented her on the excellence of her brew, but Lothíriel was conscious of undercurrents that she didn’t understand. Luckily soon afterwards the conversation moved onto innocuous topics again.

***

When the meal was finished, Éomer’s squire headed down to the stream to do the washing up and the riders dispersed to prepare for striking camp. Having the feeling of only being in the way, Lothíriel strolled off towards one of the ponds and Éomer fell into step with her.

“Searching for more specimens to draw?” he asked.

Lothíriel cast a look over her shoulder, but they were already out of earshot of his men. “Not really,” she answered. An overgrown bank bordered the pond and she clambered down to stand at the water’s edge, where a few early water-lilies bloomed surrounded by a carpet of bright green duckweed. Big square boulders propped up the bank behind them like an irregular wall stacked up by a giant but then forgotten and Éomer wandered over to have a look.

“Did your people build this?” he asked, startling a lizard that darted away.

“I don’t know,” Lothíriel answered, joining him. “It could be natural, but the Numenoreans did have a number of quarries in this area.”

Éomer nodded. “We don’t call Gondor the stone land for nothing.”

The breeze from the sea did not reach this sheltered corner and in the midday heat nothing moved. Only the cicadas kept up their incessant concert and high above them a kestrel screeched once. Lothíriel leant back against the sunbaked stone and stared out at the elder bushes and sloes that lined the opposite edge of the pond. Saying nothing, Éomer kept her company and somehow his silence soothed her.

She sighed. “So tell me, did I do something very awful just now?”

“Is that what worries you so?” He laughed, but turned serious after a moment. “Not awful, no. It is just that in the Mark mead is usually only offered in greeting and farewell or at high feast days.”

“But why did your men react as they did?” she persisted. “They looked at me as if I’d grown a second head!”

He grinned. “Well, back home, if a woman offers a man a cup of mead – especially one she’s brewed herself – it is usually taken as an invitation to court her.”

Lothíriel lifted her hands to her mouth. “Are you telling me I just invited twenty men to court me?” No wonder they had reacted as they did!

“Not twenty,” he drawled in response. “Just one.” When she stared up at him in incomprehension, he flashed her one of his white smiles. “You see, they are all my men.”

Heat rose to her face. She could feel it spreading along her neckline, up her throat and across her cheeks. And the man watched with lazy amusement – he kept doing that!

But she would not let him have it all his way. “Really,” she said, cocking her head to one side. “What quaint customs you have. So it is the woman who takes the lead?”

She should have known he would not refuse such a challenge. “If the man lets her,” Éomer answered with supreme confidence. “Think of it as resembling the courtship displays of birds.” He lowered his voice. “Only a man has to come up with other ways to make his intentions clear.”

Her fair skin really was a handicap – why hadn’t she been born brown as a nut! But Lothíriel told herself that the heat she felt was from the sun-warmed stone at her back. “Such as?”

“With a woman of the Mark, he would offer to share his cup of mead with her. With a woman of Gondor…” He took a step closer and placed his hands against the wall on both sides of her. Lothíriel realised that she had somehow manoeuvred herself into a position completely at his mercy. Nobody could hear or see them, even if she struggled – and did she want to? The King of Rohan, it seemed, was not a man to miss such an opportunity. He leant in until their faces were but inches apart.

Looking up at eyes gone dark with desire, Lothíriel swallowed. “And with a woman of Gondor?” Her heart beat so hard inside her as if it wanted to burst its bonds. She grabbed a plant that grew in a crack of the wall to steady herself and the spicy scent of rosemary rose around them.

“With a woman of Gondor, he would have to be more direct…,” he whispered.

His warm breath ghosted across her skin, making her shiver as he placed a single, leisurely kiss in the corner of her mouth. Then his touch, light as a feather, moved along the line of her jaw. Lothíriel gasped as he awakened senses she had not known she possessed. Her belly tightened up, robbing her of breath. How did he do that! It made no sense that using only his lips, he was somehow able to call her whole body to life.

Feeling faint, she took a firmer hold on the poor rosemary behind her, dislodging a small shower of sand. It would not do to tumble at his feet! Éomer meanwhile continued his progress down the exposed line of her throat, leaving a bewildering trail of heat and cold behind him.

“Éothain will have my hide,” he murmured, “but how could I possibly resist you?”

Lothíriel leant heavily against the stone wall. The world had an alarming tendency to spin around her and she wasn’t quite sure if she got enough air. Though how he managed to affect her breathing by just trailing a lazy hand up her arm defeated her. There was no logical explanation. She seized hard onto the rosemary plant that had somehow become her sole anchor to reality. More sand and pebbles rained down.

Unhurriedly Éomer moved upwards again, claiming his territory with a slow kiss here and there. Lothíriel tried to regain control of her senses, but her heartbeat displayed the most alarming irregularity and her body temperature just seemed to rise and rise. Much more and surely she would burst into flame. His very restraint worried her, for what would happen if he lost control?

Reaching her lips, Éomer paused. She wanted to scream at him to stop. She wanted to beg him to continue. And it would really be quite nice to be able to breathe again.

Then their lips met and the world spun out of control.

Lothíriel’s knees buckled and with all her force she pulled at the plant behind her to keep her balance. More pebbles came loose to slide down to the ground. And then suddenly the trickle of sand became an avalanche that poured around her feet as part of the wall crumbled away. She cried out in surprise and flung out an arm to brace herself.

That moment a sharp pain pierced her hand. Pain blossomed all along her arm and she gasped out loud.

“Gliwen! What’s the matter!” Éomer caught her before she could fall.

She looked down to see something shoot away through the dust and sand and slither into a crevice of the wall. All she got was the impression of a black and white pattern.

“An adder!” Éomer exclaimed and seized her hard. “Gliwen, did it bite you?”

Lothíriel lifted her hand. Blood trickled from a wound on her palm and there - two unmistakable puncture marks. It was all too much, her body protested. As the edges of her vision greyed, she swayed and closed her eyes.

“Gliwen, my sweet!”

Strong arms caught her. But it was something in Éomer’s voice, a hint of panic, that made her struggle against her descent into sweet oblivion and open her eyes. Surely she was mistaken? This was one of the Lords of the West, whose valour on the Pelennor and at the Morannon had already passed into legend. She could not imagine him in anything but perfect control of a situation.

He picked her up and carried her a few paces to a boulder by the pond, where he sat her down. “Breathe deeply,” he ordered, his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Gliwen, do as I tell you!” The command held a note of desperation.

She obeyed and after a few moments felt better. “I’m sorry.”

Ignoring her apology, he crouched by her side, one hand still supporting her back, and inspected the wound on her palm, all the while cursing softly in Rohirric. “Why didn’t we stay in camp!” he exclaimed. “I’m such an idiot.”

“It was my idea to go for a walk,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but I agreed because–” He took a deep breath. “Never mind. You will be fine.” Seizing her face between his hands, he made her look straight at him. “Do you hear, Gliwen, you will fine. You have to be! Fight the poison!”

Swallowing hard, she nodded. “I promise.”

For a moment she thought he might kiss her again and braced herself, but then he straightened up. “We need to get you to a healer.” He let out a loud shout in Rohirric that made her jump. She had thought them well out of hearing of the camp, but his battle voice carried far and brought his men running.

Éothain exclaimed in distress as he spotted the blood on her hand. “What happened?”

“Gliwen got bitten by an adder,” Éomer answered. “We have to get her back to the castle.”

Beaduheard hissed through his teeth. “That’s bad. Adder bites can turn nasty.”

Éomer shot him a look that made the old man take a step back. “She will be fine!”

Lothíriel meanwhile had taken the opportunity to inspect the wound more closely. The flesh looked torn, almost as if the snake had chewed on it. “It might not have been an adder,” she threw in.

Éomer whirled round. “What do you mean? I saw it!”

“There is a type of whip snake that has very similar colouring,” she explained. “I only got a glance at it, I would have to inspect it more closely to tell the difference.” Now that she had got over the initial shock, a strange calmness possessed her. “Anyway, there’s nothing much a healer can do. I’ll find out soon enough if the wound was poisoned.”

Every year a few cases of snake bite occurred in Dol Amroth, so she knew the symptoms well enough: swelling of the limb, pain and fever, sometimes faintness and vomiting. Yet most people recovered well enough. She tried to smile up at Éomer. “Don’t worry about me. Perhaps I was lucky, we’ll see.”

“Well, I intend to find out now!” A string of commands in Rohirric sent his squire running off.

Éomer stamped over to inspect the spot on the wall where the snake had disappeared. Meanwhile Beaduheard, under Lothíriel’s instructions, cleaned her hand with water and bandaged it firmly, using her orange scarf. “What does Éomer King mean to do?” he whispered to her.

She shrugged, not understanding either, but Éomer’s plan became clear soon after when Godwulf returned bearing leather riding gloves and a horse blanket. Without further ado, Éomer slipped on the gloves and wrapped the blanket round his right arm. Then he picked up a fallen branch that lay by the pond and attacked the crevice in the wall that the snake had disappeared down.

Éothain jumped to his side. “Let me do that!”

“No! This is my task.” Using the stick as a lever, Éomer prised away a stone and sand trickled down. He struck the branch in the opening as if piercing an enemy.

“My lady!” Éothain appealed to her.

She almost rolled her eyes. At times the Rohirrim did tend to treat their king as if he were a baby! And what extraordinary powers did they expect her to develop in order to stop him? But she did not want to hurt Éothain’s feelings, so she just shrugged. “I’m sure the poor snake is long gone.”

However, that moment a hiss emanated from the quickly growing opening and Éomer gave a shout of triumph. “There’s the brute!” He dropped the stick and reached into the crevice. An instant later he withdrew his arm, holding a writhing snake in his fist. The animal must have got trapped in a deadend somehow and now sank its fangs into his leather gloves, but to no avail.

Éomer changed his grip and none too gently took the snake behind the head, holding it helpless. “So what do you think?” he asked, showing it to Lothíriel while his men crowded round.

She scrutinised it gingerly as it coiled itself around his wrist and arm, trying to wriggle away. What had Parphen written about distinguishing the adder from other snakes? This one had a bold black on cream pattern – quite pretty really – but none of the typical zigzag lines, which was promising. However, the markings could vary greatly. But the eyes – brown and round, not slit like those of an adder!

She sagged with relief. “It’s harmless.”

“You’re sure?”

Lothíriel nodded. “Yes, look at the eyes, they’re round. According to Parphen that’s a clear sign.”

“Well, I still want to get you to a healer as soon as possible,” Éomer answered. “Fetch the horses,” he told Éothain, then with his free hand drew his knife.

She held out her uninjured hand. “Éomer, what are you doing?”

“I will kill this brute,” he said.

“No!” She struggled up. “You mustn’t. The poor thing was just afraid of being crushed, that’s the only reason why it bit me.”

“I don’t care,” he snarled.

She put her hand on his arm. “Please let it go. Look, it’s quite beautiful really and so elegant.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Beautiful? Really, Gliwen, you and your animals are enough to drive a man crazy!” With a sigh of disgust, he uncoiled the snake from around his arm and threw it into the bushes. Quick as lightning, it slithered away and disappeared. “Ungrateful beast!”

Not sure if he meant her or the snake, Lothíriel held her peace. In any case his men arrived a moment later with the horses, but when she approached Statholfeast she found herself intercepted by Éomer.

“You’ll ride with me,” he declared. “I’m not having you faint and fall off your horse.”

“But I’m fine,” she protested. “The snake was harmless. You saw the eyes yourself.”

“I don’t care what some long dead Gondorian says,” he snapped, “I’m not taking any chances.” Godwulf led up Firefoot. “Up you go.”

“I’m perfectly capable–” She got no further, for Éomer seized her round the waist and quite simply lifted her into the saddle. The stallion gave an offended huff and started sidling away, forcing her to grab the pommel with her uninjured hand. She glared down at Éomer. “Of all the high-handed–”

“Enough. Both of you!” This was addressed to Firefoot who laid back his ears in protest.

A suppressed snort of laughter made her aware that Éomer’s riders were all listening with unfeigned interest. Though fuming inside, she decided not to make a scene, swung her leg over the stallion’s withers and settled her skirts as well as she could with only one hand. “Whatever you say, my lord.”

When he mounted up behind her, she held her back rigid and stared straight ahead. Equally displeased, Firefoot kept his master busy by pulling on the reins and shying at the smallest thing. Éomer said nothing, just dealt with his horse by checking him patiently and with her by holding her firmly round the waist to keep her from falling off.

But gradually she felt herself relaxing. In truth her hand throbbed unpleasantly and it was a relief not to have to handle the reins. Also the aftermath of all the excitement left her tired and suddenly chilly. When she finally gave in and leant back against him, his body heat seeped through her clothes, warming her.

Keeping silent, Éomer just gathered her closer.

A/N Many thanks to Thanwen, who advised me on what type of snake I might find in Dol Amroth!

Chapter 11

When they approached the castle, Lothíriel sat up straight again. “Remember, you have to set me down at the entrance to the path to my tower!”

“Nonsense,” Éomer replied. “You’re going straight to a healer.”

Alarm shot through her. She could almost see the scene of arriving at the castle and having everybody fussing over her – there would be no chance of keeping her identity secret. And what would he say then!

She twisted round to look up at Éomer. “No! I’m perfectly fine, my aunt will look after me.”

He frowned. “Cover up for you, you mean.”

“Well, yes, that too,” she admitted.

“I don’t like it–”

“Please!” She caught at his sleeve.

He slowed Firefoot down. “Will I get you into trouble if we ride in openly?”

Lothíriel got a vision of having to explain her duplicity to Éomer in the stable yard. “Oh, yes!” Trouble didn’t even begin to describe it!

Éomer hesitated, but as they approached the entrance to the small path, he came to a decision. “Very well. However, I’m coming with you.”

His riders got orders to wait for him and then he urged his stallion up the track. Luckily the horses of the Rohirrim were surefooted, and though halfway up he had to dismount and lead the stallion, he insisted on Lothíriel staying put. Little Handir watched them with alert eyes as they walked by.

“Gliwen has been hurt. Go fetch Prince Amrothos and Lady Ivriniel and tell them to come at once,” Éomer shouted at him, sending the boy running.

 At the crumbling wall encircling the orchard, she got plucked off the horse unceremoniously, then lifted onto the wall. “It’s my hand that got hurt, not my feet,” she pointed out, not sure if she felt offended or amused at having him treat her like a parcel being delivered.

Éomer paused to tie Firefoot’s reins to a branch. “The less you do, the better.” He regarded her keenly. “You’ve regained some colour. How are you feeling?”

She moved her hand experimentally. It still hurt, but there seemed to be no swelling – it felt no worse than a bee sting, and she’d had plenty of those. “I’ll be fine.”

He rubbed a temple, looking tired. “So the snake really was harmless.”

Lothíriel lifted her eyebrows. “I told you so. Did you doubt me?”

“Well, even one of your Gondorian sages can get it wrong sometimes.” He picked up her injured hand and turned it over to inspect the fingertips peeking forth from the bandage. “It’s not too tight, is it?” He stroked her fingers lightly. “Can you feel that?”

