Prologue

Minas Tirith, April 3020

Éomer frowned. Moonlight flooded the garden, turning the water of the pond into molten silver and softening the rather formal shapes of the hedges. A warm, southern breeze whispered through the leaves of the cherry trees bordering the paths, sending down drifts of snowy petals, while from the open windows of the house behind him came floating the soft strains of music.

Maybe he should have chosen a different time? An overcast day perhaps, with the threat of rain? Unfortunately the chill of winter was long gone from these southern lands. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He just hoped the princess would not get the wrong idea.

He descended the steps leading down from the terrace to the garden proper. Imrahil’s town house in Minas Tirith faced south west toward Dol Amroth and the sheltered situation allowed peach trees and other exotic fruit to flourish. Involuntarily he wondered if the princess was very fond of them. He had better mention that the winters of the Mark killed off all but the hardiest shrubs, as his grandmother, Queen Morwen, had found out to her chagrin. As for the sea food, he didn’t really have to point out the obvious, that Rohan was more than a week’s travel from the Bay of Belfalas, did he? While he had caught some fine trout in the Snowbourne, it rather paled next to the enormous tunny that had been served at one of the banquets here in Minas Tirith.

As if in reply to his misgivings, a nightingale burst into song in a tree ahead. Stupid bird. Even treading along the pebbly path with deliberately heavy steps did not shut it up. It was as if all nature had conspired against him!

“Now you are being silly,” he muttered to himself. But a man had a right to be nervous on such an occasion, didn’t he?

He turned a corner and there, on the rim of the pool, sat Princess Lothíriel, just as promised. For a moment, before she turned to him, he caught her staring into the water and was startled at the expression on her face. Yet a heartbeat later she greeted him with a practised smile and he wondered if he had only imagined the hint of deep sadness.

She rose and in a single, graceful motion sank into a curtsy. “King Éomer, what a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he assured her with a bow.

An awkward silence descended, but only for a moment, before the princess motioned to one of the paths. “Shall we go for a walk?”

“What a splendid idea,” Éomer said, then cursed himself for the banal words. She would think him a nitwit!

However, she lightly took his offered arm and started chatting about the evening’s entertainment. Nothing consequential, just remarks on the songs performed by his bard, how beautiful Queen Arwen had looked – as usual – and the high hopes her father had expressed for this spring’s foals. Éomer felt himself slowly relaxing, soothed by her warm, low voice.

Ruefully he thought that she handled him as skilfully as he might handle a nervous horse. But then Imrahil had said that Princess Lothíriel had learnt her social graces at her mother’s knee, and he understood that Lady Arodwen had been renowned throughout Gondor for her faultless hospitality.

They ascended the steps to the walkway leading along the wall overlooking the Pelennor and by mutual consent paused by one of the embrasures. The fields lay quiescent below them, only a few flickers of light showing where the farmhouses stood. How different it had been a year ago, the whole plain churned up and trampled by orc feet!

He grabbed the rough stone of the wall in an effort to push away the memories that threatened to rise to the surface of his mind: horns blowing, glinting steel dulled by blood, the stench of carrion. Éowyn’s still face as she lay in the trampled grass. The Rage rising up and claiming him. He closed his eyes. Fresh green now covered the fields of the Pelennor, healing the wounds of the war, surely time would do the same for him?

When he opened his eyes again, he found that the princess had fallen silent and regarded him with grave consideration.

“You know why I’m here,” he said more roughly than he had intended.

Unruffled, she nodded. “Yes, my father informed me of your...request.”

“And what do you say to it?”

A tiny frown appeared on her forehead, to be smoothed away at once. “My lord, I do not want there to be any misunderstandings between us, so will you forgive me for plain speaking?”

“Of course. We Rohirrim pride ourselves on always speaking our mind.” In fact there was more than one joke about mealy-mouthed Gondorians making the rounds in the camp.

Cool grey eyes searched his face. “Very well. Father has informed me that you’re in Gondor to seek a queen, an able administrator to run Meduseld for you, keep the peace between your councillors while you’re away campaigning and of course to...” For the first time her voice wobbled, but she regained her poise at once. “...to bear you an heir. And that you were thinking of offering me the position. Is that correct?”

Almost exactly his words. He was obscurely shocked to find that Imrahil had not couched his proposal in softer terms to his daughter. “I would treat you with all honour,” he rushed to assure her.

“But not love?”

He hesitated, then decided he owed her the truth. “No, not love. I will not pretend to feelings I do not have.” And did not plan to ever develop either.

She nodded decisively. “In that case I accept.”

*

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*

A/N: As you can see, I've taken a break from original writing and returned to Middle Earth for a bit. I hope you'll enjoy the ride (there will be 15 chapters or so) and if you want to know what else I'm up to, I've got my own website now: www.liapatterson.com. Feel free to drop in :-)

Chapter 1

Edoras, Yule 3020

It had been a good decision, brilliant even, Éomer congratulated himself. And as if to show their approval, the Valar had sent them the best harvest within living memory. People were already starting to talk of the Year of Plenty.

From his seat on the dais, he surveyed the illustrious company assembled in the Golden Hall for the wedding feast of the King of the Mark. It seemed that the whole of Gondor’s nobility attended and of course his own people would not have missed the occasion for anything. On his right, Aragorn and Imrahil were discussing some scheme for establishing a network of errand riders along all the major roads in Gondor, while on his left Erkenbrand was expounding to Princess Lothíriel on the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Even though, as usual, he was reliving almost every single sword stroke, she listened with unflagging attention, an impressive feat in itself.

In fact from the moment of her arrival a few days before, she had proven her worth. Since there had been no rush for the wedding, she had spent the summer getting her dowry together and learning Rohirric and already sported an extensive command of the language. He smiled with satisfaction. The traditional speech offering the welcome cup to the guests by the new lady of the hall had tripped off her tongue as if she had been born in Rohan.

As for the household duties, she had already begun to ease into them, while careful not to upset old Wulfrith, their housekeeper of twenty years, so what more could he ask for? Taking another swig of ale, he suddenly noticed Éowyn and Faramir behind one of the pillars that upheld the beams of the roof, their heads close together. Really, married for more than six months and still they sneaked away at the first possible opportunity! What they had done while ‘catching some fresh air’ outside, he didn’t even want to know.

Excusing himself to mingle amongst his guests, he rose from his chair. Princess Lothíriel cast him a gracious smile, then returned her attention to Erkenbrand, who was explaining the layout of the Hornburg with the help of some saltcellars. For a moment he felt a flicker of remorse at leaving her to the tender mercies of his Marshal, but he hadn’t seen much of Éowyn the last few days and wanted to take the opportunity to speak to her before she left for her home in Ithilien again. Anyway, if she wanted to, the princess could probably extricate herself from Erkenbrand’s clutches as smoothly as an eel slipping through a fisherman’s fingers.

Pausing for a word here and there with his men, he threaded his way through the crowd. At the lower end of the hall, the tables and benches had been folded away to make space for dancing and he managed to catch Éowyn just as she and Faramir finished a lively reel.

“May I prise my sister from her doting husband for a moment?” he asked.

Faramir smiled. “Just this once.” He kissed Éowyn’s fingertips. “I will reclaim you later, my lady.”

Really, the two love birds were just a tiny bit sickening, weren’t they? However, he said nothing, just hooked his sister’s arm into his own and drew her away into a quiet alcove. “I have no idea what you have done to the poor man, little witch, but I’ve never seen anybody so besotted.”

She laughed out loud and he thought how much he would miss that unrestrained, merry sound. “It’s reciprocal, I assure you.”

He squeezed her arm. “I am so pleased to see you happy at last. Even if it means that you will abandon me here in Edoras again.”

“At least this time you won’t be alone,” Éowyn reminded him.

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so?” She searched his face. “Éomer, I know it’s none of my business, but this marriage of yours...”

“Yes?” They both turned to look towards the dais, where Princess Lothíriel was now apparently charming Elfhelm, who had taken Erkenbrand’s seat. “She really is a marvel, isn’t she?” he said. “Why, she hasn’t even lost her appetite, like so many brides do.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Éowyn hesitated. “Do you know her well?”

“Well enough. I spent a whole week in Minas Tirith in the spring. She had my men eating out of the palm of her hand within a couple of days, even Éothain who had been dead set against marriage with a Gondorian.” He chuckled at the memory.

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Has she got you eating out of the palm of her hand, too?”

“Of course not.” He burst out laughing. “What ideas you get, Éowyn.”

“Then why marry her?”

He frowned. “I’ve already told you in my letters. It makes sense: the highest ranking lady of Gondor, beautiful, accomplished, an expert housekeeper...”

“Oh really, Éomer, sometimes I would like to box your ears!” Éowyn exclaimed. “This is just so wrong for you. Have you ever looked at her, really looked?”

“I don’t see what you mean,” he shot back, offended. “Of course I’ve looked at her: she’s very pretty I think.” In fact he had garnered more than one envious look from his men when she had entered the hall for the wedding ceremony in a clinging dark red dress. Taking her to his bed would be no hardship at all had darted through his mind.

“Oh, listen to yourself!” Éowyn exclaimed. “I’ll tell you what I see when I look at your wife: a house with its outside immaculate, but whose inhabitants have closed all the shutters and huddle somewhere deep inside so not a crack of light is shining through.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I spent two weeks with her on the journey from Minas Tirith and I know her no better now than I did when we set out.” She made a cutting motion with her hand. “It rained for five days, we were all cold and perfectly miserable, the tents never really dried out, I snapped at Faramir half a dozen times a day...and your bride was impeccably composed the whole time.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” he said defensively. You’d think she wanted him to marry somebody with a foul temper!

Éowyn grabbed his shoulders. “It’s unnatural, that’s what it is! To exert that much control, every minute of every day, takes a frightening strength of will. Trust me, she’s bottling something up inside. After having to suffer Wormtongue whispering in my ears for years, I know.”

Éomer’s temper snapped. “Are you saying I’m like him, forcing myself upon women?”

“Of course not, but–”

“She had every chance to refuse my suit. I spelled out very clearly what I offered.” And also what he didn’t offer...

Éowyn’s arms sank to her side. “I’m sure you did. I just wish... Faramir said that she wasn’t always so controlled, that something must have happened. He compared her to a limpet.”

Éomer frowned. “What is a limpet?” Trust Faramir to speak in riddles.

“Some kind of mussel or something,” his sister explained, not really helping. “Oh Éomer!” she exclaimed. “All I ever wanted is that you’re as happy as I am!”

Dear Éowyn! He took her in his arms. “I am content this way. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

She gave a little sniff. “I hope you do.”

Faramir had materialised at their side as if he had sensed his wife’s distress. “What’s the matter?”

Éowyn smiled at him. “Nothing. Just worrying about my brother being his usual stubborn self.”

Éomer  released her and gave her a little push towards Faramir. “Why don’t you forget your worries for tonight and enjoy your husband’s company instead.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He watched them go and join the couples forming up for a line dance. His little sister, so determined that he should have the same happiness that she had found with Faramir. He sighed. Poor Éowyn, she would never understand that he did not want it.

As if it had been yesterday he could still recall that fatal day, the worst moment of his life: finding her lying on the battle field. Thinking her dead. He could never quite remember what had happened next, nothing but yelling echoing in his head endlessly: death, death, death! But that single image was burnt into his memory with every detail intact. The dew on the blades of grass glittering in the morning sunlight, Éowyn’s flaxen hair tumbled about her, her skin pale as wax. Then the Rage had risen in a crimson wave and swept him away.

He had lost so many dear to him, sometimes he thought that he was cursed: mother, father, Théoden, Théodred... No, he could not help loving his sister, but only a fool would give his heart away again after what had happened.

And he was no fool.

“My dear King Éomer!”

Startled out of his thoughts, he turned towards the speaker, realising too late who it was. “Lady Malheril,” he greeted the woman bearing down on him in a wave of flowery perfume.

She took his arm with overmuch familiarity. “What a pleasure to see you. It’s been such an age, hasn’t it?” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

Not long enough! Once again he cursed himself for that moment of weakness, but life had seemed so sweet that day in Cormallen, with victory snatched from the jaws of defeat... And he had been drunk, Éomer reminded himself.

Murmuring an acknowledgement, he tried to move away, but she dug her long, sharp fingers into his arm. “And what a happy occasion,” she added with an arch laugh. “Such a sweet little bride.”

“Yes indeed.” He must have been very drunk, he thought. But the lady had been more than willing, a widow with quite a reputation, so he had not blamed himself too much the next day.

Her fingers crept up his arm. “Although of course you cannot expect a young girl to be very experienced...”

He stared down at her. It was preposterous! Surely she couldn’t be suggesting...

A hand slipped into the crook of his free arm. “There you are, my lord,” Princess Lothíriel said. “I thought I might join you in talking to our guests.”

Éomer started. He had not noticed her leaving her place on the dais at all. A bolt of panic shot through him. Had she heard something of his conversation with Lady Malheril? “A wonderful idea,” he stuttered.

She leant across him. “Lady Malheril, please forgive me, I did not see you before. How are you keeping?”

Éomer held his breath. Of course they would know each other from the court in Gondor. If only Lady Malheril would keep her mouth shut! He frowned down at her.

Lady Malheril’s eyes glittered with malicious enjoyment. “I’m having a lovely time, thank you, my dear.” She patted Éomer’s hand. “You could say your husband and I are old friends.”

The vixen! He cast about in his mind for a pretext to excuse himself, but Princess Lothíriel beat him to it. “How nice,” she exclaimed. “So you’ve been to Rohan before! I suppose you knew him as a boy?”

Lady Malheril gave a smile as edged as a blade. “You might say I know some of his more boyish traits.”

At the words Éomer felt an urgent need for fresh air. “Shall we perhaps–”

“Ah, just like Lord Húrin,” Princess Lothíriel interrupted him, her eyes wide and guileless. “He’s forever reminding me how he dandled me on his knees when I was a baby.”

Lady Malheril’s smile lost some of its false cordiality at being compared to that venerable, grey bearded lord. “My dear, that’s not quite what I meant.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply you look aged,” the princess hastened to assure her. “You’re very well preserved!”

“Well preserved!” In her outrage Lady Malheril loosened her grip on Éomer’s arm and he quickly freed himself.

Princess Lothíriel seemed to notice nothing. “Yes, truly,” she said earnestly. “I think it’s simply marvellous what you ladies of the court achieve with a bit of powder and paint. Clearly I have a lot to learn.” She turned to Éomer. “But I’m sure the rest of our guests also want a word with us. Shall we go?”

Swallowing his surprise, Éomer nodded and let her lead him away. Unless he was very much mistaken he had just witnessed a set-down delivered in a truly masterly manner. “That was...” Pitiless? Ferocious? Ruthless? “...rather effective.”

“You think so?” They paused for a moment at the edge of the crowd. “Where the likes of Lady Malheril are concerned, I follow my brother Amrothos’s philosophy of combat,” the princess said with a sunny smile.

“And what is that?”

“Never mind the manoeuvres, go straight at them.”

He stared down at her. It was like biting into a fluffy pastry and finding it was made of stone. Or petting a lapdog, only to discover that he handled a wolf.

“Shall we?” she asked. Once again the perfect hostess was back. If it hadn’t been for the marks of Lady Malheril’s grip on his sleeve, he might have thought the whole thing a dream.

Éomer forced a smile. “Yes, of course.” 

The musicians struck up another dance just then and he surprised a wistful expression on Princess Lothíriel’s face. “Would you like a turn?” he asked, suddenly intrigued by the woman he had married.

She hesitated. “What about your guests?”

He shrugged. “They can take care of themselves. As your husband, don’t I rate any of your attention?” Never mind that so far he had not exerted himself to claim any. He pulled her towards the lower end of the hall. “Will you do me the honour?”

“With pleasure, my lord.”

It was a Rohirric dance with easy steps, but one that required you to whirl your partner about in your arms. The princess caught on quickly, trusting herself to his lead, and laughing as the music became faster and faster. She flashed him a smile that was as different from her usual well-bred expression as a brightly polished gold coin from a tarnished copper. Éomer blinked in surprise. Yet the smile was gone as fast as it had appeared, the corners of her mouth just turned up in polite contentment again. Was that what Éowyn had meant?

He would have liked to surprise another glimpse of that unknown woman from her, but she did not let her control slip again and at the end of the dance he received a flawless curtsy from her. Frustrated, he relinquished her hand to a Gondorian noble who begged for the next dance. She did not lack for partners, he thought; after the Gondorian a number of his own young riders took turns asking her to dance. Erkenbrand’s eldest son Eadbald, his hair flame-coloured as his father’s, seemed especially taken with her, as were Elfhelm’s two grandsons.

It pleased Éomer to see that his people accepted his choice of queen so readily, but he also couldn’t help noticing that she gifted none of her partners with a true smile. Still, maybe he was just attaching too much importance to his sister’s remarks. A large measure of self-control could only be a good thing in a queen after all.

“You’re ogling my sister most persistently,” somebody said at that moment. “If you weren’t married to her, I’d have to call you out.”

Amrothos! And you could smell the ale on his breath. However, Éomer had come to like Imrahil’s youngest son on the march to the Black Gate as somebody who even cracked jokes when standing on a slag hill surrounded by thousands of orcs.

“I had no idea you were such a paragon of propriety,” he shot back. The two exchanged a grin.

“I saw you bandying words with Lady Malheril earlier on,” Amrothos drawled.

Éomer shuddered. “Your sister rescued me. She’s a remarkable women.”

“So she is.” The look Amrothos gave him suddenly had nothing inebriated in it. “Always remember that. If I find you’ve made her unhappy, I will call you out.”

No idle threat from the best swordsman of Dol Amroth. Éomer raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That won’t be necessary. I’d rather fight at your side than against you.”

Amrothos nodded. “So would I.”

Éomer suddenly realised that here he had an expert in all matters nautical. “Tell me,” he said. “What is a limpet?”

“What? Why ever would you ask me that?”

“Just something Éowyn mentioned,” Éomer said. In his current belligerent mood Amrothos might not take it kindly to have his sister compared to a sea creature.

“Well, it’s a small snail with a round shell that lives on tidal rocks, nothing special really.”

“A snail?” Faramir’s words became more and more obscure. “Is it tasty to eat?”

Amrothos shrugged. “It might be, but it’s not worth the effort.”

“What do you mean?”

“As children we used to spend hours trying to prise them off the rock, but never managed to, not even Boromir who was the strongest of us. The only way to do it is to smash the shell.” Amrothos sounded a bit bored with the subject.

Éomer began to see the light. “Yet they have to let go sometime. How else can there be little limpets?” he asked triumphantly.

“Ah!” Amrothos said slowly. “You see, on moonlit nights, when a warm current rises from the south and the sea glows phosphorescent, the male limpets begin to sing.” He lowered his voice. “They say the sea throbs with their desire.”

What! Surely Faramir didn’t expect him to serenade the princess? Then he noticed a glint in Amrothos’s eyes. “You’re having me on,” he accused him.

“Yes,” Amrothos admitted. “But I have to confess to being puzzled by this sudden interest in marine life. And on your wedding day as well.”

“It’s nothing,” Éomer said. Amrothos would only laugh at him.

Another dance came to an end just then and he took the opportunity to reclaim the princess’s hand, thus shaking off his brother-in-law’s company. “What have you two been talking about?” she asked curiously when he swept her away.

“Your brother’s been threatening me,” he said, wondering if she had put him up to it.

The corners of her mouth quirked. “He must like you then. Amrothos only threatens his friends.”

“Indeed? Should I worry?” She certainly didn’t appear to do so.

Princess Lothíriel shrugged. “Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Surely you can take care of yourself. And anyway, Amrothos forgets easily once he meets the next woman he fancies.”

“It wasn’t over a woman.”

“No?” She sounded surprised.

“At least not exactly,” he added in all fairness. “He threatened to kill me if I made you unhappy.”

“What? But that’s silly. Why should you make me unhappy?”

“I certainly will do my best not to.” He smiled in reassurance. “In fact I think we’ll rub along very well. From what I’ve heard, you’ve already started to settle in here.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then looked him straight in the eye. “My lord, when do we retire? I read up on the customs of Rohan in the books that you so kindly provided for me, but that information was not included.”

He grinned. “Well, it’s up to us, but traditionally anytime after the third barrel of ale has been breached.”

“When will that be?”

He craned his neck to check and realised to his surprise that already four barrels stood empty. “We’re already into the fifth. Do you want to retire now?”

The princess chewed her lower lip, then straightened her shoulders. “Yes, why not,” she answered and he got the impression she wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.

Éomer blinked. She managed to make getting married to him sound remarkably like having a tooth drawn!

A/N: Amrothos's motto is of course borrowed from Lord Nelson (via Jack Aubrey)

Chapter 2

As Éomer proposed the bridal toast, he reflected that after the broaching of the fifth barrel was perhaps not the best moment to retire. It would have been wiser to get away earlier or later. As it was, his men were neither sober enough to rein in their tongues nor so drunk as to be unable to form a coherent sentence. He just prayed that the princess’s command of their language was not yet up to understanding the many ribald suggestions called after them when he whisked her out the door leading to the private quarters behind the hall.

Even so, judging by the colour flaming in her cheeks, their intent must have been clear enough. Traditionally, it was held that the more outrageous the propositions of the wedding guests, the more fertile the marriage. And of course the Rohirrim hoped for many sons for their king.

“Please forgive my riders,” he said. “I assure you they hold you in the highest esteem and will treat you with all honour.”

She had already regained her usual composure. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Anyway, by the time they wake up tomorrow morning, they’ll be too busy with their aching heads to remember anything.”

A smile flitted across her face. “I can believe that readily. Our housekeeper in Dol Amroth always brews up a large cauldron of evil tasting herb tea after feast days.”

Éomer laughed. “Wulfrith does the same. The smell alone is enough to make you crawl away as fast as possible!” He smiled in reminiscence at the memory of past revelries, but his smile slowly faded. So many of those he had feasted with had perished in the war: Théodred, Dúnhere, Grimbold… They had known they might die any day and lived accordingly.

He became aware that the princess regarded him uncertainly and wondered what his face had shown. “Never mind,” he said.

An uncomfortable silence descended and he cast about for something to say to break it. In a way it would have been easier had she been openly nervous. Or better still, giggling and a bit tipsy. But she just stood there utterly self-contained and stone cold sober, waiting for him to make the next move.

He motioned at the hallway. “Has Wulfrith shown you round yet?”

“Only the kitchen and storerooms, not the private quarters,” Princess Lothíriel answered.

“Well, they’re probably less spacious than you’re used to, but I hope you’ll like them anyway.”

She murmured a polite reply.

He opened the door to one of the rooms, only to realise that no fires had been lit and they couldn’t see anything. “This is the solar where you can sit with your ladies and be undisturbed.”

She peered in and nodded.

“There are always many nobles and their families visiting Edoras, I’m sure you’ll make friends quickly,” he added and closed the door again. “That way you won’t be lonely when I’m away.”

“I see. Will that be often?”

“I’m afraid so. I like to get a first hand picture of how things stand in my kingdom, so I will be travelling often.”

“Would it be possible for me to come with you? I would like to see more of the country.”

He regarded her dubiously, standing there in her elegant dress and with not a hair out of place, and thought of the rather basic accommodation they would have to put up with. Somehow he could not imagine her sleeping in a simple farmhouse or a tent out on the plains somewhere. “Perhaps to the Hornburg,” he said. “In summer, it’s an easy ride.”

“That’s settled then.” Again he caught a hint of steel in her manner, gone as quickly as a fish jumping in a pool. “Thank you, my lord. I’m sure I will enjoy sitting in the solar very much,” she added.

“Good.” Éomer began walking down the hallway, giving a quick explanation of the other rooms. “Next door is the nursery, but Wulfrith thought you would want to arrange for the furnishings yourself, so we haven’t done anything to it yet. Then the rooms down my end: the council chamber, library, some guest chambers and the guard room.” He stopped in front of the door leading to the anteroom to their personal quarters and opened it for her. “I’m sure you’ll soon feel at home. Our rooms at least are arranged in the Gondorian manner.”

“The Gondorian manner, what do you mean by that?”

He motioned at the two doors leading from the anteroom. “Oh, just that we have separate rooms: on the right you have the queen’s chamber, on the left the king’s. I’m an early riser myself and wouldn’t want to wake you needlessly.” He often went for a ride in the morning to get some thinking time for himself and she would hardly appreciate being woken by him – it made sense to avoid that kind of conflict from the start.

“I see,” she said. “Though some married couples in Gondor share a room; my parents did.” Her eyes had a sad, faraway look. “Still, I don’t always sleep well. This way I can read in bed without disturbing you.”

Éomer nodded. “I think it’s a very sensible idea. There are occasions when I’m in and out at all times of the night.” He thought of foaling time in the spring when he liked to keep an eye on the progress of his mares. They always chose the most awkward times to foal! “In fact, sometimes I’m away the whole night. This way there’s no need for you to stay up for me.”

For some reason she seemed to stiffen. “As you say.”

There was another uncomfortable silence. He sought refuge in formality and gave a courteous bow. “Well, I believe your maid is waiting for you in your rooms. Just…eh…send word when you’re…ready.”

She curtsied. “I will, my lord.”

Éomer had dismissed his squire Ceola earlier on, so his own chambers were empty. Consisting of a bedroom, an adjacent study and a small bathroom, they had long ago, in the time of Théoden’s queen, served as the nursery. Later Wormtongue had taken them over to be near the king at all times, but they had since erased all traces of his presence and replaced the whole furniture. Now the room just held a bed, a couple of clothes chests and the weapons stand for his armour, all Éomer needed.

He paused at the window for a moment and stared out towards the mountains to the south. Cold and remote, they glittered in the moonlight. As cold and remote as his wife? Then he chided himself for his fancies. Drat it! Why did Éowyn have to make him so uneasy? And she had probably forgotten all about it by now and was dancing away, enjoying her husband’s company, leaving him to brood over her words.

Resolutely turning his back on the window, he began to shed his clothes. Ceola had laid a robe ready on the bed and he shivered when the cold fabric slid across his skin. It was a ridiculously ornate affair, richly embroidered green brocade with a white silk lining, but he supposed he could not visit his newly wedded wife in his usual bedtime attire of nothing but a loose shirt.

In less time than he had expected there came a discreet knock on the door. When he opened it, he found Dordes, Princess Lothíriel’s maid, outside. The elderly woman, grey haired and with a nose like a hatchet, had come with her from Dol Amroth. “My Lord King, the queen awaits you,” she announced.

“Thank you.”

For a moment he thought he saw a worried look in the woman’s eyes, then she curtsied deeply.

Éomer held out his hand when she would have retired. “Dordes, have you been with the princess long?”

“Yes, my lord. Since she was a little child.”

An old retainer, just as he had thought. “Has she always been so…reserved?” he asked.

The woman’s face went blank. “It is not my place to say. Is that all, my lord?”

Éomer could understand a dismissal when he heard one. “Yes, thank you. You may go.”

She curtsied once more and withdrew. Éomer stood staring at the door opposite a moment longer. His wife awaited him. He would really have to start thinking of her as Lothíriel Queen, not the Princess of Dol Amroth. Or simply as Lothíriel. It seemed inappropriately familiar somehow.

He took a deep breath and entered his wife’s chambers.

The air was warm from a fire burning on the grate behind an ornately carved screen and a couple of lamps shed their mellow light on the room. The big four-poster bed, used by generations of Kings of the Mark, took up most of the space, but there was also a small table by the window with a tray on it that held the traditional jug of mead.

Princess – Queen – Lothíriel sat on the bed and for a moment did not seem to notice him. With slow, dreamlike motions, she combed her long black hair that fell like a rich, shiny mantle around her and stared at a vision that only she could see. The lamp by the bedside outlined her figure clearly through the creamy white fabric of her nightgown and Éomer felt a jolt of desire run through him, surprising him with its force.

As if she felt his regard she looked up that moment and her eyes widened. Éomer cursed himself for what must have shown on his face. Hadn’t he learnt better control than that? He didn’t want her to think that he had nothing on his mind except bedding her as quickly as possible. Hastily he crossed over to the table. “A cup of mead?” he asked, turning his back on her. “It’s traditional in the Mark.”

“Yes, thank you.”

By the time he had poured the drinks, he had his features back under control. Although a cold bath would have helped even more! He picked up the two cups, plain, earthenware ones with no handle, then realised there was nowhere else to sit except on the bed if he didn’t want to loom over her. After handing one of the cups to the princess, he perched at the foot end, leaning back against one of the posts.

“It is said that when our ancestors came from the north they toasted their victory on the Fields of Celebrant with just such simple cups. So for luck we keep up the tradition.”

She took a small sip. “That’s nice.” All traces of alarm had vanished from her demeanour and she looked as unconcerned as if she was exchanging polite conversation at a banquet instead of being alone with a relative stranger. Surely she had to be nervous inside? Or was she just naturally cold blooded? He thought of Éowyn’s words of the house with its shutters closed. That was overly fanciful, wasn’t it? Women! Why did they have to make everything so complicated.

A case of maidenly nerves was only natural, he decided and took a swig of mead. The rich, sweet taste filled his mouth. It was really nothing to worry about and she would soon settle in.

“The Riddermark is a beautiful place,” he said, trying to put her at her ease. “And the Rohirrim are an honest and forthright people. I’m sure you will come to like it here.”

“I hope so, thank you.”

“And if you’re missing your family, perhaps they can be persuaded to visit.”

She nodded. “Yes, Amrothos has promised to come in the summer, when the passes are open.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” He chuckled.

That earned him a smile. “A promise, I hope.”

“Will you be missing your country?” he asked. He hadn’t found the time to visit, but from what he’d heard Dol Amroth had a very pleasant, warm climate.

She only shrugged. “I don’t think so. I have no love for the sea.”

“Why not?”

She looked down at her cup of mead and turned it round in her fingers. “I just don’t.”

More closed shutters? “Princess Lothíriel,” he said suddenly. “Allow me to ask you a question: was it truly your wish to marry me?” He wanted to know her mind. Although he had no idea what to do if she professed herself unhappy with their bargain!

Her eyes flew up to him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, just something Éowyn said.” Would she mind that he had discussed her with his sister? “She wants me to marry for love, you see,” he added.

“And is that what you want?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I was honest with you when I proposed to you. I am happy to neither ask for love nor to offer it. But are you?”

“Yes.” The word was empathic. “I assure you, my lord, I came into this with my eyes wide open.”

He released his breath in relief. “Well, I’m glad to have that cleared.” He grinned. “Siblings! They always think they know what’s best for you.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Exactly!” She hesitated, then took a deep breath “My lord, when you did me the honour of asking for my hand, you said you preferred frank speech.”

“I do.”

“Then I will be honest with you too: I had other suitors besides you, but my father left the choice up to me.”

Éomer blinked in surprise. “And what decided you to accept my offer?”

With a frown she drew her knees up to her chest and balanced the cup of mead on them. “Two reasons really. First of all I know that my father and brothers would all have been slain in the Battle of the Pelennor if it weren’t for the coming of the Rohirrim.”

She had married him out of gratitude? The thought made him uncomfortable. “You can’t know they would have died,” he pointed out. “And it was really Aragorn’s arrival that decided the battle.”

Princess Lothíriel shook her head. “No. They were at the gate with the Witch King about to assault it with all his forces. None would have survived if the Rohirrim had not come that moment.” She sounded oddly certain.

“And the second reason?” he asked.

She stared down at her cup of mead. “The others all spoke of love to me, even though they did not know me at all. You did not.”

She looked vulnerable somehow, sitting there with her black hair falling about her. Wasn’t she very young to be renouncing love so roundly? “What if you regret it one day?” he asked bluntly.

For a long moment she said nothing, then she raised the cup to her lips and downed the remaining mead in one gulp. “I have never told anybody of this, but I suppose I owe you the truth, my lord.” Putting the empty cup on the bed, the princess looked him straight in the eyes. “Understand this: I will only speak of it once.” She paused, as if gathering her strength. “There was somebody. But don’t worry, he’s dead.” She grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. “He…he…fell in the war. An orc raid…he was a great warrior and defended his companions... but there were simply too many of the enemy.” She stared into nothing. “They had these huge black bows and they laughed as they shot him! And then they left him to die and I could do nothing to help him. Nothing! It was horrible.”

She had seen the man she loved die! How had that happened? He dimly remembered Imrahil telling him that his daughter had spent the war in Dol Amroth; surely that was too far south to be attacked by orcs? Éomer was appalled when he saw a tear roll down her cheek. He would have liked to take her in his arms, but did not think she would welcome it. “I’m so sorry,” he said. How completely inadequate the words sounded!

With an impatient gesture, she flicked the tear away. “No, I am sorry. I swore to myself, I wouldn’t cry on my wedding night, and now look at me.”

What a vow to make! “If only I’d known!” he exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t have offered for me?” She shook her head. “No, this is exactly what I need. My lord, I know that if I’m remembered at all, it will only be as the daughter of Prince Imrahil, the wife of the King of Rohan and mother of his sons. But I want my life to make a difference, even if all I do is to make sure that when you go to war you have sufficient supplies and a peaceful country to return to.” She hugged the pillow closer. “I’m not after glory, but my life should matter.”

Éomer was struck dumb. He had never really considered a woman’s lot in life, just thought they accepted their place contentedly. Perhaps Éowyn was not such an exception after all?

Princess Lothíriel gave him a wry smile, as if she could read his thoughts. “I know it might be difficult for you to understand. Even if you did nothing more in your life than grow cabbages, your choices have already made a huge difference to Middle-earth. But for me it’s different. Besides…I…” She hesitated and colour rose to her cheeks. “I would like to have children,” she said in a rush.

He was learning a lot about his wife! Whatever Éowyn had said, without doubt this was the real Lothíriel. “Surely that’s natural for a woman,” he managed to reply, his mind in a whirl.

She considered his statement for a moment. “Perhaps. But you see, my aunt Ivriniel suffered a disappointment in her youth and chose a life of retirement. But I don’t want to dwindle into an old maid who embroiders endless handkerchiefs for her family. And my little nephew Alphros is really sweet. So I told my father I wanted him to find me a husband.”

Éomer wasn’t sure if he should admire her courage or be taken aback at the cold blooded way she’d gone about arranging her future. It sounded a bit as if she’d gone looking for a stallion to breed! Then he paused. On the other hand, had he acted any differently? Suddenly his sense of the absurd caught up with him. What a pair they were!

He chuckled. “Well, I just hope I’ll be able to meet your requirements!”

She put her head to one side. “My lord, I’m sure you will manage.”

He grinned. “Thank you for your confidence. But isn’t it time you called me Éomer?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She smiled. “Thank you. You know, you’re not quite what I had imagined.”

“What had you imagined?”

She made a vague gesture. “You were just rather imposing when I first met you. A living legend.”

“Me?” he asked in surprise.

Her smile deepened. “Yes.”

She had a lovely smile when she really meant it, he thought. Her cool, grey eyes warmed and dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Shall we drink to our contract?” he asked. “I’ll show you how we do it here in the Mark.”

“But I’ve finished my mead already.” She motioned to her empty cup.

He held out his. “Share mine.”

After a brief hesitation she put aside her pillow and moved forward, reaching for the cup. “I will do my best to be a good wife and a worthy queen to your people,” she said and took a small sip.

When she would have handed the cup back, he leant forward and put his hands over hers. “And I will do my best to honour my side of the bargain,” he replied.

Slowly he lifted the cup to his lips, rather enjoying the way she blushed at his words. Her fingers trembled under his touch, but she did not withdraw them. Fulfilling his promise would not be difficult at all, flitted through his mind.

As she bent forward, her robe gaped open at the throat and her hair tumbled down. He reached out to touch the soft strands. “You have beautiful hair, as glossy as a raven’s wings.”

She started, but suppressed it at once.

He lowered his hand. “You know, we can postpone this,” he said impulsively. “Get to know each other a bit better first.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to having a stranger touch me.”

A stranger. And that was what he was to her really. He had not really appreciated before what a brave wife he had. “I understand. We don’t have to go through with it tonight,” he repeated his offer. And he’d definitely need a cold bath then!

Princess Lothíriel looked him straight in the face. “Is that what you want?”

She was blunter than the Rohirrim! “No,” he admitted.

“Even though you don’t know me at all?”

To his mortification he felt heat rise to his face. “Yes.”

“Men are strange creatures,” she mused as if to herself. “You are kind, my lo–…Éomer. But I would really rather go through with it.”

It was rather disconcerting how little enthusiasm she showed for sharing his bed. Well, he would make sure she enjoyed it, even if it took him all night!

“We’ll take it slowly,” he murmured and bent forward again to kiss her very lightly. “Just tell me if you feel I’m going too fast.”

She licked her lips in unconscious sensuality, as if savouring his taste. “All right. Should I take my nightgown off now?” With a determined movement, she reached for the belt holding her robe closed.

Éomer caught her hand. “There’s no rush.” He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on each slim finger, so different from his own calloused ones. Then he moved on to the palm of her hand, to her wrist where he felt her pulse beating nervously against his lips, and down one soft, white arm.

Looking up, he found her watching him with a mixture of nervousness and fascination. He smiled at her. “Just relax, Lothíriel.”

She tried to smile back, but did not quite succeed. “Right.”

Very slowly, so as not to startle her, he shifted closer and claimed her lips again. Of their own volition, his fingers moved up to twine themselves in her hair. Oh, but how silky soft it was! The faint scent of roses clung to her from her perfume and her skin was warm and soft under his touch. Desire rose within him. Slowly! he urged himself.

Lothíriel’s hands rested on his shoulders and when he deepened his kiss she clutched at him convulsively. Gently he disengaged and looked at her. “Are you all right?”

“I…yes.” But her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. So might a cornered doe watch the hunter! It was disturbing – he’d never had an unwilling woman in his bed before. Not that strictly speaking she was unwilling, just so very obviously nerving herself to endure his advances.

He’d also seldom had a more desirable woman in his bed. What glimpses of soft curves he had caught under her nightgown, her incredibly smooth skin, that tantalising scent… it all called to his body to take her for his own, to possess her…his wife…

He took a deep breath to master himself. “You have nothing to fear,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

With a sigh she rested her forehead against his chest. “I do! I know you’re honourable and kind to be so patient. And I’m sorry if I’m not responding as you’d like me to.”

“Really, Lothíriel, you don’t have to apologise for being inexperienced on your wedding night!” he exclaimed.

She leant against him, the thin silk of her nightgown doing nothing to disguise the soft warmth of her body, and the touch sent a wave of heat cursing through him. “I just find it more difficult than I had expected to. Éomer…”

“Yes?” Was she going to ask him to postpone the consummation of their marriage after all? He groaned inwardly and wondered if there was any ice to be had in Meduseld to fill his bath with.

“Do you think we could have the lights off?”

It was such an unexpected request, it drew his attention from the clamourings of his body. “What?”

“I just think it would be…easier…in the dark.” She looked up at him. “It’s still possible, isn’t it?” she asked hesitantly. “You don’t need to see, do you?”

Somehow the whole wedding night had not quite gone as he had expected. Éomer didn’t know whether to laugh or to wince at the thought that his new wife found it easier to face him when she could not see him. “Very well,” he said. “If you’d prefer it?”

“Yes…yes, I think I would.”

He slid off the bed and belted his robe firmly around himself. Then he extinguished the lamp on the table while Lothíriel blew out the one by the bedside. Now only the banked fire remained to light the room, hidden behind a screen, but even so by the time he returned to the bed Lothíriel was already busy drawing its heavy curtains closed. She was very determined to avoid his sight!

Éomer slid between the sheets just as she finished and complete darkness enveloped them. He felt the bed shake a little from Lothíriel settling down. With sight gone, his other senses sharpened: he could hear her light breath and caught a whiff of her scent.

“Better?” he whispered.

“Yes, I think so. Thank you.”

Éomer shifted to lie on his side. “Now we just have to try and not poke each other’s eyes out by mistake,” he joked.

That drew a little chuckle from her. “I’m sorry to be so awkward,” she whispered. “You must think me very foolish.”

“Don’t apologise,” he told her. “You have every right to be nervous.” Besides, he liked a challenge.

The curtains did not quite manage to shut out all the light and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out her face as a slightly paler oblong. Leaning over, he lightly ran his fingers over the sheets, tracing the shape of her body. “Just relax, my sweet.”

She did not reply, but rolled over towards him, her hands sliding up his arms with a touch as trembling and hesitant as the flutter of a captured bird. Éomer caught his breath at a sharp stab of desire piercing him. How much he wanted her. And she had no idea what she did to him! Bending down, he began to kiss her, first exploring the smooth curve of her throat and then claiming her mouth again. She tasted as sweet as mead and this time he felt her respond tentatively.

He could not help himself, he slid his hands inside the sheets. There he got a surprise: she must have shed her nightgown in the darkness, for he encountered nothing but bare skin. For a moment he hesitated. “Lothíriel–”

“Shush,” she whispered and wrapped her arms round his neck to pull his mouth down on hers, effectively silencing him. It was not an invitation he could refuse. Shrugging his own robe off his shoulders, he joined her between the sheets and ran his hands over her body. She was all softness and warmth, quite irresistible. All his!

Hunger rose within him, but he was determined that she should enjoy their night together. Slowly! To distract himself, in his mind he began to recite the first thing he could think of, Firefoot’s bloodlines. Dam line: Dawnwind by Greatheart out of Swifthoof, Greatheart by Thunder out of Silvercoat… First with light fingers and then with his lips, he began to trail spirals and curls on her skin, following those enticing curves. Sire line: Wildfire by Brightblaze out of Stormcloud, Brightblaze by Foebane out of Nightbreath … Taking his time to caress every inch of her skin, he slowly explored the shape of his wife’s body. Stormcloud by Lightfoot out of Swanneck… When she gasped softly and responded by arching her back, he was nearly undone. Swifthoof by…? His mind went blank, yet poised over her, he hesitated. If only he could see her face.

That moment Lothíriel drew him down on her and slung her arms around him, surprising him completely. It was too much. He let his need take him and sweep them away like a wave breaking over them, falling and tumbling.

***

Yet much later, when he woke in the dark hours of the night and drew the curtains apart to let in some fresh air, he wondered. His wife slept curled on her side, hair in a dark tangle about her, and when he slid an arm around her he felt her chest rising and falling slowly. He nestled against her back and took a deep breath of her scent. Just touching that soft skin was enough to stir his desire again.

Éomer smiled at the memory. She had matched him passion for passion, surprising him.

And yet…

He felt the smile fade slowly. Was it truly his skill that had made her relax and called forth her answer?

That moment Lothíriel gave a sigh in her sleep, as if she could follow the turn of his thoughts. Éomer chided himself for harbouring silly fancies that did not really matter. They had made a bargain and he was certain that she would fulfil her part of it very ably. As for himself, he found his new wife highly desirable, so what more should he want?

He drew up the sheets and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be another busy day with more feasting and the presentation of the morning gift; it was no use brooding on things that he might have imagined anyway.

But just before sleep claimed him, a treacherous thought slipped through this mind: in the shelter of the darkness, whom had she kissed with such ardour?

Him, Éomer?

Or a Gondorian warrior with grey eyes and black hair?

A/N: Special thanks to Sian for her suggestion regarding Firefoot's bloodlines!

Chapter 3

A month later Éomer had realised two things: His new wife was marvellous. And he did not know her at all.

It was a bit bewildering, he reflected one morning as he was sitting at his desk and staring out the window at the mountains. The sun was only just painting their tops a delicate pink, but he’d already taken Firefoot out for a ride, the stallion frisky at the snow covering the ground in a thin blanket. They didn’t usually get much down here in the lowlands and it might well be the last of the winter.

Now he was comfortably ensconced in his study with a fire of apple wood burning in the grate, rich new carpets on the floor and his breakfast of porridge and tea brought to him on an elegant tray. Lothíriel had even managed to convince Wulfrith to serve the honey in a separate little pot so he could finally sweeten his meal himself after months of eating overly sweet porridge because the old housekeeper still served it to him the way he had liked it as a little boy. Somehow his wife had even managed to convince Wulfrith that the whole thing was her own idea!

It was just one of the dozens of small changes she had made to improve his life without leaving the slightest ripple of disturbance in her wake. In fact he found it a bit disconcerting how closely she observed him and mapped all his likes and dislikes, even more so because for his part he could not read her at all.

Éowyn’s description of a house with its shutters closed had been incorrect, he reflected while smoothing out the feather of one of the newly cut quills lined up on his desk, ready for his use. No, the house was open, but when you went inside you found it filled with smoke and mirrors, making you wander about until you did not know anymore what was real and got hopelessly lost. And now that his sister had gone, he was the only one who seemed to notice.

The others all thought they dealt with the real Lothíriel when they talked to his charming, accomplished wife, but he knew better. Sometimes he caught glimpses of a different woman, a flash of unexpected humour or a fleeting look of sadness on her face, but she suppressed them at once upon noticing him. Even the devastating directness she had shown on their wedding night was nothing but a blind to hide behind.

Irritated by the direction his thoughts had taken, he put the quill down. What did it matter? He could leave the running of Meduseld in her skilled hands and concentrate on more important matters, which was what he had wanted. So what if he did not know the innermost feelings of his queen as long as she fulfilled her role? He didn’t know himself why he cared, but now and again the matter would suddenly irritate him, like an itch he could not scratch.

He rose and stretched. Soon it would be time to join his wife for a cup of kahva, an aromatic beverage imported from Harad. She had brought a small private stash of the curious brown beans with her from Dol Amroth and after his first taste he had become firmly addicted to the brew. It had become their custom that when she had her own breakfast they would share a pot and Éomer privately considered that for the introduction of kahva to Meduseld alone, it had been worth marrying her.

Suddenly he heard a loud shriek. He whirled round. Had that been Lothíriel’s voice? Then the sound of running feet sounded in the anteroom and a door banged. What had happened? He grabbed his sword from the bed where it lay and ran out into the corridor. The door to the terrace surrounding Meduseld just clunked shut, but he caught a glimpse of a white nightgown and black hair. Another shriek floated back.

“Lothíriel!” he shouted and raced after her.

When he burst out the door he found her kneeling on the ground with an anxious guard bending over her.

He jumped to her side. “Lothíriel, are you hurt! What happened?”

The guard gave him an anxious frown. “I have no idea! The queen just came running out here.”

Lothíriel lifted her face to him with a look of pure delight on it. “Look, Éomer,” she said and showed him what she held in her hand. “Real snow!”

He sat back down on his haunches. “What?”

“Snow!” She rose in a swift motion and made a few dancing steps, her gown billowing out around her. “I can’t believe it! It’s so soft, yet cold. And just look how it melts when you step on it.” Proudly she showed him a small, delicate footprint. “Oh, it’s simply marvellous!”

And his heart had nearly stopped with fright for her! Yet he could not help smiling at her delight, as pure as a small child’s.

“You’ve not seen it before?” he asked.

“Only once when I was four, but I don’t rightly remember. And I don’t think we had this much.”

Guthlaf, the guard, chuckled. “Oh, this isn’t much snow, my Lady Queen. Up in the mountains it reaches the eaves of the houses.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Really!”

The rest of his men had come running to check what the ruckus was about and they all watched with amusement as she bent to scrape together the thin layer of snow to form into a ball. Then he also noticed a definite glint of appreciation in their eyes and realised that her silken nightgown, damp from kneeling in the snow, revealed altogether more than was proper.

He gave them a fierce frown. “Back to your posts.”

They scattered like dogs facing a lion and Guthlaf took up his place outside the door again, his back turned on them. “Impudent pups,” Éomer muttered.

Lothíriel looked up from her rapt contemplation of a squished handful of snow. “What?”

“Nothing. But aren’t you cold? Let’s go back inside.”

Reluctantly she straightened up. “Do we have to?”

“It won’t melt straightaway. You can always come back when you’re properly dressed.”

“Oh!” Colour rushed to her cheeks as she became aware of the state of her dress. Or undress. “Yes, of course.”

Back in her room Dordes awaited her mistress with a breakfast tray. When she spotted Lothíriel, she bundled her back into the bed at once. “What were you thinking of, Child,” she scolded. “Cavorting about in the snow! You’ll catch your death of cold.”

She cast a censuring look at Éomer as if she blamed him for not stopping his wife. Or just Rohirric weather in general? The old woman had fast acquired the reputation of being a right dragon, but she was obviously very fond of Lothíriel. Éomer got the impression she only tolerated him as a whimsy of her mistress’s, a king of a lineage a mere five-hundred years old when the princess could have had a pure blooded Númenorian.

However, she had mastered the art of brewing kahva in a little pot on the hearth to perfection, even if she begrudged Éomer his share. Already the heavenly smell filled the room and he settled down in his usual spot at the foot of the bed contentedly. In the past month, they had settled into a pleasant, comfortable routine, almost like an old married couple.

Surprisingly, he quite enjoyed this quiet time in the morning. Unlike so many women, Lothíriel didn’t feel the need to chatter away incessantly, indeed she was usually endearingly sleepy. With her hair tumbled about her she looked very different from the dignified queen who presided over his hall.

Also her rooms always seemed comfortable and inviting. He wasn’t quite sure how she did it; one of her colourful silk scarves thrown negligently over a chair, the big translucent shells from Dol Amroth on the windowsill or the bowl of scented rose petals by her bed. Somehow even the slight disorder all added up to a warm, welcoming atmosphere that his own rooms lacked. In fact it sometimes gave him a pang to have to leave her every night for his own cold bed, but that just couldn’t be helped.

Dordes now came round with the tray of kahva, his own black and strong, Lothíriel’s liberally laced with honey and a dash of milk. When he accepted his cup with a word of thanks, Dordes cast him another scowl. “Dithering about outside and letting it go cold,” she muttered under her breath. “And how much longer my supply will last with some people guzzling it away like they do, I don’t know either.”

“Oh Dordes, don’t be silly,” Lothíriel answered. “There’s plenty left and anyway, I’ve already written to a merchant in Dol Amroth to organise more.” She smiled at Éomer. “Don’t worry, we won’t run out of your favourite morning beverage.”

He felt a stab of guilt. Since the stuff had to be imported all the way from Harad, it was probably expensive and here he was using up her personal store of kahva. “I’d be quite happy with tea,” he said stiffly.

Dordes greeted that statement with a disdainful sniff and Lothíriel frowned at her. “Nonsense. We can manage.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, put out by the maid’s attitude.

Lothíriel took a sip of her kahva, savouring the taste. “Conquer Harad?” she suggested.

For a moment he wondered if she was serious, then realised by the twinkle in her eyes that she was pulling his leg. He chuckled. “As my queen commands. Will next year do?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Only if you throw in Umbar as well. They produce the finest silk in Middle-earth.”

He grinned at her. She was usually so solemn and it was only seldom that she allowed him a glimpse of this side of her, but the snow that morning seemed to have put her in an exuberant mood. It was a shame really that she did not relax more often.

The coverlet had slipped down, revealing her silken nightgown, and suddenly the thought of what lay under all that frothy lace kindled a hot spark of desire inside him. He shifted uncomfortably. It was disconcerting how the sight of her could do that to him without warning. And certainly without her intention he thought ruefully as she began to butter a piece of bread, completely oblivious of the direction his thoughts had taken.

Not that there was anything wrong with finding his wife desirable. But unfortunately he would have to wait till evening until he could do anything about it. Until evening – and until dark. She still blew out all the lights and drew the curtains every night.

It was such a small thing, he felt churlish for minding, but sometimes he would have liked to see her face. And to have her see his…

Not that he had any other complaints, on the contrary, she seemed to welcome him into her bed. In fact it sometimes felt as if the pliant woman of the dark hours was an altogether different person from the daylight Lothíriel, Queen of the Mark, able administrator of Meduseld, diplomatic and courteous. Yet after a month of marriage he still could not help wondering what picture she held in her mind when she returned his kisses.

Still, what did it matter! The man was dead. Annoyed with himself for brooding over something that might all be in his mind anyway, he took a large gulp of kahva, only for it to go down the wrong way.

Lothíriel leant forward anxiously when he started coughing. “Éomer, are you all right?”

He held up his hand. “I’m fine.”

Her gown had slid off her shoulders until only a ribbon tied in front secured it. The temptation to undo that flimsy barrier and explore what warm delights lay underneath it became almost overwhelming. His hands knew only too well, but his eyes wanted to know too. However, sadly a king’s opportunities to bed his queen were rather limited with all the servants underfoot, no matter how much he lusted after her. Sometimes he would not have minded being a simple woodcutter in a lonely hut up in the mountains somewhere!

He sighed inwardly. Only then of course the Princess of Dol Amroth would never have married him. And would she even want him to touch her in plain daylight? He had no idea at all.

Dordes had gone in the other room to fetch her mistress’s clothes, so they were alone for the moment. “Tell me Lothíriel,” he said impulsively, “do you like it here?”

She looked at him with surprise, then leant back on her pillow to consider the question. Regrettably she also absentmindedly shrugged her nightgown back into place. “I like the Rohirrim and how welcoming they are,” she said slowly. “Also it’s nice to be the mistress of Meduseld.” She gave a ghost of a smile. “And to be honest I find you easy to please.”

“What?” He had the feeling his eyes must be bulging.

“There’s nothing wrong with having simple appetites,” she assured him. “Though I’m quite capable of coping with more sophisticated demands. However, it’s nice not to have to.”

He felt rather weak. Was this another side to his wife that he had no idea of? Yet surely she had been a complete innocent on their wedding night! “Well, I’m pleased to hear you find it so easy to cope,” he said weakly.

“Oh, I do. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve heard my mother’s friends say about the difficult demands their husbands make of them.”

“Really?” Obviously he had a lot to learn about Gondor’s nobility!

“Absolutely.” She nodded earnestly. “Whereas I’ve never heard you complain about any dish set before you, not even the other night when the pork was too salty.”

She was talking about food! Suddenly his world made sense again. A wave of relief swept through him; he had not been completely mistaken in Lothíriel. However, he decided to drop that line of enquiry for the moment. He’d had enough shocks for one morning; it would just have to suffice that she seemed happy enough in the Mark.

Dordes came back into the room with a selection of clothes just then. “What will you be wearing today?” she asked her mistress.

Lothíriel hesitated. “Actually, I’ve been thinking I might go out riding.”

Éomer regarded her with surprise. He’d not thought her much of a horsewoman, for she had been busy about the hall every day since her arrival. “Where are you planning to go?” he asked.

“Well, just riding out in the snow. It probably won’t last long, will it, and I’d dearly love to see more of it.”

Éomer nodded. “I suppose you could go up into the hills a little. You wouldn’t even have to ride too far.”

“Then may I go?” she asked eagerly. “I assure you the running of Meduseld won’t suffer for it. We’ve already planned the meals for the next week, there’s nothing that can’t wait for a day.”

She made him sound like a strict taskmaster! “You don’t have to account yourself to me,” he said, feeling guilty. She was very determined to fulfil her part of the bargain, whereas his own side was arguably a lot more pleasurable. “And I’m sorry if I’ve worked you too hard. Why, even my horses get days at pasture in between the training.”

Dordes stared at him in outrage. “The queen is not a horse!”

“I know,” he assured her hastily. “No offence intended.” The woman was fully capable of serving him undrinkable kahva if she was displeased!

“That’s kind of you, Éomer,” his wife came to his rescue. “And you needn’t put yourself out, either. I was thinking of asking Lady Hild to accompany me. She’s been wanting to show me the surroundings of Edoras, but I just never had the time before.”

Éomer didn’t think Háma’s daughter an altogether suitable companion, for the girl had taken her father’s death in the war badly and developed a wild streak. On the other hand she was of an age with Lothíriel, so it was not surprising that the two should get along. “Make sure you take a couple of guards with you,” he told her. At least Lothíriel was eminently sensible.

For a moment he even considered escorting her himself, for a ride in the snow would have been pleasant and he’d not had a day to do as he pleased for a long time. However, then he remembered that he had planned to put Swiftfire through his paces on the training field. The young stallion had been shaping up nicely lately and it would have been a shame to interrupt his training.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself,” he said.

***

The main pastures of the royal herds lay to the south of Edoras and over the years a number of training rings and stables had sprung up there. Éomer’s own contribution was a circular course of various obstacles and targets designed to hone his men’s ability to fight from horseback. He’d had good results with his éored at Aldburg and the course he’d had built in Edoras was even more challenging.

However, that afternoon he was working the half dozen young horses that might in another couple of years join his string of remounts if they shaped up well. Of course, it was not really king’s work – not even that of a king of horselords – and his stablemaster was quite capable of training them to Éomer’s exacting standards, but he liked to judge their abilities himself. Also it gave him a feeling of connection to a long line of horsemen stretching away in time, his father and Éomund’s father before him, whenever he rode a promising new horse whose pedigree he knew by heart.

The stallion Swiftfire was one of those, sired six years ago by Firefoot, and destined to perhaps one day replace his father as Éomer’s main mount. He still had a long way to go, but had a lot of promise, Éomer reflected as he trotted the horse in widening circles in one of the practise rings. The morning’s snow had melted long ago, leaving the ground soft and muddy. Now he began to weave between a number of tightly spaced posts, pleased at Swiftfire’s quick responses to the changes in pace and the supple way he moved. He was listening well too, eager to obey his rider.

All over the summer they had worked at strengthening the stallion’s back so he would be up to carrying Éomer’s weight in full armour and all the hours spent in the practise ring had paid off with a smooth, powerful gait. While it was still too early to tell, he thought that Swiftfire might well have inherited that elusive combination of speed, agility and endurance that made his sire Éomer’s favourite mount, a quality which could make the difference between life and death to his rider on the battlefield.

He lifted the horse into a canter and directed him between two rows of straw dummies dressed in leather shirts sewn with bits of metal and ribbons fluttering in the wind, whacking at them with a wooden sword to get the horse accustomed to the noise and the feeling of his rider leaning from side to side on his back. Swiftfire responded gamely, pivoting neatly at Éomer’s command at the end of the row for another run.

Éomer leant forward and patted the stallion’s neck. “Well done, my friend.” He looked round to see what Frithowulf, his stablemaster, made of the horse’s progress, only to find that the man paid them no attention at all. Instead he had climbed onto the low wooden rails surrounding the practise ring and was staring towards the obstacle course.

Éomer trotted Swiftfire over. “What’s the matter, Frithowulf?”

“I had no idea the queen rode so well,” the man said.

The queen? But it was indeed Lothíriel chatting to some of his riders who had just completed the course and were collecting their spears from the straw targets that marked the beginning. She rode one of the horses she had brought from Dol Amroth, a glossy chestnut mare with excellent conformation, and wore a russet riding dress that glowed warm and bright in the pale winter sun. Riding side saddle in the manner thought fitting for noble ladies in Gondor, she nevertheless controlled her lively mount easily and laughed when the mare danced sideways playfully. Amid all the Rohirrim on their grey horses, she seemed as exotic as a ruby amongst pebbles.

With her was Hild, Háma’s daughter, and a number of his younger riders, amongst them Elfhelm’s two grandsons and Erkenbrand’s son Eadbald, his red hair marking him out. They were all of a similar age, light-hearted and too young to have taken much part in the war, except for the last desperate battles. Though he gave them less than ten years, they made Éomer feel old as he watched them laugh and tease each other. At their age, he’d already had the responsibility for his own éored, knowing that a bad decision could mean the death of the men who relied on him.

Lothíriel seemed to mix with them easily, but then she had the gift of getting along with all different sorts of people. Had they all gone riding with her, he wondered. Still, at least it meant that she had been well taken care of. Probably they had gone up to the hills behind Edoras and were now on the way home, for the path led past the practice grounds.

Briefly he was tempted to ride over and ask her how she’d liked it, but he wanted to put Firefoot through his paces once more and the sun would set soon. Anyway, Swiftfire was getting restless and needed to be walked to cool down after his exertions. He could always talk to Lothíriel later, after all he’d see her at the evening meal. Nudging the stallion to circle the practise ring slowly, he let him stretch his neck and praised him a low voice. The horse’s ears flicked backwards in response.

“So what do you think of Swiftfire’s progress?” he called to Frithowulf.

Recalled to his duty, Frithowulf jumped down from the fence. “He’s coming along nicely, Éomer King, no doubt of that.”

They discussed the horse’s further course of training while Éomer’s squire warmed up Firefoot in a nearby field. Then Éomer threw Ceola Swiftfire’s reins and swung up on Firefoot. The stallion was frisky, dancing in place and shaking his mane. Éomer laughed at the sheer joy of having a responsive horse between his legs who knew his every mood and was as eager as him to test their skill.

“Shall we play, my friend?” he asked.

Without waiting for Ceola to hand him his weapon, he urged Firefoot forward into a canter and on the run picked up one of the practice swords from their pile, stooping so far from the saddle that he nearly touched the ground. It was a young man’s trick really, but you never knew when it might come in useful.

Then they were amongst the straw puppets. Swiftfire had responded to his aids willingly, but Firefoot knew what he wanted almost before Éomer knew it himself. Cut right, then twist and slash down to the left. Pivot round, the stallion kicking out behind. Block an imaginary thrust from below and jump aside. Lean over and deliver the killing blow. They wove between the targets, Éomer stabbing and ducking, the horse trampling the straw and lashing out with his powerful hind legs as if they were a single, deadly creature.

Having cut a swathe of destruction through the practice field, he sheathed the sword and jumped the stallion across the fence into the next ring. One of his men threw him a bow and quiver of arrows, which he caught in midair. In the same motion as slinging the quiver across his back, he nocked the first arrow and shot. And the next. And the next.

At the end of the run he looked back to check the targets and smiled with satisfaction. While the sword might be his weapon of choice, he could hold his own with a bow. Slowing Firefoot down, he patted the stallion’s neck. “You’re still the best!” The horse snorted in answer, as if agreeing with him.

That moment laughter and loud yells floated over from the obstacle course. Éomer frowned. Probably some of the lads who had nothing better to do than showing off in front of the women. The course had been set up so two men could compete against each other, a popular pastime amongst his younger riders.

He called for his squire to shift the targets for another run, but it took a moment for the boy to respond.

“I’m sorry, Éomer King,” Ceorl panted when he finally came running up. “Oh please, after doing the targets, may I go and watch the queen race?”

“What!”

His attention snapped to where two horses were just trotting up to the line of sawdust that marked the entrance to the course. That moment somebody dropped a handkerchief and they were off. At first his mind refused to make sense of what he was seeing. Then the horses jumped the first ditch and splashed through the shallow water behind it, Hild’s grey in front with the chestnut right on its heels.

Éomer began to swear. Was she mad! He urged Firefoot over, but by the time he reached the starting line they were out of sight. He had no chance of catching them up, not at the breakneck speed they had been going!

A group of his riders were milling around, laughing and making bets. “What do think you are doing!” he snarled at them, feeling the Rage rise within him. “Do you want to get Lothíriel into an early grave?”

The hilarity cut off abruptly. “But Éomer King,” Eadbald said, “she’s a splendid rider, a true queen of horselords.”

“This course was built as training for war, not a game. It takes more than a little skill to master!” Suddenly he felt the blood drain from his face and his heart nearly stopped. Had they told her about the ropes strung across the path at the turning? What if she broke her neck falling from her horse!

“The ropes,” he snapped. “Does she know about them?”

The men looked at each other and their horses shifted nervously. “Eh,” said one, “I think Eadbald mentioned them to her?”

“I believe, I did,” Eadbald confirmed, sounding none too certain.

“You fools!”

Just then yells and shouts from further down the course announced the return of the racers and the quick thunder of hooves approached. His heart began beating again when he spotted the chestnut with its rider still on its back. Luck was with them today! The horse was going fast, outpacing the grey, which was several strides behind. Had it run away with Lothíriel?

He waved at the spectators sitting on the rails further down the course. “Stop them!”

Uncertainly, some of them jumped down and took a few steps forward. But too slow. She simply wove round them as they tried to intercept her and incredibly he heard her clear laughter ring out. Now there was only one obstacle left to go: a log fence with a drop behind it where many of his riders had come to grief.

Lothíriel went straight for it as if she didn’t care if she lived or died. For an impossibly long moment horse and rider hung in the air and Éomer was absolutely certain she would come off. There was not even time to send a quick plea to the Valar. Then they came down heavily but recovered miraculously. How could she do it, sitting sideways in that ridiculous Gondorian fashion! It had to be sheer luck.

Leaning over the mare’s neck, Lothíriel galloped between the two lances that marked the end of the course, before straightening up and slowing the chestnut down. Hild’s horse had refused the last jump and she trotted round it.

“Lothíriel, you’re marvellous!” the girl exclaimed and when the two riders met they embraced, both laughing.

Éomer’s relief at seeing his wife safe and sound abruptly turned into anger. He dug his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and the stallion leapt forward. “Lothíriel! What were you thinking of?” he snapped as he reached them.

Her laughter died. “Éomer! I didn’t know you were watching.”

“Obviously not, or hopefully you would have had more sense than attempting what is too difficult for you. Do you realise it’s only sheer luck that you’re still in one piece?”

“But my Lord King,” Hild threw in, “the queen did splendidly–”

Did he have her to thank for this folly? Again the Rage threatened to rise and overwhelm him, but he throttled it down. “I will deal with you later, Háma’s daughter,” he told Hild. Though he used what he thought a calm voice, the girl blanched.

“Hild, leave us a while please,” Lothíriel intervened that moment. She looked him straight in the eye. “Éomer, if you want to rebuke me, can we do it out of earshot of an audience?”

He became aware that the knot of riders was watching them with avid curiosity. A smouldering look cast their way reminded them to find something else to do and they dispersed to their different tasks. Lothíriel meanwhile had ridden a little apart and slid off her horse without waiting for his assistance. She ran her hands along the mare’s legs.

“Neither Maeweth nor I have taken any harm,” she said when he joined her and swung off Firefoot’s back. “I assure you, I’m well able to master a few jumps. At home, I’ve been hunting in the Tarnost hills with my brothers since childhood.”

His temper had got a chance to cool down a little. “I do not want to cast any aspersion on your ability to ride,” he said. “However, the course is meant as training for war. What you did was highly dangerous!”

She shrugged. “I know, but so what? I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Éomer was left speechless. Inwardly he counted slowly from ten backward in high elvish, a trick Elrond’s sons had taught him. “I did not worry about that! I worried that you’d be injured or killed.”

“Why does it matter? There are plenty of other ladies of noble birth in Gondor to replace me.”

With a shock Éomer realised she meant it. His anger got quenched abruptly. Didn’t she care if she lived or died? He took her by the shoulders and felt the tension running through her. “But I don’t want another lady,” he said softly.

For a long moment they looked at each other and he fancied he was finally facing the real Lothíriel, the woman who lived behind all those rooms meant to confuse the unwary. Had she perhaps lost her own way amongst the smoke and mirrors? Her eyes, the clear, cool grey of Númenor, regarded him searchingly, as if she wanted to ascertain the truth of his words. “I’m sorry I shouted at you,” he said. “You gave me a fright and that made me angry. Please promise me not to do it again.”

She lowered her gaze and inclined her head, accepting his apology. “And I am sorry to have caused you anxiety.”

Éomer sighed. The shutters had closed again. Would he ever get more than a passing glimpse of the woman hiding behind the courteous princess? He released his grip on her shoulders and let his hands sink to his side.

Firefoot jutted his nose forward just then and Lothíriel patted him, showing no fear at all. “What a splendid animal he is! I saw you practising earlier on, the two of you were marvellous.”

Mollified, he smiled at her. “Yes, he’s the best.”

“A fitting mount for the king of horselords,” she agreed. “Did you train him yourself?”

“Mostly, yes. I believe that in order to get the best out of a horse, you need to know it from a foal.”

Lothíriel nodded. “My father thinks so too.” She gathered her mare’s reins. “But I’d better walk Maeweth or she’ll get cold. Will you give me a leg up?”

He did better than that and seizing her by the waist lifted her into the saddle. For a moment she let her hands rest on his shoulders, then she settled herself and hooked her leg around the top pommel. “Thank you,” she said as she spread her skirts around her. He had to admit that while her riding habit might be unpractical, it did suit her, accentuating her narrow waist.

“You know, I could teach you to ride properly, in trousers,” he offered.

She smiled down at him. “I can ride properly,” she answered, gently mocking him. “Besides, I’d feel naked in trousers.” With a nod she turned the mare to head back towards the path. Giving him a wary glance, Hild rode after her friend and side by side the two trotted up the road to Edoras, collecting a couple of guards along the way.

Éomer followed his wife with his eyes, realising that he had never told her what an excellent rider she was: her back ramrod straight, shoulders relaxed, she controlled her lively mare without effort. Just as they disappeared through the gate it also dawned on him that she had given him no promise not to attempt the training course again.

Had he just been skilfully managed? Surely not!

Of course his unruly mind chose that moment to present him with the picture of Lothíriel riding her horse naked. He groaned.

Chapter 4

Lothíriel did not, in fact, attempt the course again, though she began to ride out regularly with Hild and her friends. Éomer made sure she always had Éothain or a similarly reliable guard along to keep an eye on her, but got the impression that she was rather amused by it. Perhaps the feeling was justified since not even he himself had been able to keep her out of trouble, so what could poor Éothain possibly do? However, nothing more untoward happened, though he did not know whether she had actually listened to his admonitions or was just humouring him.