“Yes.” The touch brought back memories of their interrupted kiss and Lothíriel felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Hopefully the shade of the trees would hide it! But he had his head bent over her hand anyway, turning it this way and that. Sitting on the wall, she could actually look down on him, a strange perspective. His hair grew a tawnier shade at the roots, only to fade to sun-bleached blond. What would it feel like to lace her hands through it?

Still he wouldn’t look up. Instead he dropped her hand into her lap and started to pull at some moss that grew in the crevices of the wall next to her. “How I hate being helpless,” he declared suddenly.

What had brought that on? “I think everybody does,” she answered, trying to feel her way.

“There was nothing I could do! If something had happened to you…”

At the suppressed emotion in his voice, Lothíriel reached out a hand. “Éomer, please, I will be fine.”

“You were under my protection – I was right there!” More moss got ripped off. “I wish that snake had bitten me.”

Lothíriel sought his eyes. “Éomer, sometimes the hardest thing is having to stand by and watch, unable to do anything.” Her time at the Houses of Healing came back to her and she shivered. “Believe me, I know.”

He caught her hand. “When I saw you all white and fainting,” he whispered, “I desperately wanted to kill something. Anything at all – yet how useless that was after my carelessness.”

“You’re not to blame,” she insisted.

“But I blame myself!” He slammed his fist against a stone. “I was a fool!”

A few pebbles trickled down, reminding Lothíriel of their unfortunate brush with Gondorian wildlife earlier on. Despite the seriousness of the topic, a tiny bubble of amusement rose within her.

“Well if there is a snake hiding in this wall,” she said, “I hope it will bite you, not me!”

Startled, he looked up at her. “What! Is that likely?”

She grinned. “Not really. They prefer somewhere warm and sunny. But it would only be fair.”

“So it would.” Reluctantly, he returned her grin.

“Éomer, just forget about it.” Greatly daring, she touched his hair.  “No lasting harm has come to me.”

“By luck alone.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But I would still rather have fought a band of orcs singlehandedly.”

She could sympathise with the wish to act, though it had done her little good. Her abortive visit to Minas Tirith came to mind. “Perhaps we women are more used to helplessness,” she answered, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice as she remembered her quarrel with Elphir. “After all we spend our entire lives under the control of some man.” Even now her father could promise her to some suitor and what would she do then?

He put his head to one side. “Doesn’t that depend on the man? We aren’t all cut from Lord Dorgam’s cloth.”

“What difference does it make? Women are still completely powerless.”

“But Gliwen, you have power,” Éomer said, capturing her hand.

“What do you mean?”

“The power of your eyes, your smile…”

She snatched her hand away. “I don’t want that sort!”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Then what do you want?”

She considered his question for a moment. “I would want you to listen to what I say, my reasons, no matter whether I was as beautiful as an Elf Queen or ugly as a beggar crone. Don’t you see?”

He grinned. “Perhaps you could teach me?”

She stared down at him, uncertain at this unexpected turn in their conversation, and said the first thing that came into her head: “You? You’re the most peremptory of all the males in my life!”

Éomer threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Oh Gliwen, I love you. Will you marry me?”

“What!” She grabbed the wall to keep from falling down.

“Will you marry me?” He recaptured her hand. “I suppose this being Gondor I ought to ask your father first, but–”

“No! Promise me you won’t!”

Éomer frowned. “Gliwen I do not understand why you’re so afraid of your father. Imrahil is a reasonable man.”

“No! Please, you mustn’t talk to him.”

Perhaps she did have power in her eyes, for at her beseeching look, he relented. “I won’t. At least not for the moment.” He touched her cheek gently, as if afraid she might bolt. “Look, Gliwen, I won’t lie to you and pretend all will be easy, but I meant what I said just now: I want you to be my wife.” He grinned. “That’s an official marriage proposal from the King of the Mark, lady of mine, and I’m quite willing to tell your father as much.”

His wife! Hearing the sincerity in his voice, she felt like the lowest hound. “I can’t! Oh Éomer, you don’t know me at all.” She desperately wanted to tell him the truth, but what would he think of her then? He would be disgusted with her and she just couldn’t bear the thought.

Éomer smiled at her. “Let me worry about that. We might only just have met, but I think I know you well enough.”

He kept misunderstanding her! Lothíriel took a deep breath. “That is not what I meant. Éomer, I need to tell you something, I…” She hesitated.

Footsteps sounded behind her as somebody came running through the orchard.

Éomer cursed softly. “Are you very attached to your brother?” he asked. “Because quite frankly at this moment I’m strongly tempted to strangle him and bury his body in the woods somewhere.”

Amrothos! She wasn’t sure whether to encourage Éomer in his plans or be grateful for the interruption. Had her brother just saved her from herself?

Unaware of his friend’s murderous thoughts, Amrothos rushed up to her side. “What happened! Handir said you’re hurt?”

Lothíriel swung her legs over the wall and stood up. “Nothing serious, just a snakebite.”

“A snakebite! How–”

“Leave be, Amrothos,” she snapped. “I’m fine.” Looking back at Éomer, she saw that he had untied Firefoot’s reins and swung into the saddle.

He lifted a hand in a salute. “Gliwen, we will speak again.” Firefoot threw up his head and he reached forward to pat the stallion. “Remember, the King of the Mark always keeps his word.”

“What did he mean by that?” Amrothos asked as Firefoot disappeared down the narrow track, ridden with careless ease.

“Never mind.” Lothíriel took his arm as a wave of exhaustion crashed down on her. “Now are you going to help me to the tower or not?”

He took one look at her face and slipped his arm round her waist. “Poor Lothíriel, what kind of trouble have you got yourself into this time?”

Her brother’s kindness was too much for her.

“Éomer wants to marry me!” she wailed. Then she burst into tears.

***

Luckily for Amrothos, who was supremely uncomfortable with female tears, her aunt arrived soon after. Ivriniel got her inside the tower, sat her down on the comfortable chair and set Amrothos to brewing willow bark tea. Then she unwrapped the bandage around Lothíriel’s hand and applied a poultice of comfrey.

Feeling numb, Lothíriel let her do as she pleased. Éomer wanted to make her his wife! Her gaze fell on the book of Rohan still lying open on her table. To leave Dol Amroth and move to Edoras, to see those mountains that were nothing but a few brush strokes to her at the moment. Above all, to share Éomer’s life, his bed…

And she knew then that was exactly what she wanted – that smile which had unexplainable effects on her breathing, his strange mix of intuitive understanding and complete peremptoriness in his dealings with her, the exhilarating feeling of vitality he aroused by his mere presence. Only she had made it impossible for herself to accept his offer. Instead he would be riding off in the morning still believing a pack of lies about her. It was unbearable!

“I’m such a stupid, witless, dumb fool!”

Ivriniel paused a moment in re-bandaging her hand. “Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?”

“Not hard enough! I should never have gone to Minas Tirith, I should never have kissed him!” Her voice dropped. “And I should never have lied to him.”

Her aunt sighed. “Poor child, you seem to have tangled yourself most thoroughly.”

Amrothos handed her a cup of willow bark tea. “Here, maybe that will make you feel better.”

Glumly she took a sip of the bitter brew. “You were completely right.”

Startled by this unprecedented statement, her brother took a step back. “I was?”

“When you said I should tell Éomer the truth when he first arrived.” She understood now that he wouldn’t have given her away to her father, that was not his way. But she had not known him well enough at the time and had panicked.

“Cowardice,” Lothíriel muttered to herself. She set the cup of tea down with a thump. “But that will end here and now!”

Amrothos retreated another step. “Sister? What are you planning to do?”

“From now on there will be only Lothíriel,” she declared. “I will put an end to Gliwen.”

His eyes popped. “You want to feign her death?”

“No!” Although for a moment the idea tempted her. To drown that irritating woman in the deepest spot of the Bay of Belfalas! Or pretend the snake had been an adder after all and the poison too strong… Then she kicked herself mentally. No more lying. “I will tell him the truth. Tonight.”

Her aunt heaved herself to her feet. “That’s probably the best thing.”

“Well, for myself, I will make sure I’m as far away as possible,” Amrothos exclaimed. “Have you any idea what he’ll do?”

“I’m not afraid of what he’ll do,” Lothíriel answered. A lump formed in her throat. “I’m afraid of what he will say.”

***

“You are very quiet tonight, my lord.”

Éomer started and turned towards Ealdred. “My apologies. I was thinking about what to do when we return home.” Which was the truth as far as it went, only he had no intention of telling the other man exactly what matter he considered. He had found there were times when surprise was the best weapon – and telling the royal council that their king intended to marry the illegitimate offspring of one of Gondor’s highest lords was definitely one of those.

Ealdred motioned at the throng of courtiers filling Imrahil’s great hall. “It’s our last evening here, you should enjoy the company.”

Éomer’s eye got caught by their host’s sister, a vision in silver and mauve, her ample bosom surely covered in enough pearls and amethysts to buy Meduseld’s golden roof twice over. “As you are?” he asked back.

The man actually coloured! “Lady Ivriniel has been most kind to me,” Ealdred answered.

“So I hear. Did she show you the library?”

“Yes, and she’s promised me the first dance.” The councillor looked around. “Speaking of dancing, where is Princess Lothíriel? I don’t believe I’ve seen her yet.”

Éomer shrugged, his momentary amusement at Ealdred’s obvious infatuation fading. “I don’t know.”

“Ah, there she is.”

Éomer followed his councillor’s gaze to see the princess entering through one of the doors. An ice queen, he thought, in her pale turquoise gown the colour of snowmelt in the spring. Its long sweeping sleeves trailed the floor behind her. How strange that the face set in a meaningless polite simper could display so much emotion in her sister. Recalling the enthusiasm with which Gliwen had shown him her odd little antlion, he grinned. And later he’d seen the same face with lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed, eyelids fluttering closed…

He came back to the present to find Ealdred smiling at him. “The princess is very attractive, isn’t she?” The man’s voice petered out suggestively.

“Yes, very,” Éomer answered curtly, annoyed with himself for daydreaming.

He needed to keep his wits about him if he wanted to ram his plans down the council’s throat, and setting up a potentially much more suitable match was not the way to do so! For he intended to wed Gliwen no matter what anybody said. He had put his whole life at the service of the Mark, never grudging any effort or pain, surely for once he deserved a little personal happiness?

A strange elation filled him. He finally knew what he wanted, whom he needed by his side and nothing would stop him. The realisation had come crashing down on him in that moment of sheer terror when Gliwen had gone chalk white and nearly fainted away. To lose her! Only then had he understood how much he needed that cheeky smile to warm his soul. And he didn’t care in the least what people might say about their union! But would it hurt her to have them sneering at her low birth? Not that anybody would dare to do so in his presence!

Prince Imrahil had spotted his daughter as well and now approached them with Lothíriel on his arm. While Ealdred greeted their host, Éomer bowed over a hand covered in long white kid gloves.

“King Éomer,” the princess greeted him, then withdrew her hand at once.

“You look beautiful,” he complimented her. “As usual.” Which was the truth, but his own taste just happened to run to slightly dishevelled beekeepers instead of frosty princesses.

Imrahil bestowed a benevolent smile on them both. “Éomer, my friend, I heard the two of you spent a pleasant evening down at the harbour last night.”

Éomer shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, very pleasant.”

“Did you have a look at the stalls? We get merchants from as far away as Harad.”

Ealdred leant forward. “Didn’t you encounter somebody from Rohan, my lord?”

“Yes, the man married a Gondorian and has settled down in Dol Amroth.”

Ealdred beamed at Imrahil. “Éomer King bought a beautiful hip belt for your daughter from him.”

“He did?” Imrahil turned to Lothíriel with a frown. “What a shame you’re not wearing it tonight.”

Looking slightly panicky, she hesitated. “It didn’t go with the gown,” she finally stuttered.

“It would have shown your appreciation, Daughter,” Imrahil reprimanded her gently.

“Please,” Éomer interrupted, “it’s but a small thing.”

Luckily Lady Ivriniel descended on them that moment, for Éomer felt like he could not bear the half truths piling up much longer. With a jab of guilt he noticed that Princess Lothíriel looked strained, too.

“Our dance is coming up,” Lady Ivriniel trilled at Ealdred, holding out a hand heavily beringed.

Flustered yet pleased the councillor accepted it. “With pleasure, dear lady!” He nodded at them. “You’ll excuse us?”

Ivriniel paused to smile at her niece. “Lothíriel, dear child, why don’t you show King Éomer the gardens.” She turned to him. “You mustn’t leave Dol Amroth without having seen them.”

“Oh, I really–”

He got no further, for Princess Lothíriel put immaculately gloved fingers on his arm. “It would be a great pleasure.”

Knowing defeat when it stared him in the face, he tried to accept gracefully. “The pleasure is all mine, my lady.”

Under Imrahil’s fond parental gaze, he led her out onto the terrace, mentally steeling himself for having to listen to her prattling on about flowers. When would it be acceptable to excuse himself? Yet once they reached the gravel paths she leant in closer.

“I need to talk to you,” she whispered. “It concerns Gliwen.”

“Gliwen!” The sudden fear that she’d taken a turn for the worse shook him. “Is she all right?”

“Shhh!” the princess hushed him. “Not here.”

Seething with impatience, he followed her along a moon-lit path between privet hedges until they came to a high wall overgrown with honeysuckle and climbing roses. Princess Lothíriel pushed open a gate and led the way through into a grassy square surrounded by carefully tended beds of flowers. In the centre stood a cherry tree, its blossoms closed but still shimmering white in the moonlight.

The princess wandered over and touched the trunk as if for comfort. “This was my mother’s garden,” she explained. “Father planted the tree for her when they first got engaged.”

Despite his impatience to hear of Gliwen, Éomer paused at the sadness in her voice. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly.

In this sheltered corner of the castle the night was completely calm, only broken by sleepy chirps from a bird they must have woken up. He cleared his throat. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes.”

Impatiently he waited for further explanations, which didn’t seem to be forthcoming though. “Is Gliwen all right?” he asked. “The snakebite hasn’t turned worse, has it?”

“The snakebite is fine…”

“But?” He was tempted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. Why wouldn’t the woman talk!

“Oh Éomer,” she suddenly burst out. “I’ve been practising how to say this all evening, but now the words have deserted me.”

“Say what?” And when had she started calling him by his first name?

Princess Lothíriel took a shaking breath. “There is no Gliwen.” Her voice broke on the last word.

“What do you mean!” The sudden conviction that they had done something to Gliwen took him. “You haven’t sent her away, have you? I’m warning you, if she’s been treated badly…”

The princess shook her head. “No! You misunderstand me–”

“I understand you very well. You and your family have been taking advantage of your sister all her life, using her as a common servant. And because she’s such a nice person, she doesn’t even mind. But that will change now! I intend to take her away from this place to where she’s appreciated.”

“Éomer, you–”

“What have you done to her?” he snarled. “Where is she!”