Riding back from Aldburg a few weeks later, he reflected on the changes in his life. It had only been a quick visit, a day’s ride there, two nights spent with Elfhelm and then the journey back. He had not considered it worth taking Lothíriel with him and she had not asked to come after hearing of his plans. Nearly all his time with Elfhelm had been spent inspecting the herds kept near Aldburg, something that could only be done in person, and discussing military matters. It had been strange staying in the hall in Aldburg, where he had grown up until the age of eleven and which had been his headquarters as Third Marshal of Riddermark. He still had his own rooms, but Elfhelm and his numerous family now occupied the house and though Elfhelm’s wife had made him welcome, it did not feel like home anymore.

Up ahead the golden roof of Meduseld glinted in the setting sun and Firefoot quickened his pace, eager for his food and stable. And what about himself? Was Edoras his home now? It had been nearly two years since Théoden had passed him the banner on the Pelennor fields, yet he still sometimes felt adrift, as if he didn’t quite belong.

A gust of wind whipped around him, streaming his hair out behind and tangling Firefoot’s mane. It had been blowing hard all day, but Éomer didn’t mind, for the storm was a harbinger of spring, bringing warm, wet air from the far-away sea and melting the snow up in the mountains. Already the trees on the slopes of the foothills blushed a delicate, light green and the ground at their feet was covered in a riot of wood anemones, dog violets and other flowers.

Firefoot felt the spring too, walking with an extra bounce to his steps and shying playfully at the sight of a cart full of piglets. Éomer grinned and patted the stallion. “Soon, my friend, you can visit the ladies.”

As they rode between the barrows and approached the gates, people hailed him, calling out his name, and he felt warmed at their greeting. The guards gave a short blast on their horns, announcing the return of the Lord of the Mark, and he looked up towards Meduseld where his banner rippled in the wind. Suddenly eager to see his wife, he urged Firefoot along the road winding up the hill. If he were honest, his bed had felt surprisingly cold and empty those two nights in Aldburg.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the hall, he dismounted and gave Firefoot into the care of the stable lads. Gone were the days when he’d had to groom the stallion himself, though he still sometimes took that duty when he had time. Not tonight however. Hailing him, the doorwardens pushed the doors open for him and he strode into the hall, noticing anew after his brief absence how the flagstones gleamed freshly polished and the tapestries shone in the firelight, having been cleaned and restored. Servants were busy laying the tables for the evening meal and he felt his stomach rumble in anticipation. Those who wanted could still have their meat plain, but he liked the new spicy sauces and pickles Lothíriel had introduced.

In their private quarters, he found the door to the queen’s room slightly ajar and on an impulse pushed it open and went in. At first he thought that he had missed Lothíriel, then he spotted her in the small study adjacent to the bedroom proper. She sat at the writing desk she had brought with her from Dol Amroth, a thoroughly elegant piece of furniture with spindly legs and a row of drawers gleaming with lacquer. The whole thing looked so delicate, he’d been afraid to touch it when it had been delivered, miraculously whole after the long journey.

Éomer paused. In front of Lothíriel lay a sheet of parchment, an open ink well and a quill, but she wasn’t writing. Somehow the way she sat, shoulders hunched over as if in pain, arrested him. She was turning something over in her fingers, but a glint of gold was all he caught.

Then a gust of air entered through the open door and she turned round. “Éomer! You’re back.”

Whatever she had held in her hand got put in one of the little drawers, not furtively exactly, but with firm determination. She rose and came over to give him a peck on the cheek. “Did you have a good journey?”

“What were you doing just now?” he asked, the words coming out harsher than he had meant.

Her eyes met his, grey and chilly, like a fencer bringing up her weapon to block him. “Nothing important.”

It was the Queen of Rohan at her most distant and regal – a man might dash himself to pieces on that cool composure. The impulse to grab her and shake her to make her tell him what she had in that drawer ran through him, shocking him with its strength. A keepsake of the man she had loved?

“Do you want a bath before the evening meal?” she asked. “I’ve already told the servants to heat water.”

He let out his breath slowly at this reminder how well she fulfilled her role, telling himself that he had no right to pry into her private affairs. So what if for a moment he would have liked her to smile at him and move into his arms? That was the desire of a sentimental fool and not what he really needed.

Or had bargained for.

   ***

The next day was King’s Court and after his morning training Éomer changed into more formal clothes and then stopped by the queen’s rooms. Lothíriel had arranged for his bard to teach her Rohirric and instruct her in the customs of the Mark and after hearing of the monthly court, she had asked to attend it.

However, that morning her rooms were empty. Éomer took a step inside to make sure she wasn’t in her study and inexorably his eyes were drawn towards the writing desk. Nothing more had been said about the incident the night before, but he hadn’t managed to push it from his mind. What was it she had held in her hands? He couldn’t help noticing that the drawers had no lock. It would be so easy to have a quick look through them.

The thought brought him up short. He couldn’t just paw through somebody else’s private possessions! Yet not just anybody’s, a little voice said in his mind, but his wife’s. As a husband, didn’t he have a right to know? Éomer hesitated.

Then he shook his head. No! It was dishonourable. Besides, Lothíriel might have turned her mind into a house with its shutters closed, but forcing the door would only drive her further behind her barriers. He took a step back.

“My lord, may I help you?”

He spun round. In the door stood Dordes with a pile of linens in her arms. Éomer felt faint with relief. Thank the Valar that he had not given in to his impulse to search the desk! Getting caught by the elderly maid would have been worse than that time he had talked a three year old Éowyn into filching plum cake from the pantry in Aldburg, only to encounter the cook, around whom even his father Éomund trod warily, on the way out. She had nearly flayed him alive with her tongue!

“Just looking for my wife,” he said. “She wanted to attend court. Do you know where she is?”

The maid dropped a curtsy. “Yes, my lord. The queen is in the solar, with her ladies.”

Since he did not have much use for women’s chatter, Éomer had not been in the solar for a while. On his entrance he noticed to his surprise that this room too had acquired a much more cosy atmosphere, though he could not say exactly how. Perhaps it was the red rugs, none of them quite matching but nevertheless making a pleasing whole, that now covered the floor or the colourful cushions strewn haphazardly about. Lothíriel’s ‘ladies’ were really just the wives of some of the nobles who lived in Edoras and their daughters. They met quite often to do whatever noble ladies did – Éomer had a vague notion it involved embroidering things and discussing domestic matters.

At the moment they had arranged their chairs in a circle around the fireplace and such lively chatter and laughter filled the room that they didn’t even notice him at first. But where was Lothíriel? Then he spotted her sitting on a heap of cushions on the floor by the fire with little Wynn, Háma’s youngest daughter, on her lap. The two heads, one flaxen blond, the other black as raven’s wings, were bent close together over a book that she was reading from.

That moment Wynn’s mother, Lady Seaxburg, looked up. “Éomer King,” she greeted him.

The chatter and laughter ceased abruptly and he found himself the focus of all the eyes in the room. He cleared his throat. “Good morning, ladies. I’m afraid I will have to abduct your queen; Court is about to start.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lothíriel. “I had forgotten.” He had never seen her as relaxed as sitting there with the little girl on her lap.

“But what about our story?” asked Wynn.

Lothíriel bit her lip. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to finish it another time.”

The little girl’s face fell, but her mother intervened firmly. “Wynn, you mustn’t take up all of Lady Lothíriel’s time. She has duties as queen, you know.”

Wynn scrambled up from her place on Lothíriel’s lap. “Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”

Lothíriel hugged her. “You know what? Why don’t you come back tomorrow with your mother and I will finish the story of how Beren met Lúthien in the Glades of Esgalduin. And what is more, I will tell you how they stole into Morgoth’s halls and cut a silmaril from his crown.”

Now the little girl was happy again. “Thank you! I think Lúthien is so beautiful. Just like you!”

Lothíriel blushed. “I assure you, she was far more beautiful than me. But above all, she was also clever and very, very brave.”  Her face took on a sad, far-away look. “When Beren died, she followed him to the halls of Mandos and got him back.” Then she closed the book and put it aside with a determined movement. “But I will tell you about that another time.” She rose from her cushions and smoothed down her dress. “Let’s not keep the people waiting.”

Éomer offered her his arm, but outside in the corridor he paused a moment. “It is kind of you to take an interest in Wynn. You have my thanks.” Her father Háma had been one of his best friends and was still sorely missed.

“No thanks are needed,” she answered, “indeed it is Wynn who is doing me a favour.”

“How so?”

“Children are so warmhearted, so alive!” She looked up at him. “It’s like finding shelter at a roaring fire while a tempest is raging in the night outside.”

Was that how she saw her life? Lothíriel must have noticed his consternation, for she shook her head. “You must think me fanciful. I’m sorry.”

“Not fanciful, no,” he said slowly. “All of us have to somehow weather the storms life throws at us.”

A bleak smile. “Yes, indeed,” she said.

Éomer would have liked to pursue the conversation, but the low hum of people talking came from the hall. “Shall we go?” Lothíriel suggested. “They’re waiting for you.”

He sighed inwardly. Would she ever trust him with more than a quick glance of her true self? “Yes, let’s.”

Anybody could attend King’s Court, so the hall was packed as usual. Two chairs had been placed on the dais for him and Lothíriel and the tables were stacked against the walls, so there was enough standing space. Many who didn’t have any requests or grievances themselves simply came to watch the proceedings and sometimes to take bets on which side would win in a dispute.

As he took his seat, a hush fell. His bard Cenred stepped forward. “Be welcome to Meduseld,” he called. “And let anybody who seeks the king’s justice speak freely.”

The first dispute brought before him involved the alleged shifting of a border stone between two fields and he schooled himself to patience as one witness after another was called. In the last few years before the Ring War, Wormtongue had abolished the court, claiming it taxed the king’s strength too much, thus making it impossible for any complaints to be brought against him, and sometimes Éomer regretted that he had reinstated the custom. However, he had found that a fierce frown from him served wonders to get two quarrelling parties to agree on a compromise. A reputation for a temper did have its uses!

The next case was more interesting, involving a stallion who had broken out of his paddock and covered a neighbour’s mare. The law was clear: compensation for an unplanned breeding to the mare’s owner and a fine because the stallion hadn’t been properly penned. In principle Éomer disapproved strongly of anybody who did not control his horses, saddling other people with unwanted foals. However, since everyone agreed that Greycoat was a much finer animal than anything the mare’s owner could otherwise have afforded – indeed there even was the suspicion voiced that he had let the stallion out himself – Éomer decreed that the mare’s owner could choose between compensation by his neighbour and giving him the foal or no compensation and keeping it himself. Unsurprisingly, the man went for the latter.

After that it was a farmer petitioning for the use of a pair of oxen to plough his fields, another dispute, this time over sheep, and a row of minor cases. The most embittered one involved a woman seeking divorce on the grounds of barrenness. Éomer had little patience with the husband who after not being able to give his wife a child was now quibbling over handing over her morning gift.

Lothíriel had followed the proceedings with much interest, though she had not voiced an opinion, as was her right as queen. Cenred stood at her side and had translated some of the more difficult terms and now she leant over to speak to the bard. “Is any woman allowed to plead her own case?” she asked.

He looked at her with surprise. “Who else?”

“The menfolk of her family?”

The bard nodded. “Well, she could ask them to speak for her, but after all it’s her morning gift being disputed, so no doubt she feels she knows best.”

With a thoughtful look on her face, Lothíriel leant back again. “Well, that’s different from home!”

The next case was much more pleasant again: a young lass and lad, both orphaned in the war, wished to marry and asked for his blessing. This he gave gladly and gifted them with a mare from the royal herds as well. Beorhtulf had inherited a small holding in the Westfold from his dead father that they wanted to work and since the mare was in foal this would give them a good start.

Lothíriel had listened intently while he questioned them on their plans. “Your parents died in the war?” she asked the lad.

Beorhtulf nodded. “Yes, Lothíriel Queen. My mother was killed by Saruman’s orcs and my father fell at the Fords of the Isen.”

“Mine is buried in the mounds of Mundburg,” the girl added quietly. “Mother died giving birth to my little brother.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lothíriel said. She hesitated. “I know it is no compensation for your loss, but will you accept a gift of linen for your dowry?”

The girl looked pleased. “Thank you!”

Lothíriel smiled at her. “And I have some cloth in Dol Amroth blue that would really suit you with your beautiful flaxen hair. It would make a lovely wedding dress.”

“But...but we wanted to marry tonight,” Beorhtulf stuttered. Then he went beet red.

Lothíriel ignored the laughter from the people in the hall. “And so you will,” she assured him. “Your wife can wear it for the midsummer celebration instead.”

They both thanked her and left amongst a wave of friendly but rather ribald comments from the crowd. Éomer surprised a grin on his wife’s face. “Poor boy,” she said to him. “I’ll have to throw in a lacy nightgown for his wife to make up for the embarrassment.”

He chuckled. “Do you find the proceedings interesting?” he asked.

“Oh yes. It’s very different from my father’s court however. He only deals with the law suits between his nobles. I like it that the common folk can appeal to you.”

Éomer nodded. “Usually disputes are heard by the local courts first, but any son or daughter of Eorl has the right to apply to the king for judgement.” He eased his back, cramped from too much sitting, surreptitiously. “But we’re nearly finished for today.” Then he remembered the last case to be brought before him, a particularly distasteful one. “You might want to retire now though,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just an unpleasant incident to be dealt with.” He did not want to go into the details, which he considered not really suitable for the ears of a gently reared Gondorian lady.

Lothíriel regarded him steadily. “I don’t mind some unpleasantness.” There was that hint of steel in her voice again.

He hesitated. “As you wish. But if you are in any way distressed, please feel free to withdraw at any point.”

“Very well, I will.”

A grim silence settled on the hall as his bard called for the next case and Éomer noticed that even their housekeeper Wulfrith and the servants she oversaw had come to witness the judgement.

A man stepped forward with a jaunty step while opposite him a young girl took her place, accompanied by her grey-haired father. She would not look up and her knuckles showed white where she clutched her hands in front of her.

“Edwen, daughter of Sigeric, claims that Wihtred, son of Thrydwulf, lay with her against her wishes on the evening five days ago,” Cenred declared.

“What do you have to say to that accusation?” Éomer asked the man.

Wihtred shrugged. Broad shouldered and handsome, something in his face nevertheless betrayed a cruel twist. “I had her, that much is true. But she wanted me to take her and enjoyed it.”

There was a harsh intake of breath from the girl. “I did not!”

Éomer regarded the two. It was her word against his, and though he readily believed that Wihtred would take advantage of those weaker than him, he could not base his judgement merely on that.

“What do you say?” he asked the girl gently. She was a pretty thing, with long, wavy hair and cornflower blue eyes.

“Wihtred was kind to me...he gave me gifts... flowers...some woven ribbons...” Edwen began in halting words. She had courage though and her voice firmed. “Yes, I did agree to go for a stroll with him that evening. I thought him nice! But then he wanted me to go behind the stables with him and when I said no, he pulled me with him and he put his hand on my mouth and then...then he forced me.”

“Nonsense,” Wihtred interrupted. “She led me on! It was her idea.”

“You lie!” the girl snapped.

“I offered to marry her,” Wihtred replied smugly. “Though I’m sure I wasn’t the first with her. She wouldn’t have me.”

“I’d rather die unwed than marry you!”

Éomer gripped the armrests of his chair hard. The scoundrel! However, he was bound by the law. “Were there any witnesses?” he asked.

“No,” the girl answered, deflated.

No witnesses to the rape and Wihtred had offered to make good the injury against her virtue by marrying her, which freed him from the obligation of paying her wergild. No doubt he had known exactly that she would refuse him! Éomer fixed Wihtred with a hard look and the man quaked visibly, yet he did not confess his crime. In the old days, he and Éothain would have dealt with his kind by beating him up in an alley somewhere, but it was no satisfactory resolution now he was king.

“Do you have anybody who will fight on your behalf?” he asked Edwen, though he knew the answer. The girl only had her aged father, two brothers having fallen in the war. Wihtred had picked his victim carefully!

Her father made a move to step forward, but she gripped his arm. “No, my Lord King.”

So no ordeal by combat to have the Valar show the truth. By his side, Cenred was explaining the custom in a low voice to Lothíriel. Any woman could nominate a champion to fight her cause, and had he lost, Wihtred would have had to pay Edwen’s wergild. However, it had to be somebody injured by the wrong done, so usually a husband, father or in the case of a noblewoman one of her husband’s retainers.

A hostile silence fell; Wihtred would have to get out of Edoras quickly after the trial or somebody might take the law into their own hands. The riders of Éomer’s personal éored stood in a bunch near the front, all with unfriendly expressions on their faces. He waited a long moment, hoping for the man’s nerve to fail. However, Wihtred stood there confidently, feet planted firmly apart and hands clasped behind his back, knowing that the judgement would have to go in his favour.

“Éomer King, may I speak?”

Éomer’s attention snapped to his wife. She leant forward slightly, her gaze fixed on Wihtred. “Please,” he said, giving her the floor. What did she have in mind?

Unhurriedly Lothíriel rose and gathering the folds of her dress descended the steps from the dais until she stood facing Wihtred. For some reason her slow, deliberate movements reminded him of a great hunting cat closing on its prey. “Wihtred, son of Thrydwulf,” she said.

The man looked her up and down, as cocksure as ever. “Lothíriel Queen?” Éomer felt a flicker of the Rage stir at his dismissive tone. He suppressed it, for it would not do to gut a man out of hand in the middle of his trial.

“You lay with this girl,” Lothíriel said. “She says against her wishes; you say with her consent.”

He grinned. “Yes?”

“I suggest we put it to trial by combat. Let the Valar show the truth.”

The man’s grin widened. “She has nobody to fight for her,” he explained in the kind of voice used to a child. “Only those injured by the deed may take up the sword.”

Lothíriel smiled as if he had just done her a favour. “Ah, but I am injured by this deed.” She let the words sink in a moment. “Indeed, every woman here is, if she cannot walk the streets of Edoras in safety anymore.” Lothíriel raised her voice. “Who will champion me?”

There was a stunned silence. Then the riders of his éored jumped forward, calling out and offering her their services, as did a dozen other men,  Erkenbrand’s son Eadbald the loudest amongst them. The clamour filled the hall and for the first time, Lothíriel looked surprised. Éomer saw their housekeeper Wulfrith nod in grim satisfaction.

He rose from his chair and the din cut off abruptly. “I will champion my wife.” It was a brilliant solution!

All traces of arrogance were gone from Wihtred’s face. “But…but…” he stammered. “You can’t do that!”

Lothíriel ignored him, taking Edwen’s hands instead, who looked equally dumbfounded by the turn of events. “See, you do not stand alone.”

Tears shot into the girl’s eyes. “Thank you,” she stammered.

“I’ll pay!” Wihtred shouted that moment. “I’ll pay her wergild! I’ll have to work it off, but I’ll pay. I swear!” Beads of sweat shone on his forehead.

Éomer looked at the girl. “It’s your choice.”

Edwen hesitated. Lothíriel squeezed her hands. “What would you like? Have him work off his debt, knowing he owes his life to you, or watch as Éomer King cuts him into small pieces.” Her own voice left no doubt as to which alternative she would have preferred. “He’d do it slowly,” she promised. Éomer had to suppress sudden laughter. His fierce, clever wife! She was magnificent.

But Edwen shook her head. “I have no wish to see him dead.”

A sensible decision, but still a shame. He sat down on his chair to pass formal judgement. “Wihtred, son of Thrydwulf, you have a year to work off Edwen’s wergild.” And he would make sure the man could not run off. “But if a similar offence is ever levelled against you again, I will take up my wife’s cause.”

Two guards grabbed Wihtred to lead him off and the crowd slowly dispersed. From the hum of voices, he could tell that the judgement had found favour. Lothíriel lingered to have a few words with Edwen and he waited patiently until she had finished; then she gave the girl a last hug before re-joining him on the dais.

She took his offered arm, but remained silent and lost in thought until they had reached the anteroom to their chambers. There she stopped, hand on the handle to her door, and looked him in the eyes. “Éomer, are you very displeased with me?”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“I know it wasn’t my place to interfere, yet I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing to help that poor girl.”

“But you had every right!” Couldn’t she see her own worth? “And every scoundrel who hears of it will now think twice before he takes advantage of some poor girl. It’s a stroke of genius.”

“Oh!” Her eyes went wide, as if seeing him truly for the first time. “Then you don’t mind?”

“No.” He took her by the shoulders. “You’re my wife, of course I value your opinion.”

A sudden smile blossomed and he could feel tension drain out of her that he had not even perceived before. “Thank you.”

He shook his head, wondering if he would ever understand her. “You’re in the Mark now, never hesitate to speak your mind. Although I cannot believe that Gondor’s women have no voice. Surely Imrahil used to listen to your mother’s opinions?”

“He did,” she admitted. “But Mother would never have spoken out in public. She preferred to discuss matters in private, though I have to say when she put her mind to it, she usually got her way.”

Éomer couldn’t help himself, he let his hands slide down her arms and bent close to her. “I’m not completely adverse to doing it the Gondorian way, you know. Feel free to persuade me anytime.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Then she sobered. “Éomer…I know I should have asked you first, but thank you for offering to fight for me.”

She stood there regarding him with those big, grey eyes, framed by long lashes, and he caught a hint of her perfume of roses. “Of course I’d fight for you,” he said.

And he kissed her.

At first she stiffened with surprise when he captured her mouth, but he felt her relax slowly and a hand crept up his chest. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, suddenly thinking that it was the first time he had kissed her outside the bedchamber. His absurdly desirable wife! How well she fitted into his arms and how good she tasted.

When he released her, she sighed and leant against his chest. He slipped a finger under her chin and tilted up her head.

She had her eyes closed.

Sudden fury took him. Whom had she pictured in her mind just now? “Look at me!” he snapped.

Her eyes flew open. “Éomer?”

At the sound of his name, sanity reasserted itself. What had possessed him to give in to his silly fancies! But it was too late, he could literally see the shutters of her mind closing as the cool, polite mask she wore habitually descended on her face.

“Lothíriel,” he said, “I’m sorry!”

Subtly she shifted away, stiff and unyielding where before she had been soft and pliant. “There’s no need to apologise.”

Really, she was taking this completely the wrong way! “A husband has every right to kiss his wife,” he protested, annoyed and defensive at the same time.

“Certainly. But I think Dordes is waiting for me.”

And with that she twisted out of his arms, opened the door to her chambers and slipped through. As the door shut in his face, he was very much tempted to kick it.

He was a complete idiot!

   ***

At the meal that evening, Lothíriel took a jug of ale and served the table with the men of his éored herself, thanking each one for offering his services as her champion. Éomer watched her as she moved from one to the other, gracefully filling tankards. They had already been much taken with her beauty, now they would worship her spirit as well. Which was not a bad thing – a queen needed to be able to rely on the support of her husband’s warriors – but he still gritted his teeth at the genuine warmth she showed the men. More the fool him!

When he retired, he half expected her door to be barred, as might have happened had he married a woman of the Mark, but she wouldn’t do that. In fact she acted as if nothing had happened, accepted his apology graciously and welcomed him into her room and her bed.

He wasn’t sure if he should be glad for such self-restraint or irritated by it.

Chapter 5

Once spring arrived in earnest, Éomer found himself very busy with the breeding of his horses. For while the Keeper of the Studbook was more than capable, Éomer liked to be consulted on which stallions to breed to his mares and also to inspect the newborn foals himself. This often took him out of Edoras, though he did not spend the nights camping out at the foaling pastures like he used to, a fact that elicited some teasing comments from his men.

He did not think Lothíriel would be particularly interested in the lengthy discussions regarding each horse’s finer points and anyway the actual breeding of a stallion to a mare was hardly suitable for a Gondorian lady, so he did not usually ask her to accompany him, except a few times to the pastures nearest to Edoras. In a way it was a relief to see so little of her and to have his mind occupied with other, simpler matters.

There also were a number of foaling stalls in the stables of Meduseld for the mares he took a special interest in or where they expected trouble and those he visited nearly every night. His arrangement of separate sleeping quarters now proved useful, for else he would often have woken Lothíriel.

Early one morning, he was just creeping out of his rooms, holding a lamp in one hand, his boots in the other, when the door to the corridor opened. To his surprise it was Lothíriel. She started and clutched the book she was holding to her chest, but then relaxed after a moment. “Oh, it’s you!”

“What are you doing still up?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went and fetched something to read from the library,” she answered and showed him the book she was carrying, a history of the Long Winter. As her eyes lingered on the boots in his hands and his clothes, old and stained with horse slobber and other unidentifiable substances, her voice went as frigid as the subject of her reading. “But it seems I am keeping you from other pursuits.” She stood aside to let him pass.

Éomer blinked with bewilderment. Was she annoyed with him? It was true he had spent little time with her lately, but then he’d thought she was quite content with running the household. “I’m sorry if I have neglected you,” he said impulsively. “I didn’t realise.”

“I’m not complaining, Éomer,” she said sharply. “It’s none of my business what you do when you leave me at night and indeed I couldn’t care less.”

Finally it dawned on him what she was accusing him of. His mouth dropped open. “Lothíriel–”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering in any way,” she continued, not heeding him. “I have three brothers, so I understand that men have different needs and just can’t help themselves.”

“Now, listen!”

“At least some of them,” she added. “Not all.”

Enough was enough! “Get dressed,” he commanded.

“What?”

“You heard me: you’re coming with me.”

But as she stood there, clutching her book and staring at him in hurt confusion, his indignation faded. “It’s not as you think, Lothíriel,” he said more gently. “I will show you, but you must get dressed first. It’s chilly outside.” When she still hesitated, he took the book from her. “Trust me. Please.”

Some of the rigidity left her. “Oh, very well.”

“And don’t forget to wear boots,” he called after her, earning him a bemused look over her shoulder.

She reappeared a short time later, dressed in a simple red gown, which threatened to slip off her shoulder however. “All my dresses lace up the back,” she complained. “You’ll have to help me.”

Éomer almost joked that he was more practised at unlacing, but thought better of it under the circumstances. She turned her back on him and gathered up her hair, which she wore in a thick braid at night and deftly he tightened and tied her laces. Underneath the dress she wore nothing but a thin silken shift, allowing a glimpse of creamy skin. Greatly tempted to run his lips along the nape of her neck, he wondered what she would say if he undid all his work again and carried her to the bedchamber instead. But no, it was a question of honour.

“You need a cloak,” he said and wrapped his own around her. “Come on.”

Outside, the stars shone cold and brilliant in a moonless sky and they paused a moment to watch Eärendil setting in the west. Then he took her arm and led her down the stairs, past the silent doorwardens. It was strange to walk the empty streets with Lothíriel and though he did not bother with guards in Edoras, he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, although mostly from habit.

“It looks different at night,” she echoed his thoughts. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been out alone so late.”

What a sheltered life she must have led! He felt rather sorry for her. His best childhood memories were of spending the summer following the horse herds on the East Emnet, camping out in the open and sleeping under a starry sky. Or going hunting up in the mountains and dragging their straw pallets, thin and lumpy, out onto the veranda of their small lodge to sleep out in the open.

Lothíriel did not ask where they were headed, whether from resignation to her fate or because she trusted him, he did not know. But soon they turned a corner to find the lamps of the stables welcoming them.

“Éomer, I’m not dressed for riding,” Lothíriel protested.

“I know.” He pulled the door open and the welcoming smells of hay and horses enveloped them. “But we’re not going anywhere.”

In the tack room, they found Tidhelm, the Keeper of the Studbook, and his grooms helping themselves from a large pot of tea. On an upturned crate sat old Aedwulf, Tidhelm’s father and the predecessor in his office.

“Éomer, my lad, you’re late,” he greeted them. “Foals don’t wait for anyone, not even kings. Darkmane has already had hers.”

Éomer chuckled. “Sorry, I got delayed, but I’m sure you managed without me.” He took Lothíriel by the elbow and introduced the men to her.

Aedwulf peered at her with rheumy eyes. “Ah yes, I’d heard you’d got married. Aren’t you rather young for that?”

Éomer grinned. The old man had taken service under Thengel King, as he liked to remind them, and considered anybody under fifty green behind the ears. “Not that young,” he said.

Aedwulf was still looking Lothíriel over as if she were one of his brood mares. “From Dol Amroth, eh?” he said. “That’s good stock. I’ve always been in favour of bringing in fresh blood. Invigorates the old lines, it does.” He nodded sagely.

For a moment Éomer was afraid Lothíriel might take offence at being compared to a horse, but she laughed. “Thank you, that’s high praise. Is Darkmane’s foal a colt or a filly? And may I see it a little later?”

It was exactly the right thing to say. At once a lively discussion ensued on the mare’s pedigree and she got promised a tour of the stables. Aedwulf might be getting a little forgetful lately, but he still knew the blood lines of every horse in the stables by heart and could give you a detailed description of their sires and their sires’ sires. Lothíriel won him over completely when she promised to ask her father for a copy of a text on horse breeding by the Haradrim that Imrahil had in his library.

The old man himself escorted her to Darkmane’s foaling stall, a high honour, and showed her the newborn foal – a filly as it happened. Once again Éomer was amazed how easily she fitted in with different people. Perhaps because she held back so much of her true self and presented such a smooth facade to the world, there was little for others to take offence at? Yet she seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself and the questions she asked showed a deeper knowledge of horses than he had expected.

Most of their mares had their foals out in the pastures, without any assistance by men, and since the Rohirrim bred their horses to be sturdy and self-sufficient this usually presented little problem. However, there were always a few that needed closer care, either because they were too young or very old, or for other reasons, and those they kept in the foaling stables. Darkmane for example had been attacked by a wolf in the winter and they had wanted to make sure she did not strain the injury while giving birth. Her filly, a dark grey that would lighten as she grew older, was already suckling vigorously, wagging her little tail.

“Oh, she’s adorable!” Lothíriel cooed and Éomer had to grin at her enthusiasm.

“This one is yours, Lothíriel Queen,” Tidhelm said, pointing at a stall on the other side of the aisle.

“Mine?”

They went to inspect the mare, which was munching contentedly on some hay, but came over inquisitively. Éomer unearthed a carrot from one of his pockets, which Lothíriel fed to the horse. “Why do you say she’s mine?” she asked. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“She’s part of your morning gift,” he answered.

“What exactly does that mean?”

They all gaped at her in surprise. Could it really be she did not know? Éomer had put her lack of interest in her horses down to her Gondorian upbringing, but perhaps she had not realised she owned them.

“In the Mark, the husband presents his wife with a gift the morning after the wedding,” he explained. “It is hers to do with as she pleases. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh! There was so much feasting, I didn’t quite take it in. I thought it meant that you had put that part of your wealth aside for our daughters’ dowries.” She stared at the mare. “What is her name?”

“Dapplecoat,” Tidhelm supplied.

Lothíriel patted the mare. “Hello, Dapplecoat.” She looked up at him. “How many horses do I have?”

“About three hundred. It depends on how many of the mares have foaled yet.”

“What! That’s more than my father owns.”

Aedwulf guffawed. “We’re horselords. Can’t have our queen outdone by a prince of the Stoningland.”

“And I didn’t even know! May I go and see them sometime?” she asked.

“Of course.” Éomer felt a bit guilty. They had in fact managed them for her without consulting her at all, on the assumption that she simply wasn’t interested in her horses. “I’m sorry, I should have taken you before and sought your opinion. And we’ve already bred some of your mares, but if you have any stallions you would prefer instead–”

“That’s fine,” she interrupted him. “I trust your judgement.” She grinned. “At least where horses are concerned. And it’s all right, after all I would not consult you when ordering a sailing boat either. But I would like to go and see my horses.”

“You shall,” he promised.

They had another two dozen or so mares about to foal, which now got duly admired. It took a while, as Aedwulf had decided that Lothíriel wanted to be fully informed on every last detail, but she showed no sign of impatience. The last stall however held a surprise.

“That’s Northwind!” Éomer exclaimed.

Northwind, one of the mearas and their lead mare for a long time, turned her head his way. He had not even known the old mare was in foal!

“She walked in this evening,” Aedwulf answered. “Very sensible of her, I thought.”

Quickly Éomer stepped into the stall and went to greet Northwind. The mare lowered her muzzle into his hands and blew softly into them. He stroked her rounded side. “Really, Northwind, what got into you to have a foal at your age?”

In reply the mare simply snorted and shook her mane.

“None of my business?” Éomer said. “Hah!”

She butted him in the chest and belatedly he remembered his manners. He beckoned to Lothíriel who was leaning on the door of the stall and watching him in bemusement. “Northwind, meet my wife, Lothíriel Queen.”

Lothíriel threw him a surprised look at being introduced to a horse. “Lothíriel, this is Northwind, one of our pure blooded mearas,” he explained.

She stepped into the stall and Northwind went up to her, lowering her head to look into her eyes. He saw Lothíriel catch her breath. For a long moment woman and horse held each other’s regard, then Lothíriel lifted her hand tentatively to touch the mare’s forehead. Northwind gave a small nicker of encouragement.

“Oh, but you are beautiful, my friend,” Lothíriel whispered, falling into her native Sindarin.

The mare harrumphed her agreement.

It looked like the two had hit it off. Éomer was pleased, for it was said that the mearas saw deep into a person’s soul and Northwind’s approval would carry great weight with his men. Though the mare’s coat was already spotless, he took down a soft brush and began to groom her, also taking the opportunity to discreetly examine her teats for leaking milk, while Lothíriel whispered sweet nothings into Northwind’s ears and stroked her nose.

When he was finished, he checked water bucket and manger – both full to overflowing, of course – and then touched Lothíriel lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s leave Northwind to get some rest.”

Reluctantly, she said good-bye to the mare for the moment. “She has such wise eyes,” Lothíriel confided to him. “They look into you, but you don’t mind, because she does not judge you.”

Éomer nodded; some of the mearas had that gift. He always felt that they had deep, strong roots, more attuned to the unseen than men.

“Are all mearas like her?” Lothíriel asked.

“Not all.” He hesitated, unsure how to explain his thoughts. “Northwind is very much awake. Some of the others seem more like ordinary horses, as if that part of their mind was sleeping.”

Deep in thought, Lothíriel accompanied him back to the tack room, where the others had gathered for their nightly vigil. She got shown to a seat of honour, a crate covered in an old saddle blanket, and handed a mug of tea. When she took a sip Éomer saw her swallow convulsively. Cautiously tasting his own brew, he found that as usual the tea was strong enough to tan your tongue!

“Do we have any honey for my wife?” he asked Tidhelm.

One of the lads ran to fetch a jar from the medicine chest, where it was kept to treat scratches and light wounds, and Lothíriel gratefully stirred a large dollop into her tea. Long used to Aedwulf’s evil brew, the others watched her benevolently, ready to indulge their pretty visitor.

“Did you say Northwind came in herself?” she asked Aedwulf.

Aedwulf nodded. “Oh yes. I suggested it to her when I came across her herd earlier this year, but you don’t tell an old lady like Northwind what to do.”

“Where do you keep the mearas? I’ve not seen them before.”

“We don’t keep them,” Éomer answered. “They come and go as they please, though they’re mostly in the Westmark in the spring and then move to the East Emnet in the summer.”

“I’ve read about them, of course,” she said, “but it doesn’t prepare you for meeting one. Is it true that they only bear the King of Rohan or his sons? What about his daughters?”

He laughed. “I think it’s more that they bear whom they please. The mares keep pretty much to themselves, but the stallions are more adventurous and mix with humans and other herds too.”

“That’s why all our horses have some mearas blood,” Aedwulf threw in. He grinned, showing a row of yellow, uneven teeth. “The mares are much more fussy.”

Lothíriel smiled. “More discriminating, you mean?”

Aedwulf gave a cackle. “Yes, just like with humans.”

Lothíriel joined in the general laughter, but blushed as she cast Éomer a glance. Remembering her earlier suspicions? The men now settled down on makeshift stools or the floor and the talk turned to its usual topic, the breeding of horses. Every now and again one of them would get up to check on the horses and come back to report to Tidhelm. Lothíriel sat sipping her tea, fitting in as naturally as if she had visited a thousand times, and asked a few questions, but otherwise let the talk flow around her.

It turned out to be a busy night, with four more mares giving birth. Only one of them presented any problems, with the foal getting its head stuck in the wrong position. But they got the mare up and walking about the stall and fortunately it settled back into the correct position.

“Three fillies and two colts, all healthy. Your queen has brought us luck,” Aedwulf told Éomer while they watched the mare lick her newborn foal.

Lothíriel had gone to peek in at Northwind and now they heard her exclaim softly. She came hurrying back. “Éomer, have a look!”

When they reached the foaling box, they found Northwind watching them with what could only be described as a smug expression. And at her feet…

“The crafty old thing!” Aedwulf exclaimed. “Why, she’s gone and dropped her foal while we were busy elsewhere.”

It was lying in the deep bedding, its forelegs stretched out in front of it, head turned towards them. Northwind bent to nuzzle the newborn and gave a soft whicker of encouragement. To their surprise, the foal gathered itself and lurched to its feet, though the hind legs buckled almost at once and it sat down again. But with another effort, it scrambled up to stand on wobbly legs.

“A strong foal to be up so soon,” Aedwulf said. “Surely it can’t have been born long. A colt I reckon.”

Éomer nodded, entranced with the sight. Northwind presented her side and the colt took first one tottering step towards her, then another. Long legs that promised speed, a deep chest and an elegantly shaped head – already he could see a glimpse of the full-grown stallion. That moment the colt butted his dam’s teats and after a few tries latched on. His coat, drying rapidly, gleamed with silver.

“He must be Shadowfax’s get,” Éomer mused.

“Of course,” Aedwulf agreed. “Northwind has good taste. I bet she only came in so we could admire her son.”

“He’s wonderful,” Lothíriel breathed. She laughed as the colt paused with nursing and looked their way, his short tail twitching. “And you know it, don’t you!”

“The finest colt I’ve seen in a long time,” Aedwulf declared. “Perhaps one day your firstborn son will ride him.”

Lothíriel threw him a startled look. “Yes, I suppose so.” She considered the colt thoughtfully. “You can tell he’s special, can’t you. With those long legs, he’ll be fast too. Like one of the fabled elf horses!”

Aedwulf and Éomer exchanged a look. “Your queen has just named him, I think,” the old man said.

Éomer nodded. “Elfsteed,” he said softly.

The colt gave a nicker of acknowledgement, but ignored them for his dam’s teats otherwise.

They watched the two a while longer, then returned to the tack room, where their news was greeted with much delight. Outside, the dawn chorus was starting, blackbirds and robins and warblers outdoing each other. Lothíriel drew his cloak around herself and settled down on a crate next to him. She yawned and shook her head at the offer of more tea.

The fittest of them all, old Aedwulf began to regale them with tales of Shadowfax and all the great horses of the Rohirrim back to the times of Félarof. Éomer suddenly felt a weight against his side and realised that Lothíriel had fallen asleep. He slipped an arm around her and with a sigh she snuggled closer. How soft and warm she was.

They heard the town waking around them and then the first rays of the sun came in through a window high in the wall, making the dust motes dance in the air. Time to get back – Dordes was probably wondering what had happened to her mistress. Yet he did not have the heart to wake his wife, so he picked her up in his arms to carry her. She murmured something in her sleep, but did not wake up, not even from the chilly morning air outside.

He got quite a few curious looks as he walked up through Edoras, though nobody said anything, the doorwardens greeting him as if he was only coming back from one of his usual morning rides. The great hall was busy already with the servants laying the tables for breakfast, but the corridor behind was quieter and in the anteroom to their chambers he found Dordes waiting for them.

She cast him a sharp glance, but just opened the door to Lothíriel’s rooms for him. Gently he put his wife down on the bed and stood a moment looking down at her: a few strands of hair had come undone from the braid, curling around her face, and she had her lips slightly parted as she breathed evenly. An unaccustomed wave of tenderness swept through him; she seemed so young and vulnerable somehow.

“Let her sleep,” he told Dordes. “Meduseld can manage without her for one morning.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The walk had invigorated him and he no longer felt sleepy, so he went to change and then sent for his breakfast. A moment later there was a knock on his door and Dordes entered with a tray of kahva.

“Why, thank you,” he said, surprised, for he had not reckoned on getting any with his wife asleep.

“I had it prepared already,” the maid cut him off gruffly. “It would only have spoilt else.” She closed the door behind her with a firm thump.

Suddenly he grinned. He might yet go down in the annals of the Mark as Éomer Dragontamer.

Chapter 6

By unspoken agreement Lothíriel accompanied him down to the stables every night from then on. At first he thought that the novelty would soon wear off, but she showed no sign of getting tired of it. Tidhelm and his lads expressed their approval by reserving an old, dented mug for her exclusive use and having a supply of honey ready for her tea, while old Aedwulf swore that her presence calmed down the mares.

“Nothing like a woman’s touch,” he confided to Éomer one night. “At first I was a bit dubious at you taking a Stonelander woman to wife, but you did well.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Éomer answered dryly.

The old man chuckled. “Oh, I know you would have married her no matter what anybody said. And I can’t blame you!”

The words gave Éomer a strange pang. Everybody assumed theirs was a love match, not surprising with Lothíriel’s exotic beauty. Yet really, he told himself, there was nothing wrong with treating marriage as a business proposition. And a pretty successful one so far, even if he still had to fulfil his part of the bargain. He grinned to himself. Not that Lothíriel could reproach him for not trying hard enough.

She had even apologised for the suspicions she had harboured, blushing adoringly all the while. Éomer frowned at the memory. He had almost blurted out that he wanted no other woman but her – a realisation that had taken him very much by surprise – but he had hesitated to say so when all she wanted was a marriage of convenience and the moment had been lost.

So he still retired to his own rooms every night, though it felt a little silly to do so when he would only wake his wife again a few hours later. However, after all the arrangement had been his own idea and it might yet come in useful.

A few days later he was knocking softly on her door in the early hours of the morning, as had become his habit. But instead of slipping out of her rooms dressed in one of the simple linen gowns she had ordered for herself, she only opened the door a small crack.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I think I’ll stay in tonight.”

Éomer fought a surge of unreasonable disappointment. He could not expect her to share all his interests after all. “As you wish. I suppose it must be getting a bit boring for you.”

“It’s not that!” She hesitated and he tried to get a closer look at her face, but none of the lamps in her room were lit. “I’m just not feeling quite the thing.”

For the first time he noticed that her voice sounded rough. “Lothíriel, are you ill?” Alarmed, he pushed the door open and took a step inside. “Should I call a healer?”

She retreated before him. “No! It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

She didn’t sound fine. Quickly he lit the lamp by the bedside from his own. When he turned round he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow to her stomach.

“Please, Éomer, don’t fuss…”

He ignored her and felt her forehead. A little bit clammy, or was that his own sweat? He hated illness beyond all else, the feeling of helplessness, the slow deterioration. Unbidden, the memory of his mother during those last weeks came back to him. No! Lothíriel was young and strong; nothing would happen to her. He would not let it!

Her face was pale and the eyes rimmed with red. “You’ve been crying!” he exclaimed. A jolt of pure panic ran through him. She was so controlled, so brave, if the pain made her cry it had to be tremendous. “Where are you hurting?”

“I can manage,” she protested.

Éomer came to a decision. “I’m fetching a healer.”

“No! There’s nothing a healer can do.”

“You don’t know that! Don’t give up the fight before you even start.” The knowledge how little she valued her life frightened him.

“Éomer, you don’t understand. It’s…entirely natural.”

“Natural?”

She sighed. “Just that time of the month.”

Comprehension dawned. “Oh.” He sat down beside her heavily. Why did she have to give him such a fright? “That’s all right then.”

“Yes.”

Just the single, terse word. Obviously it was anything but all right for her. “Why were you crying?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. I was just being silly.” Lothíriel clutched her pillow tighter. “It was a few days late and I had hoped…but anyway, nothing came of it.”

She sounded so forlorn, he would have liked to pull her into his arms, but her posture, all rigidity and tension, made him hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m just being overly emotional. Don’t mind me.”

An uncomfortable silence descended as they sat side-by-side. She had said on their wedding night how much she wanted children, Éomer remembered. For himself, he was quite content to wait, though his people would of course have rejoiced at the news of an heir to the Mark. At first babies were nothing but smelly, squalling bundles anyway, he did not really consider them human until they started to talk. Although it might be different if it was your own smelly, squalling bundle.

“There’s always another day,” he said hesitantly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Would you like some tea? Shall I get Dordes? I’m not afraid of waking her.”

Only a tiny smile, but she seemed to relax slightly. “Let her sleep. And why don’t you go to the stables, you’ll be late else.”

Slowly he put an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t mind staying.”

For a moment she rested her head against his chest, but then she sighed. “No, you go ahead. I don’t want everybody to know. Although they will anyway soon enough.”

“What? Why should they?”

She straightened up. “Éomer, the washerwomen will know.”

“Oh!” He had not considered that fact before.

“I’m used to it,” she assured him. “It was the same back home in Dol Amroth, the servants always knew everything first.”

Back home. Did she still consider herself nothing but a guest here? He dropped his arm.

“I’ll lie down for a bit,” she added, “but don’t let me spoil your plans.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Éomer rose and stood looking down at her a moment longer, but she would not meet his eyes. Inwardly he sighed. She had made it clear she wanted no comfort from him – perhaps she feared her strength would falter if she accepted his sympathy? Yet the tree standing alone was hit hardest by the storm. He dropped a kiss on her brow. “Try to get some sleep.”

“I will.”

  ***

By the midday meal the next day, Lothíriel presided over the hall again, the elegant and serene Queen of Rohan as usual. Éomer could almost believe to only have dreamt their conversation, except there still lingered a shadow around her eyes. Did it bother her very much not to have conceived yet? It had only been a few months and though it was not uncommon to have your first child nine months after the wedding night – and in the Mark indeed quite often before that – he had thought it convenient that she should have some time to settle into her new role before having to cope with a newborn.

For the first time he noticed how many pregnant women there were around; everywhere he looked, he encountered rounded bellies. Just at the table closest to the dais, there was Alfrun, wife of one of his doorwardens, with one child on her lap and the next due soon. Her friend sitting opposite also showed signs of being in the same interesting condition while another one was nursing her little baby. Even the servant ladling out the stew had a dress that stretched suspiciously tight across her belly, despite having spoken her wedding vows less than a moon ago.

Perhaps a bit of distraction would do Lothíriel good? She worked so hard and hardly ever left Meduseld, except for the occasional ride with Hild. Besides, he had promised to show her the horses that made up her morning gift. The suggestion did seem to brighten Lothíriel’s mood and so a few days later they set out early one morning.

Of course it was impossible to show her all the horses, but she did get to meet the herdsmen in charge of looking after them and saw most of the mares in the foaling pastures. Her delight in the foals playing with each other and running after their mothers was catching and he found himself enjoying himself far more than he had expected.

On the way back in the late afternoon she gave him a warm smile. “That was marvellous! Thank you for taking me.”

“My pleasure,” he answered. Her gratitude made him feel a bit guilty, although it had been her own choice to stay cooped up in Meduseld so much that winter.

It was an unusually hot day, so they had chosen a path skirting the eaves of the woods, where the air was cool and refreshing, and up ahead he could spot a glimpse of the roofs of Edoras, less than an hour’s easy ride away. However, it was a shame really that the day should end already, he mused. No doubt Dordes would spirit Lothíriel away for a bath and a change of dress the moment they arrived or else Wulfrith would have need of a word with her.

Then he remembered that soon a small bridleway would branch off the main road and lead up into the hills. A little way along it there was a meadow with a stream running through it. “Let’s stop for a quick break,” he suggested. “I know a place in the woods where we can water the horses.”

“Good idea,” she agreed and leant forward to pat Maeweth’s neck. “They must be getting thirsty in this heat.”

A couple of men rode ahead to scout out the way and the rest followed more slowly. The bridle path was where Éomer remembered it and they turned into it in single file. It twisted around boulders and trees, rising steadily, and the forest closed around them. Disturbed by their passage, squirrels darted up the trees and a jay scolded them loudly, but soon they reached the meadow where the woods opened up again. At the far end, a pebbly beach led down to a small stream.

Alert as always, Éothain posted sentries at once, even though there was little likelihood of danger so close to Edoras. Éomer approved heartily however; he would take no chances with Lothíriel along. The horses were eager for a drink and after lifting Lothíriel down from the saddle, he handed the reins of both their horses over to one of his men.

“Let’s stroll upstream a little,” he suggested, “the water will be cleaner there.”

She took his arm. “What a pretty place. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it. Where does that lead?” She indicated the path disappearing between some tall trees at the other end of the clearing.

“Further up the hill,” he answered. “There’s a hunting lodge up there with a wonderful view of the plains.” Because it was so close to Edoras, he and Théodred had used it often, sometimes taking Éowyn along as well.

“Oh, can we go there?” Lothíriel asked. “Is it very far?”

He hesitated, but the sun was already westering and there would only be a sliver of moon tonight. “Maybe another time. It’s not far, but the path grows ever narrower and steeper and coming back down in the darkness it would be too dangerous.”

She looked disappointed, but didn’t press the point. He wondered if she would enjoy spending a couple of days away from Edoras, up in the lodge, but then he remembered how small it was. No servants, having to fetch all the water themselves, cooking over an open fire…no, that was probably not a good idea. Even Éowyn had complained about the lumpy straw mattresses and she hadn’t grown up surrounded by all the luxuries of Dol Amroth.

Entering the glade, the stream formed a shallow pool before flowing on and some tall boulders, remnants of a long ago rock slide, provided a little privacy. Lothíriel regarded the water longingly. “So fresh and cool! It makes you thirsty just looking at it. But I forgot to bring my water skin with me, I’ll have to fetch it.”

“No need,” he told her and knelt down by the edge of the pond. After rinsing his hands, he shaped a cup with them and gathered up the clear water. “Here you are. This is much easier.”

She laughed. “Thank you!” Lightly touching his hands, she hastily slurped up the water.

“More?” he asked.

“Yes, but I can do it myself.”

“Your riding skirts will only get in the way,” he pointed out. “Trousers are much more practical. Besides, I don’t mind.”

In fact he quite enjoyed having her long, slim fingers steady his hands and watching her frown of concentration as she pursed her lips to drink. At her closeness the impulse to kiss her ran through him, but the boulders provided a very insufficient screen from the rest of their party. Also if Éothain had done his job as captain of his guard properly, there would be several scouts scattered across the hillside overlooking the clearing.

Lothíriel shook off excess water from her fingers. “Thank you! That was really refreshing.” She considered the pond thoughtfully. “It looks quite shallow actually. Will I have the time to cool my feet for a bit?”

“Why not? They’re not going anywhere without us.” He grinned. “Royal prerogative.” If he couldn’t kiss his wife whenever he wanted to, there had to be some compensation.

“If you say so!” After a quick look over her shoulder, Lothíriel sat down on a stone to take off her boots and socks.

“It’s melt water straight from the mountains, it will be cold,” Éomer warned her.

She shrugged. “It can’t be worse than capsizing in the Bay of Belfalas at midwinter and I survived that.”

“What! How did that happen?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, we were racing and Amrothos overestimated his skill as skipper, as usual. Those sailing boats are only nutshells really, easy to overturn.”

“I’m surprised Imrahil allowed you such dangerous pursuits.”

Lothíriel grinned. “He didn’t, we had to creep out the castle unnoticed. But the wind was exactly in the right quarter, we literally flew across the bay! At least before Amrothos overreached himself.”

Éomer stared at her in astonishment. His composed, serious-minded queen had stolen out clandestinely to race sailing boats? He could hardly believe his ears!

Lothíriel’s smile faded. “Of course this was before…well, a long time ago.”

“Before what?” he asked, then cursed himself as her expression closed. For a moment she had allowed him a glimpse through the smoke and mirrors that hid her true self and he had to spoil it. He should know by now that asking direct questions was not the way to go about it! Oh, but the need for such slow steps was enough to try the patience of any man.

And Éomer was not a patient man.

Lothíriel gathered up the skirts of her riding dress and stepped into the water. “You were right, it’s cold.”

He was strongly tempted to tell her he knew an attempt at distraction when he heard it, but then forced himself to relax. It would only drive her further behind her barriers and in all fairness he had no right to ask her to share her past with him. Their bargain did not extend to that.

So he sat on the turf by the shore and watched Lothíriel splash in the shallows. It was rather a pleasant sight, he had to admit and felt his irritation with her drain away. Glimpses of white legs showed between the folds of her dress and mentally he followed their slender shape upwards. He might not have seen his wife’s body in plain daylight, but his hands knew every soft curve intimately. No, in that respect he had no complaint of their bargain at all. Now if only they were alone…

“Are you coming in too?” she asked.

He chuckled. “I don’t think so. I’m not hardy enough, unlike the folk of Belfalas.”

That earned him a grin. “Yes, the Rohirrim are such a delicate people, aren’t they?” Her skirts slipped at the back and she had to snatch for them. With a fierce frown of concentration she tried to gather up all the folds into a tight knot at her side, which had the interesting effect of revealing the shape of her behind more clearly.

“You should have worn trousers,” he teased her. “I told you so.”

Lothíriel splashed him. “Oh, do be quiet!”

Then she looked suddenly apprehensive. Really, did she think he would take offence at getting a little wet? He flicked the drops of water off his shirt. “More respect, my queen!” he quipped.

Lothíriel relaxed again. “I will try, my king.”

What had she thought, that he would tell her off? Did she know him so little? But then it was true that they spent little time together outside the bedchamber. His own fault, he reminded himself and vowed to take her riding with him more often. He rather liked this informal side to his queen.

The setting sun slanted across the clearing and limned everything with a soft, golden light. Lothíriel had braided one of her colourful silken scarves into her hair and it flamed up red and orange. Leaning back against a boulder, he watched her as she wriggled her toes in the cold water and balanced from one stone to the other, as carefree as a child.

It was such a peaceful sight, he thought. And less than three years ago would have been utterly unthinkable. How dark those days had been with Théoden ailing and faltering, Théodred more and more frustrated by the situation and all the news out of Gondor of defeat and the Enemy growing in strength.

In his heart he had known that he might well witness the fall of the West in his time, powerless to protect the people he loved. And now – a beautiful wife, Meduseld restored to its old glory, Éowyn happily married, himself with the power of kingship, the Rohirrim and their horses prospering…

Éomer sighed. Sometimes it almost frightened him how much he had to lose now. Though he did not wish those times back, in a strange way life had been simpler when their highest expectation had been to make an ending worthy of song of themselves.

“Brrr!” Lothíriel interrupted his sombre thoughts. “I think this hardy native of Belfalas has had enough of the cold water.” She sat down beside him and stretched her legs out on the turf before her.

He cast a measuring look at the sun that had nearly disappeared behind the trees lining the clearing. “Probably a good thing. We’ll have to set out for Edoras soon.”

Idly, she ran a hand across the grass. “Yes, I suppose so. It’s a shame though.”

A couple of dragonflies, glittering like jewels, darted across the pond while the setting sun picked out the bright pinks and yellows of dog roses and honeysuckle on the opposite side. On an impulse he picked a spray of forget-me-not and wove it into her hair, twining it with the silken scarf. “There. A promise that we will come back another time.” Preferably on their own, but that would hardly be possible.

She had gone still with surprise under his touch. Now she gave him a shy smile. “That would be lovely. It was so nice to get out, I really enjoyed our ride today.”

“You’ve more than earned the time off,” he assured her and cast about for something to say to show his appreciation of her efforts. “I’ve never known Meduseld to run as smoothly as since you took over.”

She dropped her eyes and looked away over the pond. “Thank you.”

Somehow his compliment seemed to have fallen flat, though he didn’t quite understand why. “Truly! I know how much work you put into it.”

Lothíriel inclined her head. “You’re very kind.”

Dimly Éomer felt he had said something wrong, but he was not one to give up easily. His wife changed moods quicker than a spring day! From a happy girl splashing about in the water she had gone straight to dignified queen. “I just wanted you to know that I value your contribution,” he added stiffly.

“Please, Éomer, I’m only honouring my side of the bargain,” Lothíriel said, her voice even and polite. The sun had set, casting them into shadow. She reached for her socks and boots. “But I think we’d better be off now, or we’ll miss the evening meal.”

The ride back was quiet. He watched his wife’s back as she rode before him down the bridle path, sitting supple and straight in the saddle. With the sun gone, all the colour seemed to have been leached from the land, leaving it brown and dim. Even Lothíriel’s scarf had faded to a dull orange.

Chapter 7

Arriving in Edoras, they dismounted in the square below the steps leading up to the hall just as the first torches were being lit. He stepped round to lift Lothíriel from her horse, enjoying the brief contact. At least he did not have to fear that she would bar her door to him, no matter how much he had put his foot in, he thought. Even if he still didn’t understand what he had said to spoil the mood.

“My apologies if I have offended you,” he whispered in her ear.

She sighed. “You haven’t, Éomer. It’s entirely my own fault, I’m sorry.” As if to prove that she had forgiven him, she linked her arm with his.

Above them, the doors to Meduseld swung open as somebody stepped outside. Lothíriel looked up and stiffened. The next moment she gathered her skirts and rushed up the stairs. “Amrothos!”

Her brother laughed as she flew into his arms and swung her round. “Little sister!”

“It is you! I can hardly believe it.” She hugged him.

A sharp stab of some undefined emotion ran through Éomer at the realisation that he had never been greeted so enthusiastically by his wife. Her whole face had lit up, her eyes sparkling. Was this the woman who lived behind all the fences and bulwarks she had thrown up? He pushed aside this uncomfortable thought; theirs was a marriage of convenience and it would be silly to be jealous of the sisterly affection shown to her brother.

Then something else occurred to him: what had brought Amrothos here? Lothíriel was so pleased to see him, she did not seem to realise that he might be carrying bad news.

He clasped Amrothos’s arm. “Is all well with your father?”

“Yes, thank you,” Amrothos replied. “Never better.”

“When did you arrive?” Lothíriel interrupted them.

“This afternoon. I was told you were inspecting your horses, so I decided to wait here.” He grinned. “You’re turning into a proper little Queen of the Rohirrim, aren’t you?”

“You’re just envious because I have more and better horses than you now,” she shot back.

Amrothos laughed. “Too true!”

“So to what do we owe your visit?” Éomer asked.

Amrothos shrugged. “This and that. Minas Tirith got a bit boring, so I thought I might come and see you.” He nodded at his sister. “By the way, I’ve brought your kahva.”

“What?”

He bowed extravagantly. “Word reached us that you were in dire straits and had nearly run out of the only thing that makes you remotely human in the mornings, so of course I threw myself into the breach.” He grinned at Éomer. “Remember, you owe me a favour now.”

Lothíriel put her hands on her hips. “Now why does such devotion not sound like my brother at all?”

“You have no faith in me!”

“Faith has nothing to do with it,” she replied at once. “This is the voice of experience speaking.”

“Oh, how you wound me!” Amrothos exclaimed, putting a hand to his heart.

Not impressed, she only lifted an eyebrow in answer. Éomer watched with bemusement as his wife revealed yet another side to her. Her friendly verbal sparring with her brother made him realise how controlled she always was with him.

But Wulfrith was hovering in the door to Meduseld and his stomach reminded him that their frugal midday meal of cheese and bread had been a long time ago.

“Let’s talk about it after dinner,” he suggested.

The meal was spent discussing innocuous topics, with Lothíriel enquiring after various acquaintances in Gondor and Amrothos regaling them with anecdotes about sailing and fighting corsairs. He managed to make even getting dismasted in a storm while being chased by three black dromonds sound like a lark. Perhaps Lothíriel was not the only one of Imrahil’s family to have perfected showing a smooth facade to the world?

After dinner, he took his brother-in-law to his study while Lothíriel disappeared to get changed. Amrothos went to the window to look out at the mountains whose snowy tops glimmered faintly against the star-strewn night.

“So how do you find married life?” he asked abruptly.

“I find it suits me very well,” Éomer asked. “Why?” What was this about?

“Oh, I just wondered,” Amrothos answered. “Lothíriel seems happy enough, but she’s not one to wear her heart on her sleeve.”

“So you won’t call me out just yet?” Éomer asked, remembering the threat his brother-in-law had uttered at their wedding.

Amrothos grinned. “No, you needn’t worry.”

Éomer bared his teeth in a smile. “I don’t.”

They measured each other for a moment, then both started laughing at the same time. Amrothos clapped him on the back. “You’re a good man. And I expect Lothíriel likes the more active life here in Rohan. As a child you could hardly prise her off the back of her pony. I suppose you ride out often?”

“Eh, fairly often.”

Amrothos nodded. “I bet she likes that. Just don’t let her overdo it with that demon horse of hers.”

“You tell me!”

His brother-in-law threw back his head and laughed. “I see my warning comes too late. What has she done now?”

“Just raced her horse across the obstacle course that my men use as training for war.”

“Well, she survived it, so it can’t have been that bad.”

“Easy for you to say!” Éomer exclaimed. “My heart nearly stopped!”

Amrothos cast him a measuring glance, but that moment the door opened to admit Lothíriel carrying a tray. Besides a jug of his favourite ale it held a carafe of red wine and some tidbits to eat. She set it down on the table, then poured for them.

Amrothos sat down and took a sip, letting the wine roll around on his tongue. “A good vintage,” he commented.

“Yes, from one of the vineyards in Lebennin I inherited from Mother.” She passed Éomer his mug of ale before pouring another glass for herself. “Don’t drink it all, I want some too.” Clearly she had no intention of being left out of the discussion.

Éomer grinned and pulled out a chair for her. “Won’t you join us?”

“Thank you.”

Amrothos lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Then he spotted the bowl of sweetmeats. “Marchpane!” he explained. “My favourite! Where did you conjure that up from? You truly are a housekeeping sorceress.”

She chuckled. “You forget I like it as well.”

Éomer had to grin. Amrothos seemed to share his sister’s sweet tooth. He himself had tried marchpane once, but found it far too sweet and sticky.

Amrothos gobbled down a bit and reached for the next one. “Mmmh! This tastes just like at home.”

“It’s Merileth’s recipe,” Lothíriel said smugly.

“What? You got her secret recipe out of the cook? I don’t believe it!”

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “Dordes did.”

“However did she manage that?”

Lothíriel laughed. “I think Merileth felt sorry for me for moving to a country of bar–” She stopped and at Éomer’s quizzical look a slow blush rose to her cheeks. “Well, far away.”

“She hasn’t forgiven Father for sending you away either,” Amrothos said. “Why, she hasn’t cooked his favourite swordfish in red wine sauce for months.”

The laughter faded from Lothíriel’s face. “He didn’t send me away, I chose to go.” She brushed back a strand of hair and looked him straight in the eyes. “So what really brings you here, Brother? Out with it!” The possibility of something bad having happened to a member of her family still didn’t seem to have occurred to her, for she did not sound at all worried.

“Well, for one I carry letters from home.” Out of an inner pocket he took out a folded and sealed parchment. “This one’s from Father for you.”

She took the letter, but didn’t open it. Since Éomer had regular couriers going to Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, which Lothíriel used for her wide correspondence, this could hardly be the reason for Amrothos making the journey.

“And?” she asked.

“The other matter is a confidential message from Aragorn considering certain new threats that have materialised.” He hesitated and sent Éomer a significant glance. Did he expect him to send his wife out? Ridiculous, she was hardly the type to blab out secrets!

“So?” he asked. “Anything that concerns me also concerns Lothíriel.”

Amrothos shrugged. “I suppose she’ll find out soon enough.” He took out another parchment. “Here’s a letter from Aragorn, but basically there have been reports of an Easterling chief rallying his forces for an attack on Gondor and Rohan. The man calls himself the Son of Sauron of all things! Aragorn and Faramir have sent out scouts and would like to deal with this threat sooner rather than later.”

“When is sooner?” His heart was as heavy as it had ever been at the prospect of a fight.

“This summer.”

He exhaled his breath slowly. “I see.” Lothíriel’s hand had moved to clutch his own.

Together they scanned the letter, Lothíriel leaning close to him, and despite the seriousness of Amrothos’s news, he found himself distracted by her soft body pressing against his. Somehow she had found the time to wash, change into a clean dress and brush her hair and as usual she smelled faintly of her favourite rose perfume.

With an effort he drew his attention back to the contents of Aragorn’s letter. In his neat, precise script his friend outlined what information they had been able to gather about the Easterling chief, both from the reports of their scouts and by using the palantír to spy on the movements of his forces. All signs pointed towards an attack on northern Ithilien or the east of Rohan around harvest time to maximise the plunder of food and slaves. So the man meant to prey on their people? He felt the Rage begin to stir. Not while he was King of the Mark!

“I can see why Aragorn wants the man stopped,” he remarked.

Amrothos leant forward. “The king proposes a quick, decisive action. He’s planning to take five thousand men on foot and march them past the Black Gate and then east along the foot of the Ered Lithui. The Son of Sauron won’t be able to let such a challenge go.”

“And the Rohirrim?”

“You are to cross the Anduin south of the Fall of Rauros and make your way between the Dead Marches and the Emyn Muil. That way you’ll come at them from the north. We’ll catch them between us: Aragorn will be the anvil, you the hammer.”

“Surely that demands careful timing?” Lothíriel asked anxiously.

“Yes,” Amrothos agreed. “I’ve brought copies of what maps we have of the area. Also we’ll need to discuss supplies.”

“How many riders does Aragorn need?” Éomer asked.

“So you will come?”

“Of course. The sons of Eorl always fulfil their oaths.”

Lothíriel made a small noise and he squeezed her hand. “I trust in Aragorn,” he said. “And it’s better to put out a fire before it sets the whole forest alight.”

She sighed. “I know.”

Suddenly he felt tired. “Let’s discuss the details tomorrow.”

Amrothos downed his glass. “Yes, that’s probably best. Faramir has sent one of his rangers along who knows the area.”

They rose and Lothíriel offered to show her brother his room. Left alone, Éomer stared out the window and despite his words to Amrothos found himself already considering how many men to take, what supplies they needed and whom to leave in charge of Edoras. He would have to consult his marshals of course, but already the rough numbers were taking shape in his mind. And deep down, a spark of excitement flared into life at the thought of riding into battle, of pitting his skill at arms against that of an opponent…

Behind him, the door opened and Lothíriel came back into the room. She picked up her half empty wineglass and twirled it round in her fingers. “You will go yourself.” It was a statement, not a question.

“It’s my duty.” In fact sending somebody else had not even occurred to him. He felt obscurely guilty, even though she had known she married a warrior king. “I can’t ask my men to risk their lives and not lead them myself.”

“Yes.” She studied the rich, red wine as intently as if it foretold the future. “Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“You worry about me?” he asked, secretly pleased.

“Of course I do.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You can’t marry a man and then not care what happens to him.”

Was that all? “Spoken like a dutiful wife,” he said, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I’ll try to be careful.”

Lothíriel straightened her shoulders and put the glass down. “Besides, you’re the last heir of the House of Eorl. Remember that your people need you.”

And did she need him? He told himself that it was silly of him to care what her answer would be.

That moment the door opened with a bang and Amrothos stuck his head in. “Oh, I forgot something!”

Irritation swept through Éomer. Was it too much to be granted some time alone with his wife? “Yes?” he snapped.

“You’ll be an uncle by the end of the year.”

“What!”

“Éowyn’s expecting.” Amrothos gave an airy wave with his hand. “She instructed me to tell you, but it slipped my mind. Anyway, she said she would write soon.” He grinned. “Faramir is fussing over her already. You’d think she’s the first woman ever to give birth to a baby.” Amrothos wriggled his eyebrow at them. “So what about you?”

Éomer still felt stunned. His little sister was going to be a mother? It didn’t seem quite possible. “What?” he asked, his head spinning.

Amrothos nodded at Lothíriel’s midriff significantly. “Will Rohan celebrate the birth of an heir soon?”

“No.” It came out flatter than he had meant.

“Oh,” Amrothos said. “Well, it’s early days yet.” He sounded overly hearty. “Eh, good night then.”

“Good night.”

Éomer was left with his wife. When he looked at her, he found her face completely expressionless. “Lothíriel…”

“How lovely for Éowyn and Faramir,” she said. “I must write and congratulate them. Indeed there’s a courier leaving for Minas Tirith tomorrow, isn’t there, so I’d better pen a missive straight away.” She fled from the room.

Chapter 8

It seemed to Éomer as if the world that had slowed down for the last few months now speeded up dramatically. Too late did he appreciate what a brief interval of peace they’d had. The next few days he spent closeted with Amrothos and Damrod, the ranger who knew the territory they would have to cross, while couriers went out to summon his marshals and their senior captains to a council.

He saw little of Lothíriel during that time and perforce their visits to the stables ceased since they were both so busy, him with preparations for their expedition, Lothíriel with the influx of visitors. While it was the tail-end of the foaling season anyway, he still regretted the loss of those peaceful nights spent together – more strongly than was reasonable, he told himself, when all they did was chat with Aedwulf and his lads and witness the foaling. As for going for a ride again, that was out of the question for the moment.

The day of the council arrived and as usual Éomer shared his morning kahva with his wife; that at least had not changed. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand had arrived the evening before and with her customary efficiency Lothíriel had arranged for lodgings and charmed the two men at the evening meal.

Now she sat leaning back against her cushions with a faint frown between her eyebrows while Dordes brought her the breakfast tray.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve been thinking…” her voice trailed off.

“About what?” He only hoped she would not suddenly reproach him for leaving her. But no, she understood her position as queen.