“She is here.”

Taken aback, he stared at her. What was she talking about, they were completely alone. Had she lost her mind? Princess Lothíriel tugged at the fingers of her gloves.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Giving you proof.”

Then the glove came off and beneath it… Refusing the evidence of his eyes, Éomer took a step closer. A white bandage peeked forth in the moonlight. While his mind still tried to grasp the ramifications, she unwound the bandage. A few drops of dried blood showed, then puffy flesh, two puncture marks. He stared at her hand, trying to make sense of it. It was Gliwen! What was she doing masquerading as her sister?

A fist of ice closed around his heart. Something was wrong here, terribly wrong. “Gliwen? Is it you?” he asked in disbelief.

She shook her head. “No, Lothíriel.” She reached up and removed her hairpins to have her dark hair tumbling down about her shoulders. “It was always Lothíriel.”

He shook his head in denial. “What are you saying? It can’t be. This is some kind of trick!” But then his gaze fell on her hand again, which she held out mutely. There was no faking the snakebite – or was there? Did the princess intend to take her sister’s place somehow?

“You can’t be Gliwen!” he shouted. Fear shook him as he felt his happiness slipping away through his fingers like water.

Princess Lothíriel winced. “Gliwen doesn’t exist, never has. We invented her,” she whispered. “Éomer, I’m so sorry.”

It was the way she said his name that convinced him in the end, the complete matter of course with which she dropped his title, the soft breath on the final consonant that had so enchanted him in Gliwen’s speech.

“No,” he whispered.

“Please, let me explain–”

He took a step back. “What kind of sick joke is this? It was always you?”

“Yes.”

“In the cupboard in Minas Tirith?”

“Yes.”

“Going down to the harbour?”

“Yes.”

“In your tower?”

She swallowed. “It is my tower. My grandfather–”

He did not let her finish. “Going for a ride with me?” he snapped.

“Yes.”

“At the pond, being kissed!”

As his voice rose, hers sank to a whisper.

“Yes.”

Unable to contain his agitation, he took a few steps about the garden. The princess watched him with eyes enormous in the moonlight, the bandage dangling forgotten from her fingers. “I know it looks bad,” she said, “but you have to understand…” Her voice trailed off.

“Bad!” It suddenly hit him that half her family had to be in on the scheme. “Your aunt, Amrothos! They know?”

“Yes, I needed their help.”

“Elphir? Imrahil!” Surely not his friend – but the world had shifted so much in the last minutes, anything seemed possible. What had once seemed solid ground was revealed as a quagmire. A stinking, foul quagmire sucking him in!

She shook her head. “They have no idea. It was because of my father that–”

He wasn’t listening, his mind working furiously. “But why? You came up with an illegitimate sister, went to all this elaborate masquerade just for my sake?” Then it hit him. “You want to trap me into marriage!” he exclaimed.

“No!”

He paid her no heed. “When I arrived here and showed no interest in Lothíriel, you invented Gliwen!”

“Please, Éomer, that’s not it.”

It only made him more furious that she should use his name. “King Éomer to you,” he snapped.

She leant against the tree behind her, as if needing its strength. “I know I deserve your wrath.”

“You deserve much more than that!” A thrashing! And what enraged him most was the fact that even now he still wanted to take her in his arms to soothe the hurt in her voice. But it was all an act! His mind still had problems grasping the whole extent of the deception. “So what made you decide to come clean now?” he mused. His gaze fell on her hand. “The snakebite! Something you and your band of conspirators couldn’t hide.”

She shook her head. “That would have been easy to cover up. No, I–”

“Easy to cover up!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I suppose it must be for a consummate liar like you.”

With satisfaction he saw her flinch. Why should he be the only one to hurt! A cherry blossom floated down to settle on her black hair. To think he had wished to bury his hands in it, but more than that, had wanted to share everything with her: his bed, his life, his heart!

Black rage boiled up within him. Taking a step towards her, he seized her by the shoulders and roughly pushed her against the tree trunk behind her. The princess started, but said nothing, just looked up at him with eyes like pools of darkness. He slid his fingers up a white, slender neck where her pulse beat like a running horse and leant in closer. “I could do anything I want to you. Anything!”

She released her breath in a soft sigh. “You always could, Éomer.”

Her words cut through the haze of rage like a steel blade. What was he doing! He let go of her as if she had burnt him. To what extremes had she brought him, to threaten a helpless woman! With sudden certainty he knew that he needed to get out of here before she goaded him into something he might regret later. Wordlessly he turned on his heel and strode out the garden. 

“Éomer!” she cried, “where are you going?”

“Home,” he snapped.

But there was no home here, only twisting paths between high hedges. He plunged down one at random, his only thought to get away. His mind still in a whirl, he ended up at the foot of the castle walls, then hastened up the stairs to the battlements. Clean air to clear his head! Yet when he leant on the stone balustrade, welcoming the fresh wind, the first thing he saw was another reminder of Gliwen, a corner of the roof of her tower.

Not Gliwen, Lothíriel! So all the while she had lied to him? Sitting on that crumbling wall, acting the simple beekeeper, strolling through the market with him and accepting gifts from him when she probably had cupboards full of clothes. Sharing a simple meal of trail bread with his men and feigning enjoyment. And the girl in the tower offering his heart a home…

His fingers clenched on the cold stone. Lies, all lies! Had she laughed at him, the gullible barbarian from the north? Made plans with her co-conspirators how to tangle him further in their webs? And then, when she had him exactly where she wanted him – making her an offer of marriage – she had coldbloodedly revealed the deception. Well, she would find that she had trapped a lion!

His blood pounded in his ears as fresh fury rose within him. How he wanted to kill something! Or just get out of these walls that looked so elegant, yet held such deception. Yes, he would take Firefoot and go for a ride. Alone. And if he met a band of brigands, so much the better.

He turned to go when a noise caught his attention. A giggle echoed from one of the watchtowers, then a female form emerged accompanied by a tall man. Éomer recognised the rich mauve gown at once. A blond head speckled with grey bent close to a dark-haired one, but neither one seemed aware of him yet.

“We must have been over the battlements at least twice,” Lady Ivriniel laughed, “and still you want to see more.”

“My dear lady,” Ealdred replied, “with you I’d walk all the way to Mordor and still crave more of your company.”

The sudden murderous impulse to grab them and throw them over the parapet shook Éomer. “Lord Ealdred!” he snarled.

They jumped. “My lord?” Ealdred stuttered. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking the air, the same as you!”

Lady Ivriniel had taken her swain’s arm. “You’ve spoken to Lothíriel?” she asked, all the mirth gone from her voice.

“Yes.”

“It didn’t go well?”

“No.”

“Oh dear, and Lothíriel had hoped to clear up the…misunderstandings.”

Misunderstandings! Rage hazed his vision. “Oh, I think those are all cleared up,” he said through clenched teeth, “but the princess has made a mistake, a grave mistake. It was exceedingly foolish of her to tell me the truth.”

The old lady drew herself up to her full height. “Actually I thought it was the bravest thing she’s ever done.”

Éomer reminded himself again that he did not harm defenceless women. Even when they asked for it. But they would learn not to bait a lion! “Ealdred,” he whispered.

“My lord, are you quite all right?”

He wasn’t and might never be, but that did not matter at the moment. “I have a task for you,” he told his councillor.

Ealdred peered at him in confusion. “Yes, what task?”

Éomer bowed to Lady Ivriniel, the barest nod that he could manage. “You will have to excuse us. I need to discuss something with my councillor.”

Then he smiled.

Chapter 12

Dol Amroth, three months later

Lothíriel dipped her hand in the bucket of cold water from the well, hoping to ease the pain. No matter how many times she got stung by a bee, it still hurt. Fëanor the cat sat and watched her, showing very little sympathy. But then she didn’t deserve any. “You’re lucky,” she said.

The cat flicked his tail, but displayed no other reaction. He had a remarkably self-satisfied expression, perhaps not surprising when one considered the number of little Fëanorians currently cavorting about the castle. Amrothos had long since run out of names for them.

Sighing, Lothíriel rose and flicked off excess water from her fingers. Then she pushed open the door and went inside her tower. The thick walls kept out most of the summer heat and she welcomed the cool shade. Fëanor had followed her inside. He now jumped up onto the comfortable chair by the window and rolled up into a tight ball.

Listlessly, Lothíriel sat down by her table and regarded her swollen hand. Involuntarily her gaze got drawn to the two faded puncture marks on her palm, the only visible reminders of those three fateful days. The snakebite had healed well. She stared down at the two red dots, idly wondering if she should find some plantain to crush and put on her hand, but couldn’t really be bothered. Who cared, anyway?

The door creaked open and Fëanor lifted his head, only to drop it again.

“Lothíriel?” her aunt said, peering in.

“Hmm.”

Ivriniel came over. “What happened?”

“I got stung by a bee.”

“Have you seen to it?” her aunt asked.

Lothíriel shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I deserve it, as I wasn’t paying attention.” Old Hingam had said nothing, but then he hadn’t needed to. She knew she’d been distracted the whole summer and not much of a help.

Wordlessly Ivriniel unearthed a pot of honey from amongst the clutter of her desk and dabbed some on. “There, that should help a little,” she said.

“Hmm.”

 “Meril’s been looking for you,” her aunt added.

“Has she?” Elphir’s wife had taken it upon herself to help with her clothes.

Ivriniel cast her a sharp glance. “Lothíriel, isn’t it time you took an interest in your affairs again instead of letting others decide for you?”

They had covered this ground before. “Why should I?” Lothíriel asked back. “Meril has excellent taste in clothes.”

Her aunt set down the pot of honey with a bang. “You know exactly what I mean!”

Lothíriel felt tired. Why couldn’t her aunt simply leave her alone? “I’m perfectly happy to put myself in Father’s hands,” she said.

“Imrahil’s hands!” her aunt exclaimed. “As if your father had anything to say in the matter. We both know perfectly well who calls the tune in this dance.” When Lothíriel said nothing, Ivriniel began to pace the room. “Has a date been set yet?”

“No.”

“But every other week another courier arrives from him,” Ivriniel pointed out.

Lothíriel shrugged. “Father says the contract takes a lot of negotiation.”

Her aunt snorted in disbelief. “If that man really wanted something, I don’t think a little thing like a contract would stand in his way.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want what he has contracted for anymore?”

“Will you stop talking that way!” Ivriniel snapped. “Honestly Lothíriel, ever since that man left you’ve done nothing but mope about!”

Too heart sore to protest, Lothíriel just looked down at her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Ivriniel took up her pacing again and with a frustrated kick shoved aside a basket left over from Lothíriel’s experiment with silkworms. She had moved them to a shed and given over the care of the insects to one of the castle servants as she couldn’t bear to see them every day. Not that it helped her any, as everything in her tower still reminded her of him. The books he had touched, her experiments with mead, even Fëanor the cat…

Her aunt stared out the window. “They say the harvest is going to be exceptionally good this year,” she suddenly said, “some are already calling it the Year of Plenty.”

Lothíriel nodded. Though she had paid little attention, certainly the bees at least prospered as never before in the clement weather.

“I remember a time, when I was but little older than you are now,” her aunt continued, still staring out at the meadow. “We’d had a wonderful summer as well and Ecthelion, who was Steward then, invited us all to Minas Tirith for a great harvest festival. Finduilas and I were really excited.” Ivriniel snorted softly. “She dreamt of outshining all the other girls at the balls, I just wanted to see the famous archives.” Her voice sank. “I spent all my time down there, pestering the librarians. Then one day – I was just reading an account of Ëarnil’s conquest of Umbar – the Steward’s son came to consult one of the scrolls. We’d met before, of course, but I had not realised his reputation as a scholar.”

Her attention arrested, Lothíriel looked up. Her aunt never spoke of those times – what had made her mention them? “And then?” she asked.

“We started talking; he’d read my scroll and many others besides. The next day he came back and brought me a book from his father’s personal library…” Her hands gripped the windowsill. “…and that moment, like a complete fool, I fell for him head over heels.”

“Denethor!” Lothíriel couldn’t help it, the name came out in a squeak.

Ivriniel turned around. “Yes, Denethor.” She made a helpless gesture. “He was different then, not as…hard…as in his later years. Finduilas’s death changed him, as if something inside him had turned to stone. With her he was always tender. He loved her very much.” She twisted her mouth as if the words tasted bitter.

Her poor aunt! Impulsively Lothíriel rushed over to hug her. “I’m so sorry!”

Ivriniel stroked her head. “I was very sorry for myself, too,” she said. “For when I emerged from my self-imposed isolation in the archives, I found that he had no eyes for any woman except Finduilas. They’d gone riding together, dancing, picnicking while I buried myself in books.” She gave a dry laugh. “Not that I would have stood a chance beside my sister anyway – beautiful, refined Finduilas, so docile and meek. Denethor liked that about her. I was always the wild one. Clever, yes, but that was not what he sought in a bride…” Her voice petered out.

Lothíriel hugged her harder, though it hurt her hand. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too, Child,” Ivriniel said. “That is why I am telling you my story.” She took Lothíriel by the shoulders. “My clever, wild one. Only your Éomer seems to love the headstrong sister better than the dutiful princess.”

Love her! Tears sprang to her eyes as all her unhappiness welled up within Lothíriel. “Oh, Aunt, he hates me!” She started crying.

“There, there!” Ivriniel stroked her back. “Surely it’s not as bad as all that. I know you never got a chance to explain yourself to him before he left, but he must have forgiven you, else he–”

“I don’t know!” Lothíriel exclaimed. And in her heart she doubted it. Not the way he had reacted to her revelation. “He was so furious,” she whispered. Instinctively her hand went to her throat. Not that she could blame him – she deserved everything he had said and done.

Her aunt frowned. “Lothíriel, have you tried writing to him?”

Fresh tears pricked her eyes. “Of course! Straight after he left – but he never replied to me.” It had taken her three days to compose that letter and she had even included a diagram to explain her reasoning. Only to wait and wait and never receive an answer. “He sends his dutiful greetings to me in every letter to Father,” she added with sniff.

“What a pig!” Ivriniel exclaimed.

“He is not!” Lothíriel fired up in Éomer’s defence.

“So why does he want to marry you?” her aunt asked back.

Which was of course the question that Lothíriel had asked herself over and over. Out of a sense of obligation because he had asked for her hand? Because in a small corner of his heart he still loved her? Or to get his proper revenge?

She gave a helpless gesture. “I don’t know.” But she would find out…

“You said nothing to Imrahil,” her aunt pointed out.

“How could I!” Lothíriel vividly remembered being called to see her father the evening after the Rohirrim had left. She had readied herself to receive a severe tongue-lashing, but instead her father had greeted her wreathed in smiles. And then he had informed her that Éomer had instructed Lord Ealdred to negotiate a marriage between him and the Princess of Dol Amroth! She had been left speechless.

“Imrahil told me he agreed because he thought it a love match, what with you disappearing in the gardens together. However, now he’s worried about you...” Ivriniel hesitated. “You know, Lothíriel, it wouldn’t be easy, but if you really wanted out of this engagement…”

“No!”

Ivriniel stared at her and shook her head. “What a mess you’ve landed yourself in! Well, if it’s any consolation, at least you do not seem to be the only unhappy one.”

Lothíriel straightened up. “What do you mean?”

Her aunt hesitated. “I got a letter from Lord Ealdred today. You see, he’s translating an account of the Long Winter for me,” she added hastily, “so we’re corresponding quite regularly.”

For all Lothíriel cared, Lord Ealdred could write her aunt fiery love letters, she was only interested in one thing. “Did he mention Éomer?” she asked, holding her breath.

“Yes. Apparently half the time he’s running his men ragged on the practice grounds and the other half he’s busy getting soused.”

“On mead?” Lothíriel asked. “Is he offering any mead around?”

Her aunt gave her a funny look. “No, on ale as far as I understand – not that I see what difference that makes. And he’s driving his council crazy by refusing to settle on a wedding date one day and urging them to make haste the next.”

Lothíriel thought of the mix of dread and anticipation that filled her regarding her nuptials. So Éomer felt the same! And he was as unhappy as herself. Suddenly her path came clear to her.

Impulsively she kissed her aunt. “Thank you! Now I know what to do.”

Ivriniel smiled with relief. “Good! You will write to him again?”

“Better!” Lothíriel replied. “I will talk to him.”

“What!”

Lothíriel grinned. “Although Amrothos will probably throw a fit when he hears about it.”

***

Outside Edoras, Midsummer Day

Stopping to water her horse in a stream that crossed the road, Lothíriel looked up at the three mountaintops framing the view. Exactly as in Land of the Horselords! She still found it difficult to accept that she had actually passed underneath them.

Amrothos stopped beside her. “I can’t believe I agreed to this,” he muttered.

She disregarded her brother’s words, for he had said little else ever since stealing out of Dol Amroth early in the morning nine days ago. Instead she steeled herself to face what she had carefully ignored so far: ahead of them rose a hill, standing solitary and aloof from the mountains that had spawned it. Houses covered its flanks, surrounded by a high wall, and on the top…

She swallowed hard. Gold glinted in the sun, announcing afar that this was the ancient seat of the Kings of Rohan – no, of the Riddermark she corrected herself. An old woman at the hamlet where they had stayed the previous night had taught her a few Rohirric phrases, amongst them the proper name of the land.

The great hall crouched on top of the hill, proud and brooding, like some beast surveying its domain, making her feel small and insignificant. Had it really been the right thing to come? At the time it had seemed such a brilliant notion, but ever since they had emerged into the grassy bowl of Dunharrow, doubt had begun to grow inside her. Her ideas often turned out that way, starting out shiny and new like a freshly minted coin, only to tarnish with time.

“It’s not too late yet to turn back,” Amrothos said, guessing her thoughts. “Father would never even know we’d been gone.”

“No.” She urged her horse forward, wincing as it stumbled and bounced her painfully on the saddle. At the very least they should be able to obtain a bath to ease her aches. Another oversight in her plan: she had never considered what it would mean to spend nine continuous days on horseback to somebody who at most rode out for an hour or so. Or that the only accommodation available to a merchant couple wanting to stay unrecognised would be small hamlets and solitary farmhouses. She probably still reeked of woodsmoke from last night!

Barrows lined the road on either side as they approached the gates of Edoras, and at another time Lothíriel might have stopped to consult one of the books in her saddlebags for the exact history of each of the former kings of the Riddermark. However, at the moment only the current King of Rohan occupied her mind. What would he say upon seeing her? Was he still furious with her?

Involuntarily she slowed down her horse. Now that the moment of truth was upon her she suddenly realised what it would mean. She pictured herself walking into the famous Golden Hall – if the guards even let a grubby thing like her past them – and facing Éomer in front of everybody. Did he have some kind of throne like that oppressive marble thing in Minas Tirith? Although King Elessar didn’t much use it, it was said. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Éomer sitting round with a crown on his head, holding court. But he might not be best pleased to be confronted with her without warning.

She came to a halt under the curious gaze of the guards at the gate. They would expect her to state her business in Edoras and somehow it didn’t seem right to enter Éomer’s seat under false pretences. No, the time had come for the truth.

She leant forward to talk to one of the guards. “Westu hál,” she enounced carefully. “Do you speak Westron?”

The man looked her up and down, focusing most of his attention on her horse. “I do, my lady.”

She briefly wondered what she owed the ‘lady’ to, just politeness or the quality of her father’s horseflesh? Then a sudden horrible thought occurred to her, driving all others from her mind. “Is King Éomer in residence?”

What if she’d come all this way, only to find him gone! The only thing they knew for certain was the fact that he had chosen not to attend King Elessar’s wedding anniversary in Minas Tirith, to which all the nobility of Gondor, including their father, had been invited.

The guard inclined his head. “Éomer King returned yesterday after a fortnight’s absence hunting wargs in the Westfold.”

So he was here – and she had no excuse not to see him. Lothíriel stared up at the hall again, where a green and white banner flew in the wind, looking proud and brave. “Would one of you carry a message up to the king for me?” she asked.

The guard motioned at a lad sitting on the steps of one of the houses, playing at dice with a friend. “Odda can go, he runs our errands.”

“Thank you.” Lothíriel hesitated. She didn’t really want to announce her identity when she felt so uncertain of her welcome, yet the King of Rohan would hardly come and meet just any traveller. She needed some kind of token. Then she had an idea. A quick rummage through her saddlebags yielded the item she searched for.

She handed the hip belt that Éomer had bought her to the guard. “Please instruct the boy to tell King Éomer the following: the one to whom you gifted this is here and wishes to speak to you.” Perhaps there was some kind of back entrance that he could smuggle her through unnoticed?

The man looked at the belt and his eyes popped. “I will take it myself, my lady,” he said. “Wait here.” And before she could add anything else, he hurried off up the hill. Another man took his place, regarding her curiously.

Amrothos, who had observed the whole scene, shook his head. “What have you done now?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. What was so special about a belt that the guard should have reacted in that way?

“Too late now to make tracks,” her brother muttered gloomily. “He’d catch us up before we would have gone a league. The Valar alone know what he’ll say when he finds out that I’ve let his future wife traipse all over Rohan.”

“I will tell him you had nothing to do with it,” Lothíriel promised, “that it was all my idea.”

“Yes, and being his usual sweet, reasonable self, that will soothe him,” Amrothos groaned. He shook his head. “Garrison duty on Tolfalas is starting to look more and more attractive.”

Feeling the need to stretch her legs, Lothíriel ignored her brother’s doleful mutterings and slid from the saddle to wander over to one of the barrows. The mound was covered in small white flowers and felt peaceful somehow. How long would it take the guard to deliver her message? She studied the hall again. How strange to think it might be her home soon. Would she really spend the rest of her life here, getting to know the people who were nothing but blond strangers to her at the moment, speaking a language she did not understand? Have Éomer’s children, rule as his queen, be buried with him in one of these mounds one day? It seemed like something happening to somebody in a story, not to her standing there with an aching bum from riding and dirty, itching hair. The longing to be back safe in her tower with all her familiar books swept through her. Oh why hadn’t she stayed at home!

Suddenly hooves clattered on cobbles. Éomer? Her heart sped up and she took a step forward, but then the rider trotted through the gate and she recognised Éothain. A wave of disappointment swept through her.

He threw himself from the saddle beside her. “Lady Lothíriel, what are you doing here!”

Her disappointment still fresh in her mind, she blurted out the truth. “I need to speak to Éomer. Isn’t he here? The guards said he returned yesterday.”

Éothain threw a harried look over his shoulder up at the Great Hall. “Oh yes, we had to return for the Midsummer Celebration. He’s here all right, but he’s not best pleased with your presence.” He leant closer. “My lady, did you mention your name to the guards?”

“No, I wasn’t sure–”

“Good!” Éothain exclaimed with obvious relief. “We might yet be able to keep this quiet.” He nodded a greeting to Amrothos. “Is it just the two of you? I have orders to find you a guesthouse where you can stay the night.” He hesitated, obviously ill-at-ease. “And tomorrow I will escort you back to Dunharrow.”

“What!” Lothíriel exclaimed. “But I want to see Éomer!”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.”

Lothíriel had to restrain herself from stamping her feet. “And did your king give any reason for his discourteous behaviour?” she asked.

“Yes, that is no way to treat a Princess of Dol Amroth!” Amrothos threw in, offended.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Lothíriel.” Éothain shifted from one foot to the other. “But you know Éomer King and his temper…”

She did indeed. First hand.

Éothain gave a helpless shrug. “You should perhaps not have sent him that belt. He got rather annoyed about it.”

The belt? “But why?” Lothíriel asked. “I just wanted to send proof of my identity without mentioning my name.”

“Oh!”

“Oh, what?” she snapped. Curse these Rohirrim with their dratted unwritten customs! She had read all the books on Rohan she had been able to lay her hands on and in none of them was any mention of belts.

“Well, it’s such an obvious courting gift,” Éothain answered. “And King Éomer gave it to…well…to your other self.”

Amrothos pressed out a groan. “Always one thing or the other!” He stomped away.

So Éothain knew about her deception. “Éomer told you about Gliwen?” she asked him.

“Yes, we got drunk together one night,” Éothain answered. “I thought it would be good for him.”

That moment she felt like it would be good for her! “I haven’t come all this way just to be sent back again,” she said, trying hard for a reasonable tone. “Please tell your king so.”

He spread his hands. “Lady Lothíriel, he gave me most specific orders concerning you. Perhaps when you come again in a more…official role? He’ll have to talk to you then, won’t he?”

“Well, at least to say his wedding vows!” she snapped. Even if he never uttered another word to her.

“I’m sorry. I asked him to reconsider, but he would have none of it. You know how he sometimes says things without thinking…”

Her heart sank. “What exactly did Éomer say?”

“Please, Lady Lothíriel!”

“His exact words,” she insisted.

Poor Éothain swallowed. “Éomer King said that the woman he gave the belt to is dead, that you killed her. And his orders for the woman outside his gates are to return to her father until the proper time comes, when he’ll summon her to the Mark.”

To deal with her at his leisure? Suddenly her own temper ignited. Why should he be the only one with a right to be angry! “Very well, you can take a message back to your king,” she said in measured tones. “If he is too much of a coward to talk to me, I will just sit here and wait until he gets his courage together.” Crossing her arms on her chest, she sat down on the grass.

“Princess Lothíriel!” Éothain exclaimed. “What are you doing!”

“Go and tell him!”

Amrothos came rushing over. “What’s the matter now?”

“My lord,” Éothain addressed him. “Can’t you reason with your sister? She insists on waiting here until King Éomer talks to her.”

Amrothos threw up his hands. “Elbereth save me. One as stubborn as the other!”

Ignoring them, Lothíriel stared straight ahead. Her behaviour might be childish, but no more so than Éomer’s! She would stay in this spot until he came to talk to her even if she had to grow roots.

After a while, when he got no reply, Éothain gave up his remonstrations and returned the way he had come. Meanwhile the crowd of spectators that had accumulated by the gates slowly dispersed. Then a man stepped forward to approach her. Lord Ealdred?

The councillor greeted her respectfully. “I’m sorry for the poor welcome the Riddermark has granted you, my lady,” he said, an unhappy frown on his face.

Lothíriel smiled crookedly. “Not the Riddermark, just its king.”

“Yes, Éomer King has been a bit volatile these last few months…” He sighed. “Not surprising perhaps, but rather unfortunate.”

She coloured. “You know as well?” Was there anybody who didn’t?

He nodded. “Your aunt took me into her confidence. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not. I’d trust her with my life.”

“A remarkable woman,” Lord Ealdred agreed. He cleared his throat. “How is Lady Ivriniel, by the way?”

“Fine, never better.” She suddenly remembered a charge her aunt had laid on her. “In fact she told me to thank you for your letters, that she very much enjoyed your passionate recount of the battles of the Long Winter.”

“She does?” A wave of colour suffused him and another time she might have been amused by his reaction. “Would you be so kind as to convey my greetings back to her when you return?” He coughed delicately. “Whenever that is.”

“Whenever that is,” she agreed.

He took his leave, but paused a moment before going. “My lady, let me just say that I wish you the best of luck getting King Éomer to talk to you.”

She grimaced. “Thank you.”

Suddenly he flashed her a smile. “You know, if you managed to put him in a better mood, you would make a lot of friends here.”

Feeling slightly ridiculous sitting there waiting for their king, Lothíriel was aware of the intensely curious looks of the guards and passers-by, but occupied herself by watching the shadows of the clouds race across the grass. The wind had picked up, tugging at her skirts and teasing forth strands of hair.

And then the drum of many hoof beats announced the arrival of a company of riders. At the gate, the guards straightened up and Lothíriel knew who had come. Her breath hitched in her breast as Éomer emerged into the sunlight. She rose to her feet.

Motioning for the others to stay behind, he approached her, but did not dismount. Firefoot chewed on his bit and pranced nervously as he brought the stallion to a halt in front of her. Staring up into hard eyes regarding her through the narrow slits of a visor, Lothíriel felt her courage falter. He didn’t even bother to remove his helmet!

“My lady,” he said, enunciating each word carefully, “apparently you require me to give you my orders in person.”

“Éomer, please no,” she exclaimed. “I just want to talk to you.”

He bent forward. “You’ve had your chance of leading me about by the nose, my lady, and took full advantage of it. But I know you for what you are now and will not fall for any further manipulations.” Firefoot threw up his head nervously and a bit of spittle landed by her foot.

She swallowed. “No manipulations, just the truth.”

“The truth!” he hissed. “What would you know about that? Tell me, is your father aware of your whereabouts?”

He had her there. “No,” she answered, colouring. “My aunt is supposed to look after me while he’s in Minas Tirith.”

“I thought as much. The same old bunch of conspirators.” His gaze swept contemptuously over Amrothos who was hovering nearby, unsure what to do. “Well, you’ve wasted your time coming here to try and trap me in your nets again. This is what you will do: first thing tomorrow morning Éothain will escort you to the border, from whence you will return straight to Dol Amroth. I do not want to see you again until the proper time.”

“And when is that?”

The eyes behind the visor narrowed even further. “I told you the King of the Mark keeps his word. And I will – but when is my decision. Mine alone! I am going for a ride now to inspect the yearlings. When I return, I expect you to be gone.” He gathered Firefoot’s reins.

Lothíriel sat down in the grass again. “No.”

“What!”

“No,” she repeated, staring straight ahead at Firefoot’s legs. The stallion began to prance, a hoof landing inches away from her foot. She hoped Éomer was still a competent horseman, even when annoyed – actually especially when annoyed.

“Haven’t I made myself clear–” he began.

“You have,” she interrupted him. “But I’ve come here to talk to the man who bought sweetmeats for me in the market, who told me he did not fancy riding an ant into battle, who defended me against Lord Dorgam…” Defiantly she stared straight up at him. “…who kissed me by that pond!”