“About supplies.”

“Supplies?” That was not what he had expected.

“Yes.” She hesitated. “I hope you won’t think that I meddle in men’s affairs, but I couldn’t help overhearing some of the details of your plans.”

He wondered why she sounded so defensive. “And what did you think of them?” he asked. The matter had in fact been uppermost in his own mind. Unlike with their mad dash to Minas Tirith during the war, they could not rely on finding a well-stocked city at the end of their journey, so they would need to take food stores with them. With the new harvest not yet in, that meant collecting the wheat from their granaries located chiefly in the Westmark, where most of their farms lay.

“Well…” She twirled a strand of hair around her fingers. “Have you considered shipping supplies up the Anduin from Minas Tirith instead of transporting them there by packhorse? The river is navigable up to the Falls of Rauros.”

“How would that help?” Éomer asked. “You’d still have to get them to Minas Tirith.”

“No, I meant buy the grain directly in Gondor.”

It sounded like the kind of plan a princess brought up amongst the riches of Dol Amroth would come up with. “That’s much too expensive,” he explained. “The Mark’s wealth lies in its horses, not in ready gold.” He couldn’t help sounding slightly defensive.

“But you wouldn’t have to pay in gold,” she said, surprised. “If you wish, I could arrange it for you. My credit is good from Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith; I can buy the supplies and pay back the merchants later, after the new harvest has come in. Of course they charge you a little extra, but it would save considerable time and effort.” She drummed her fingers on her breakfast tray. “Do you know, why not trade them our surplus wool? If we sent it by cart to Minas Tirith, it would fetch a much better price than what you get here.”

“It sounds good,” he said slowly. In fact they could then collect the needed pack horses straight from their herds in the East Emnet and only load them up after crossing the Anduin, which would simplify things greatly. “Why don’t you suggest your plan to the council?”

“Me?”

“Yes, why not?” He grinned. “I’d only get it wrong.”

“Your councillors won’t mind a woman attending?”

“Why should they? You are their queen.” He would have included her in his plans earlier, but had not thought her interested in them.

Lothíriel shook her head in disbelief. “My father’s councillors would have a fit at the mere thought!”

“Well, admittedly there has not been a queen on the council for a long time, not since my uncle’s wife Elfhild died.” Suddenly he chuckled. “Mind you, some of the older men consider me a reckless stripling in need of guidance, so they will think of you as no more than a child. And dangerously pretty of course.”

“Why dangerously?”

“As a distraction.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Should I wear something suitably demure?”

He grinned. “Why? Didn’t you once say you adhere to your brother’s motto: never mind the manoeuvres, go straight at them?”

That made her laugh outright. “Very well, I will!”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, but then jerked back with a cry and scuttled backwards.

He jumped up. “What’s the matter?”

She blushed. “Eh…nothing…just…could you fetch Dordes for me?”

“Lothíriel, did you hurt yourself?” he asked, alarmed.

“No! Only…well…there’s this big, hairy spider on the floor. Dordes usually gets rid of them for me.”

A spider! Now that he looked closer he could see it, brown and with long legs, in the corner by the door to the study. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.” His wife was afraid of spiders?

“Don’t hurt it!” she said quickly. “Just catch it and put it outside, please.”

Well, anything to please her. He fetched a piece of parchment from her study, carefully gathered up the spider and then threw it out the window. Hopefully it wouldn’t land on one of the guards. “There,” he said. “All done.”

“Thank you so much!” She relaxed visibly. “I…you must think me silly, but ever since Amrothos told me stories about Ungoliant as a little child and then dropped one on my face during the night, I’ve not been terribly fond of spiders.”

“He did what!”

“I don’t mind worms,” she added. “Or slugs. And the bats were actually quite interesting, if a bit messy. But the spiders!” She shuddered. “However, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

 “You don’t need to apologise! But that brother of yours has a lot to answer for. If he ever annoys you again, you tell me.”

Her mouth quirked in a smile. “Well, luckily he’s past that age.” The smile faded. “Anyway, one of my cousins found out and had a word with Amrothos, involving a dunking in the horse troughs, which put an end to his sport.”

Éomer nodded in satisfaction. “Good for Faramir.”

“It wasn’t Faramir.” She looked away. “But I need to get dressed now if I’m to attend this council.”

Éomer took the hint and removed himself. But alone in his own room, he grinned. It was kind of sweet that the woman who would tackle the training course outside Edoras head on and without a trace of fear needed his help to get rid of a spider. And he couldn’t help wondering if he might wangle some kind of reward later for his heroic services.

***

Éomer had forgotten all about her promise to live up to her brother’s motto and was in the council chamber, talking to Elfhelm while the others settled into their seats, when Lothíriel glided in. With her hair arranged into a crown around her head and wearing a dark green dress with sweeping sleeves and a short train, she looked every inch the Queen of the Mark. Yet the gown left her white shoulders uncovered and dipped low at the front, where an emerald pendant glittered. Even old Hygebehrt jumped to his feet and bowed to her, looking slightly stunned.

With an effort Éomer tore his eyes away from the strategically placed piece of jewellery and found her watching him with a definite twinkle of amusement. Distraction indeed! Nonchalantly, she arranged one of her lacy silk scarves around her shoulders, cutting off the view. The little witch!

Calling the council to order, he placed her on his right, where he could keep an eye on her – purely in order to check her impulsive tendencies of course. The mood was more ruffled than usual, but slowly they settled down to discuss the business at hand and after her striking entrance Lothíriel caused no further disturbance and simply listened intently to everything that was said.

Amrothos, still recovering from the shock of seeing his sister included in the council, explained Aragorn’s proposition of a quick, decisive strike against their enemy and Damrod gave a short overview of the territory east of the Anduin. Éomer had spoken beforehand to most of the men, so this was not really news, but he believed in putting all the facts on the table before discussing the details.

As expected nobody opposed the expedition as such, yet at first no agreement could be found on the size and composition of their forces. Éomer waited patiently while his councillors argued whether to send a small, mobile group or a bigger host, for though as King of the Mark he did have the last word, he liked to rule with his people’s approval. Slowly the consensus took shape that a sizable force would need to be dispatched, large enough to deal with any surprises the Easterlings might throw at them, even though this made supplying them more difficult.

Lothíriel stirred at that, but he put a hand on her arm and shook his head. Finally the council settled on the suggestion of sending twenty éoreds, almost two and a half thousand spears, pretty much what he had expected. “So that is agreed,” he said. “I will set the weapontake for a month’s time here in Edoras, at the next new moon. Elfhelm, Erkenbrand.” He looked at his two marshals. “Send out messengers to spread the word.”

“A month’s time?” one of the other men asked. “Surely that does not give us enough time to organise supplies?”

“The queen has an idea how to solve that problem,” Éomer said and all eyes turned to Lothíriel.

She cleared her throat and he saw how she clasped her hands in her lap. However, her voice betrayed no trace of nervousness at all as she explained her plan of buying grain in Gondor and shipping it up the river to await them at the place chosen for crossing the Anduin below the Rauros falls. “After unloading the supplies, you could use the boats to get your men, horses and equipment across,” she concluded.

There was a thoughtful silence after she had finished. “My lady, are you sure you could organise enough grain and oats to feed that many men and horses for two weeks or more?” Elfhelm asked dubiously.

“Yes. It’s no different from fitting out a ship, just on a bigger scale.”

“If we use pack horses, they will eat a significant part of their own load just to get to the Anduin in time,” Éomer reminded his councillors. Then he turned to Amrothos. “What do you think?”

“I suppose it’s not a bad idea,” Amrothos said ungraciously. “King Elessar would like to set out as soon as possible, so I’m sure he’d support you with the merchants if you ran into problems.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lothíriel interrupted her brother. “I guarantee it.”

Éomer found he believed her. The way she ran Meduseld, if nothing else, showed how efficient she was if she put her mind to it. Not knowing his queen as well as he did, the others were more reluctant to accept her suggestion though and a number of objections were raised. However, Lothíriel politely but efficiently demolished every one of them and he could see the council slowly coming round to accept the proposition. Then old Hygebehrt straightened up to speak and Éomer groaned inwardly at the prospect of the inevitable lecture on the evils of introducing new-fangled ideas to the Mark and how much better things used to be. Greatly though he respected him, he sometimes wished that Hygebehrt had retired from the council after Théoden’s death, but the old man thought his king too much in need of advice to do that.

“In my days, a rider carried his own food and that was the end of it,” Hygebehrt said. “And if we ran short, we’d tighten our belts!”

“Our men will be in enemy country, not patrolling the Mark,” Elfhelm reminded him. “There is no guarantee they can live off the land.”

“Nonsense, they just have to put their minds to it. And anyway, who ever heard of the Eorlingas using boats? Very unsafe, chancy things in my opinion! Why, there might not even be a place there to land them and then where would we be?”

“I’m so glad you’re bringing up that point, my lord,” Lothíriel jumped in that moment. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Taken aback, everybody stared at her and even Hygebehrt was distracted from his argument. “You do, my Lady Queen?”

“Absolutely. In fact I was hoping for your advice on where to find a suitable landing place, for I do not think anybody knows the Mark as well as you do.” She gave him a blinding smile.

Éomer held his breath. Was this putting it on too thick?

But the old man took the hook. “I suppose there might be a few places where the Anduin widens out after passing the Falls of Rauros.”

“There are?” She beckoned to her brother. “Amrothos, hand over that map so we can make good note of Lord Hygebehrt’s words.”

Warming to his task, Hygebehrt bent over the parchment and described the terrain they were likely to encounter. He had travelled all over the Mark in his day and really did have a remarkable memory. Prompted by Lothíriel, he outlined in great detail the route from Edoras across the Entwade to where the East Wall of Rohan met the Anduin – exactly the route that Éomer had already decided on, but he held his peace.

“And then?” Lothíriel asked.

“Well, the land gets very flat and marshy where the Entwash flows into the Anduin, but before that the river is for a short stretch bordered by grasslands that lead right down to it.” He indicated the area on the map. “I suppose it would be possible to beach the boats there.”

“So you would recommend using boats with a shallow draught?” Lothíriel asked.

“Oh yes.” Hygebehrt did not seem to realise it, but imperceptibly they were no longer arguing about whether to carry out Lothíriel’s plan, but rather about how to do it. Éomer had to admit it was cleverly done. Why, when one of the other councillors came up with yet another objection, it was Hygebehrt who defended ‘their’ plan vigorously.

Finally all the details had been settled. “Are we agreed then?” Éomer asked and everybody nodded.

The council broke up after that and Elfhelm and Erkenbrand took their leave to return home. Éomer escorted them down the stairs outside Meduseld to where their horses awaited them.

“The queen is a clever woman,” Elfhelm said thoughtfully, leaning down from his horse and clasping Éomer’s arm in parting. “And I don’t just mean about the boats. I hadn’t really appreciated it before, but the way she handled Hygebehrt…”

Erkenbrand guffawed. “Yes, I thought we were in for another lengthy lecture for sure. That was a pleasure to watch.” He winked at Éomer. “Such skill is priceless; make sure you keep her on the council.”

“I will,” Éomer said.

“And you’d better also make sure she’s happy with you,” Erkenbrand threw over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to annoy such a formidable strategist.”

Éomer sighed as his two friends rode away chuckling. Easier said than done when half the time he had no clue what really went through his wife’s mind!

Especially what she thought of him… to Lothíriel, was he just another man to be expertly handled? Kahva in the mornings, Meduseld running smoothly during the day, his favourite foods served for the evening meal, and at night…

And if she had married someone else, one of those lords who had spoken of love to her, would she now do the same for some Gondorian husband? A sudden bolt of irrational rage shot through him at the picture of her in some other man’s bed. Then he shook his head. It was utterly useless to speculate on such matters.

“You’re a fool,” he exclaimed, earning himself startled glances from the doorwardens. At least they were too well trained to question their king.

Returning to their quarters, he found Lothíriel sitting at her desk, pen in hand. When he entered, she looked up and smiled at him. “I thought I’d better write to my contacts in Minas Tirith at once,” she said. “Amrothos has offered to carry the letters when he departs to report to King Elessar.”

“That’s very good of you.”

She dipped her pen in the ink. “It’s no trouble, I like to be useful.” Her scarf had slipped again, revealing a distracting amount of creamy skin.

Éomer disciplined his thoughts and sat down on the bed. “I just saw Elfhelm and Erkenbrand off. They suggested that you should become a permanent member of the council.”

Lothíriel set her pen down. “They did?” She turned towards him. “And what did you answer?”

“That I would ask you.”

For a moment a smile of genuine pleasure lit up her face, but she controlled herself at once. “Thank you. I consider it an honour and I promise to do my best.”

“They were impressed with how you handled Hygebehrt,” Éomer remarked.

She grinned. “Perhaps I overdid it a little. But he’s really a very sweet old man and like most people, he just needs a little attention to make him happy.”

He fixed her with a sharp glance. “And is that what you do with me, too? Show me some attention to put me in a good mood, while making sure I’m well fed and never run out of ale? And so manage me smoothly, just as you managed my council, all in order to get your point across?”

She lifted her chin. “Do I need to or would you listen anyway?”

“What do you think?” he shot back.

“Well, I know what my brother will think for sure,” she said bitterly, “that I owe my place on the council to my place in your bed.”

Éomer surged to his feet. “What! Did he dare say that to you? Just wait till I catch him!” First the spiders and now this!

“No!” She held out her hand. “He didn’t…I just know that in his mind, it’s the only possible reason for it. But I shouldn’t have said that, he’s not a bad sort and I love him dearly.”

“Well, he’s wrong. You’ll owe your place on the council to the fact that you have worthwhile ideas and to nothing else.”

She looked at him for a long time and then gave a slow smile. “Thank you.”

“However, I must warn you, don’t ever try to manipulate me like you did Hygebehrt this afternoon.”

She raised one of her eyebrows. “Of course not. But then I won’t need to, will I?”

His glance fell on her bare shoulders. “Or try to distract me! I won’t fall for it.”

She picked up her pen and concentrated on her letter again. “I was only following your advice.”

There was no possible answer to that and she knew it. He gave a stiff nod. “I will see you at the evening meal.”

“Until then.” The pen scratched busily across the parchment. Just as he reached the door, it paused for a moment. “It’s piglet with sage stuffing tonight,” she said. “Your favourite.”

He closed the door behind him firmly. The conversation had not at all gone the way he had wanted it to. Then another thought struck him: she hadn’t been teasing him there, had she? Surely not.

Sometimes he felt like tearing his hair out. He must have been mad to marry a woman whose moods he could not read at all!

Chapter 9

The next month went by with the speed of a stampeding horse. There was a brief pause for the midsummer celebrations, but apart from that he spent every day either out on the training fields or discussing matters with his captains. Not only the expedition itself needed to be organised, but also the security of their borders while they were away. Finally it was decided that Erkenbrand would be coming with him while Elfhelm stayed behind, sending his eldest son in his stead. The Dunlendings were still restless at times and Éomer wanted to leave an experienced commander in charge of the Mark, for they could not rely on the Ents coming to their help again.

Lothíriel meanwhile not only ran Meduseld as usual, but also started up a busy correspondence with dozens of merchants from Dol Amroth through Pelargir to Minas Tirith. Additionally she began to get ready for the influx of riders expected for the muster called for the new moon. A few days before the date set, the first men trickled in, some single, some already organised into éoreds, and like mushrooms after rain, tents sprang up all over the fields outside Edoras.

On the morning of the last day before their departure, he held a final meeting with his captains, when one of them, an earnest young man newly appointed to leading an éored, brought up the matter of carrying spare bridles with them. When had he got so caught up in details, Éomer suddenly asked himself. They had managed to ride to Gondor’s aid at much shorter notice after all. He stood up from the council table.

“I leave that to your discretion,” he answered the man’s question. “And now if that is all, I suggest we break off here.” Lately, he had hardly spoken to Lothíriel, and would not see her for several weeks, if not months. “I want to spend time with the queen this afternoon to discuss a few last matters, so any further questions will have to wait for tomorrow to be settled.”

At first his captains had regarded him with surprise at his abrupt dismissal, but now their faces cleared, though several had to hide a grin. Elfhelm clapped him on the back while the others filed out of the room. “Enjoy your discussion, my friend.”

Éomer groaned inwardly. He knew of course what they were thinking and hoped that Lothíriel would not find out, for he doubted that she would be amused by the idea of all his men speculating on what the two of them would be up to in their rooms. Little did they know about his darkness loving wife! He told himself he had no mind to risk a rebuff, not on their last day – and anyway, there was always the night. However, perhaps they could get away from it all and go for another ride. Yes, why not visit that clearing in the woods again where they had stopped over the other day. For some reason he had begun to think of it as their clearing, though they had only been there once, and in his mind he saw himself sitting by the pond again, watching his wife splash in the water. And then there was the hunting lodge further up the hill which his foresters kept stocked with firewood and a few basic supplies. Although that was probably not practical when they had to be back for the evening meal.

His wife, when he finally hunted her down in one of the store rooms in conference with Wulfrith, was dubious at first. “I’m not sure I can get away, there’s still so much work to be done here.”

“You go ahead and enjoy yourself, my lady,” Wulfrith told her firmly. “You work too hard.”

Éomer shot the housekeeper a grateful look. “Yes, give yourself an afternoon off.”

“I suppose so.” Lothíriel smiled. “Thank you, I would love to go for a ride.”

Yet at the midday meal they heard the ominous rumble of thunder and when he went outside to check he saw a dark wall of cloud moving in from the west, lit up from inside by lightning every now again. He watched with a strong sense of injustice as rain began to stream down in thick sheets, turning the roads to mud and washing away his picture of a sun filled clearing.

Back in their rooms, he found Lothíriel standing at the window staring out; she was dressed in a russet riding gown with the same red and orange scarf she had worn the last time twined into her hair. Just as he entered, a gust of wind rattled the window pane and the rain beat a hard tattoo against it.

She turned round to him. “What a shame! Do you think it might clear up later on?”

“Perhaps.” Though he doubted it and by then it would probably be too late. It was really most unfair! Was he not even allowed to spend a single afternoon with his wife? “Maybe we could at least go for a short ride?” he suggested.

She looked dubious, as outside the rain poured down. “Éomer, you don’t want to catch a cold just before riding to war.”

“Oh, I’m not that delicate.”

His words did not seem to convince her. “Fine, then let’s just say that I don’t intend to spend the next weeks snivelling and running a fever,” she answered. “You wouldn’t want me to, would you?”

“No, of course not,” he said stiffly. She was right really and no doubt a ride now would be a cold, miserable affair. “Ah well, I will just check my gear one last time.” There was something quite soothing about polishing one’s coat of mail, link by link.

And he needed soothing.

“Éomer…” Her voice arrested him on the way to the door. “I thought I might do a little mending. Would you like to keep me company for a bit? You could bring your hauberk in here.” When he looked at her in surprise, she bit her lip. “Only if you have nothing more important to do, of course.”

“No!” he exclaimed. “I mean, no, I haven’t got anything more important to do. It’s just that oiling mail is rather messy. However, my squire has an old sheet I can use to protect your carpets.”

She smiled. “Good. That’s settled then.”

So he went to fetch his things and when he came back found her crouching before the fireplace, lighting the fire. “Here, let me do that,” he said. Where had all the servants disappeared to? Lothíriel settled down in a chair with her basket of mending while he spread the sheet on the carpets and then sat down cross-legged at her feet.

His mail shirt was actually polished to perfection already, for Ceola took his responsibilities as Éomer’s squire extremely seriously, but it never hurt to check the hauberk himself, for after all his life depended on it. He took out a leather cloth and began to rub away at the finely spaced iron rings, cleaning off inexistent rust and inspecting them for brittleness. For some reason it was a very restful occupation, reminding him of the days when he was a young rider in his first éored, expected to care for his own things.

A companionable silence descended, only broken by the crackle of the fire and the rain drumming against the windows – they seemed to be caught in warm, softly lit bubble of tranquillity, sheltered from the hustle and bustle of getting ready. How strangely domestic, he thought. He had never really spent time with his wife just doing ordinary, every day tasks.

He paused for a moment and watched the firelight play across Lothíriel’s face, then suddenly realised the piece of clothing in her lap was one of his shirts. “Is that mine?” he asked. “You don’t have to do that, you know, the washerwomen also do mending.”

She held out a sleeve against the light to check her progress on stitching up a tear. “I know, but I don’t mind. It’s relaxing to have my fingers busy, but not have to think of anything.”

He could sympathise with that. “Every so often all this business of being a king and queen gets a bit much, doesn’t it?” he said. “Sometimes I wish I was simply the youngest recruit in Elfhelm’s éored again.” He grinned in reminiscence. “Although I had to dig the latrine. And fill it in.”

She chuckled. “I don’t envy you that experience. Amrothos and I had it better, we used to go sailing and pretended we were just ordinary fishermen with no princely duties at all. It was nice to have nothing but the empty sea stretching around us.”

“There’s that hut up in the mountains I told you about,” Éomer said. “It’s really quiet up there, all you hear is the wind, and that gives you a chance to listen to your own thoughts again.” He hesitated. “It’s rather simple, but maybe we could go there one day.”

“I’d love to,” Lothíriel said and her enthusiasm seemed unfeigned.

He smiled at her. “Around here, it’s almost the only way to get away from constantly being interrupted by people wanting something from you.”

“You won’t mind me coming along?”

“Oh, no,” he hastened to assure her, “you’re no trouble.” Belatedly he realised that was not a very tactful thing to say. “That is, you’re not constantly chattering away, demanding everybody dance attendance on you.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Thank you, though most ladies in Gondor would probably not take it as a compliment that they require little looking after.”

“That’s not what I meant! Just that you’re easy to handle and not very demanding…” His voice petered off under her sardonic regard. Had he just put his foot in? “I’m not expressing myself very well, am I?” he said.

Lothíriel held his gaze a moment longer, then suddenly she began to chuckle. “No. If I were Lady Malheril, I would have hit you over the head with my basket of mending by now for implying that I was not a delicate flower in need of constant attention.”

He shuddered at the thought. “Thank the Valar you’re not!” They exchanged a grin.

“You know, I’ll miss this,” he mused as he took up polishing his chain mail again. “No doubt very soon I will be thoroughly wet and miserable. And longing for a warm fire, a hot meal and a dry bed!” Preferably with his wife in it, but he didn’t say that.

“Ah yes, all that a man desires.” She concentrated on her stitches again. “Yet it seems to me that you’re nevertheless looking forward to going?”

“What makes you think so?”

Lothíriel shrugged. “Just a feeling. So are you?”

He hesitated. “Yes…in a way…you see, it’s a simpler life, you only have to worry about the here and now. Just stay alive and keep your men alive.”

“And kill your enemies?” She looked up, but he fancied he saw no judgement in her regard, just curiosity.

“I’m a warrior,” he pointed out, nevertheless feeling defensive. “The Rohirrim all are.” Did she regret marrying him and not some Gondorian scholar who would stay at home all his life, safe and sound?

“I know,” Lothíriel said. “And never doubt that I’m grateful for it. It’s what saved my family.”

“It’s not that I enjoy killing,” he said slowly, “but you never feel as alive as in the middle of battle. You live in the moment, pit your skill against that of your opponent. Knowing every breath could be your last makes it all the sweeter.” Would she understand? Yet she came from a long line of warriors.

She nodded. “One morning some years ago Amrothos and I slipped out to go sailing instead of studying with our tutor. We were rather young and foolish, I suppose, but it was in the spring and we thought it was much too early for corsairs, for they don’t like to risk their galleys in the rough winter seas…”

“What happened?”

“We were beating round a promontory west of the harbour only to nearly run into one of their dromonds! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Amrothos turn the boat round quicker, not even in a race. We were lucky, for the wind favoured us and then we managed to get a lead by crossing one of the sandbanks where they couldn’t follow us with their deeper draught. I still remember the arrows whistling by though!” She looked at him. “But though I was frightened, the feeling of the wind in my hair and the salt spray in my face had never felt sweeter. When we got the better of them and managed to raise the alarm, I thought I could have conquered the world!”

“Yes! A battle is like that, you’re terrified and elated at the same time. And as a king even more, for you know you have all that power at your command, a word of yours unleashes the might of your riders, as if you were wielding a huge blade scything across the battle field.” Éomer sighed. “Oh, it’s a heady feeling, yet with it comes a huge responsibility.” He thought of their mad charge on the Pelennor Fields that had nearly ended in disaster. The Rage had consumed him so thoroughly, he still remembered only fragments of it: a curved scimitar gleaming in the morning sun, dark eyes behind a visor filling with surprise as he cut the man down, cleaving the black serpent banner to trample it in the mud. A collection of single, clean-cut images, as remote as if they were the memories of another man.

He sighed. “And then after the battle, you realise your losses…”

Lothíriel bent her head. “And yours were grievous, I know.” Had there been pity in her words, he would have bridled, but he heard only acknowledgement of his sorrow from one who had experienced it too.

He nodded curtly. “Yes.” But as he took up polishing his armour again, he felt a little lighter, as if he had shared a heavy load. While he would miss Théodred and his other friends to the end of his life, at least they had not died in vain. The Mark was as safe and prosperous as it had ever been and the very fact that they could now counter a danger before it touched their borders showed how much things had changed.

Nothing more was said, but when they settled to their tasks again a restful stillness enveloped them. They were poised between the scramble of getting ready in time and the rush to meet Aragorn, but there were a few precious moments of peace yet, like the hush that fell before a storm hit, when all the wind died down briefly.

Éomer found himself observing his wife out of the corner of his eye, seeing her as if for the first time. The way a small crease appeared between her eyebrows whenever she concentrated on her stitches, how her long eyelashes threw fine shadows in the firelight, the dimples in her cheeks that appeared too seldom: no longer the elegant stranger he had met in Minas Tirith and coolly assessed for her suitability as his queen, but a person with dreams and wishes, memories and needs.

And secrets, he reminded himself. Yet that moment it struck him that several times lately she had spoken quite freely about her childhood in Dol Amroth, revealing an adventurous, mischievous girl quite unlike the quiet, controlled woman who ran Meduseld. Was she slowly coming out from behind her smoke and mirrors? At least for short moments?

Éomer sighed. He had no idea why he dwelt on that image so much when it might all be simply a figment of his imagination. Why did he even care, since their marriage had brought him exactly what he had asked of it? But the thing was, he rather liked the woman he glimpsed every now and again, he just wasn’t sure how to gain her trust. Now if only she were a horse, he would know exactly what to do! He grinned to himself at the picture of enticing his wife out with a juicy apple. Yet in a way she was like a shy filly that spooked every time you looked at her directly – and the trick to deal with one of those was of course to lure her closer while pretending not to notice that she approached.

“Do you ever have storms like this in Dol Amroth?” he asked casually.

She paused and leant back in her chair. “Oh yes, and worse. In the winter sometimes the wind blows so hard and the sea is so rough that our ships are confined to harbour for days.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Mostly stay inside.” She grinned. “Amrothos paces the great hall all day; it drives Father crazy.”

“And you?”

“Oh, running the household kept me busy enough. Or you can listen to the bards telling stories and playing music. Many courtiers also like to play games.”

“Not so different from here then,” Éomer remarked. “I bet my riders are all sitting in the hall, playing at dice.”

“Amrothos is like that, but Father prefers Shah. He says it hones his tactical skills.”

“And you?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I give Father a match, but really I prefer quicker games like hounds and boars.”

“Hounds and boars!” he exclaimed, for it was one of his favourite games. “We play that here; in fact I have a set. Shall we have a go?”

“What, now?”

“Why not?” he asked back. “Don’t tell me you’d rather mend shirts.”

“What about your hauberk?”

“Polished to perfection already.” He rose and stretched. “So are you up to a challenge?”

She raised her chin. “Of course.”

Éomer grinned to himself. What kind of opponent would she make? And should he tell her that in the Mark the winner claimed a forfeit? Usually just a mug of ale, but if a woman was involved it might run to a kiss instead and sometimes further favours were granted.

Smiling to himself in anticipation, he put his armour away on its stand in his room and rummaged through his chests for the game. But when he finally found the wooden board divided into eleven by eleven squares and the leather bag of red and white pieces, he paused for a moment and his throat closed. It had been a Yule gift from Théodred and they had played often. Never again now… Resolutely he pushed the thought away – he would remember the good times instead and honour his cousin that way.

“Shall we fetch another chair?” Lothíriel asked when he returned to her room.

“No need,” he answered. “Let’s just sit by the fire.” They had always played like that when out on patrol, sometimes just scratching a rough board on the ground and using dark and pale stones for pieces.

Théodred’s gameboard was more elaborate of course, with a border of finely etched knotwork running around it and the pieces carved into the semblance of the animals they were called after. He set up the white hounds along the sides of the board while the boars massed around the biggest piece, the king boar, in the centre.

Lothíriel had settled down cross-legged opposite him. “That’s a beautiful set,” she said and picked up one of the pieces to admire it. Each animal had been carved lovingly, the hounds snarling while the boars lowered their heads to charge. “Do you play to the best of seven here too?”

“We do,” he agreed.

She put the piece back. “The board’s owner may choose first, we always say. So what do you prefer, hounds or boars?”

“Oh, definitely chasing to being chased,” he shot back. “Hounds.”

At first she looked startled, then she grinned. “I should have known. But I must warn you, turn around is fair.”

“I’m also used to being chased,” he quipped. “You will find that the ladies of Minas Tirith have made me a master of evasion.”

She laughed out loud. “We’ll see how well you fare against this lady of Dol Amroth!”

Éomer had always thought that playing against someone gave you a good indication of that person’s character. Well, he found out something very quickly about his wife: she played to win. Skilfully, using her head, making quick decisions, never dithering.

And utterly ruthlessly.

He had played other court ladies and usually found them reluctant to sacrifice their pieces or play an aggressive game. Not so Lothíriel. Before he had properly deployed his hounds, she had gored several of them and when he rushed to defend that side, coolly took advantage of one of the places he had to leave poorly defended to make her escape to the corner of the board.

“You’ve won,” he said in amazement.

“Yes. You were over-confident.”

A devastatingly accurate summary. “Yes,” he said grimly, “but not again.”

The next match took longer, each of them trying to gauge the other’s skill and temperament, which resulted in a number of cautious moves. In the end Éomer managed to slowly build up a numeric advantage on one side and then fought his way through.

“Well played,” she conceded.

He had the hounds back now, his favourite side, and was determined not to make the same mistake again. Lothíriel opposite him sat hunched over the board with all her concentration fixed on it. He was suddenly reminded of what she had said about adopting her brother’s tactics of going straight at an opponent. Could that be used against her?

So he offered her the opportunity to attack and when she took it, lured a number of her pieces into a trap. She extricated herself more gracefully than he had expected, but nevertheless it left her at a disadvantage. For the rest of the match he nibbled away at her from all sides until she found herself cornered by his forces. She did not give up though until the king boar was finally taken.

Having regained his confidence, Éomer started with fresh verve into the next game. Granted, he had underestimated her at first, but surely now he had taken her measure. His self-assurance did not waver until he had five boars taken, one after the other. How had that happened? When he studied the board, it dawned on him that she had used his own tactics against him! He had no chance to plug the hole she had torn in his defences in time, and though he fought to the bitter end, she cornered him easily. They were even again.

“You’re good,” he said.

She put her head to one side. “So are you.”

Suddenly they grinned at each other. “I should pit you against some of my riders,” he said. “If I bet on the outcome, I could make a tidy sum of money.”

She chuckled. “Men always underestimate me. Sometimes they even want to grant me a few pieces as forfeit in order to give me a better chance.”

He guffawed. “And what do you do?”

“Take them up on their kind offer, of course.” Her smile had a feral edge to it.

“Well, at least that’s one mistake I didn’t make!”

“Sadly not.”

They set up the pieces again and he put a couple more logs on the fire, for it was getting dark outside.

“Strange,” Lothíriel remarked. “Dordes must have forgotten to bring me my afternoon tea. I suppose she’s busy.” She lay down on her stomach on the soft carpet and propped her head on her hands, studying the board. “Shall we continue?”

The atmosphere was more relaxed now, but still neither one gave any quarter. Éomer enjoyed playing against her, for she was a formidable opponent with an exhilarating quickness of mind and the ability to surprise you. However, he had his hounds again and by clever manoeuvring he managed to hem her in more and more. She tried to break out and make a dash for the corner, but he caught her before she could make it. Their fingers met on the king boar.

“Do you yield?” he asked.

She pushed her piece over. “Only this once.”

The next game Éomer lost with embarrassing quickness. He made a mistake early on, and though he realised it at once, Lothíriel did not pass up her chance. His position was gutted in no time and his king boar surrounded.

She looked up at him through her long lashes. “Do you yield?”

He groaned. “Yes!” Then he recovered his equanimity. “Although of course I don’t mind being caught by such a pretty lady.”

Her eyes mocked him. “How gallant of you.”

She was plainly enjoying herself. And so was he. His plan to lure her out from behind her barriers and locked shutters had worked unexpectedly well. That this was the real Lothíriel he had no doubt. If only she would stay!

“Now for the deciding match,” he said.

She pulled herself up to kneel by the board and neatly placed all her boars in their positions. “You can do it,” she told the king piece before setting it down in the centre.

Éomer grinned. “Catch her,” he said to his hounds and like two fighters about to face off, they exchanged a nod of acknowledgement.

At first both moved cautiously, aware that any mistake would be punished at once. They were evenly matched, Éomer thought, both in skill and temperament. Who would have thought that his cool, reserved queen possessed such fighting spirit? Although she did not look so reserved now with her hair escaping from its braid, lips slightly parted and cheeks flustered with excitement. The impulse to lean over and claim those red, inviting lips coursed through him. Was that how she looked when he made love to her?

He watched the emotions chase across her face, which for once she left unguarded as she considered what move to make next. Her fingers hovered over the board and she chewed her lower lip, deep in thought, then suddenly made up her mind and darted forward to move a piece before sitting back on her heels, satisfied.

Before she could catch him observing her, he quickly looked down at the board and jumped one of his hounds forward rather at random. It was deadly, of course. With ferocious speed she capitalised on his lapse of concentration and before he knew it, she had spearheaded an attack into his territory. He fought on, but the outcome was a given: his defeat.

“You’ve won,” he stated.

She regarded him and thoughtfully wrapped a strand of hair round her fingers. “So I have. You weren’t paying attention for a moment back there, were you?”

“No, I was thinking of something else.”

“You have a lot on your mind just now,” she pointed out.

Little did she know! “Yes, I have,” he said, “but it’s no excuse.”

“No,” she agreed with a mischievous smile, “I was just being a gracious winner.”

“Now listen, I won’t stand for that, my lady!” he answered in mock outrage. “This calls for a rematch.”

“Oh, can we?” But then she looked at the window. “Only it’s dark outside already; I didn’t realise it was so late.”

“When I get back from the expedition?” he asked.

Lothíriel nodded. “I would like that very much.”

“In that case I will hold you to it.”

His wife rewarded him with such a brilliant smile that Éomer could not help himself. He pushed the gameboard aside and leant forward. “Now you might not realise this, but in the Mark it’s traditional that the loser gets a kiss.” He claimed her lips.

“You’re making that up!” she protested when they came up for air, but did not pull away.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s the winner who gets it. From the loser.” He proceeded to fulfil his obligation.

Of its own volition his hand moved up to loosen her hair from its braid. Smooth silk ran through his fingers as the scarf twined into it came undone. He pulled her over on top of him and her hair fell like a dark, scented curtain around them. Yes! He had wanted to do that all afternoon he realised.

“Éomer…” she murmured, “Dordes will be along any moment to help me change for the evening meal.”

He paused and looked at his wife poised above him. Surely it was encouraging that she only objected to the timing, not his actions themselves. “We could lock the door?”

She smiled. “Poor Dordes, we would scandalise her.”

Éomer wondered at that. His wife might not realise the significance of the fact that not a single servant had interrupted them all afternoon, but he did. He ran his hand up her back and felt her shiver. “I’d be willing to risk that.”

Lothíriel sighed. “But it’s the farewell feast…” Was that regret in her voice or was she merely looking for a way to refuse him without offending him? “Your men will expect you to greet them with a toast,” she added. “And I wanted to look my best to honour them.”

He groaned inwardly. Would it be any use to point out that in his opinion she looked best when not wearing anything at all? But she was right of course. His men were about to risk their lives for the Mark; he could not possibly slight them by letting them wait for him. He had missed his chance…

Éomer let his arms sink to his side. “There are distinct disadvantages to being king! And to think that as a child I used to envy my uncle because I thought a King of the Mark could do anything he pleases. The contrary is true!”

She rolled off him. “Poor you!”

“And even my queen has no respect for me,” he complained. Of course as a boy his imagination had only run to unlimited plum cakes. Now he had different appetites.

Éomer got up and pulled Lothíriel to her feet. He still had her scarf in his hands and used it to catch her against him for a moment. “Still, there is always the night…”

She blushed.

A/N: if you’re wondering what kind of game they’re playing, I imagine it as a variant of ‘hnefatafl’, which used to be a popular board game amongst the Vikings and Germanic tribes.

Chapter 10

Yet the night passed too quickly. Éomer woke up in the grey hours of the morning with the first light filtering through the bed curtains and turned on his side to watch his sleeping wife. He had not kept to his usual custom of wishing her a good night and seeking his own bed after making love to her, but had instead held her in his arms as she fell asleep.

He had to admit she was a pleasant sight to wake up to: snuggled against his side, with her hair spread across the pillow and showing creamy skin where her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder. A sight that he would not mind seeing more often, he had to acknowledge to himself. In retrospect, opting for separate bedrooms must have been one of the most idiotic ideas he’d ever come up with – only having proposed it, he couldn’t very well suggest otherwise now.

Lothíriel sighed and murmured something in her sleep. Would she mind if he kissed her awake? It was their last morning together for a while after all. He bent over her and brushed his lips across hers, then paused to watch her face. Nothing. Her nose wrinkled in an adoring way, as if something had tickled it, and she burrowed deeper against his chest. He took a deep breath of her scent, all warmth and woman, wanting to store it away for the days to come.

His hands slipped inside her nightgown, finding soft curves, and desire rose within him. Very lightly, he kissed her again, then explored the elegant line of her jaw down to the hollow of her throat.

“Mmh?” she murmured sleepily.

Ah, but the Valar had given him a delectable wife! Easy, Éomer told himself. He didn’t want to startle her as she woke up. “Morning, my sweet,” he whispered, but in response she only sighed again.

That moment he heard the door open and firm steps cross the room. Éomer froze in the act of bending over his wife, his lips hovering inches above her exposed shoulder. No! This couldn’t be happening to him! The steps went to the window, an instant later came the sound of the shutters being thrown open and the room beyond the bed curtains lightened perceptibly.

“Time to get up, Child,” Dordes called, her voice gentler than he had ever heard it, “after all you’ll want to look pretty for your lord.”

Lothíriel’s lord had a moment of sheer panic. He felt very much like that time Aldburg’s housekeeper had caught him and Éothain trying to drill a hole in the back of the women’s bathhouse. The memory, still unsurpassed in its awfulness after more than a decade of engaging in active warfare, paralysed him for a vital instant.

With a soft swish the curtains were drawn apart. “Oh!” Dordes exclaimed. “My lord!”

Feeling utterly foolish at being caught in his wife’s bed, he closed his eyes for a second. “Good morning, Dordes.” Finally his body decided to obey him again and he was able to draw back.

Lothíriel’s eyes fluttered open and she blinked up at him sleepily. “Éomer?” she murmured. “What’s the matter?”

He pulled up the sheets. “Nothing.”

“I didn’t realise, my lord king,” Dordes stammered. “Please forgive me…eh, I’ll just get your breakfast, my lady.” She hurried from the room.

Lothíriel sat up and shook back her tousled mane of black hair. “What happened?” she yawned. Then she took a closer look at him. “Éomer, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. It was ridiculous to be embarrassed at being found in her bed, feeling amorous. After all, he had every right to be in it! Why was it that he would rather face a pack of Uruk-Hai, unarmed and with his hands tied behind his back, than an elderly servant! At least his ardour had cooled considerably. Éomer decided to retreat to his own rooms with whatever shreds of dignity he could gather.

“I was so tired last night that I must have fallen asleep in your bed,” he said. “My apologies.”

“Éomer…”

But he had already reached for the robe that he had dropped by the bed and now shrugged it on. “I will see you later,” he said.

***

Some quiet time on his own and an excellent breakfast brought to him by his squire improved Éomer’s mood somewhat and he resolved to put the morning’s frustrating experience behind him and concentrate on the forthcoming expedition instead. They planned to ride as far as the Entwade the first day and spend the night there, which meant an early start.

Ceola was just laying out his weapon-shirt, the padded jacket that went under the chain mail, when there came a knock on the door and Lothíriel entered bearing a tray with two cups from which the aromatic smell of kahva wafted over.

She smiled at his squire. “I can help Éomer King with that,” she said. “Why don’t you go and grab something to eat before you have to get Firefoot ready?”

Ceola, who like most of the lads of Edoras was smitten with his beautiful queen, blushed hotly at her kind words. “Thank you, Lothíriel Queen, I will.”

When the door had closed behind the squire, Lothíriel offered Éomer his cup of kahva. She had donned the same low-cut green gown that she had worn to the council meeting and which set off her slender form to perfection, but had wrapped a silk scarf around her shoulders. “Éomer,” she said hesitantly, “I wouldn’t want you to ride off in a bad mood. You’re not annoyed, are you?  Dordes wakes me every morning and she had no idea–”

“I’m not,” he interrupted her, feeling guilty for his crossness earlier on. It suddenly struck him that out of the three of them, his wife was the only one who had acted as if finding him in her bed was entirely natural. “She surprised me, that’s all.”

Lothíriel did not look convinced. “What happened? Did she startle you awake? Dordes was most apologetic, but not very coherent…” Her voice petered off.

She must think him an ill-tempered bear! “It’s not her fault,” he said. “She just caught me at a disadvantage.” When his wife kept regarding him with big, questioning eyes, Éomer sighed. He might as well tell her the truth. “To be honest, I…eh…had designs on your person and was… rather put out to be interrupted.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! I had no idea.” She mulled over the information for a moment. “But I was asleep.”

He felt himself colouring. “I’m afraid that does not stop me from finding you highly desirable.” Now his gently reared Gondorian lady would probably think him a barbarian! Should he point out in his defence that he had intended to wake her up gently?

But only further surprise showed on her face. “You do?”

She must know! Then he realised he had never once told her he found her attractive. Did she think he was only doing his duty every night? “Of course I do!” he exclaimed. “Surely you must have perceived as much by now.”

“Well, I’m not very experienced,” she said in an apologetic tone, “although I do know that I’m considered quite pretty. But when I’m asleep?” She wrinkled her nose. “I probably had my mouth open and my hair is always a mess in the mornings.” Clearly she did not think him very discriminating.

He sat down on the bed and took a much needed gulp of kahva. Should he say that it had been dark? But no, his instincts vaguely warned him such an excuse might not be well received. Outside, the clear tones of a horn sounded, a welcome relief. “I will have to get ready now,” he said.

“So soon?” she exclaimed, but then the expression he had come to recognise as her ‘queen’s countenance’, calm and aloof, descended on her face. “In that case let me assist you with your armour,” she said.

She knew what to do, smoothing out the creases of his shirt so it wouldn’t chafe before helping him into the padded jacket and lacing it up the front. Then he lifted the hauberk over his head and wriggled into it with a practised movement, letting the weight settle on his shoulders. Silently Lothíriel brought him his sword belt and fastened it round his waist.

He watched her lowered head. “Lothíriel, would you write to me?” he asked.

She looked up. “What? How could I, you’ll be out beyond the couriers’ reach.”

“Yes, but if all goes well we’ll be coming back through Minas Tirith.” To deliver the wounded to the Houses of Healing, but he didn’t say that. “You could send your letters there.” He knew she kept up a busy correspondence with her family and former acquaintances, so why not with her husband? “Give me the news of Edoras.”

“Of course, as you wish.” Her face still showed no emotion and he wondered if she would miss him, or on the contrary looked forward to some time alone. There was no trace of the woman who had teased him over a game of hounds and boars the day before.

“I’ll leave you in charge here,” he said, “to look after our people.”

She frowned. “Won’t they mind that I’m a foreigner?”

Éomer sighed. “Lothíriel, you’re one of the Eorlingas now, you belong here. My bard will advise you, but I trust in your judgement.”

That earned him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“I do not expect any trouble from enemies, but if there is, send for Elfhelm at once. He has full discretion where military matters are concerned.”

She nodded and went to fetch his helmet and gauntlets. “I will.”

“I’m leaving a full complement of guards here, so you’ll be safe enough,” he added. “Make sure you always have them with you, if for any reason you have to ride out.”

“Very well.”

“And no attempting the training course.”

When she hesitated, he fixed her with a stern gaze. “Promise me. Else I’ll give orders to have it dismantled.”

“Oh, all right,” she agreed.

He accepted his helmet from her, tucked it under his arm and took her hands. “And if anything should happen to me…”

Her eyelids trembled for a moment, but she showed no other reaction. “Éomer, is this necessary?”

“You never know. So if I don’t come back…well, we might still have a child. And if not… I suppose Éowyn will continue the line of Eorl.”

“Yes,” she said tonelessly.

Well, she was taking this very coolly – but he supposed that at least he did not have to worry that she would wither away from grief like his mother had done! Éomer put on his helmet, fastened the chin strap and slipped on the gauntlets. Then he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to give her the royal seal of the Riddermark.

“Just a moment,” he said and went over to his desk where he had laid it ready. “This is for you to keep.”

When he turned round Lothíriel was as white as a sheet. “No!” She took a step back.

What was the matter with her? “But you’ll need it to prove your authority,” he pointed out.

“What?”

Mystified, he showed her the heavy, round seal. “The mark of holding my power.” And also a sign of his trust in her – at times, he might not be able to read her at all, but he did not doubt her ability to treat their people fairly. “Surely you have the same custom in Gondor?”

Some colour returned to her cheeks. “Oh! Yes, of course we do. So it’s purely official?” She took the seal from him. “That’s all right then.”

“What did you think it was?”

“Nothing. Will you excuse me while I put this away safely in my rooms?”

Waiting for her in the ante-room, Éomer mulled over her reaction in his mind. What had got into her? She reappeared very shortly and he offered her his arm to escort her outside Meduseld, where his personal guard had assembled in the square at the bottom of the steps.

Then the cool morning air hit him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of the clink of weapons, horses’ hooves stamping and the low buzz of his riders talking, and the familiar exhilaration at setting out rose within him, pushing the matter aside. A gust of wind whipped round them, billowing out Lothíriel’s gown, as if it too shared in the excitement. His heart began to beat faster.

Wulfrith and the other women of the household came with trays of mead cups to fare the men well and Lothíriel took one of the cups and offered it to him. “Good fortune be with you, my king. Go and make an end to this Son of Sauron.” It was the daughter of a long line of warriors speaking. But then she gave a forlorn little smile. “And come back safe and sound.”

“I will,” he said and accepted the stirrup cup. Standing there with her hair tousled by the wind, large, grey eyes regarding him gravely, she was quite irresistible.

Éomer downed the mead in one gulp and with the rich, sweet taste still on his tongue, he kissed her. At first she jumped with surprise, but then her arms crept up his back. His blood drummed in his ears. He should have done it earlier on, before he put his mail on! And the helmet was a distinct disadvantage too, though he tried not to butt her with his nose-guard. But how perfectly she fitted into his arms. He stored the feeling of supple, yielding woman away in his memory for the weeks to come.

The sound of his men cheering and calling his name brought them back to the present. Lothíriel’s cheeks flamed at some of the good-natured suggestions of what to do when he came back from the war, but when he grinned down at her she smiled back reluctantly.

“I have not offended you, lady of mine?” he whispered.

She only shook her head.

The bright green scarf she had thrown around her shoulders had begun to slip and on an impulse he fingered it suggestively. “A token of your favour?”

She rolled her eyes at his exuberant mood, but complied by tying the scarf around his upper arm. “Wear it well.”

His men loved it of course and Ceola grinned from ear to ear when he led an excitedly prancing Firefoot forward for him to mount. As he settled in the saddle and gathered the reins in his hands, Lothíriel put her hand on Firefoot’s neck and looked up at him, serious again. “Westu hal, Éomer.” She stepped back.

He smiled down at her. “Westu hal.”

Then he took his horn and blew it hard. His riders took up the call as they clattered out of the courtyard and down the hill, waving to the townspeople who had gathered to see them go. Once past the royal mounds, they crossed the fords of the Snowbourn and Éomer looked back up at Meduseld.

On the edge of the terrace stood Lothíriel and though he was too far away to make out her expression, he knew she was following them with her eyes. A gust of wind streamed out her loose black hair like a banner and his heart contracted for a moment. His wife, his home, all that he rode out to protect.

But then he had to acknowledge the greetings of his captains as they took their place in the order of the march and his mind turned to the practicalities of sorting out a few thousand riders, some of whom had never been part of an ordered host. They slowed to a more sedate pace when they hit the road to the Entwade, alternating trotting with cantering, and the companies strung out behind him in a long, irregular shape.

It was only when Edoras was fading into the distance, solely a glitter of gold from Meduseld’s roof marking it, that his mind returned to that morning’s conversation with Lothíriel. Why had she acted so strangely when he had given her the royal seal? For a moment she had looked as if she had seen a ghost! Thoughtfully he stroked the silk scarf tied around his arm, his last link to his lady. And then his mind finally made the connection: had she thought he wanted to give her a token to remember him by? And had the last man to offer her a keepsake before going away to war never come back?

Of course! What a fool he had been not to realise at once. Éomer cursed himself for a nitwit not to perceive the truth sooner. However, then another thought hit him: had she reacted like she had because of the memories it brought back? Or because she did care for him – at least a little bit – and thought it a bad omen?

Suddenly he found that he wanted the answer to that question very much and cursed himself even more. Too late now! He grimaced as another thought occurred to him. What were the chances of getting a truthful answer out of his wife anyway?

Probably the same as being able to prise a limpet from its rock!

Chapter 11

The next morning, Éomer woke to the smell of kahva. For a moment he felt disorientated – the hard ground under him, the stamping of hooves and the low talk of men warred with a vivid picture of Lothíriel having breakfast in her bed, called up by the aromatic smell.

He sat up and blinked. Unfortunately his first impression had been correct – they were camped above the Entwash. The weather being dry, he had not bothered with having his tent erected the evening before and had just settled down near one of the campfires, so now he had a good view of the camp coming to life under the rising sun. Wafts of mist rose from the river, where already some of his riders watered their horses, and the sky stretched above them streaked with pink clouds. Then the smell came again.

Turning round, he saw his squire crouched over a fire, watching a pot of something with a frown of fierce concentration. Surely that couldn’t be…

“What’s that you’re brewing?” he asked.

Ceola looked up. “Your kahva, my Lord King. Mistress Dordes gave me precise instructions how to prepare it.” He bit his lip. “Only the fire is hotter than I thought and I burnt the beans. But only a little! You won’t tell her, will you?” He sounded anxious.

“No, of course not.”

In fact the beverage his squire served him was a vast improvement on the herb tea they usually made do with on campaign. “I’m surprised Dordes let you in on the secrets of brewing kahva,” Éomer remarked. He had got the impression the elderly woman considered herself a cut above the other servants, let alone a lowly squire.

“Oh, it was the queen’s idea,” Ceola said. “I don’t think Mistress Dordes was too pleased about it, but she had to agree.” The lad beamed at Éomer. “Lothíriel Queen particularly thanked me for my efforts.”

So his wife made her influence felt even when he was far from home. He took a large gulp of hot kahva, savouring the invigorating taste. The married state definitely had its advantages!

Just how advantageous it was, he found out the next day when they got caught in a rainstorm and he discovered he possessed a new cloak, made from oiled cloth and lined with soft wool. Whereas his old cloak would soak up the water after a while and hang heavy and limp from the shoulders, this one just shed the rain like a duck’s feathers. All the riders of his personal éored had one of these miraculous cloaks and stayed cosy and dry, much to the envy of the other men.

“Lothíriel Queen ordered them from Dol Amroth specially,” Ceola informed him. “She said that sailors wear overcoats made from this cloth in heavy weather.”

His wife had been busy! Everywhere he turned, he found small signs of her touch, from Firefoot’s new saddle blanket embroidered with swans and horses, to an ample supply of fresh shirts – a completely novel experience on campaign for him.

And when after three days’ riding they reached the Anduin, there of course lay the largest proof of her efforts: what his men just called ‘the queen’s ships’, a small army of flat bottomed boats lately emptied of supplies and now ready to ferry them across the river. Also awaiting them impatiently was Amrothos, who had been sent by Aragorn with the latest news to coordinate their attack.

They crossed the Anduin the next day, loaded up their pack horses and then set out along the narrow strip of land between the uncertain ground of the Dead Marshes on one side and the clefts and fissures of the Emyn Muil on the other, sending their scouts out before them. Though nobody lived in this barren land, this was enemy territory now, which meant constant vigilance and cold camps.

Éomer found he missed his morning kahva, but to his surprise even more he missed his wife’s company. During the day he was busy enough with the concerns of a large host on the move, but at night he often lay watching the stars twinkling through the fetid mists rising from the marshes and his thoughts turned homeward. Did she think of him at all, he wondered, or was she content just going through her daily routine? Without really noticing it, he had got used to her presence in his life, her company over breakfast, the rare glimpses of dry wit and the even rarer smiles of genuine warmth. And disconcertingly, his body chose the most awkward moments to remind him of the feel of her silken hair gliding through his fingers or the smooth softness of her skin.

As they continued east, the marshes slowly fell behind and the land opened up. It was a desolate place, parched by the sun in summer, scoured by icy winds in winter, where nothing much grew except withered grass and scraggly bushes. What forests it had once possessed had long gone to feed the insatiable furnaces of Mordor until it served mainly as a passageway for Gondor’s foes. Éomer knew of course that eventually their presence would be discovered, but he hoped to outrun the news of their coming and surprise the enemy nevertheless. But for that they needed more certain information of Aragorn’s movements!

They got it six days after crossing the Anduin. One of his scouts galloped up with a tall, grim faced man with the black hair and grey eyes of the Dúnedain riding double behind him. Éomer recognised the man at once as being one of Faramir’s rangers.

Éomer reined in his horse. “Mablung, well met! What news do you bring?”

Mablung dismounted gingerly. The rangers had no love for horses, though they saw the use of them. “My Lord King, it gladdens my heart to see you and your men!” he exclaimed. “King Elessar has sent me to make contact with you.”

The man had to be both brave and skilful to make his way through the lines of their foes. “Where are Gondor’s forces now?” Éomer asked and passed his water skin to the ranger.

Gratefully, the man took a deep draught. “I left King Elessar five night ago, encamped in the foothills of the Ered Lithui.” He pointed southward, to where the land merged with the horizon in a grey haze. “But it was slow going, for I had to hide during the day. The land is crawling with companies of Easterlings, you won’t be able to stay undetected for much longer.”

So the Son of Sauron was rallying his forces. Well, they had always intended for Aragorn to attract the enemy’s attention. It looked like their plan had worked better than they had anticipated!

“What does Aragorn intend to do?” he asked.

“He has found a position that is defensible and means to dig in. Hopefully the Easterlings will decide to starve them out, rather than attack at once. However, you need to make haste.”

Éomer drummed his hand on his thigh. “How many days’ riding to reach them, do you think?”

The man did not hesitate at all. “Two days or less, my lord; it’s mostly flat, open country. Only, once you make contact with the Easterlings, there’s the danger that they carry word of you to the enemy.”

Éomer nodded. They knew that of course, although sometimes a bit of panic spreading ahead amongst the opposing ranks could be useful.

“What about water?” Erkenbrand asked, leaning forward. “Not so much for us, but for the horses if they have to make a run.”

“I’ve scouted out the riverbeds and some still run with water. Also, as we get closer to the mountains, there will be more.”

“And how are you set for supplies?”

“Don’t worry, we have yours with us, my Lord King.”

“Mine?” Éomer stared at the ranger in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The ones you purchased in Minas Tirith and sent with the army? I think Queen Lothíriel arranged for transport with Lord Faramir.”

“I see.” Maybe next time he went to war, he would just leave the whole organisation to Lothíriel and lean back and watch! He came to a decision. “Very well. Pass the order to dump everything we do not need and get ready to ride.”

While the men sorted out any unnecessary gear, little as that was, he dismounted to stretch his legs and give his horse a rest. It was one of his remounts, for he intended to keep Firefoot fresh for the actual battle. Ceola ran to take the reins and he noticed his squire’s white face. It would be the lad’s first fight.

“Remember, Ceola, the most important thing is to stay on your horse. And no heroics! That’s an order.”

Ceola smiled weakly. “Yes, my lord. Lothíriel Queen said the same.”

Lothíriel… Éomer touched the green scarf he still wore tied to his arm. He had been in battle too many times to have any illusions about his own mortality. What if he never saw her again? A pang of regret swept through him that he had only really begun to get to know her a little. But then he shook his head and pushed the thought aside. He had promised her another match of hounds and boars and had every intention of keeping his word. Come back safe and sound, she had told him…

He gave Ceola a sharp nod. “Listen to your queen.”

As the sun began to sink behind them, they set off, alternating walking with trotting and a light canter, a pace that ate the miles yet fell short of an all-out run. During the brief summer night they rested, then turned south as soon as it got light. That morning they met the first scattered companies of Easterlings, luckily all on foot, and rode them to ruin without pausing.

The familiar excitement began to mount in Éomer at a battle looming. If he had timed it right, word might spread before them, but would just serve to throw their foes into disarray without giving the Son of Sauron the time to get ready for them. In the early evening they rested in the shelter of a river valley for a few hours and watered the horses before setting out again.

And as the sun came racing up over the rim of the world to greet them, they finally sighted the camp of the enemy. It was crawling with frantic activity, busy as an anthill that somebody had stuck a stick in. Then Éomer gave the sign and the host began to move, slow at first, but gathering speed like a great wave that foamed across the plain.

Éomer let blow the horns.

***

And so once more he and Aragorn met in the midst of battle, and once more they returned from it together, riding back to the Gondorian camp in the late afternoon. But this time their losses were less grievous, for their plan had worked just as intended. Shocked by the sudden reversal of their fortune, the Easterlings had indeed been crushed between the Rohirrim and Gondor’s forces as between hammer and anvil. Even so they had fought hard and doggedly, but when the Son of Sauron had fallen to Andúril, his men had finally broken and run.

After a quick visit to check that his wounded riders were in good hands with the healers that Aragorn had brought in his train, Éomer joined his friend and their captains in the command tent to discuss what further measures were needed to sweep up the remains of the Easterling army. After a while he straightened up from the table strewn with maps and yawned.

“Do you think you could spare me a corner of your tent to sleep in?” he asked Aragorn.

“I can do better than that,” his friend answered, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Why don’t you use the Rohan tent?”

“The what?”

Aragorn grinned. “Courtesy of your queen, I believe. It came with the Rohirrim’s supplies, including a very comfortable looking cot, and we pitched it in readiness of your arrival.”

Amrothos had listened in disbelief. “What! And is there a Dol Amroth tent as well?”

Aragorn shrugged. “I’m afraid not. But perhaps you can have a corner of your brother-in-law’s. It’s big enough.”

By that time Éomer was so tired, he would have dropped off anywhere, but he had to admit it was a wonderful feeling to lie down on fresh sheets and have a soft blanket cover him. Seldom had a bed been more welcome! With a whispered thank-you to his wife, so many leagues away, yet so close, he let sleep claim him.

***

Again the smell of kahva woke him. For a moment Éomer stared up at the unfamiliar green roof of canvas before the memory of the past few days came back. Now that he was rested, various aches and pains called for his attention, bruises and grazes that he had not even noticed in the heat of battle. With a groan he sat up and became aware of his surroundings for the first time. A rich carpet covered the floor, there was a table with a couple of folding chairs and on a chest by the bed fresh clothes lay ready for him. Most welcome of all, an alcove in the back held a basin of water.

As clean as could be expected on campaign, he strolled out the tent soon after. He found Aragorn, Faramir and Amrothos sitting round the fire, lifting cups of kahva to him in salute when he appeared.

“Good morning, Brother,” Amrothos greeted him. “I’ve decided to attach myself to the Rohirrim contingent. After all, we’re family and have to stick together.”

Faramir grinned sardonically. “The food has nothing to with it, has it?”

“Of course not!”

Éomer accepted his own cup of kahva from Ceola, who sported a purpling bruise on his face from his first battle and seemed immensely proud of it. Then the squire brought him a plate of trail bread and scrambled eggs.

Éomer blinked down at it in surprise. “Eggs? Where have they come from?”

“From your hens, of course,” Faramir answered. “The merchant who brought them assured me he had only selected the best pullets for the Queen of Rohan.”

“Lothíriel sent hens?” Éomer asked in disbelief.

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged an amused look. “Two dozen, plus a couple of goats for milk,” Aragorn confirmed. He gave a deep sigh. “Faramir and I must be doing something wrong, our wives expect us to manage on trail rations.”

“That’s because they know that we’re hardy,” his steward threw in. “We don’t need to be cosseted like Éomer.”

Aragorn nodded sagely. “You’re probably right. This delicate flower of Rohan’s manhood needs careful looking after.”

Éomer joined them at the fire. “If you two aren’t careful, I’ll have that kahva back,” he said and dug into his food. It tasted heavenly.

“It’s only envy,” Amrothos threw in. “I’m with you absolutely, dear brother. Could I have some of that scrambled egg too, do you think?”

When he was thoroughly replete, Éomer put the plate down and stretched, loosening his abused muscles. Several of the captains had come to report, but so far the Easterlings were in full retreat and there was no danger of a counter strike. The camp meanwhile seemed quiet, the mood subdued after the battle. He knew they would rejoice in their victory eventually, but at the moment the memory of fighting, of enemies falling to their blades and friends dying was still too raw.

“Have you sent couriers to Minas Tirith with news of the battle?” he asked Aragorn.

“Not yet,” his friend replied, “but I left the palantír with Arwen, so they should know by now or at least very soon.”

Éomer nodded. How strange to think his friend’s Elven queen might be watching them this very moment! Bemused, he threw an enquiring glance up at the sky, though he could not possibly have sensed her of course.

“Do you think she’ll remember to tell Éowyn?” Faramir asked with a frown of anxiety marring his face. “I don’t want her to worry, not in her condition.”

Amrothos rolled his eyes. “Will you stop fretting, Cousin! Remember, the woman faced down the Witch King.”

“And will Arwen send the news on to Rohan?” Éomer couldn’t help asking in his own turn.

“I’m sure she’ll remember,” Aragorn replied. “My queen is really quite competent, you know, even if she didn’t think it necessary to send me chickens.”

There was a definite twinkle in his eyes, which Éomer had to acknowledge with a chuckle. “Perhaps next time,” he said.

“I will go for quails,” Amrothos threw in suddenly. “And those pickled eels Father’s cook does to perfection.” His eyes went dreamy. “Not to forget my own tent with a proper bed. Oh yes, the Dol Amroth encampment will be unrecognisable!”

The other three exchanged a grin. “I’m not sure I can authorise that,” Aragorn said. “I don’t want my warriors to get soft.”

“Bad for morale,” Éomer agreed, which earned him a look of outrage from Amrothos.

“Soft! What about you and your chickens then!”

Éomer took another gulp of kahva. “My hardy northern soul can withstand such blandishments, unlike you tender southerners.”

“Tender, eh?” Amrothos shot back. “Just wait until your first visit to Dol Amroth. I’ll take you sailing and show you how soft we are.”

“We’ll see.” But Éomer made a mental note to take his wife along for protection if he ever stepped on a boat.

“So how long until we can return to Minas Tirith, do you think?” Faramir interrupted their verbal sparring.

“Another few days?” Aragorn suggested. “I’m hoping to wrap things up quickly here.”

“Why the hurry?” Amrothos asked.

“Some of us have happy homes to return to,” Faramir pointed out.

At that Amrothos shuddered. “Ah yes, all that wedded bliss waiting for you. I just hope it’s not catching.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better check if Erchirion is back yet from chasing those Easterlings.” With a casual wave he sauntered off.

Faramir followed his cousin with his eyes. “You know, I think Amrothos is starting to regret that his father let Lothíriel go.” He gave a small smile. “What a turn after years of taking her for granted.”

“His loss, my gain,” Éomer said flippantly.

That earned him a quizzical glance. “Yes indeed.” Ceola brought over a fresh pot of kahva that moment and filled up their cups. Faramir swirled the liquid round and sniffed appreciatively. “How this brings back memories of visits to Dol Amroth. For some reason the taste never quite caught on in Minas Tirith, though that might change now. Imrahil’s wife hailed from Pelargir, you know, and they have a long tradition of trading with Harad.”

He would have known Lady Arodwen of course. Éomer’s curiosity stirred. “Is it true that Lothíriel is a lot like her mother?”

Faramir studied his kahva. “Well, Arodwen was a great lady, elegant, refined, dignified. And always in control of her emotions in public, although Aunt Ivriniel once mentioned that if she ever got angry, Imrahil ran for cover. And grovelled.”

Éomer blinked at such an image of his father-in-law. “Really?”

Faramir shrugged. “For myself, I never saw her less than gracious and charming.”

“Like Lothíriel then,” Éomer said.

Faramir hesitated. “You know, some years ago I would have said not at all; Lothíriel was such an impulsive child, always up to mischief and in some sort of trouble. Usually instigated by Amrothos, of course. Yet though she and her mother were not at all alike, they were very close. It hit her hard when Arodwen died; she had just turned fourteen.”

What a different picture of his wife! “How did Lady Arodwen die?”

“Drowned. She had been to visit her family in Pelargir and on the way home they got caught in a storm. The ship went down with the loss of all life.”

Éomer caught his breath. I have no love for the sea, Lothíriel had said on their wedding night. And just on the cusp of adulthood, the poor girl! He remembered only too well the feeling of loss and even betrayal at being left alone upon the death of his own parents.

“Lothíriel changed after her mother’s death,” Faramir went on slowly. “There were no more childish pranks and she got so serious, almost as if she wanted to turn herself into the image of her mother.” He shrugged. “Mind you, I didn’t see her much these last years. She visited Minas Tirith a few times, but I was away fighting a lot. And then after the war…” He hesitated.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know… it seemed to me that she got even more withdrawn, as if she’d built a wall between herself and the world. Of course the times were difficult and she must have worried about her father and brothers.” He looked up suddenly. “You have to understand, Lothíriel has led a very sheltered life and has never encountered any violence.”

“None?” Then how had she seen the man she loved die?

“Dol Amroth saw no enemy action,” Faramir explained. “But they knew of course that they would be the corsairs’ next target. Umbar is not a pleasant place for women.”

Well, that was an understatement when Umbar fed the notorious slave markets of Harad! “I should say so!” He hesitated over the opportunity of sounding out Faramir, for he did not want to give Lothíriel’s secret away. Obviously she had not confided to her family that she had fallen in love. Had the man been unsuitable?

“Did she spend the whole war in Dol Amroth?” he asked. “Without being involved in any fighting?”

“Oh, after what happened to his wife, Imrahil was determined to keep her safe,” Faramir answered. “Although sometimes I wonder how well he succeeded.”

Aragorn had listened to their conversation so quietly, Éomer had forgotten that he was there, a deft ranger’s trick. Now he stirred. “You know, my friend, the first time I met her, Lothíriel seemed to me like somebody who had taken a mortal wound, but refused to acknowledge it through sheer stubbornness.” He sighed. “Whether that was caused by her mother’s death I cannot say, though you might know more.” He gave Éomer an uncomfortably shrewd look. “I had hoped that time and a fresh start would bring her healing.” His voice petered out, full of unvoiced questions.

Éomer thought of the woman playing hounds and boars with him, then of the cool, distant queen who had bid him farewell. Which was the real Lothíriel? Sometimes he felt as if he had married half a dozen women, like the chiefs of the Haradrim were said to do! And they were all different and he understood none of them…

He gulped down his kahva, lukewarm now, and rose. “Well, if we want to leave for Minas Tirith soon, I’d better check on my riders.”

Chapter 12

Four days later they struck camp to make their way back to friendlier lands. Aragorn had arranged for specially sprung waggons to carry the wounded, but the going was slow and it took them three weeks to return to Minas Tirith. However, on their arrival the populace greeted them enthusiastically and in the evening there was a great feast in Merethond.

Éomer was pleased to see his sister, who had come from Emyn Arnen to meet them, but felt a pang when he witnessed Éowyn’s enthusiastic reunion with her husband. The two could hardly keep their hands off each other and Aragorn and Arwen were no better! He had the mad impulse to write to Lothíriel and ask her to come to Minas Tirith, but it would have been silly for her to ride all that way for just a week or so.

At least Éowyn looked in the best of health and literally glowed with contentment whenever she stroked her gently rounded belly. She was full of the small news of her new home and it eased his heart to see her so happy and relaxed. She and Faramir retired early, pleading fatigue – not that anyone believed them – and Éomer decided to follow suit. Lady Malheril and her like were on the prowl and he had no stomach to endure such insipid company.

Dismissing his guards to their own devices, he rode down to the Rohirrim camp on the Pelennor Fields. Aragorn had offered him rooms in the Citadel, but he preferred staying with his men.