“You dare!” Barely contained fury radiated from him.

“Yes, I do!” She bit her lip. “And I’m not going anywhere until I have talked to him.”

“But he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Éomer snapped.

“Then I’ll sit here and wait for him – until I’m old and wrinkled if I have to!”

“Very well, suit yourself!” he snarled.

Without another word he turned Firefoot round and rejoined his company. Clods of earth landed beside her, torn up by the stallion’s hooves. “We ride!” he shouted and urged Firefoot forward. Taken by surprise, his riders milled around uncertainly, only to hurry their horses after him. Lothíriel watched them go, steeling herself to show no emotion, even though all she wanted to do was to crawl away somewhere and curl up into a tight ball. She felt as if he had buffeted her physically with his anger.

The riders traversed the Snowbourne at speed, splashing water everywhere, and then turned west, still galloping hard, the white horsetail on the leader’s helmet streaming out behind him. She followed him with her eyes until they passed out of sight.

***

Had she done the right thing, Lothíriel wondered, or just angered him further? But he had no right to treat her like the lowest worm when she had only tried to make things right. Rebelliously she brushed a tear from her cheek – a bit of dirt must have flown in her eyes she told herself.

Amrothos sat down beside her with a sigh, but did not say anything. The silence suited Lothíriel as it allowed her to order her thoughts. She went over her encounter with Éomer again, but did not really see what else she could have done, apart from following his orders meekly. Yet that would only have postponed the problem. Perhaps when he returned from viewing the yearlings he might be in a better frame of mind? Somehow she doubted it.

A bee landed on one of the white flowers by her foot, then buzzed away busily. It was a comforting reminder that these lands were not so different from those she knew. Watching the traffic going in and out of Edoras, she also encountered many familiar sights. Carts rumbled by laden with bales of wool or baskets of chickens and piglets, presumably destined for Meduseld. A peddler selling brass pots went by with his wares swinging from his backpack and clanking loudly, followed by a travelling farrier. And down by the stream men were busy setting up a huge stack of wood for a bonfire. What all the passers-by had in common though were the curious looks they sent her.

Amrothos regarded the sky dubiously, which had clouded over. “I think I’ll ask Lord Ealdred to find me that guesthouse so I can stable the horses,” he said.

Lothíriel shrugged. “As you please. I’m not going anywhere.”

Only when he had left, did she remember that she should have asked for her saddlebags. With the sun gone, the wind had freshened up and she could have done with a cloak. Also she didn’t really like the look of those dark clouds over the mountains to the south. But there was nothing to be done, so she just drew up her knees and hugged herself.

For a while she amused herself by watching a group of children playing knights and pirates – or whatever they called it here. The blond haired boys and girls squealed and shouted as they ran after each other, good-naturedly tolerated by the guards. She envied them their exuberance – to be so carefree!

Involuntarily her gaze was drawn the way Éomer had ridden away and she wondered when he would return. How long did it take to look at yearlings? Probably quite a while if you were the king of a people of horselords…

As the afternoon drew on, the children’s mothers came to collect them and later the guards offered her some nut cakes and a jug of ale, which she accepted gratefully. After all she had not threatened to starve herself, just to wait there until she was old and decrepit. She grinned self-deprecatingly at the image of a grey-bearded Éomer riding by ignoring the doddering woman still sitting outside his doorstep.

Then the wind eased suddenly and a heavy raindrop landed on her skirts. She stared at it in disbelief. What had happened to the nice, sunny day? Did even the weather conspire against her? Another raindrop stained her skirts a dark red. Lothíriel hugged her knees closer to her chest.

The guard she had talked to earlier on hurried over. “My lady, it’s going to pour down any minute. Do please come into shelter!”

“No.” She had said she would wait here until Éomer talked to her and that was exactly what she would do!

“My lady, the king will have my hide!”

“No, he won’t,” Lothíriel reassured him. “I will tell him you did your best, don’t worry.”

The poor man did not look at all convinced of his king’s leniency, but really Éomer would have to accept that it was really his fault that she had ended up in the rain. Although lately he did not seem very amenable to logic.

The guard took off his cloak. “My lady, won’t you at least take this?”

Lothíriel decided that her pride could stand compromising on such a small matter and wrapped the heavy green fabric round her. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Godwine, my lady, son of Háma.”

She smiled up at him. “My thanks, Godwine, son of Háma. You are most courteous.”

After hovering about uncertainly for a moment longer, the guard returned to his post and true to his word, an instant later the heavens opened up. Lothíriel huddled under the outsized cloak and drew the hood over her head, cursing her own stubbornness and that of a certain horselord. But she would talk to him even if it meant dying of a cold after. That would serve him right!

Soon the rain came down so hard it bounced off the ground and spread in a fine mist until she could no longer see the city wall. The smell of wet wool surrounded her as she burrowed deeper under the fabric. Then the first chilly drops ran down her neck, quickly turning into a trickle, making her shiver with cold. She would not give up! As the ground beneath her began to saturate with water running off the barrow, she curled in on herself, shutting out everything but the will to persevere. She would talk to Éomer. She would!

Suddenly somebody knelt beside her, cursing loudly in a foreign language. Moments later strong arms picked her up.

“No!” she cried and began to struggle. More curses. She got a confused impression of men and horses surrounding her and struck out wildly. “Let go of me!”

“Gliwen, you little fool, it’s me!” the man snapped. She stared up at him in confusion. Blond hair plastered to his skull, eyes blazing with anger. “Éomer?”

“Yes, of course! Now hold still.” With a grunt he lifted her onto a saddle where she perched disoriented for a moment. She got a quick glimpse of her brother hurrying towards them with a worried frown, then Éomer swung up behind her and quite simply bundled the cloak around her to pull her against his chest. She clutched at his shirt and lifted her face up to him. “You will talk to me?”

“Yes!”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

With a sigh of contentment Lothíriel sagged against him. “Don’t blame Godwine, son of Háma,” she muttered before closing her eyes in exhaustion. “He tried his best.”

Chapter 13

A knock on the door of his study made Éomer look up from wrestling unsuccessfully with replying to some minor enquiry of Elfhelm’s. It annoyed him that he should find it so difficult to concentrate. All because of that woman!

Hild, the elderly housekeeper of Meduseld, entered without waiting for his invitation. “The Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to see you, Éomer King,” she announced in sonorous tones. Then her voice turned solicitous. “Do come in, Child.” She crossed to the fireplace where a fire burnt merrily – Éomer had actually wondered what he owed that to – and pulled a chair forward. “Sit down here.”

Princess Lothíriel hesitated in the doorway and shot him a wary look before obeying the old woman’s command. He blinked in surprise at seeing her wearing a traditional Rohirric dress, consisting of a gown with a close fitting bodice worn over a white blouse. Lavish embroidery covered the dark red fabric of the split skirt, which provided a glimpse of long legs clad in leggings. Surely the riding dress belonged to one of Hild’s daughters, kept for special occasions?

The housekeeper pressed the princess down on the cushioned seat. “There. That will keep the chill away and allow your hair to dry completely.” She spread out Princess Lothíriel’s freshly washed hair to fall loosely down the back of the chair. “You poor thing, getting totally soaked.”

Éomer gritted his teeth at the reproachful sniff accompanying that last statement. The princess had only herself to blame for getting caught in the rainstorm! “Thank you, Hild,” he said, “you may leave.”

But it was difficult to cow somebody who had caught you filching sweetmeats as a boy. Hild completely ignored him. “Godwulf,” she called, “are you coming?”

His squire entered bearing a tray of pastries, two goblets and a pitcher, which he set down on a low stool by the princess’s side.

“You must be starving,” the housekeeper said. She poured her a drink and pressed the goblet into her hands. “This will revive you, though it might not be as good as what you brew yourself,” she nattered on, “or at least old Beadu tells me so. The man might be a fool, but he knows his mead.”

Mead! Éomer pushed back his chair and rose. “That’s enough,” he said. “I wish to speak to Princess Lothíriel alone now.”

Hild rested her hands on her hips and switched to Rohirric. “Now don’t you frighten the poor child–”

“She is no child,” he snapped. Less than an hour under his roof and already she was suborning his staff!

The housekeeper rolled her eyes. “Men! She needs a meal and a rest after that horrible soaking, not you barking around.”

“It’s all her own fault,” he pointed out. After all she could have been nice and dry in one of the guesthouses.

Not one to concede defeat easily, Hild opened her mouth to make a reply, but at that moment Princess Lothíriel cleared her throat and they both looked at her. “You’ve been most kind,” she said to Hild. “But I will be fine with King Éomer.”

“If you’re sure…?”

“I am.” Princess Lothíriel softened the dismissal with a smile. “Thank you so much.”

“Very well, but try to rest.” She faced Éomer. “You ought to show your lady the bonfire later on. And the horses, of course.” The housekeeper bustled out, sweeping Godwulf along before her.

Show her the horses – and on midsummer day! He had to remind himself that the old woman had waited half her life for a lady to preside over the hall and children to once again fill the empty nursery. And now that her own daughters were grown and had their own households to run, she had nobody to mother anymore. Although even before the war, she had urged him more than once to find a wife – somebody to add a bit of clutter to your life, lad, she had told him once, clucking her tongue over his room, which was unnaturally neat in her opinion.

He turned his attention to the woman in front of him. Princess Lothíriel sat in her chair, clutching her goblet as if for support, watching him with those large grey eyes and managing to project a waif-like vulnerability. No wonder she had awoken the housekeeper’s protective instincts! But Éomer knew better: it was all an act. By now there would be no tavern in Edoras where the appearance of a mysterious woman returning a courting gift to their king would not be discussed exhaustively. Not that her identity would remain secret much longer – and then the gossip mongers would really have a field day! Of course it didn’t help that his temper had got the better of him at her blatant provocation…

He sat down behind his desk again and quite deliberately took his time in tidying away his letter and writing utensils. Then he leant back in his chair. “Very well, I am keeping my word. You wanted to talk to me, Princess Lothíriel, so here I am. ”

She swallowed audibly. “You called me Gliwen earlier on.”

Éomer gripped the arms of his chair. He had forgotten how she somehow always managed to find the place where it hurt the most. Seeing her huddled there in the rain, wrapped in that ridiculously big coat and shivering with cold, for a moment she had been his Gliwen again, needing him.

But Gliwen was dead. The woman he had fallen in love with did not exist, only the impostor with her face; it had all been a pretence, with the single aim of getting him to the point of offering for her. Once they’d had him in the bag, they’d come clean.

Gliwen was dead!

“My apologies, my lady,” he bit out, “it won’t happen again.”

She lowered her head and silence fell, only punctuated by the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. The soft light played over her creamy skin, set off by the white blouse. Éomer tore his gaze away, annoyed with Hild for dressing her in Rohirric clothes. It was a statement he wasn’t willing to support.

Quelling his unruly thoughts the way he would master a fractious horse, he drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well?”

She chewed her lip. “When I came here I thought all I needed to do was to actually talk to you,” she finally said in a low voice. “Getting to speak to you seemed the difficult thing, but now…” Her voice petered out.

She had no business to look so forlorn! Mentally he reminded himself once again of all the deceptions she had perpetrated upon him, all the lies she had fed him to get him to the point where she wanted him. They had played him like a fish caught on a hook!

“So what is it you wanted to tell me?” he asked with calculated brutality. “I don’t have all day.” Sometimes he hated the man she had turned him into.

Princess Lothíriel made a good show of wincing. “I wanted to explain how I ended up as a despicable liar,” she whispered, echoing his thoughts in an uncanny manner.

But if she was hoping for him to contradict her, he would not oblige. “And how did you?”

“It all started that night in Minas Tirith…” she began, then hesitated.

 The princess gazed around his room with unseeing eyes and suddenly he wondered what she made of Meduseld. It was nothing like the citadel in Minas Tirith with its grand throne room of cold, white stone. Of course he preferred the wooden pillars and tapestries showing the Mark’s history to Gondor’s marble statues, but would she look down her nose at them? A fresh wave of anger swept through him. Still, no doubt all she cared for was the title of queen – certainly she cared nothing for the man. He should have avoided that linen cupboard as if it contained the plague!

Unaware of his thoughts, the princess took up her stumbling tale again. “I know I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she said. “It was unwise…well, stupid really.”

Yes, that was one question he had not been able to answer to his satisfaction: it had seemed like an impulsive act, for she could not have known that he would come that way. Or had she? How he hated that nothing was certain anymore. But then the best liars skilfully mixed truth with deception, just look at Wormtongue.

“So?” he asked.

Princess Lothíriel spread her hands. “When you came to Dol Amroth in the spring, I hoped you would not recognise me and when you did, I denied everything so you wouldn’t tell my father.”

Hah, a likely tale! She had to know he would recognise her. Her true miscalculation had been that she had thought he wanted a perfect princess and accordingly had produced her – but she had recovered quickly from that error. And now she’d had three months to come up with a convincing tale. It was the reason that he had wanted to send her away: he was afraid that when he saw her, he would be tempted to forgive her.

Éomer steeled himself. The princess had caught him once, but would not do so a second time! “Why should I carry tales to your father?” he asked. After all he had never mentioned a word to Imrahil about his daughter’s deception, unwilling to show what a fool he’d been.

“I know now you wouldn’t,” Princess Lothíriel exclaimed. “But I didn’t know you then. You were so stern. Éomer, I just panicked!” The words were a raw appeal for understanding. And still she said his name like nobody else did!

He gripped the edge of his desk and closed his eyes so he would not see that face raised pleadingly to him. Gliwen had never been real! How had they known to invent so precisely what he wanted? But he had seen the real woman behind the warm, caring facade: the lying, deceiving, calculating princess. Gliwen was dead. Dead. Dead!

He knew he needed to stay angry. A lesson from his childhood: how to combat heartache with fury. That last week in the Westmark, he had almost found contentment slogging through the mud, scrambling up mountainsides in slashing rain, driving himself to physical exhaustion so he could sleep.

He opened his eyes again and fixed her with a forbidding stare. “So you decided to invent a sister to put the blame on?”

She licked her lips. “Yes. I know it was stupid of me! But I just didn’t think straight and said the first thing that came to my mind.”

He actually agreed with her. It would have been much more clever to attract him in her persona of Princess of Dol Amroth. But of course they couldn’t have known, for not every king liked a wife who indiscriminately kissed strangers in cupboards. That was probably why she had tried to put him off at their first meeting, only agreeing to accompany him down to the harbour at his insistence. Oh yes, he had reasoned it all out.

Still clutching her goblet of mead, Princess Lothíriel leant forward. “Éomer, all I can say is how sorry I am. I should never have deceived you, but once I put my foot on that path I did not seem to be able to leave it. Everything I said just pulled me in deeper!” A suppressed sniff accompanied the last word.

He would not comfort her! It was all an act, he reminded himself once again. “But you did come clear in the end didn’t you?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Alerted by his sharp tone, she sat up straighter.

“Once I had offered for you, it didn’t take you long to come out with the truth.”

“Is that what you think!” She put down the goblet with a clang. “Éomer, did you read my letter?”

His hands twitched as he remembered holding the envelope, knowing if he opened and read her words…

“I burnt it.” And he would never tell her that he got weak in the end and snatched the letter out of the fire, but only a small, illegible corner remained.

“What!” the princess exclaimed. “It took me three days to write that. Why, I even drew a diagram.”

“I wasn’t interested in reading it.”

“But you were interested enough to send Lord Ealdred to negotiate an alliance,” she shot back.

Éomer hesitated, for she had caught him there. The truth was that he had offered for her in a fit of pure rage. And ever since, he’d alternatively wanted to put her off and carry through with it anyway. What kind of hold did the woman have on him that he still wanted her!

“I told you, I offered you my hand,” he answered stiffly. “The Lord of the Mark keeps his promises.”

She got up and began to pace the room, her riding skirts swishing around her. “And the Lord of the Mark also seems to have convinced himself that I’m the only one to blame?”

“What do you mean to imply by that?”

She spun round towards him. “You weren’t shy to invent a lie or two for your men either, were you!”

“Only to save your reputation.”

“Or yours? And anyway, it’s not exactly nice of you to come to Dol Amroth to court me and then you arrange clandestine meetings with another… I mean...”

Éomer crossed his arms on his chest as she tried to make sense and faltered, but she recovered quickly. “And should you go round kissing girls in cupboards?” she asked.

“I do not!” he snapped. “You started it.”

“You didn’t protest too hard!”

They were both on their feet by now. “I can tell you that’s the wrong way to persuade me to push forward with the wedding date,” Éomer said through gritted teeth, still clutching the edge of his desk.

She froze. “Is that what you think I’m here to do?”

“Why else would you come to Edoras, make a spectacle of yourself and flaunt that belt in my face?”

“Yes, why else?” Moisture glistened in her eyes. “Éomer, I once asked to you to listen to me regardless of whether I was an elf queen or an old crone. Do you remember?”

It felt like a punch to the stomach. He had a sudden vision of her sitting on that crumbling wall, laughing down at him, teasing him. His Gliwen.

The princess made a cutting motion with her hand. “But you have made up your mind not to listen to me,” she said. “Very well, I release you from your promise.”

“What!”

“I’ll tell everybody that I do not want to marry you. Publicly.”

That brought him out from behind his desk. “What are you talking about! Anyway, your father won’t allow it.” He wouldn’t allow it!

She raised her chin in a challenge. “In that case I’ll run away with somebody – surely that will make me thoroughly unsuitable to be your bride. I’ve done so many outrageous things, one more doesn’t matter.”

“Lord Dorgam!” Éomer brought down his fist on the desk. “Don’t even think about it.” He would kill the man – never mind that in the past he’d thought they deserved each other.

A contemptuous snort. “Oh, he would never agree. But I’m sure that Amrothos can find a friend who’ll oblige. After all I have a large dowry.”

“I won’t have it.” Éomer pressed out the words between clenched teeth. From the first the woman had done nothing but drive him crazy!

“It’s no longer your concern,” she pointed out.

“You’re trying to blackmail me!”

“How?”

Unable to find an answer, he opened and closed his fists. “I…you…” He felt the urgent need to smash something, but unfortunately he’d cleared everything away.

Princess Lothíriel sighed and her shoulders sagged. “Look, Éomer, I do not want to quarrel with you. I know I’ve made mistakes, more than one, but I will set it right so nobody will blame you.” She spread her hands wide in a helpless gesture. “I’m just so very sorry it had to end this way.”

Squaring her shoulders again, she turned to go. Éomer watched her reach for the door handle and knew with sudden certainty that she meant it. If he let her walk out that door, she would also walk out of his life. For ever.

“Wait,” he said.

She hesitated and looked back at him. There were lines of pain around her eyes, he noticed for the first time.

As the silence grew between them, Éomer realised he had to say something. He blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. “What was on that diagram?”

She frowned. “Diagram?”

“The one you sent with your letter. The one I burnt…”

“Oh. It was probably not a very good one anyway.”

“What was on it?”

She turned round to face him fully, clutching her hands. “It was quite simple really: just the central problem from which all others stemmed…” She swallowed hard. “Cowardice.”

Cowardice! When she had faced him down that afternoon all alone, far from home and friendless – well, apart from that useless brother of hers. They might not have mentioned so in his hearing, but he knew his men had been impressed with her spirit. And they didn’t even know about a certain garden in Dol Amroth…

Oblivious to his thoughts, or perhaps taking his silence for agreement, she continued. “That night in Minas Tirith, I was afraid of my father catching me and sending me home, but in the end it would have been so much better if he had. Instead I acted supremely stupidly.” She gave a helpless shrug. “I was tired.”

“I know,” he interrupted. “You had engaged in a battle as hard as any I had fought and with much less preparation. I never thought the less of you for it.”

“I know that now,” she exclaimed and it came out in a wail. “But few lords of Gondor would say the same. I did not know you then!”

It all made sense and yet…

“You lied to me,” he whispered.

“I lied to you,” she agreed, her voice level and hard.

Unable to contain his agitation, he paced to the fireside and back. There were two ways of looking at her, both equally plausible: either she was the most calculating liar he’d ever encountered…or a complete innocent caught up in the webs of her own deception. His heart urged him to accept her innocence, but he distrusted his heart in this matter. He had spent the last months building up invisible defences to protect himself from further hurt, walls as thorny as the one that circled Edoras. Could he really risk letting her inside them? What if it was all an elaborately staged act?

What if it was the truth?

Princess Lothíriel watched him pace the room and her face softened. “Éomer, you have to choose to either believe me or not. It is up to you whether you want to chance giving me your trust again.” She shrugged. “I suppose it’s like a flower mantis.”

This brought him up short. “Eh?” What was she talking about?

“You know, a praying mantis that looks like a flower or a leaf. So when for example a blowfly comes along, the poor thing doesn’t know if it’s a real plant or not until it lands on it and well…gets eaten…or not…” Her voice petered out. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling,” she stammered.

Éomer blinked at her words. The Kings of the Mark had been likened to many things in their long history, some of them not very favourable, but this had to be the first time one of them was compared to a hapless blowfly!

Then it hit him: nobody but Gliwen would make such a comparison. He looked at her again and saw her as if for the first time. Eyes shadowed with pain, she stood there slightly hunched in the manner of one waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall – waiting for him to make up his mind to send her home. She’d come all this way, braved his wrath and the Mark’s inclement weather just to speak to him and then called herself a coward. And blinded by his hurt pride he had refused to see the truth set so plainly before his eyes. Of course she was his Gliwen! Suddenly deep inside him, something loosened and the mental armour of ice that he’d built around himself shattered.

“I’m such an idiot!” he breathed. Crossing the room in a couple of large strides, he gathered her up in his arms.

She clutched at him in surprise. “Éomer?”

He finally did what he had wanted to do all day. Bringing his lips down on hers, he kissed her. Long and thoroughly. Gliwen just melted into his embrace in the most natural way, as if she had always belonged there. He tasted the salt of tears and briefly his conscience smote him for the way he had treated her, but then the sensation of holding her overruled all thought. Silky hair slid through his fingers, soft curves pressed against him, sparking a sudden surge of desire. He wanted her, had always wanted her from that first kiss in the aftermath of a bloody battle when she had offered him warmth and life and the chance to forget the heartache of the day.

His hands caressed bare shoulders, then met the soft fabric of her blouse. It would be so easy… Éomer pulled himself back – no, once had been quite enough. There was a proper time for such things.

Withdrawing a finger’s breadth, he loosened his grip. “Will you marry me?”

Gliwen gasped, her warm breath caressing his cheeks. “I…yes!”

Gently he gathered her close again. “You don’t hate me?” he whispered into her hair. What a brute he’d been!

She just shook her head.

“You have every right to,” he told her. “I could kick myself! All these months I’ve wasted talking myself into a fury, coming up with the most far-fetched explanations for your behaviour, when the truth was so simple. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

A trembling nod was her only reply. He took a closer look at her. She was clutching his shirt, her eyelids fluttering half closed, a single tear running down her cheek. “Gliwen!” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

With a tremulous smile, she looked up at him. “Yes. It’s just all a bit much.” She took a deep breath. “I thought I’d never see you again and the next moment you kiss me…” She made a vague waving gesture with her hand. “I’m not very practised at it, I’m afraid. I find it difficult to concentrate on my breathing at the same time.”

Amusement rippled through him, followed by a wave of sheer happiness. “In that case we’ll have to practise more,” he declared as he lifted her up in his arms and carried her over to the chair by the fire. “But first, my sweet, I think you need some refreshment.”

He grabbed the goblet of mead that she’d left on the small table and knelt next to her holding it to her lips. “Here, drink.”

Cradling the goblet, Gliwen took a cautious sip. “If I’m not careful, I’ll be drunk in no time at all.”

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” he asked with a frown.

“The guards at the gate were so kind as to offer me some nut cakes. Before that – breakfast, I suppose.”

She really had a talent for making him feel guilty! Then he spotted the pastries Hild had brought in earlier on. Bless the woman! “Have some of these,” he said, seizing the whole plate and depositing it in her lap. “Do you want me to send for something warm? Venison, some soup–”

But she stayed him with a hand. “Please, that won’t be necessary. I’m feeling better already.” She nibbled one of the pastries and for the moment, Éomer was content just to watch her. He felt elated and exhausted at the same time, as if he’d come through a fierce fight. Which he had – a fight with his own stubborn pride that would not allow him to admit his wrong conclusions. “To think I left you to rot outside the walls of Edoras!” he said, shaking his head. “Really, it’s a wonder you didn’t decide to return to Dol Amroth on the spot.”

A watery chuckle. “I was much too sore from riding for that.” Hesitantly, she lifted a hand to his face, barely brushing it. “Éomer…you called me Gliwen just now?”

He seized her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Because that’s who you are. Fool that I was, I didn’t recognise the truth before: Princess Lothíriel was the lie, Gliwen the truth.”

She blushed. “Yes, I don’t make a very good princess, do I?”

“Well, you made quite a convincing ice lady, but what man wants that in his–” Éomer stumbled briefly. “…eh…life.”

Unaware of the direction his wayward thoughts had taken, she nodded earnestly. “I hated being so cold towards you, but saw no other way out.” She sighed. “It seemed such a good plan at the time, but Amrothos was right: I should have told you the truth from the beginning.”

Perhaps her brother was not completely useless after all. “None of us is blameless,” he answered and squeezed her hand. “But no more plots from you, lady of mine, do you understand. Ever!”

Gliwen nodded fervently. “I promise!” Then her brows creased in a frown. “I suppose that means I will have to tell Father the whole story? All of it?”

He hesitated. What if Imrahil put the wedding off? Now that he had found her again, he wasn’t sure if he could relinquish Gliwen, even for a short time. “We’ll have to offer him some explanation,” he mused, thinking aloud, “for your presence here will be impossible to keep secret.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry. Was it very foolish of me to come?”

“Foolish and supremely wise at the same time.” He flicked her cheek with a finger. “And it might even have worked if it hadn’t been for my stupid display of temper.” Reluctantly he turned his mind to the practical considerations her presence implied. Although deep inside he was too happy to worry overmuch about anybody’s reaction – he would marry Gliwen even if he had to lay siege to Dol Amroth to get her.

“We need not go into the details of our misunderstanding,” he decided. “I will just write Imrahil a letter to say that we’ve resolved it. If I send the missive by fast courier, it will reach him before any rumour does. You said he’s in Minas Tirith?”

Gliwen nodded. “Yes, for King Elessar’s wedding anniversary.”

A sudden idea struck Éomer, blinding him with its sheer brilliance. “They all are,” he breathed. “Your family, Faramir and Éowyn, the whole of Gondor’s nobility!” He laughed out loud. “Why not simply invite them on to Edoras to attend our wedding?”

“What!”

He was already calculating times and distances. “Four days for my courier to reach Mundburg, a couple of days for Aragorn to get the whole circus on the way, then another twelve days’ travelling. We could be married in three weeks’ time! What do you say to that?”

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re serious.”

He had wasted enough time! “I certainly am – the opportunity is too good to miss. Besides, we rode to Gondor’s aid at a moment’s notice, so why shouldn’t they do the same?” Unable to contain his glee, he flashed her a wide grin. “I’m giving Aragorn more than twice the time we had, surely that’s fair enough! So what do you think?”

Slowly she shook her head. “I think that you’re still the most peremptory of all the males in my life!” Then a grin matching his own appeared on her face. “It’s such a crazy idea, it could be mine. Yes!”

How he loved this woman! And he wanted everybody to know it. Abruptly he shifted the tray of pastries away and pulled her to her feet. “Lady, you’ve drunk my mead, will you now come and meet the horses with me?”

She looked at him with big eyes. “This moment?”

“There is no better.” He laughed. “Besides, Hild must always be obeyed.”

A/N: There's another chapter to follow plus an epilogue, but I will now take a break until after Christmas with publishing. I hope you'll all have a very Merry Christmas and until then! 

Chapter 14

The corridor outside Éomer’s room was deserted, but from the door leading into the main hall came the hum of many voices. Lothíriel took a deep breath as they approached the doorway. Her happiness still felt as fragile as the wings of a freshly hatched butterfly. He had forgiven her! Only moments after the bleak prospect of paying for her mistake for the rest of her life loomed over her…

A strong arm slipped around her waist and an instant later she found herself captured against Éomer’s chest. “No need to rush,” he murmured, “not when all the servants of Meduseld have made themselves so conveniently scarce.”

His lips brushed against hers, calling up the usual alarmingly irregular rhythm in her heart. Lothíriel focused hard on her breathing, but so many sensations flooded her, she found her concentration slipping. Breathe in. Breathe out. Her world narrowed down until only his touch seemed real: firm lips demanding surrender and offering glimpses of unknown pleasures at the same time…warm breath ghosting across her cheek…the stubble of his beard soft under her seeking fingers. His hand pressed against the small of her back, burning through the layers of clothing like a brand.

Then he released her to gaze down at her with definite satisfaction. “Remember, you’re mine.”

A spark of annoyance rose within her. How could he kiss her and hold a conversation at the same time so effortlessly? It just wasn’t fair! “And you’re mine,” she said, standing up on tiptoe to kiss him back.

The response was immediate. She found herself seized in a grip that allowed no escape – not that she wanted any! Ignoring all maidenly qualms, she buried her fingers in his thick hair. Heat flushed through her at the possessive way he ran his hands over her.

It was Éomer who broke off the kiss in the end. “It’s going to be a long three weeks,” he croaked, cradling her head against his shoulder. Lothíriel clutched at him for support, but his obvious breathlessness went a long way to make up for her incipient asphyxiation.

He straightened up and stroked a knuckle across one of her cheeks. “Lady of mine, you shouldn’t do that.”

She wasn’t quite sure what she’d done to set him off in such a manner, but she nodded obediently.