A yawning Ceola took Firefoot’s bridle and led him away. From the campfires the sounds of revelry, laughter and singing drifted over on the warm night air and he debated whether to join his men for a couple of rounds of drink. However, he felt strangely discontented and would probably not have been good company, so he just called after his squire to bring him a jug of ale. It was foolish to be so low-spirited when they had gained a victory and he had nothing to complain about, he told himself. Perhaps getting quietly drunk was the solution to his unsettled mood.

Ceola had lit the lamps in the tent, and after shedding his cloak Éomer suddenly noticed a pile of papers on the table. What were they? His heart gave a funny lurch when he recognised the elegant handwriting. Quickly he sorted through the pile – no less than eight letters from Lothíriel. She had taken her promise to write seriously!

That moment Ceola entered with the jug of ale. “When did these arrive?” Éomer asked.

“A servant from the Citadel brought them down this evening,” the squire replied. “Shall I fetch you something to eat, my lord?”

“No, no.” Éomer waved him away. “You go and enjoy yourself, I won’t need you tonight. But go easy on the drink!”

Dismissing the lad from his mind, he sat down and sorted through the letters. His supremely efficient wife had even numbered them so he could read them in the right order! Briefly he felt guilty for not having written once beyond a short message announcing their success, but then he had never been a very good correspondent, as his sister often told him.

The first one was dated just a couple of days after they had left and was full of the small happenings of Edoras: little Wynn, Háma’s daughter, learning to shape her first letters, one of the servants announcing her betrothal, a funny account of the cook’s fearless cat defending its favourite resting place by the hearth against a deer hound twice its size and the birth of twins to one of the townswomen.

The words flowed easily from Lothíriel’s pen and it seemed to Éomer almost as if he could hear her speaking to him. Suddenly he longed to be home, to have a cold mountain breeze blow away the warm, stagnant air, to see the green, rolling plains, to hold his wife in his arms…

He sighed. Only a couple more weeks, surely he could stand that. The next letter, written a few days later, continued in the same vein with all the small, dear news of home and a brief report on the progress of his foals by Tidhelm, the Keeper of the Studbook. But when he reached the postscript his breath caught. It looked like it had been added after the main letter, the writing very precise: Éomer, I regret to inform you that I have not conceived.

His heart went out to her and at the same time he felt guilty. The one thing she wanted so much and that he had so far been unable to give her. Unbidden, the recollection of one of his uncle’s friends whose adored wife had divorced him for barrenness after five years of marriage came to his mind. She had gone on to raise a brood of children with another husband, whereas the poor man had died bitter and without an heir. Éomer pushed the memory away. Surely it would not take much longer, he told himself, after all they were both young and healthy.

Pouring himself a mug of ale, he reached for the next letter on the pile. Aldburg, in the Folde, it began. Startled, he sat up straighter. What was she doing there? Had she needed Elfhelm’s assistance for some reason? But no, she wrote that she had taken up Elfhelm’s wife on an invitation to visit their home. An account followed of being shown around the town by her host and hostess and taken to see some of the East Mark’s horse herds. Éomer couldn’t help feeling an irrational disappointment at not being the one to introduce her to the place where he had grown up and to show her his favourite spots. Then he bit his lip. He had nobody to blame but himself, he suddenly realised, not having taken her along to Aldburg even once all last winter.

She was full of the kind reception by Elfhelm’s lively family and how well they had looked after her. Lady Leofgifu insisted I use the room set aside for your use, though I would have been perfectly happy to share with Hild. She even had it strewn with fresh rushes and all the sheets aired. Involuntarily Éomer groaned at the picture of his wife sleeping in his big, wide bed in Aldburg. What was he doing stuck here in Minas Tirith when instead he could have been there with her!

Letter number four was dated in Edoras again, written in a more sombre mood and by coincidence on the day they had given battle to the Son of Sauron. I wonder where you are this moment, she had written, and if you have met the enemy yet? The usual small news followed, but it seemed to Éomer that her style lacked its usual spirit. However, the next paragraph was dated two days later and gave a vivid description of a visit to the foaling pastures that Hild had talked her into. They had seen Northwind and her son, now a high-spirited colt, and Lothíriel had written two pages full of underlined words and exclamation points describing their encounter. Éomer grinned at the enthusiasm that almost leapt off the page. Wynn had been allowed to accompany her big sister and had played with the colt, which already lived up to its name of Elfsteed.

Lothíriel sounded so alive, he thought, as if she had set loose a part of her that she usually kept tightly controlled behind the shutters of her mind. Was it because letters belonged to her world of books and words, where she felt safe and could be herself? Or because of his absence? What a lowering thought! He traced the elegantly shaped letters as if they could give him a lifeline through the smoke and mirrors of his wife’s mind to the laughing woman who had played hounds and boars with him. Like a maiden shut away in a tower, Éomer mused, only this one wished for no rescue. Or did she?

Shaking his head at his whimsy, he picked up the next letter. Dunharrow, it was titled. What? Quickly scanning over the beginning, he discovered that Lothíriel and Hild were staying a few days with the Lord and Lady of Harrowdale. Of course, Háma’s sister had married Dúnhere, who had been killed on the Fields of the Pelennor, so young Lord Dunstan was Hild’s cousin. By the date, Lothíriel had spent barely a week in Edoras before setting off on this visit! He frowned. Why was he getting the impression of a prisoner enjoying her freedom with her gaoler away? He vowed to take her with him next time he had to travel within the Mark, if only to keep an eye on her.

Then he nearly choked on his ale when he continued to read. Lord Dunstan very kindly showed us the avenue of púkelmen leading to the Dark Door and even let us enter the tunnel under the mountain. The man had done what! He had a vision of Lothíriel losing her way in the dark bowels of the Dwimorberg. I was a little apprehensive at first, but Hild assured me that there were no spiders and the dead had gone and indeed the atmosphere was not as eerie as I had expected, but rather empty and a little sad. Lord Dunstan is hoping to open the passage for trade with Gondor, which seems a promising idea, so I told him I could put him in touch with a consortium of merchants in Dol Amroth, who might be interested in sharing the financial burden of securing a navigable path and that I might even invest some money in such an interesting venture myself. In fact I would have liked to continue past Baldur’s cavern to check on the condition of the road, but Dunstan refused to let us go any further, saying that you would not want it.

So the man had a little sense left. He would have a word or two with him on the subject of how to look properly after the Queen of the Mark when next they met, Éomer thought grimly. Oh yes!

At least nothing more untoward had happened and the next letter was dated from Edoras again. By then Lothíriel had received news of their victory from Queen Arwen, which had resulted in a spontaneous celebration by the townsfolk, to which she had contributed several casks of ale. She gave an animated description of the dancing round the bonfires and a funny portrayal of the men’s condition the morning after, but only at the end of the letter did she touch on her personal feelings and that only lightly. I am relieved to hear that everything went according to plan and that you are well.

Éomer sighed. That was all? On the other hand, what else did he expect from his restrained, dignified queen? Those were the qualities he had married her for after all. And to be quite honest, he had not exactly poured out his heart either in his quick epistle penned during the days of rest after the battle. Regarding the sheets and sheets of closely written paper strewn across his table, he again felt guilty for being such a poor correspondent.

Two letters left. He picked up number seven. This one gave an account of the King’s Court she had held and would probably have been supremely boring to an outsider, but to Éomer it brought back a host of memories. A wave of homesickness swept through him and he wondered if he could put forward their departure from Minas Tirith. Surely they did not have to attend all the celebrations planned for them?

Settling back in his chair, he took another deep draught of ale and then broke the seal on the last letter, unfortunately only a single sheet of parchment.

The Fords of Isen.

Dear Éomer, you are probably wondering what I am doing here.

It took him a moment to take in the meaning of her words. “What?” he sputtered. Was she out of her mind to travel right to the border of the Mark! For more sight-seeing? The Dunlendings might have been quiet since the Battle of Helm’s Deep, but that did not mean they would no longer raid the lands of the Rohirrim. Especially with such a promising target! And where in all this was Eadbald, Erkenbrand’s son, who was in charge of the West Mark? He smoothed out the letter, which he had crumpled in his agitation.

Forgive me for only writing so briefly, but the last few days have been rather busy. You see, a group of Dunlendings, mostly women and children, have gathered on the far side of the Isen, begging for food. They seem to be refugees of some inner strife amongst their tribes and Eadbald didn’t know what to do, so he sent word to Edoras, asking for advice. I thought you would want me to go personally to assess the situation, therefore–

Éomer leapt up. She had thought what! And that useless whelp of Erkenbrand’s had known nothing better than to drop his problem in her lap, rather than sending to Elfhelm? A red haze of rage obscured his vision for a moment. If anything had happened to Lothíriel… He snatched up the letter again.

–therefore I asked Hild to accompany me and we set off the next day. We took a company of guards along and Eadbald met us along the way with his own éored, so you needn’t worry.

Not worry! He remembered the Deeping-coomb filled with enemies from one end to the other, fires flaring up wherever they torched another farmhouse, murdering its inhabitants. He wanted a host of his men between Lothíriel and filth like that, not Eadbald’s single éored! What if it was a trap?

We arrived here this afternoon and I’ve already spoken to some of our guards posted at the ford. They estimate the Dunlendings to be about five hundred strong, but almost all of them are women and children, with few able-bodied men, and all desperately starved, some of them ill as well. Apparently there is a chieftain by the name of Urho, who seems to be leading these people, and I’ve arranged to meet with him tomorrow to discuss what to do.

And that was it. Just a promise to write to him the moment she knew more, the hope that this letter would find him in good health and her graceful signature.

Éomer stared down at it for a long moment, fear compressing his chest like a vice. He searched for the date, which he had overlooked at first. Written seven days ago, so it would only just have been delivered. However, anything could have happened in that time. He felt sick.

What if this Dunlending chieftain had abducted her? She might be deep in their territory by now, a frightened, bewildered hostage. Or worse! Too well did he remember what they had found in the West Mark’s farmhouses whose owners had not left quickly enough. Men with their bellies slashed open, children with throats cut, the women…

He refused to consider that possibility. Black, boiling rage welled up within him at the image of some Dunlending holding a blade to Lothíriel’s throat, laying rough hands on her. With her gentle, sheltered upbringing, she would be completely helpless…

He would kill this Urho! He would kill them all! Raze Dunland from the Isen to the sea. Before he knew it, he had grabbed his sword and stridden out his tent.

“Ceola!” he yelled.

Yet as the cooler night air hit him, he paused and took a deep breath. He needed to consider the matter thoroughly. His men would drop everything and follow him, but was that the best thing to do? Once before he had let fury rule him, and it had almost led him and all his men to their doom. He had sworn then that it would not happen again, that next time he would think before he acted.

And anyway, even if they set off at once, they would be days too late to do anything. Ice filled his veins at that realisation, replacing the hot fire that had run through him a moment ago. He needed more information…

Panting, Ceola came running up. “My Lord King?”

He came to a decision. “Fetch me our fastest horse.”

***

Everybody melted out of his way as he strode along the corridors of the Citadel. Only at the door to Aragorn’s private chambers did a foolhardy guard try to stop him.

“My lord, King Elessar has retired. You can’t go in there unannounced!”

“Then announce me,” Éomer snapped.

The man took one look at him, hastily slipped inside the anteroom and knocked on the door to the bedroom. “The King of Rohan to see you, my lord,” he stammered.

Aragorn must have been still awake, for he appeared almost at once, clad in a simple shirt and hose. “Éomer?” He shot him a sharp glance. “Let’s go in the study and you can tell me what’s the matter, my friend.”

While Aragorn lit a brace of candles, Éomer quickly explained the situation and showed him the letter. “And what if there are spiders? She’s afraid of them!” he finished, only to realise how inane he sounded. He raked his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite myself.”

His friend gave him a sympathetic look. “Of course not. But are you sure this Dunlending chief has abducted her?” he asked, poring over the parchment.

“Yes!…no…” Éomer took a deep breath. “That’s what I need to know. Will you look in the palantír for me?” His only hope.

“Yes, by all means,” Aragorn agreed at once. He unlocked a heavy oak cabinet and retrieved a bundle of velvet from it. Throwing back the thick fabric, he revealed a ball of crystal, which he set on the table.

Éomer had only ever seen the palantír briefly and had expected it to be more impressive somehow, not just a globe of shiny black stone. “This is it?”

“Yes, it’s the Orthanc stone.” Aragorn motioned at the palantír. “Do you wish to look yourself?”

Éomer shied back from it; he did not like to meddle with wizard’s devices. On the other hand…to see Lothíriel for himself… “That’s possible?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Mind you, if you don’t concentrate, the stone will present you with dozens of erratic images, depending on what you think of that moment. You need a firm purpose to direct it to show you what you desire to know, but I believe you have firmness of mind enough for that.”

Éomer hesitated. Now that it had come to it, he was deathly afraid of what he might see. Taking a deep breath, he bent over the palantír. If only Lothíriel was all right! He would never complain about anything life threw at him or ask another favour of the Valar, he vowed, if only she was safe and sound. However, the stone showed him only a dull, distorted reflection of himself.

“Think of your wife,” Aragorn whispered.

Éomer touched her silken scarf that he kept tied around his upper arm and pictured Lothíriel as he had seen her the last time, on the morning he had left: grey eyes large in her pale face, her hair caressed by the wind, the feel of her in his arms. More images rose in his mind, Lothíriel laughing at him over their game of boars and hounds, serving ale to his men in Meduseld, splashing in the pond on their excursion to see the horses.

Where was she now? He needed to know! Something flickered in the depths of the crystal globe and he leant closer. Was it simply a reflection of the candles? But no, the stone slowly grew transparent, as if it were made of glass, and a tiny image formed inside. Éomer concentrated on the light until it grew to fill his vision. It was an ordinary oil lamp standing on a desk, he realised. But where was Lothíriel? He wanted to see her!

Then there was a movement to the side. As his attention was caught, the focus of the palantír shifted and suddenly he saw a piece of parchment, an ink well and a hand holding a quill. Lothíriel? The moment he voiced her name in his mind, the vision jumped to include her. She was sitting at the desk, staring down at the lines she had written, tiredly rubbing her eyes.

“Lothíriel!” he breathed. He recognised the place now, she was in her study in Meduseld!

Her eyes flew up in surprise. But the wave of relief sweeping through him broke his concentration and the vision shattered. He swore.

“Bad news?” Aragorn asked, looking grim.

“No! She’s fine, she’s in Edoras! But I lost the vision.” He sank down on a chair. “Lothíriel is all right,” he repeated, still finding it difficult to believe. Then a new anxiety hit him. “The stone doesn’t lie, does it? She’s truly fine?”

“The palantír reveals what happens somewhere else this very moment,” Aragorn assured him. “It might not always show you what you want to know, but it will not lie.”

So she was in her bedroom in Meduseld, staying up in order to write him yet another letter. He really had to do better than his single disgraceful scribbling! There had been lines of tiredness on her face, he thought.

Unnoticed by him, Queen Arwen had joined them, dressed in a flowing night gown, and her husband murmured a quick explanation to her. “What will you do now?” she asked.

Éomer drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re still worried?” his friend asked.

“What if she decides to go back to the Fords?” he burst out. “Or does something else that’s dangerous?” It seemed to him that you never knew what to expect next with Lothíriel! He would not have a moment’s peace now.

“Perhaps you should go home and tell your wife what you feel?” Aragorn suggested quietly.

Go home! “But the celebrations,” Éomer said. “And I still have wounded men in the Houses of Healing.”

“You’re the king. Surely there’s somebody you could leave in charge here while you take care of matters in Rohan. They will understand.”

“There’s Erkenbrand,” he admitted. It would also be a fitting punishment for having fathered such a useless son. “Yes,” he decided, “I will take my personal éored and ride first thing tomorrow morning.” He rose and clasped Aragorn’s arm. “My thanks for your help and your advice.”

“No need to thank me, we’re brothers,” Aragorn said. “And perhaps next time you come to Gondor, you will bring your queen?”

“I hope so.” He bowed to Arwen. “My lady, I’m so sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”

She slipped her hand inside her husband’s and smiled at Éomer. “There is no need for apologies when you worry about the one you love.” Her gaze seemed to pierce him to his very soul. “None at all.”

Éomer stammered some kind of reply and took his leave. Only when he was in the empty corridor again did he allow himself to consider Arwen’s words.

And with a sinking feeling in his stomach he realised that he could no more do without Lothíriel than he could do without air. He had thought his heart safe behind the walls he had built around it, but somehow she had slipped past his guard all unnoticed. And here he’d sworn not to give another hostage to fortune, to hold himself aloof from all further entanglements of the heart!

He took a deep breath. His whole body was tense with worry, so much that it hurt. And yet, he thought suddenly, when a limb has gone numb and comes to life again, that hurts too.

Chapter 13

Home. Éomer slumped tiredly in the saddle. Ahead of them, the hill of Edoras was alight with torches, so his messenger must have announced the news of their coming. He had sent one of his riders on ahead when they had stopped in Alburg for a word with his Marshal. However, Elfhelm had been away, and though his wife had urged him to stay the night, Éomer had declined the offer, earning himself grins from his men at his eagerness to be home.

Knowing the end of their journey beckoned, Firefoot lifted his weary head and picked up the pace. Soon they splashed through the ford of the Snowbourne and the guards at the gate greeted them by blowing their horns. He raised a hand in acknowledgement to the people of Edoras who had come to cheer them despite the late hour, but did not stop to talk to any. Up the hill, past the stables, and then…

She stood at the foot of the stairs, holding the welcoming cup. Éomer thrust his helmet at Éothain to hold, urged Firefoot forward and swung out of the saddle.

“Be welcome,” Lothíriel began the traditional greeting, “it gladdens–”

He grabbed the cup of mead from her, downed it in one gulp and then seized her in his arms and kissed her. She was all right! Even though he had seen her in the palantír, he didn’t truly believe it until he could at last touch her.

She started with surprise at first, but then her arms slid round his neck. Éomer dropped the empty cup to the ground and let his hands roam all over her. How well she fitted into his arms, how sweet she tasted. She was all marvellously soft woman! He twined his fingers in her hair and caught the scent of roses.

Finally they separated. He cupped her face in his hands. “You smell wonderful,” he said the first thing that came into his mind, only to become aware of his own less than pristine condition. He reeked of sweat and horse from the long ride, his hair needed a wash and his clothing had definitely seen better days. A brief rain shower that afternoon had only added the smell of wet wool to complement the other rather pungent aromas surrounding him.

Laughter sprang into her eyes as she must have realised the same thing. “Welcome home, Éomer. Would you rather have your meal first or your bath?”

His bed? With her in it? He sighed. “You’re the best of wives. A bath first, I think.”

Éomer dismissed his riders, then slipped his arm around Lothíriel’s waist as they went up the stairs. The doors of Meduseld opened in welcome and he drank in the familiar sights. It was good to be home! In their quarters, Lothíriel drew him towards his own bedroom and the small bathroom beyond it.

“The water is still hot,” she said, “the servants just need to bring it in here.”

He realised that it had probably been heated for her evening bath. “I’m not using your water, am I?” he asked.

“You are, but I think you need it more.” Her voice shook just slightly.

He grinned ruefully. How right she was! A couple of servants carrying buckets of water were just finishing filling the big wooden tub that took up most of the space in the small bathroom.

Lothíriel would have left then, but he grabbed her hand. “Stay with me?” He found he wanted to keep his wife close after not seeing her for such a long time.

She hesitated.

“To keep me company,” he added, “and tell me the news of Edoras?”

“If you wish.”

Éomer beamed at her, calling forth a shy answering smile. Hesitantly she touched the length of green silk still tied around his upper arm. “You’re wearing my scarf.”

“Of course!” He looked down at the scrunched up fabric, which like himself was rather worse for wear. “I’m afraid it got a little bit crumpled… But it brought me luck!”

“That’s fine then,” she assured him with a twinkle in her eyes. “I have more scarves – but only the one husband.”

Éomer laughed. “I’m glad to hear that.” His heart overflowed with sudden contentment and he realised how much he had missed her quiet wit.

Their task done, the servants now trooped out the room, and he began shedding his clothes, not bothering to go behind the carved screen set up in one corner for him. Lothíriel helped by taking his sword and belt and putting it out of the way. Pulling his shirt over his head, he looked up to find her watching his movements with a strange expression on her face. Then their eyes met and she coloured to the roots of her hair.

“I’ll be right back,” she stuttered, “I just want to change into something more comfortable.” And she hastily left the bathroom.

Éomer grinned. Why, his wife blushed like a maid on her wedding night! For a moment he was tempted to go and find her while she changed into ‘something more comfortable’, but the rich odour he still emanated persuaded him otherwise. Soon, he promised himself.

The warm water beckoned to him and with a sigh of pure pleasure he sank into the tub. He intended to just quickly wash his hair and then find Lothíriel, but first he would relax for a moment. It had been a long, strenuous ride from Minas Tirith.

He closed his eyes…

Clever fingers massaged his scalp and the scent of lemon balm filled the air. Éomer blinked and sat up. Had he drifted off? “Lothíriel?”

“Were you expecting somebody else?” his wife asked back.

She seemed to have recovered her usual cool composure anyway! Éomer leant back while she worked up a lather and then rinsed his hair. What a deft touch she had. ‘Something more comfortable’ meant her bed robe, he noted with approval.

“You’re back early,” she remarked, “we didn’t expect you for another couple of weeks.”

“I decided to come home sooner,” he answered. Now was not the time to discuss the reason for his early return, that could wait. She had taken no harm from her foolhardy actions and he would make sure that it did not happen again. His mood turned grim as he considered what to say to that whelp Eadbald regarding his duty as warden of the West Mark.

“I’ll speak to Wulfrith first thing tomorrow morning about organising a victory feast for your éored,” Lothíriel continued, unaware of his thoughts, “and then we’ll have a big one when the rest of the host returns.”

“I don’t want to make more work for you,” he said.

“It’s no bother,” she assured him. “Everybody is glad to have you back.”

Everybody? What about herself? Then he chided himself for brooding too much. “By the way, I got your chickens,” he remarked lightly.

“You did?” She sounded pleased. “I asked the merchant for his best layers, but I wasn’t sure if they would make it.”

“Two dozen of them did, much to Amrothos’s envy.”

“Good! Did he come scrounging for eggs?”

Éomer chuckled. “Actually he did, and even more when he later discovered you had supplied me with wine as well.” He turned his head to look up at her. “You take excellent care of your husband.”

She blushed with pleasure at his compliment. “It’s nothing.”

“Not when you’re exhausted after a long ride and a hard battle. I’ve seldom been so glad to sink into a comfortable bed.”

She rested her hand on his shoulders for a moment. “But you took no hurt?”

So she did worry about him. He felt inordinately pleased as he sank into the warm water again. “Nothing beyond a few scrapes and bruises.”

Lothíriel leant forward to crumble a few more leaves of dried lemon balm into the bath. “I thought not,” she murmured, almost as if to herself, “but I couldn’t be sure.”

A reminder of what a poor correspondent he was? “I’m sorry my letter was so brief,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t expect anything else.” There was a trace of amusement in her voice. “Father is just the same. If it weren’t for my sister-in-law, I would not know what goes on at Dol Amroth at all. I hope I didn’t bore you with my letters, but you said you wanted to hear the news from Edoras.”

He couldn’t quite admit how much he had enjoyed her letters, rereading them often as they camped for the night on the way home – except for the last one! “No, you didn’t bore me,” he said and she seemed content with that and set to rinsing his hair one more time.

“You need to have your hair trimmed,” she mused while gently working out the tangles. “If you want to, I can do it for you.”

“Maybe later,” he said. He had other plans first.

“I’ve improved a lot since cutting off Amrothos’s cherished pirate tail as a girl, so you needn’t worry.”

He chuckled. “Was it a mistake or deliberate?”

“A bit of both,” she admitted. “It was soon after the spider incident.”

“In that case, if I take you up on your offer, I’ll make sure I don’t annoy you beforehand.”

She laughed. “Oh, you have nothing to fear. I still owe you for getting rid of that nasty, fat spider the other day.”

He closed his eyes with contentment. “I’ll think of a way for you to express your gratitude.”

She actually chuckled. “You know, it has been dull around here without you!”

Éomer grinned. Was there anything better than being at home, lying in a tub of warm water and exchanging banter with your wife? Well, maybe one thing.

He lifted a leg to inspect it. “I think I’m clean enough now, don’t you agree?”

“You’ll pass.”

She fetched a towel and held it out in front of her like a barrier as he stepped out the bath. Though she studiously kept her eyes fixed on his face, a trace of colour crept back into her cheeks. Amused, Éomer stretched leisurely before he wrapped the towel around himself. Surely she should be used to his naked form by now – at least in the darkness of her bed.

Lothíriel took a step back. “Are you hungry? Should I tell the servants to get you something to eat?”

He caught her arm and gently pulled her towards him. “I am hungry. Not for food though...”

She blushed in earnest now, but lifted her face to him when he bent to kiss her. How good she tasted! And her intoxicating scent – ah, but it had been far too long. He let his hands roam up her back, discovering anew his wife’s delectable curves, and she responded by digging her fingers into his shoulders and pressing her body against him.

A groan escaped Éomer. He needed her! “Come to bed with me?” he whispered in her ear.

Her head resting against his shoulder, she nodded wordlessly, so he took her by the hand and led her into his bedroom. Sitting down on the mattress, he pulled her into his arms, then kissed her again, both of them breathing rapidly. Surely she had to be the most desirable woman in the whole of Arda! The single oil-lamp by the bedside cast a soft glow on his wife’s profile as he lowered her onto the bed. She looked up at him, eyes enormous, her dark hair spread across the pillow in a dramatic contrast to her creamy skin. Utterly alluring. They stayed poised like that for a long moment, then she lifted a hand to trace the shape of his lips.

Her touch, light as a butterfly, undid him completely. “I want you,” he breathed.

Turning his head, he blew out the lamp, then claimed her mouth again, more urgently. And in the darkness suddenly she matched him, writhing out of her robe and answering his feverish touches with kisses that burnt on his skin. It was as if a dam had broken.

With frenzied fingers they explored each other’s bodies, first one on top, then the other, rolling this way and that on the narrow bed.

Both starved, both wanting, needing…   

***

Much later Éomer smoothed out the twisted sheets and drew his wife against his side. Lothíriel nestled closer with a contented sigh, her head resting on his shoulder, one arm flung across his chest. With their passion spent, a comfortable lassitude had taken hold of him and he felt himself start to drift off.

Home. Deep down all the tension of the last weeks unravelled, as if his body could only now believe that all was well. Slowly he stroked Lothíriel’s hair, luxuriating in its softness, the feeling of her smooth skin against his. Once again she had surprised him, abandoning herself to their need, showing such open ardour. His wife. As baffling as ever in her reactions, yet utterly precious. All he wanted.

“Lothíriel?” he whispered.

She yawned. “Mmh?”

“I…I…” Why was it so difficult to admit his feelings? “I missed…this.”

She gave a sleepy sigh. “Me too.” Snuggling even closer, she relaxed against him, all warm and soft.

In his tired brain, Éomer searched for the right words to express the deep contentment he only found when she lay in his arms. His body, however, felt as if all his muscles and sinews had loosened and he only wanted to sink into deepest slumber. He nuzzled the crown of Lothíriel’s head, inhaling her scent.

For the moment it was enough just to hold her, to listen to her breathing and to know she was safe. 

***

The sun woke him the next morning, a bright shaft of light spearing through the windows. Éomer yawned, marvelling how relaxed he felt. Lothíriel was still curled against his side, surely the best sight for a man to wake up to. Stretching leisurely, he settled her more securely in his arms and couldn’t help a self-satisfied smile. After last night she could hardly deny that she had missed him! Who would have thought that his dignified queen hid such passion behind her cool, controlled exterior?

But slowly his smile faded. So she liked being in his bed, yet he was not a green rider anymore to take lust for love. Once, seducing her body would have been all he wanted, but now he desired to seduce her heart, an altogether more difficult task. Oh, Béma! He had never felt so uncertain with a woman since he was a stripling!

His mind went back to their wedding night and the bargain they had made. Was it dishonourable of him to want to change it, to ask for more? He shook his head at himself. What a fool he’d been to propose such a sterile pact, devoid of all that made life worthwhile. It had taken the shock of knowing her in danger to make him realise how much he needed her. But how could he say that to a woman who had chosen him over her other suitors because he did not talk of love to her?

As the light brightened, he wondered how late it was and when she would wake up. Gently he brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her face, but then he frowned: traces of dark rings showed around her eyes. And were those lines of tiredness? Had she taken on too much, organising all their supplies for them? Or was Eadbald to blame for dumping his problem with the Dunlendings on her? Or…dared he hope… had she worried about him?

He wanted to kiss her awake and ask her, but she looked so fragile somehow, lying there in his arms, fine boned and with her white, translucent skin. It would be cruel to tear her from her rest.

The sun rose higher and still her breathing did not change from the regular, slow rhythm of deep slumber. Éomer’s stomach reminded him that it was a long time since the last frugal meal, some bread and cheese eaten on the ride from Aldburg. Surely it was well past time for breakfast, but there was no sound from outside. It seemed Dordes was not keen on a repeat of that scene on the morning he had left either!

Finally he wriggled out from under his wife’s delightful weight, careful not to wake her. However, he needn’t have worried, Lothíriel just rolled over onto the warm spot he had vacated and buried deeper into the sheets. After throwing on a shirt and some trousers, he went out into the corridor and sent a page to fetch breakfast. Going back, he leant against the doorframe and watched his wife sleeping.

Home at last.

From the anteroom came the sound of a door opening and when he went to check, he found Dordes with a tray of food and kahva.

“Good morning, my Lord King,” she greeted him. “You sent for breakfast?”

Making completely sure she wasn’t interrupting anything? He must have scared the poor woman more thoroughly than he had realised! “Thank you, Dordes,” he replied. “I’ll take that, Lothíriel is still asleep.”

She passed the tray and curtsied. “Yes, my Lord King.”

“And thank you for showing Ceola how to brew kahva,” he added impulsively, “I very much appreciated it.”

Dordes sniffed. “It was my mistress’s idea.”

Put on his mettle, Éomer gave her his best smile. “Of course Ceola’s brew was not as tasty as yours. I’m looking forward to drinking the real stuff.”

She unbent slightly. “Thank you, my lord. You honour me.” She curtsied again. “Is that all?”

He nodded for her to leave, but when she reached the door, he called her name. “Dordes?”

She turned round. “Yes, my lord?”

“Your mistress seems tired.” He let his voice peter out suggestively. If anybody knew Lothíriel’s feelings, surely it had to be her maid.

Dordes hesitated. “She had a lot to do, especially the last few days.”

“Yes?” he encouraged her.

“My Lord King,” the maid said in a rush, “please just remember that my mistress only acted with the very best intentions.” Then she opened the door and quickly slipped outside.

Éomer was left holding the tray, completely puzzled. What had she meant by that? Had he missed something? But the tantalising scent of kahva, brewed to perfection no doubt, rose to his nostrils and he dismissed the thought. He’d ask the maid later.

Back in his room, to his delight he found Lothíriel sitting up yawning.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep in your bed,” she said with a shy smile while she pulled up the bed sheets to cover herself. “I must have been more tired than I realised.”

“You don’t need to apologise for that,” he assured her, putting down the tray on a table by the side of the bed and handing her one of the cups. She would just have to live with the consequences...

As if she could read his thoughts, a slow blush rose to her cheeks. Then she noticed his attire. “Oh, you’ve been for a morning ride already?” And before he could correct her misconception, she sat up straighter. “You haven’t been down to the Dunlending camp, have you? I wanted to introduce you myself.”

“No, I’ve–” Éomer choked on his kahva. “The what!”

“Oh. So you haven’t.”

He took a deep breath. “Lothíriel, what are you talking about?”

She drew the sheets more closely around herself. “Eh, didn’t you get my last letter?”

“I got the one you wrote at the Fords of Isen.” Not an experience he had enjoyed either! What else had she been up to?

“Well, there were further developments and I wrote another one...”

“What developments?” He tried to keep his voice level, but nevertheless she jumped.

“The Dunlendings sent a delegation to negotiate a treaty… just a few people, Urho and his tribe.”

It took all his self-control not to yell at her. “Are you telling me there are Dunlendings here at Edoras?”

“Kind of… they have a camp not too far away...” she said in a small voice.

“I’ll have that useless whelp whipped,” he exploded. “How could Eadbald allow this, he must be out of his mind!”

Her face white, Lothíriel bit her lip. “Please don’t blame Eadbald. It was my idea to assure them safe passage. I thought you’d approve.”

For a moment her words left him speechless. Approve of Dunlendings in Edoras? The last time they had camped outside the Golden Hall had been during the Long Winter, when they had enjoyed their spoils until Fréaláf, Helm’s sister-son, had driven them out.

“I know you don’t like them,” Lothíriel added, “but–”

“Not like them?” he exclaimed. “Do you know what they did in the West Mark? How many people they killed? What they did to the women and children that didn’t get away in time?” He stopped himself just barely from telling her what they’d found in some of the Westfold’s farms.

“I do know,” she answered, “but please, Éomer, hear me out.”

He struggled with himself, not wanting to distress her. She sat there, clutching the sheets, looking up at him with huge eyes. This was not how he had imagined the morning of his homecoming! “Very well, but be brief,” he finally conceded.

“I know the Rohirrim and Dunlendings have long been enemies,” she said, swallowing, “yet now they’re our neighbours, subject to King Elessar’s rule. Wouldn’t it be better to make peace with them while we’re in a position of strength and encourage those tribes who are friendly by trading with them?”

“Trade with them! And what is next, do you want to give them our horses? Better weapons?” It was preposterous!

“Of course not,” she protested. “But I’ve seen them, they’re poor and starving, with most of their menfolk killed. Éomer, this is our chance to let them remember the Rohirrim not as the people who took their land away, but as the people who helped them in need!”

He crossed his arms on his chest. “Lothíriel, they can’t be trusted. Look how they turned on us during the Long Winter. I can show you the exact place on the threshold of Meduseld where they killed Haleth, Helm’s son.”

“I’ve read about it!” She sounded frustrated. “But that was nearly three hundred years ago. With Sauron fallen and Saruman gone, we have the opportunity to make a new beginning. At least go and meet them! You’ll see that they’re just a bunch of women and children, with a few youngsters at most, no threat at all to you.” She paused to catch her breath. “Give them a chance. Give me a chance!”

“What is your interest in them?” Éomer challenged her. “Why do you defend them?” He couldn’t help wondering if their chieftain Urho was handsome.