“I really need to get that courier on his way,” Éomer muttered half to himself. Then he shook his head. “But first the horses.”

Lothíriel wondered why he put so much importance on showing her his horses, but perhaps it was the kind of thing for a horselord to do. Having recovered her breath, she smiled her assent. “Very well.”

He offered her his arm and they continued down the hall. “There will be talk,” he said, his voice low, “but remember, I’m by your side.”

She shrugged. “I know.” Anyway, the talk here would be as nothing compared to the rumours that would sweep the court at Minas Tirith. She could guess the probable turn they would take at the announcement of such a sudden wedding. But who cared!

Lothíriel threw back her hair. “It’s only until the next scandal comes along, then we’ll be forgotten again.”

He grinned. “That’s my girl. You know, perhaps I could talk Ealdred into abducting your aunt. That would upset Gondor’s nobility and surely eclipse our small ruckus. What do you think?”

“I think Ivriniel would be more likely to abduct him,” Lothíriel answered with a chuckle. She felt herself relaxing. Nothing really mattered except the fact that they had made up their differences; the rest would sort itself out. What had her aunt said – if Éomer really wanted something, nothing would stop him. The sensation might be like that of a swimmer swept along by a strong current, but since the destination suited her, she had no intention of putting up a fight.

Éomer pushed the door open and they entered Meduseld’s big hall. Servants hurried about and at the tables below the dais his guards sat over tankards of ale and chatted. Éomer ignored the sudden silence that fell almost instantly and called for Hild.

The housekeeper bustled up the steps. “Éomer King?” She darted a quick sideways glance at Lothíriel and a big grin appeared on her face. Lothíriel felt her cheeks warming at the realisation that the old woman probably knew exactly what they’d been up to.

“I have two tasks for you,” Éomer told his housekeeper.

“Yes, my lord. And what might that be?”

“First, to prepare our best guesthouse for the Princess of Dol Amroth and her brother.”

Hild gave a disdainful sniff. “That has of course already been seen to.” She bowed to Lothíriel. “My lady, I’m afraid your brother has caught a cold. I ordered him into his bed when he insisted he had to see you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lothíriel answered. Poor Amrothos! But she could not but be thankful that he had not managed to interrupt them.

Éomer seemed to agree, for he nodded his approval. “Entirely right. We must see he takes proper care of himself.”

“I will attend to it personally,” Hild promised, and Lothíriel had a vision of her forcing ill-tasting medicines down her brother’s throat. “And the second task, my lord?” the housekeeper asked.

Éomer gave her one of his lazy smiles. “Oh just to prepare for a wedding to be held here in three weeks’ time.”

That caused a flurry of whisperings at the tables below, but Hild merely nodded. “Yes, my lord. Whom are you expecting?”

He grinned. “Only all of the Mark and the whole of Gondor.”

“Very well. Is there anything else?”

Éomer laughed out loud. “No, that is it.”

As the housekeeper withdrew with a curtsy, he leant down to Lothíriel. “That crafty old thing has probably been preparing for months. She and Éothain are hand in glove with old Ealdred.”

“It will be all right, won’t it?” Lothíriel asked, suddenly anxious. What if her father kicked up a fuss!

At once Éomer picked up on her unspoken thoughts. “Don’t worry, dear heart! Aragorn will come through, he always does – remember, he has saved my skin more than once.”

Reassured, she nodded. Her father respected his liege greatly, surely if anybody could smooth matters over, it was King Elessar. Everybody knew how he called the King of Rohan his brother.

That moment hurried steps sounded down the hall and Lord Ealdred approached the dais.

“Ah, just the man I’m looking for,” Éomer remarked. “Ealdred, I want you to leave for Dol Amroth tomorrow morning.”

“Dol Amroth!” Lord Ealdred’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course, my lord. What are your orders?”

They all seemed to take Éomer’s curt commands remarkably well! Lord Ealdred too grinned from ear to ear.

“You are to fetch Princess Lothíriel’s belongings,” Éomer answered. “I’m sure her aunt will be able to assist you there…”

Lord Ealdred’s leathery cheeks reddened. “Yes, my lord.”

Éomer turned to Lothíriel. “Is your wedding gown ready?”

“I think so,” she stuttered. She hadn’t really paid much attention to it, leaving it to Meril’s discretion.

A decisive nod in Lord Ealdred’s direction. “Well, whatever you do, don’t forget that, as Princess Lothíriel will need it very shortly.” He put Lothíriel’s hand on his arm. “And now I intend to show my bride the horses.”

Lothíriel pulled at Éomer’s sleeves. “Don’t forget my books! And my collection of rocks. And my shells. And…”

“Oh, just pack up her whole tower,” Éomer threw over his shoulder at Lord Ealdred.

“A tower? Yes, my lord!”

Éomer chuckled as they trod down the steps from the dais. “I’ll have to give him more precise instructions before he leaves, or he’ll dismantle your father’s property to bring it back here.”

Then his guards surrounded them, showering them with congratulations. First Éothain, then old Beaduheard grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically. Was there a trace of relief in their voices as well? She rather thought so and felt a stab of remorse. Like a stone thrown into a pond, her foolish deception had caused waves in far-away places.

The news must have gone before them like a forest fire, for when they stepped outside Meduseld people lined the way down the steps, cheering and calling out well-wishes. At least she took them for such, as she didn’t understand a word beyond Éomer’s and her own name. It touched her that they should accept her so readily when they did not know her at all.

She expected Éomer to lead her to the stables – while she still didn’t quite understand why he was so insistent on showing her his horses, it seemed the logical place to keep them – but he started walking down the street that led down the hill towards the gates of Edoras.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

A quick squeeze of her hand. “You’ll see.”

Above them stretched a sky slowly fading into the long summer evening, washed clear by the earlier rain storm, and if it hadn’t been for the damp cobbles, she might have thought it all a dream. All along the road, the doors of the houses had their lintels decorated with greenery and midsummer flowers and the inhabitants had turned out in their best attire. A young girl presented her with a garland, which Éomer put on her hair with a possessive gesture. No doubt another unwritten custom!

At the big wooden gates, the guards stationed there pushed the two wings wide and she caught a quick glimpse of Godwine, son of Háma – grinning of course. But she was relieved to see that Éomer had not taken out his ire on the poor man. The crowd streamed out behind them in a colourful procession, chatting and laughing, yet a strange hush fell over them as they walked between the barrows.

Down by the Snowborne, tendrils of fog rose from the long wet grass. Éomer drew her to a halt by the banks of the stream, while the people of Edoras stood a respectful distance behind them. Lothíriel would have liked to ask what they waited for, but the hush had become absolute. Not even the children talked; only the soft murmur of water flowing over pebbles broke the silence.

They stood there long enough for the damp evening air to waft around her bare shoulders, making her shiver. At once Éomer drew her closer against his solid warmth. “Soon,” he whispered into her ear. “Listen!”

Then she heard it: the muffled sound of hooves on bare earth. Gradually it drew nearer until suddenly the long grasses on the opposite bank parted. Grey forms solidified, as if the fog had taken on the shape of horses. From the crowd behind them came a collective sigh.

Confidently, the horses stepped into the water and approached the waiting humans. Lothíriel made out a small herd, made up of mares with their foals at their heels. Along one side ranged the stallion, prancing proudly and throwing up his thick neck. And what horses! Lothíriel’s interest had always run to the insect world, but she had grown up amongst her father’s knights and could tell these were out of the ordinary. They stood tall, clean-limbed and deep chested, and moved with a controlled grace.

“Mearas,” Éomer breathed. “Come to pay homage to the Kings of the Mark, both dead and living.”

The lead mare stepped onto dry land and after quickly circling his herd, the stallion joined her, while behind them the other horses lowered their heads to drink from the water. The small dark foals poked their heads around their mothers, peering at the humans curiously.

Éomer held out his hand and the mare blew into it softly. “Lady Aeringwind, you honour us with your presence,” he said, adding something in Rohirric. Then he turned to the stallion, whose ears flicked forward and back inquisitively, as he regarded the assembled crowd. “Lord Thunorhófas, westu hál.” After a brief hesitation, the stallion dipped his head almost in a greeting.

Éomer took Lothíriel’s arm and drew her forward. “Please meet my bride, Princess Lothíriel of the Stoneland: my Gliwen.” His voice went low and soft as he translated the words.

She found herself regarded with disconcerting awareness by large dark eyes as the lead mare lowered her muzzle to her. What had her books said – that the Mearas were said to understand the speech of man? This one certainly seemed to do so. Hesitantly she held out her hand, to have warm, moist breath smelling of hay breathed across it. The stallion huffed loudly in response. Involuntarily she wondered if they were bribable with a juicy carrot – or would they take offence at it?

Éomer reached up to pat Thunorhófas’s neck. “These are our pure-bred Mearas,” he explained, “the heart of the Mark. They spend the spring in the meadows of the Westfold and migrate to the East Emnet for the summer.” He scratched the stallion’s poll and Thunorhófas’s ears twitched forward.

That moment Aeringwind nudged her in the arm, and greatly daring Lothíriel stroked her soft, warm coat. The mare seemed to enjoy the attention and rubbed her muzzle against her. Then she suddenly threw up her head and gave a loud neigh, making Lothíriel jump.

Another horse stepped forward from the herd with dainty, elegant steps. While most of the Mearas were silvery white, this one had a darker coat and black mane. Éomer sucked in his breath. “How did Aeringwind know!”

“Know what?” Lothíriel asked, confused.

“To call Aémette.” He indicated the dark grey mare who approached them, ears flicked forward, her velvety black eyes focused on Lothíriel. “After I returned from Dol Amroth, I broke off her training and sent her away to join the free-roaming herd,” Éomer explained, but his words only confused her further. She knew little of horseflesh, but surely the mare was beautiful – probably too lightly built to carry a warrior into battle, yet that seemed insufficient grounds to get rid of her.

Aémette prodded her gently, as if asking to be stroked, and Lothíriel complied willingly. There was so much intelligence in those eyes, she felt as if she was offered friendship by an equal. “Why did you send her away?” she asked. “I think she’s lovely!”

In the dusk it was difficult to make out his face, yet she could have sworn he coloured. “She is,” he agreed. “But I was a fool and I just couldn’t stand the sight of her.”

“But why?”

“Because she’s yours.”

While she still gaped at him, he bowed to the mare. “Lady Aémette, will you forgive me and consent to carry my bride?” Then he translated his words into Rohirric.

Lothíriel wasn’t even sure that was necessary, the horses seemed to have such an instinctive understanding of him. In reply, Aémette snorted softly and lowered her nose to blow affectionately into his hands.

“My beauty,” he murmured, “you’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

Unsure who he was talking to, Lothíriel swallowed a grin. If she ever got jealous, she would just retaliate by fussing over Firefoot.

“You’ll like her,” Éomer said to her. “So up you go.”

“What?”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.” Weaving his fingers together, he turned to her. “Just put your foot on here and I’ll throw you up.” 

“Éomer, she has no saddle,” Lothíriel hissed.

“Oh, if Aémette allows you to ride her, she’ll see to it that you stay on.”

He smiled at her with such complete confidence, she really had no choice but to to comply. Unlike the voluminous Gondorian riding skirts, the gown Hild had furnished her with was just split down the middle with a pair of close fitting leggings underneath. It felt very strange to show so much leg as she placed one booted foot on his hands. However, Éomer simply boosted her up onto Aémette’s back. His hand might have lingered on her thigh slightly longer than necessary though…

“Aémette means ‘ant’ in our language,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find her almost as interesting as an insect. She’s just a tiny bit bigger.”

Lothíriel ignored his jest and twined her hands in Aémette’s mane. The mare’s body was warm and supple under her and she stood relaxed as she waited for her rider to adjust to the new feeling of riding bareback. Then Aémette took a few steps forward, graceful and perfectly balanced. A murmur of approval went up from the crowd behind them and Lothíriel looked round in surprise, for she had almost forgotten about them. Many smiling faces met her and impulsively she smiled back.

Éomer patted Aémette’s neck and grinned up at her. “You will be the queen of a horse people, but we’ll approach it by small steps.”

His queen. Éomer had given her a magnificent gift, a piece of the heart of the Mark – just as he had offered her a part of his heart. After all the lies she had told him, it was a bold, generous act – one that she intended to be worthy of.

She bent down to him and took his hand. “Riding an ant seems a good beginning.”

Aeringwind = Dawnwind

Thunorhófas = Thunderhooves

A/N: I hope you all had a restful holiday and a good start to the New Year. As you can see, this story is nearly over, but there will be a short epilogue to follow on. Once again, my thanks for all your kind comments!

Epilogue

Edoras, five years later…

Éomer paced.

Up the corridor and back again. Thirty-two steps one way, thirty-two back. He knew every hairline crack in the flagstones, every variation of colouration of the dark grey slate. What was taking so long? Surely last time–

The door to their bedroom opened and he spun round. Ivriniel emerged, carrying a pile of linen, which she deposited on the floor. He detained her before she could go back inside. “How is she?”

“Éomer, these things take their proper time, you cannot hurry them,” Ivriniel answered. “So why don’t you go and have a tankard of ale. You look as if you need it.” She shut the door firmly in his face.

Ale! When his wife was fighting a battle as fierce as any he had ever faced. His eyes fell on the pile of linen, stained with streaks of red. Blood. Gliwen’s blood.

He took up his pacing again, cursing inside. How he hated waiting, not being able to do anything! It would have been much better to battle a pack of orcs single-handedly, only none were so obliging as to attack Meduseld just now. As he strode up and down the corridor, he was dimly aware of the worried faces of Éothain and Ealdred, then a maid scurrying by with the dirty linens, yet he dismissed everything from his consideration. Nothing mattered except the struggle behind that closed door.

A muffled moan resounded through the thick oak, cutting him like a steel blade. Bunching his hands into fists, he closed his eyes. Last time he had sworn eternal celibacy at this point – a vow from which his wife had eventually dissuaded him.

“Father?”

He opened his eyes in surprise as small fingers tugged at his sleeve, to find Elfwine gazing up at him.

One of the maids hovered behind him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Éomer King,” she stammered. “The boy refuses to go to bed. He just won’t settle down.”

Éomer scooped his son up into his arms, utterly grateful to have something to do. “That’s fine, Beornwyn, I’ll look after him.” The girl, one of Hild’s sister-daughters, dropped a curtsy and left.

Elfwine wound his arms around his neck. “Why can’t I see Mummy?” he sniffed. “I’ve been good all day, but Auntie Ivriniel won’t let me in. She says I have to go to bed now.”

A wave of male solidarity swept through Éomer. “I know, it isn’t fair,” he agreed. “Tell you what, why don’t you stay up and keep me company for a while.” He swallowed. Surely it had to be over soon!

The boy perked up. “May I?”

“I would consider it a great favour.” Nothing but the truth.

Elfwine wriggled down. “We can play with my horses,” he exclaimed, cheerful again.

The boy ran off, only to reappear a moment later, clutching his collection of wooden horses in his shirt. He would have been quite happy to sit on the floor in front of his parents’ bedroom, but Éomer bundled him up and carried him into the study.

A bright fire burnt in the hearth against the autumn chill and Elfwine settled down on a rug to arrange his toys. Éomer’s heart gave a pang when he saw the book lying open on the chair next to it. He picked it up and turned it over: An Introduction to the Natural History and Classification of Spiders. Carefully he marked the page and put it away on a bookshelf. She must have been surprised by the first birth pangs right in the middle of reading. The news of the queen coming to her time early had reached him in the training grounds, and though he had hurried back at once, they had only allowed him a brief glimpse of her before ushering him out. Gliwen had smiled at him, but she’d already had that abstracted, inward facing look, bracing herself for what was to come.

With a sigh he sat down cross-legged on the rug and admired Elfwine’s horses, which the boy held out to him. He’d carved the first ones himself, but the boy had since acquired many more from the riders. However, the first two horses, Firefoot and Aémette, remained his favourites.

Elfwine gave him the grey stallion. “Here, you can be Firefoot.”

“And what do you want to play?”

“The Battle of the Camp,” his son and heir declared proudly.

Éomer rolled his eyes. Ever since Ivriniel had told him that tale as a bedtime story and as a result kept him up all night, the boy had talked of nothing else. “Very well,” he agreed.

The battle took considerable time to set up – the Wainriders had to be positioned properly after all and Elfwine knew down to the last wagon what their camp had looked like. He requisitioned a diverse array of objects from his mother’s table to become the Wainriders’ carts: pieces of rock crystal from an excursion to the White Mountains, strange stones with the curling imprints of long dead sea creatures found in a river bed in the East Emnet, lustrous shells picked up on a beach in Tolfalas during their last visit to Amrothos in his self chosen retreat. For the commander’s wain he used a sunstone from the North, light shimmering mysteriously in its depths.

Involuntarily Éomer had to grin. Hild no longer complained about the lack of clutter in his rooms. And for himself, he no longer complained about the inevitable paperwork, not if he could watch his wife puttering about her workshop while he read his reports. They usually ended up discussing anything from army tactics to her newest project: sewers for Edoras. Éomer enjoyed her insights, her different view of the way things had always been done in the Mark. Though she considered them rather tedious, she had started to attend council meetings and his councillors had fast learnt to be afraid of the words ‘well, if you look at it logically…’.

His smile faded. His logical wife, so absolutely desirable with her thoughts scattered and confused by his touch. He still vividly remembered their wedding night and Gliwen’s innocent enumeration of the research on the subject that she had attempted – luckily all theoretical and mostly confined to the insect world. Although she had complained that most of her books were not very informative, almost deliberately vague! She had been a fast learner though, once he had supplied the practical skills… Tiredly he rubbed his eyes. Nine months later Elfwine had been born, a quick delivery with no difficulty. So what was taking so long this time?

 A knock on the door brought him to his feet, but it was only Ealdred with a tray of honey cakes and a mug of ale.

“Any news?” Éomer asked.

The man shook his head. “None yet, my friend. But Ivriniel sent word not to worry.”

Not to worry! Easy to say when it wasn’t his wife in there, suffering and in pain. Oh, how he wished for that band of orcs to attack Meduseld! And there had been no sightings of wargs in the White Mountains for three years, so there was little hope that way either.

“Father?”

The small, worried face lifted up to him gave him a jolt. He sat down again and drew Elfwine into his lap. “It’s all right, Elfwine. Your new brother or sister is just taking a little longer to arrive.” He offered the boy a cake, which was accepted graciously. “Are you looking forward to seeing the baby?”

Elfwine gave a doubtful sniff. “Babies are boring,” he declared and shoved a sticky hand through his honey coloured mop of hair. “Can we play now?”

The battle was duly joined and Éomer, as usual being assigned the role of the enemy, did his best in a brilliant and highly innovative defence of the Wainriders’ camp, which faltered however before the relentless advance of Elfwine’s cavalry. However, it did not really succeed in taking his mind off what was happening in the bedroom nearby – surely those were more muffled cries?

As the night drew on, the fire slowly died down to embers and only the flickering light of one of Gliwen’s big beeswax candles lit the room. Elfwine yawned mightily and snuggled into his chest. Éomer gathered him close, revelling in the feeling of that small, warm body. So utterly precious. And trusting him to make the world a safe, happy place… An icy hand tightened around Éomer’s heart. What if anything happened to Gliwen? Giving birth was a risky business – the last queen to reign over Meduseld had died in that same bed. What if…

He refused to finish the thought. Gliwen would be all right, she had to be! He could no longer imagine waking up without her sleep-tousled form beside him. Meduseld would be cold and empty without her pressing her newest mead experiments on his riders or waxing enthusiastically about some fresh scheme. She had filled his life with love and laughter, and without her…

The door creaked open and he froze where he sat with his sleeping son in his lap, suddenly convinced that all his worst fears had come to pass. He clutched Elfwine, willing the door to remain shut, the news to stay unannounced. In the draft the candle guttered and went out.

Ivriniel stuck her head inside and peered at him. “Éomer? What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Gliwen?” he croaked, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Tired, exhausted, completely spent. And very, very happy.”

He felt as if he could breathe again. “She is fine?”

“I’m sure she will be. After all she’s young and healthy. But don’t you want to see her?”

Elfwine still in his arms, he surged to his feet. “Of course!”

The boy roused from sleep and his eyes fluttered open. “Mummy?”

“Yes, Sweeting, we can go and see her now.”

With large strides he hurried out the room and down the corridor – so blessedly silent! At the door to their bedroom he took a deep breath and then gently pushed it open. Through the ante-room and then…

His wife lay in their big bed, small and lost against the wide expanse of white sheets, her black hair spread across the pillows. Hild was just wiping her face with a damp cloth. At his entrance, Gliwen’s eyes flew up to him and she gave him a tired smile.

Elfwine stirred in his arms. “Mummy!” He yawned hugely. “They wouldn’t let me see you.”

Hild vacated her place and he sat down on the side of the bed so Gliwen could kiss their son. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I missed you, too.”

Soothed, the boy wriggled out of Éomer’s arms and nestled against his mother. “We played Battle of the Camp. I won,” he mumbled.

She kissed the crown of his head. “That’s nice.” However, Elfwine gave no reply, he had already fallen asleep again.

Ivriniel bustled up. “Do you want me to put him to bed?”

But Gliwen shook her head. “Let him stay.”

She looked so worn and pale! Gently Éomer took her hand, seeming almost translucent, and brought it to his cheek. “Dear heart, how are you feeling?”

A glimmer of a smile flitted across her face. “As if a mûmak had sat on me.” The smile deepened. “Éomer, don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?”

From the other side of the room came a snort. “What your wife laboured so hard to bring into the world, you dolt!” Hild stepped forward, a white bundle in her arms, from which soft mewling issued. “You have a daughter, Éomer King. And unless I’m mistaken, she’ll be a stubborn one, for she wanted to come her own way: feet first.”

Reverently he rose to receive the bundle. Grey eyes, framed by a wisp of blond hair gazed up at him, and when he touched a tiny hand, the small fingers closed around his thumb in a firm grip. “A daughter!” Delight bubbled up within him.

That moment the midwife straightened up from where she bent over something by a basin of water and handed Ivriniel, who was hovering over her, another bundle of cloth. The old woman chuckled. “Two, actually.” Carefully she pushed back the linen to reveal another tiny, wrinkled face.

Éomer stood as if pole-axed. “What?” he stammered.

The women broke into giggles. Gliwen clutched her stomach. “Oh, that hurts!”

“You have two beautiful, healthy daughters,” Hild said with a huge smile.

“Two?” he repeated, still stupefied. Then suddenly he had his arms full as Ivriniel passed him the second child to hold as well. Two identical pairs of eyes regarded him critically. “But how!”

Ivriniel gave an amused snort. “You are asking us, young man?” That produced a fresh burst of mirth, so loud that Elfwine stirred in his sleep, though he did not wake.

Lowering her voice, Hild motioned at the babies. “So what will you name them, Éomer King?”

He gathered his scattered wits. In the Mark, it fell to the father to name his children and thus accept them for his own. He had discussed his choice with Gliwen beforehand, but now he suddenly had to think of another one.

“A daughter I wanted to call after her mother,” he said slowly, regarding the baby in his right arm. Just then she wrinkled up her nose and gave a delicate sneeze. He had forgotten how small a newborn was! “I name you Béocwen,” he declared.

Then he hesitated as he gazed down at the other baby. To call them after their mother… Suddenly he knew. “I name you Hunigswéte!”

Hild sighed with satisfaction. “Good, auspicious names.”

Simultaneously his two daughters chose that moment to crease their face into a scowl, turn red and start to cry. “See, they’ve got your lungs,” the old housekeeper pointed out, pleased.

Gliwen held out her arms and the midwife helped the babies to latch onto her breasts. As they began to suckle, soft sniffles of contentment filled the room.

“Will I have enough milk?” Gliwen asked with an anxious frown, stroking their downy heads.

“Don’t you worry, my lady,” the woman soothed her. “Nature will take care of that. You’re experienced at nursing, you’ll cope fine.”

Twins! Éomer still couldn’t quite believe it, though the evidence was right before his eyes. He sat down on the side of the bed, drinking in the sight of his wife feeding their daughters.

“You still look dumbfounded,” she said with a smile. “Are you pleased?”

“Pleased? I’m elated!” He rubbed his temples. “I just find it difficult to believe.”

“So did I when they told me,” she agreed.

“You didn’t know?”

“Not until I was right in the middle of birthing them!” She nodded at the midwife. “Apparently Mildburh suspected.”

He rounded on the woman. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier! We had a right to know.”

But Mildburh, who’d assisted in bringing most of the babies of Edoras into the world, was unimpressed. “And what would you have done except worrying your poor wife endlessly?” She harrumphed. “You should have thought of that earlier and gone easy on the mead.”

Éomer blinked. Did the woman really believe in that old tale? If so, the reputation of Gliwen’s mead making skills would go up another notch with this double birth!

Gliwen sighed. “Maybe it was for the better. I tell you, Éomer, sometimes I wish I could just lay an egg.” Her forehead creased into a frown. “It seems such an eminently more sensible way to go about the business of reproduction.”

Éomer, who thanks to his wife knew all about the curious habits of a wide variety of insects, grinned. “As long as you don’t intend to imitate the mating habits of the praying mantis?”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, I prefer my husband with his head on.”

Mildburh gave them a confused look, but contented herself with muttering something about fanciful notions. After she offered Gliwen a tea of meadowsweet and raspberry leaf to ease the after pains, she excused herself. For the rest of the night she would bed down in the anteroom.

Ivriniel and Hild also approached to inspect the babies with possessive pride. After a few initial skirmishes for position, the two women had become firm friends over the past years, united in their belief that he and Gliwen could not be left to manage their affairs on their own.

“I think this calls for a bit of a celebration,” Ivriniel remarked to the housekeeper. “Will you join me?”

The other woman nodded. “Yes, why not.”

“Good.” Ivriniel took her arm. “As it happens, Ealdred told me that a delivery of my special arrived from Morion in Dol Amroth this afternoon. I think we’ve earned a drop or two.”

Hild’s eyes widened. “Oh, definitely!” With that the joint rulers of Edoras retired, leaving their king and queen to enjoy the quiet.

Alone with his family at last, Éomer relaxed. His family! A few years ago he’d felt that he had no proper home, and now he had a beautiful wife, a wonderful son and two precious daughters. What a change! He bent forward to stroke Gliwen’s cheek and she leant into his hand with a sigh. Up close he noticed the lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the pallor of her skin.

“My poor sweet,” he murmured.

A wry smile. “Yes, you men have the easier part.”

“I don’t know about that,” he answered, remembering the wait. “I was so afraid for you. How I hate not being able to do anything!”

She sobered. “I know, I hate being helpless, too.”

Her skin was warm and soft under his touch. So alive! Suddenly his earlier fear resurfaced, choking him. “Oh Gliwen, don’t ever leave me,” he whispered.

She covered his hand with hers and hesitated. “Éomer, I can only offer you the same promise you gave me when you left to campaign in Rhûn last year: if death tries to gather me in, I’ll fight for all that I’m worth.”

Éomer bowed his head. “I know.” Even though they had agreed at the time that it would be much better to deal with that self-styled ‘Heir of Sauron’ before he raided the borders of the Mark, she had not liked to see him go.

“You said that the home coming would be all the sweeter,” she reminded him.

“And so it was.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead.

Gliwen smiled. “And next time you’ll have even more females greeting you enthusiastically.” The two babies had fallen asleep while nursing and Éomer helped her to settle them more comfortably. Luckily the fourposter bed was wide enough to hold them all, even with Elfwine curled up against Gliwen on her other side. Whatever former King of the Mark had commissioned it, had obviously planned for a large family – Éomer could only approve.

Gliwen yawned and slipped down on the pillow, one arm thrown protectively over her daughters. “I suppose I ought to try to catch some sleep.”

Éomer nodded. “Yes, why don’t you.” For himself, he would stay up a little longer and watch over his family.

He studied the two tiny faces, identical in all respects. Blond hair stood out in small tufts and he wondered if they would later sport the same honey coloured curls as Elfwine. One of them – Béocwen – scrunched up her mouth in her sleep while Hunigswéte sighed, as if in reply. Their eyebrows were dark and already curved in the same delicate arch as their mother’s.

Gliwen was watching him through half closed eyes and involuntarily his gaze was drawn to where her nightgown gaped open, showing ivory skin. His utterly desirable Gliwen, so different from the frigid princess of his visit to Dol Amroth. He still could not think of her of by anything but her nickname and ‘Queen Lothíriel’ only appeared in dry, official documents. If their daughters were anything like her… Oh surely the Valar were laughing at him!

“Why are you grinning?” she asked.

“I just had a vision of the havoc our daughters will wreak when they’re a little older,” he answered. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, in twenty years’ time they’ll cut a swathe of destruction through Middle-earth’s manhood!”

She chuckled. “You’ll just have to keep them out of cupboards. That’s what fathers do after all.”

“Like yours did?”

A sleepy grin was his only answer. Poor Imrahil still didn’t have a clue how they had met.

He tucked her up more securely, but couldn’t resist the temptation to run a finger down the elegant line of her throat. “You know, you can find all kinds of interesting things in linen cupboards.”

“Hmm,” his wife agreed with a definite gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Spiders for example.”

Béocwen - bee queen

Hunigswéte - honeysweet

A/N: And we've reached the end of another adventure. As always many thanks to all my readers and reviewers! Special thanks go to Lady Bluejay, my wonderful beta, and all the folks at The Garden offering encouragement and good advice.

And if you want to read more of my writing, there are other Éomer & Lothíriel stories of mine on this site, or you can find my original stories on Amazon, iBooks, Kobo, Scribd, etc. by searching for ‘Lia Patterson’:

Wind Weaver (out in June 2022)

Daughter of Wolves (free on iBooks, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords)

Elephant Thief

Bride to the Sun