She sighed. “I feel sorry for them. If you saw them, you would understand. They are defeated, have lost their men, their brothers, their sons. All they have left is bitterness and ashes. I look at them and think it could so easily have been me.” She raised her face to him. “Éomer, I’ve had my losses, but I know that I’ve been lucky really. Please, just go down and talk to them.”

It was a plea he could not deny, not when she looked at him that way. “Very well,” he agreed curtly. “I will talk to them, even if only to tell them to leave. But on my own. You are staying here.”

“What! Certainly not.”

“It’s for your own sake. They might turn violent.”

The sheets had started to slip, but she paid them no heed. “They’ll be afraid of you, Éomer,” she pointed out. “Besides, I’ve given them my word of safe passage.”

He tore his gaze away from the glimpses of creamy skin. “And I’ll honour it.”

“I have a right to be there!”

“I’m not risking you, and that’s my final word,” Éomer snapped. “Eadbald should never have let you within a league of them.” The Rage threatened to rise and engulf him at the mere thought.

Lothíriel’s hands bunched on the sheets. “It was perfectly safe. He had his éored along and reinforcements within call.”

“That’s not enough. I don’t know what got into him!”

She lifted her chin. “He had a problem and put it to his queen. You yourself gave me the authority to act in your stead. I thought you trusted my judgement.”

To his surprise she sounded angry and he realised they were having their first quarrel. How had that happened? Though in the past he had wished for her to show her true feelings, he could not really count it as progress. “I do trust your judgement,” he said, gentling his voice. “But I never meant for you to go and put yourself in danger!” Couldn’t she see he had lost too many people?

Perhaps she sensed some of his turbulent thoughts, for she visibly forced herself to relax. “Éomer,” she said more quietly, “living is dangerous; you cannot put people in a cage in order that nothing happens to them. You have to let go and trust in them.”

“Yes, but you can still choose which risks you take and which you don’t.” And talking to Dunlendings was at the top of the list of risks not to run!

She put her head to one side. “So what about you? You don’t lead a particularly safe life, training at arms every day. Let alone going to war!”

Éomer didn’t know what to answer. “That’s different,” he finally said. A lame reply, but he just could not face losing another person dear to him.

“Having children is dangerous too,” she pointed out, her voice unyielding. “Does that mean that you will stop sleeping with me?”

That was unanswerable! But as he stared at her in baffled hurt and indignation, she suddenly rubbed her eyes and sank back down onto her cushions. “Oh, Éomer, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She sounded discouraged. “I did not mean to welcome you back with an argument. You’ll think your wife a shrew.”

His anger drained away and he sat down on the side of the bed. “No, I won’t. You’re my wife and queen and I hope you’ll always tell me your honest opinion. I just don’t want something to happen to you.” It would gut him!

“I know.” She held out her hand to him. “And I do appreciate your concern. But trust me on this and take me along to talk to the Dunlendings. This is a risk worth taking, just think what we can gain!”

He hesitated. No gain was worth risking harm coming to her!

Lothíriel still had her hand extended. “Please, Éomer, won’t you let me come along? After all you’ll be there to keep me safe.” Her eyes were enormous in her face.

“You will follow orders?” he asked. And even as he said the words, he knew them for a capitulation.

So did his wife. “Of course.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “I promise you won’t regret it!”

He already was regretting his words! But Lothíriel gave him no chance to change his mind. Quickly she pulled at the sheets and wrapped them around herself. “I’ll get dressed at once,” she announced.

“Your breakfast,” he protested.

She had already scrambled out of the bed, trailing white linen behind her. “Oh, I’m not hungry.” And with that she flitted out the door.

With a sigh of frustration Éomer picked up his forgotten cup of kahva. So much for a leisurely morning with his wife!

The kahva was cold.

Chapter 14

The Dunlendings were camped half an hour’s ride west of Edoras, in a dell with a stream running through it. Here at the foot of the mountains, a thin blanket of autumn mist still lingered, with solitary fir trees emerging like sad sentinels, dripping with moisture. They rode silently, the jingle of their gear muffled by the still air. Despite Lothíriel assuring them of their unwelcome guests’ peaceful intentions, Éomer and his men had donned all their armour and sent out scouts to make sure they would not be ambushed.

Eadbald had joined their expedition, nervously pointing out what precautions he had taken, but Éomer only acknowledged his words with a grunt and he soon he fell silent. At least the whelp had posted a ring of guards around the camp, although the rider who greeted them gave an impression of boredom. However, he quickly came to attention when he realised he was facing his king.

As they rode into the camp, the Dunlendings emerged from tents of worn, faded canvas to stare at them. Even though the guard had confirmed that the inhabitants were mostly women and children, Éomer kept his hand on his sword hilt and ordered Lothíriel to ride in the middle of their group. He was not taking any chances.

Mostly, the Dunlendings watched them in stony silence, but one of the women called something to Lothíriel, presumably a greeting, to which she waved an acknowledgement. Then whispers of ‘forgoil kuningas’, ‘king of the strawheads’ spread through the crowd. Éomer understood that much, although their language had always seemed to him more like the coarse call of beasts than the utterance of men.

Something was very strange though about the camp, he thought, then realised there was a complete absence of animals. In any Rohirric village there would be chickens running around rooting for food, pig pens round the back of the houses and goats, sheep and cows out in the pastures. To say nothing of the horses of course. Here not even a single dog barked at them. Had they all been eaten? It was unnaturally silent anyway, no sound of laughter or cheerful talking, no women singing over their tasks as they spun wool and wove cloth, as he was used to from his own people. They passed a campfire where a woman was stirring a pot of gruel, but her children just sat on the ground and watched lethargically. It gave Éomer a pang to see their dull, lank hair and hollow faces.

They halted in the centre of the camp where a woman and a young lad awaited them in front of the largest tent. The woman’s face was gaunt, though her high cheekbones hinted at traces of beauty, and her clothes hung on her thin frame as if they had been made for a much fuller figure. She rested her hands on the boy’s shoulders, whether to reassure him or to keep him from running away, Éomer could not tell. Identical black eyes stared up at him, neither hostile nor afraid. He had seen that look before: in those who had nothing left to lose.

“Urho, chief of the Tribe of the Red Deer, and his mother Ilta,” Lothíriel introduced the two, having somehow wormed her way forward to his side. “The boy is nine,” she added.

So much for his picture of a handsome Dunlending leader. Suddenly Éomer felt ashamed. His wife had been right; there was really only one word for this wretched, starving people: defeated.

He looked down at the woman and her son a moment longer, then swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. “My wife tells me you seek a treaty?” he asked and took off his helmet. 

***

They set out to return to Edoras in the bright afternoon sunshine, leaving behind a much more cheerful camp. The Dunlending children peeked out from the tents, and when Lothíriel waved at them smiled back shyly. His men also seemed relieved not to have to fight such a sorry foe and raised their voices in song.

Only Éomer rode in silence, lost deep in thought. Involuntarily his gaze snagged on the magnificent amber necklace now lying around his wife’s neck, a present from Ilta. A proud woman that, he thought, and unwilling to receive gifts of food and aid without giving something back. Lothíriel had been enchanted by the story that the chunks of amber washed up on the Dunlending shore were pieces of a mermaid’s palace broken up by stormy weather. She had promised her aid in trading some to the merchants of Gondor. Though so different, the two women seemed to have hit it off well, both determined to avoid more bloodshed.

Éomer knew he should have been pleased, but it irked him to see this pledge of friendship, glowing like rich honey in the sunshine. He had given Lothíriel nothing beyond the pieces of jewellery that were rightfully hers as Queen of the Mark, he thought suddenly, not a single thing since the traditional presentation of his morning gift.

Well, he might have bought something in Gondor, but his stay in Minas Tirith had of course been cut short by that abortive rush back home. Abortive and utterly useless, he reflected. It had become clear to him that Lothíriel had never been in any real danger and he had worried for nothing. What a fool he had made of himself!

He became aware that Lothíriel too was silent, sending him worried sideways glances. She deserved to hear that she had been right, even wise, in her judgement of the situation, but at the moment he could not find the words to admit his own ill-conceived fears and actions.

It was a relief when the training grounds outside Edoras came into sight. “I’ll just check how Swiftfire is coming along,” he announced, then hurriedly took his leave of his wife.

However, though the stallion had made steady progress through the summer and responded beautifully to his rider, Éomer could not shake his disgruntled mood. In the end he took Firefoot for several runs along the training course, hoping to lose himself in the physical exertion. There were some new refinements, including a fiendishly placed ditch full of mud, but even that only managed to cheer him up briefly.

He had finished his fourth run and was walking Firefoot to cool him down when he noticed Aedwulf leaning on the rails surrounding one of the practice rings.

“Greetings, Éomer King,” the old man called. As former master of the studbook, he often came down to see what had become of the foals he had helped bring into the world.

“Well met, Aedwulf,” Éomer returned the greeting.

The old man held out his hand to Firefoot and scratched the stallion’s poll. “I remember the foaling of this one, Dawnwind’s last.”

“And best,” Éomer replied.

“Aye.” Aedwulf smiled, showing a row of yellow, crooked teeth. “That he is.” He launched into a string of reminiscences about Firefoot’s bloodline to which Éomer listened absentmindedly, but then the old man suddenly shot his king a sharp glance. “I hear you’ve been to see those Dunlendings?”

“Yes. I’ve offered them help.”

“Ahhh.” The old man nodded to himself.

Roused to sudden interest, Éomer bent down to him. “So tell me, Aedwulf, what do the people of Edoras think of them?”

“Well, of course there’s no love lost between them and the Eorlingas.” He spat on the ground. “Yet once you meet them…nobody wants to make war on women and children.”

Éomer sighed. “No.”

Aedwulf shot him another glance. “Mind you, not everybody was pleased with the queen’s actions and there was talk.”

At that Éomer frowned. Did that explain some of the strain he’d seen in Lothíriel? “I gave the queen full authority,” he snapped. “That’s why I entrusted the royal seal to her.”

The old man grinned. “Don’t bite my head off, lad! I think she did well. Comes from good stock, that one.” He patted Firefoot again. “Of course, if she bore you an heir that would give her more authority than all the seals of the Riddermark.”

Éomer groaned inwardly. Trust a master of the studbook to reduce everything to bloodlines! 

***

That evening there was a victory feast for Éomer and his men. When he got back from the practice fields, the hall was already filling up, a bath awaited him and fresh clothes lay ready on his bed. He would have liked a talk with his wife, but all he got was a glimpse of Lothíriel deep in discussion with Wulfrith over some domestic matter.

Meduseld looked splendid that night, the light of the many lamps reflecting from freshly polished columns and beams, the patterned floor rich with colour and the tapestries on the walls cleaned and redyed. Lothíriel and her ladies served the welcome cup of mead themselves, giving every rider a word of praise for his valour. Half the men were probably in love with their queen, Éomer reflected, and no wonder, for in a wine red dress with her raven hair caught up in a hairnet dripping with pearls she looked as if she had just stepped out of an ancient tale.

The only thing missing was a real smile. Yet once again he seemed to be the only person aware of that fact. The kitchen served one course after the other: venison pies flavoured with cloves, roasted piglet glazed with honey, pigeons in saffron sauce, stuffed chickens, pears baked in white wine. His men’s boasts got more impressive with every tankard of ale consumed, but he felt curiously detached from it all.

His whole being seemed to focus on the woman sitting next to him: elegant and regal, the perfect hostess, as smooth as polished stone. Exactly the kind of woman he had sought in Gondor for his queen. How ironic that now he wanted something completely different! Yes, fate had given him exactly what he had asked for. So why did he have the distinct impression that somewhere out there, the Valar were laughing at him? He had bargained for a queen to run his home and fill his bed and instead had lost his heart to her – not to this statue of marble of course, but to the girl with the shy smile and eyes crinkling with laughter.

And what did his wife think of their agreement these days? So he had made her Queen of the Mark, but he had the impression titles mattered little to her. And the promised children he had failed to provide so far. Did she think it a poor exchange? What if she regretted marrying him, but was too honourable to voice her true feelings? On the other hand, her passion last night had not been pretended.

She was tense, he suddenly thought. Only somebody who knew her well could have told, but there was a certain rigidity in the way she held herself, a tautness in her whole bearing. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and caught her looking at him. However, the moment she noticed his regard, she quickly turned her attention elsewhere and encouraged Éothain sitting next to her to tell her of his exploits in the battle against the Easterlings. Éomer sighed inwardly. There would be no getting through to her in this remote, formal mood.

Once the feast finished, the men piled some of the tables and benches against the walls to make room for dancing and the musicians struck up a lively tune. This was the sign that the official part of the evening was over and as if she was eager to flee his presence, Lothíriel jumped up and went to chat with Hild. Éomer debated with himself whether to follow her, but before he could make up his mind, Eadbald had descended on the two women and Éomer had the dubious pleasure of seeing his wife whirled away, black and flame coloured heads close together.

Éomer knew that he was probably glowering at them, but he just couldn’t help it. In vain he told himself that she had every right to talk to somebody closer to her age. All the young people had joined the dancing now and there was much laughter when Hild’s partner suddenly lifted her in the air and she gave a squeal of surprise. At least the whelp didn’t have the audacity to follow his friend’s example with Lothíriel! And then, as the dance finished, they paused for a moment and Éomer got a clear view of his wife’s face. Eadbald leant forward to say something to her and she smiled at him.

A real smile, not one of the pretend ones she had handed out all evening.

Red hot rage shot through Éomer. For a heartbeat his vision went black and all he wanted to do was to charge down the hall and gut the man. Or snap his neck! Strangle him! He deserved to die a dozen times over! The thought brought him back to the present and he found that he was gripping the table so hard it hurt. Slowly he exhaled his breath. How could he think such a thing, had he gone mad!

He perceived that Éothain was looking at him funnily. “I need some fresh air,” Éomer said. And without waiting for an answer, he rose and strode out the door at the back of the dais, then after turning right along the corridor pushed open the door to the terrace surrounding Meduseld.

Cool night air hit his face, a welcome sensation. The guards at their post spun round in surprise at his precipitate exit, but he waved them back. “Leave me,” he snapped.

As they retreated hastily towards the front of the hall, he took a deep, calming breath. The stars sparkled in the sky like a dragon’s hoard of diamonds and far to the west Eärendil was setting over the White Mountains. Below him, Edoras lay quiet and peaceful and the music from the hall was muted out here. Slowly his wrath drained out of him. What had got into him? He had thought he had mastered the Rage and harnessed it to his will, but it had nearly got away from him there. And all over a smile by his wife!

Like a punch to his stomach, a horrible thought struck him. He couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he? No! Not of a pimply youth with the brain of a dandelion, one moreover that he could snap in half without even breaking into a sweat. It didn’t bear thinking about!

Behind him the door creaked and at once he knew exactly who stood there.

“Éomer?” she asked. Just his name, in a voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

When he turned round, she looked up at him silently. With her gown melting into the shadows, her pale face seemed to float above it, the pearls in her hairnet shimmering in the starlight. Beautiful and remote, yet also strangely fragile, as if a wrong movement could break her into a thousand pieces. And as always far too desirable for his peace of mind.

Éomer only knew one thing for certain: he could not go on as they had. “Lothíriel, I need to talk to you,” he said roughly. “Let’s retire.”

She jumped. “Now? But your men–”

“As long as the ale doesn’t run out, they’ll be fine.”

After a moment Lothíriel ducked her head. “As you wish,” she whispered.

Chapter 15

In Lothíriel’s room, the next obstacle awaited him. When they entered, Dordes rose from a chair where she had been doing some mending.

“You’re back early, Child,” she said. “Is something the matter?” Then she spotted him in the doorway. “Oh, my Lord King! Forgive me, I didn’t see you at first.” She sank into a curtsy.

It was their habit for Dordes to assist Lothíriel in undressing and then give a discreet knock on Éomer’s door before leaving. Another of his half-witted ideas, like the separate bedrooms! He really must have been slightly demented when he suggested their living arrangements. As if he wasn’t perfectly able – and willing! – to undress his wife himself. However, Lothíriel clutched her maid’s arm and he could not find it within him to throw the old woman out. “I’ll see you in a moment,” he said and retreated to his own bedroom.

There Éomer shed his heavily embroidered overcoat and took off his boots, then he began to pace to and fro. Surely he was right to insist on talking things out? But Lothíriel had looked almost frightened. Had he been too abrupt? In a short time came the expected knock on the door and after waiting a moment longer to let Dordes retire, he rejoined his wife.

She sat on her bed, her wealth of raven hair cascading down her back, large eyes regarding him apprehensively. A nightgown of creamy lace frothed around her, distracting him momentarily. While he knew little of female apparel, surely he would have noticed such a beguiling garment, had she worn it before. “That’s new, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.” She held out an arm to show him the delicate pattern of swirling flowers and leaves, affording him a tantalising glimpse of her lithe body beneath it. “I ordered it from Dol Amroth while you were away. Do you like it?”

“Eh…” He fought down the impulse to tumble her between the sheets that very moment. “Yes, it’s very… pretty.” He took a step back to compose himself. While it was flattering that she should seek his opinion on what she wore, that was not what he had wanted to talk to her about. He cleared his throat. “Lothíriel, I said just now that I needed to speak to you…”

“Yes?” Somehow the way she sat there, looking up at him warily, reminded him of their wedding night. Hadn’t she learnt to trust him at all? He was aware that he loomed over her, but had no confidence in his self-control if he joined her on the bed.

“I wanted to talk about the two of us,” he continued resolutely, “where we stand.”

Lothíriel clutched her hands in her lap. “Yes?”

Éomer regarded her in some consternation. What was the matter with her? She seemed as anxious as a child being scolded for some mischief. He gentled his voice even more. “We made a bargain on our wedding night and you’ve really done yourself proud. Only just now I was thinking how well you run Meduseld, so please don’t doubt that I’m very grateful for your efforts. However…”

She swallowed, as if bracing herself for a blow. “However?”

Éomer sighed. “It’s not enough. There is something missing in our marriage. Surely you know that.”

She bit her lip. “Of course I do.” Then she looked up pleadingly. “But we’ve been married less than a year! It’s still early days…”

Less than a year, yet he could no longer imagine life without her. “Do you mean you need more time?” he asked, feeling his way.

“I..I..don’t know!” she stammered. “You must realise I cannot give you certainty.”

So she did not love him. While he could not blame her for being so honest with him, his heart still felt like a lump of lead in his chest. “Lothíriel, I’m not sure I can go on like this,” he burst out.

She went white. “I..I see.”

“You do?”

“Yes, of course.” She began to twist one of the sleeves of her nightgown, mangling the delicate lace. “It hardly comes as a surprise, does it? In fact I worried about it and talked it over with Cenred.”

“Oh!” He’d had no idea that the bard was so much in her confidence. And while he didn’t really like the idea of her discussing their affairs with the elderly man, he could hardly dictate her choice of confidants. “And?”

“He explained.”

What was there to explain? “But what are your own feelings?” he pressed her.

Her hair fell forward in a dark curtain as she bowed her head. “I understand your reasons and you needn’t fear that I’ll make difficulties. I know only too well what I owe you and the Rohirrim, so don’t worry that I’ll cause a fuss. I’ll go quietly.”

“Go!” It felt as if the ground had dropped away under his feet.

She looked up again. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? That way you can make a fresh start, for yourself and for the Mark.”

A moment ago he had thought that he could not continue living the way they had, but now he realised that even less could he afford to lose her. Suddenly any compromise at all that would make her stay seemed acceptable. “But I don’t want you to go!” he exclaimed.

Her eyes widened. “What? You can hardly expect me to stand by and watch while you set somebody else in my place!”

The bitterness in her voice took him aback. What was she talking about? Sometimes it seemed to him as if they were speaking two different languages, not understanding each other at all. She looked so unhappy!

And with that thought he decided that once and for all he’d had enough of bumbling about in the smoke and mirrors, walking into things in the dark. He had always been better at smashing his way through anyway.

He sat down and took hold of Lothíriel’s shoulders. “Listen to me: you are my wife and queen. I do not want you to leave and neither do I want to set somebody else in your place.” He enunciated each word carefully to avoid any misunderstandings. “I love you, but if you can’t see your way to loving me back, then I’m willing to wait.” There it was. Admittedly it might not have been the smoothest declaration of love ever made, but it was the truth.

His wife stared at him in shock. He could literally watch the blood draining from her face. “You…you love me?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he answered defiantly.

“But you just said that you intend to divorce me.”

“What? I said nothing of the sort! Why would I want to divorce you?” Where had she got that idea?

Lothíriel made a helpless gesture at her lap. “For barrenness of course.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “What?”

“You said yourself that there is something missing: an heir for Rohan. I had worried about it already and asked Cenred.” She gave a disconsolate little sniff. “He explained that although it’s usual to wait thrice nine months, barrenness is grounds for the dissolution of marriage.”

“No! Lothíriel, believe me, I don’t ever want to let you go!” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “What I meant is that I wish for more in our marriage than just being together for mutual convenience.”

She swayed in his grip. “Oh!”

But he wanted to make things absolutely clear. “So, we’ve established that I love you. But what about you, Lothíriel, do you love me too?”

The blood that had drained away rushed back into her cheeks. “Of course I do!”

For a moment he could only stare at her. For him there was no ‘of course’ about it. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her.

Lothíriel threw her arms around his neck and clung to him as if she were drowning. “Oh, Éomer!” Sudden sobs shook her. “I thought you wanted to send me back to Dol Amroth!” Her lips tasted salty.

She had somehow ended up in his lap, an altogether delightful bundle of woman and lace, if a little teary, and he settled her in his arms more securely. “My poor sweet! But Lothíriel, dear heart, how could you think that I wanted to get rid of you. Of all the ridiculous ideas! Didn’t I show you last night how much I had missed you?”

“But that was before you found out about the Dunlendings! I thought…well…that you were mad at me for interfering in men’s business and had had enough of me.” She tried to blot her eyes on her lacy nightgown, but then gave up and absentmindedly used one of his sleeves instead. “Éomer, I’m so sorry about the Dunlendings. Believe me, I only wanted to help!”

“I know!” He hesitated, for even now he still found it difficult to admit that he’d been wrong. “And you did the right thing.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “You really think so?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “I have to confess I will never trust them completely, let alone like them, but nobody wants to watch children starve. I’m willing to work with them and perhaps in time we’ll forge a peace to benefit all of us.”

Gently she touched his cheek. “Éomer, I know it’s difficult for you after what happened in the West Mark, but I think you’re doing the right thing.”

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “I hope so.”

“So you’re not mad at me.” She sounded relieved. “You looked so grim while riding back!”

“I’m sorry.” He remembered his foul mood only too well. “To be honest, I felt foolish.”

“Foolish! But why?”

“Well, I had just rushed back from Minas Tirith to keep you safe and it was all for nothing.”

She regarded him with big eyes. “Oh! Were you really afraid for me?”

“Horribly. And the only thing I managed to do was to make a fool of myself.”

“So that’s why you scowled at me so fiercely before you hurried out the hall,” she exclaimed.

He felt heat rise to his cheeks. But some things were better out in the open. “Actually I scowled at Eadbald. I wondered if you liked him better than me.”

Lothíriel’s mouth dropped open. “What? But that’s ridiculous!”

In a way Éomer found her surprise rather gratifying. “He’s closer to your age,” he pointed out however.

She pulled a face. “I suppose so. But Eadbald? I mean, I really like him, but he still needs to do some growing up, don’t you think? He reminds me of a puppy, eager to please but too clumsy to be taken seriously.”

“Oh.” Éomer couldn’t stop a silly grin from spreading across his face at his wife’s words. Perhaps he’d cut the poor lad some slack in the future, he seemed a decent enough sort after all. To celebrate and because Lothíriel was so tantalisingly close, he kissed her again, taking his time. “I still can’t believe that you love me,” he whispered when they had to pause for breath. He felt giddy and elated, as if he could do anything at all.

She gave a deep sigh of contentment and rested her head against his shoulder. “How could I not? I admit that when we got married I never meant to, but you were so unexpectedly kind!”

“Kind?” Éomer felt rather guilty when he remembered how little he had considered her feelings when asking for her hand.

 She nodded. “You took me seriously and listened to me, you trusted in my abilities as queen.” With her fingers she absentmindedly traced a pattern on his shirt and he couldn’t help thinking that it would be even nicer if she traced it on his skin. “You made time for me, to take me to the stables and to see the horses. And you didn’t even mind when I beat you at hounds and boars! Of course I fell in love with you.” Her voice grew low. “And then you had to leave to go to war and I was frightened and missed you. But how could I tell you? On our wedding night you had said that you neither asked for love nor offered it.”

“Oh Lothíriel!” He hugged her closer. “You shouldn’t listen to every harebrained thing I say! I must have regretted those words a hundred times since.”

She looked up at him with a twisted smile. “But you meant them then.”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Well, I thought that if only I worked hard at being a good wife and worthy queen, if I made the Rohirrim like me, I could become the woman you wanted.”

“And you succeeded! It took me a while to realise the accomplished queen was not the real Lothíriel and to glimpse the enchanting girl she hid within. She comes out too seldom, but I hope she might stay now.”

Lothíriel blushed at the compliment, but raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound as if I were two separate people.”

“That’s how it sometimes seemed to me.”

A frown appeared between her eyebrows. “I suppose there is some truth in that. My mother died when I was fourteen, and I felt I had to live up to her example, to be just like her. It made it easier to deal with the hurt to wall up my feelings somewhere deep inside.”

He cupped her face in his hand. “I know how that feels. I’m sorry, dear heart.”

Lothíriel gave him a shy smile. “I never thought I’d hear you call me that.”

“You had better get used to it,” he informed her. “And now I have to set a few things straight: for a start I want to cancel the bargain we made on our wedding night. It was a thoroughly stupid idea anyway.”

“Are you proposing a different one?”

“No. I will just give you what I have and take whatever you’re willing to offer in return.”

Her face lit up, but she inclined her head formally. “My Lord King, that is acceptable to me.”

“I should never have offered you such a loveless marriage anyway. If you had thrown my proposal back in my face, it would have been nothing but what I deserved!”

 Very slowly she shook her head. “No. It was the only proposal I would have accepted. It was only when you were so nice to me on our wedding night, when you actually talked to me and asked for my wishes, that I began to think of you as a person. Before, you were just my escape from Gondor and the memories there.” Her voice died away at some old remembered pain.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said quickly.

“No, I think it might help. I’ve been wanting to, but didn’t know how to begin.” To his surprise, suddenly she wriggled out of his grip. “Just a moment.” He was left clutching empty air.

Lothíriel went into her study and came back an instant later holding something. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she slipped back onto his lap. “Here.”

It took an effort of will to concentrate on what she held out to him, instead of just grabbing his wonderfully pliant wife and sinking into bed with her. It was a ring of heavy gold, with a large sapphire set into it. He squinted at the design engraved on it, three letters in tengwar, surmounted by three stars. Éomer realised he knew it. “That’s the emblem of the Stewards of Gondor!” he exclaimed.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Boromir gave it to me as a token.”

“Boromir!”

“The evening before he left for Imladris, he…he asked me to marry him and gave me this ring.” Her voice broke. “I’d been in love with him ever since I was a little girl. I was so happy!”

“Boromir,” he could only repeat stupidly, his mind reeling. “I never guessed.”

“Nobody knew. I hadn’t been to Minas Tirith for some years, but by chance I was there when they debated what to do about the prophecy they had received in their dreams. Boromir had always been so kind to me – it was him who dunked Amrothos in the horse trough over the spider business – and so brave and handsome and splendid!” The words now tumbled out of her. “It all happened in a flash, afterwards it seemed like a dream. We didn’t even tell his father, though Uncle Denethor would have been pleased. He was always very fond of me, I think he would have liked a daughter.”

Éomer shook his head in wonder. “So it was Boromir you grieved over.” He searched her face, half expecting fresh tears, but though she looked sad, her eyes remained dry. “You know, I met him when he passed through Edoras on his journey north, for we lent him a horse. I liked him, he was a worthy man.”

Lothíriel sighed. “So he was.” She looked up at him. “In a way you’re a lot like him, Éomer.”

Brave, handsome and splendid? Well, if she thought that of her husband he wasn’t going to contradict her! Lothíriel was still caught up in her train of thought anyway. She chewed her lower lip. “Though I suppose Boromir was more driven, for Uncle Denethor always rode him hard. I couldn’t have cared less about becoming the highest lady in Gondor, but he put great importance on his position. I just liked him for himself.”

Éomer gently pulled her closer. “I’m sorry.”

She snuggled against him. “Lately I’ve been wondering how well I really knew him and if I would have liked being married to him. I suppose he would have expected me to preside over the court at Minas Tirith, which Amrothos has always called a proper snake-pit.” She rubbed her eyes. “And then I felt guilty for my doubts and for being happy here, as if I had betrayed him somehow.”

Éomer kissed her brow. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have begrudged your happiness, my sweet, not if he really loved you. And wherever he is now, surely he is beyond such concerns.” Poor man, he thought, dying all alone so far from the ones he loved. But then he suddenly remembered something she had told him on their wedding night. “But Lothíriel,” he added, “didn’t you say you saw him die? How is that possible?”

Where before Lothíriel had leant against him soft and relaxed, he now felt tension strumming through her. She went stiff and sat up. “I…I said so, didn’t I…” Her voice petered out.

She sounded so forlorn, all he wanted to do was to gather her to him and comfort her. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come here.”

His wife allowed him to pull her to him, but then she shook her head. “No. You should know.” She looked up at him. “Just please don’t think me a freak.”

“A freak!”

“I sometimes have visions. When those I love are in danger.” She took a deep breath. “I saw Boromir die.”

“Oh Lothíriel, poor you!” He hugged her closer. “But why should I think you a freak? Surely the gift of seeing runs in the blood of Númenor, just look at Faramir.”

“Others have dreams, useful messages from the Valar. A chance to act, to take their fate into their own hands,” she said bitterly. “But I don’t get sent on quests to Imladris, I just get to watch those I love die a horrible death.”

Those she loved? “Who else did you see?” he asked very gently.

“The first was my grandfather, but I was so small, I just took it for a bad dream. Then…my…my mother. Drowning is not a good death.” The poor girl! And her nothing more than a child! Before he could find an adequate reply, she continued in a toneless voice. “Boromir pierced by arrows. My father and brothers at the gates of Minas Tirith.”

“But they didn’t die!”

“They would have, but for the coming of the Rohirrim. It’s so horrible, there’s never anything I can do! Sometimes I just get the briefest of glimpses, short moments of danger in a fight. It’s a curse really.”

“I’m sorry.” He searched for something comforting to say. “We cannot choose the gifts we were born with, so we just have to try to make the best of them. The Valar have given me the Rage and it nearly betrayed me and all my men to my death once.”

“I saw you, you know,” she said suddenly. “On your campaign to fight this Son of Sauron. All I got was a glimpse, a single moment of danger in battle, but that’s how I realised I’d fallen in love with you. It forced me to face the truth. And in a way it was a relief, for I reasoned that I would know if anything happened to you.” She gave him a sudden smile. “Strangely enough, late one night I even thought I heard you say my name. But it was long after the battle, so perhaps I had just dozed off and dreamt it, for I was rather tired.”

“No, that was me!” Éomer exclaimed.

“Really? But how?”

“I had just got your letters and I was so worried that I borrowed the palantír from Aragorn. And then when I saw you in the stone, I called your name and I suppose you must have sensed that somehow.” He grinned in reminiscence. “Poor Aragorn. I had to get him out of bed.”

Her eyes went big. “You woke King Elessar because of me?” Like many Gondorians she seemed to hold his friend in excessive awe.

“Oh, he hadn’t actually gone to sleep yet,” Éomer reassured her. But then he had to chuckle. “Although on his first evening home that was not necessarily any better, of course. Queen Arwen got her revenge anyway; her words opened my eyes to the fact that I’d fallen in love with you and I spent many a restless night on the way home, wondering how to get up the courage to tell you.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Well, I’m glad I’ve got such a brave husband.”

“It’s no laughing matter! I’d much rather have faced a pack of wargs.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You prefer wargs to your wife?” she asked in mock outrage.

His heart lifted to see her so carefree. “Not really,” he quipped. “They’re a bit too toothy for my taste. I prefer something softer.” And he kissed her again.

Lothíriel melted into his embrace in the most satisfactory manner, but then she wriggled out of his grip once more. Really, he hoped she wouldn’t make a habit of it! “Let me just put the ring away safely first,” she said a bit out of breath. Well, at least that sounded as if she knew what he had in mind. And didn’t object to it.

He followed her as she got up and went to her desk. One of the little drawers was pulled out and she carefully put the ring into its nest of blue silk. “I’ve been thinking I should give it to Faramir, for it’s an heirloom of his house, rightfully belonging to the eldest son. He probably thinks it was lost in the war,” Lothíriel said. “I just couldn’t bring myself to give away the only thing I had left of Boromir.”

Éomer put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them. “I can understand that. But yes, you should probably give it back.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I have been feeling bad about keeping it. I’ll write to Faramir and send it with the next courier.” Gently she pushed the drawer closed. Then she looked over her shoulder at him and gave a deprecating smile. “I’m not good at letting go, I cling to things.”

“My sweet wife, you may cling to me as much as you like.” He chuckled at the picture her words called to mind. “Actually Éowyn once mentioned that Faramir had compared you to a limpet, impossible to dislodge.”

“A limpet!” Then she grinned. “Ah, but what poor landlubbers like you and Faramir don’t know is that you can get limpets off quite easily. You just have to creep up on them and give them a sharp blow. You have to be quick about it though.”

“Oh? Like this?” And he swept her up in his arms.

Lothíriel gave a shriek of surprise and clutched at him. But a moment later she snuggled against his chest. “Yes!” she whispered.

He carried her to the bed and gently laid her down. “And another thing,” he said, “No more of this nonsense of separate bedrooms; I intend to sleep in your bed from now on.”

Lothíriel threw her arms around him and pulled him down on her. “Yes please! Stay here always, I sleep so much better when you’re with me.”

Didn’t he have an eminently sensible wife? He rolled over and pulled her on top of him. “And if I ever utter another such idiotic idea, you have my permission to have Éothain hit me over the head,” he quipped.

Her raven hair fell in a dark curtain about them. “As my Lord King commands,” she chuckled. “Alternatively, may I tell him to dunk you in the horse trough? It might be less damaging.”

“I leave that to your discretion, my queen.” He grinned up at her and let his hands roam down her back. “Now, much as I appreciate this sea foam turned into a nightgown, could you see your way to taking it off?” His fingers found silken ribbons and tugged at them.

“Whatever my husband wishes,” she said with a melting smile.

To his gratification, once the ribbons had been undone, he could slide the whole lacy thing over his wife’s shoulders, baring creamy skin and the gentle curve of her back. They rolled over onto their sides and with shy hands she helped him undo his own shirt and trousers. Then he bundled the nightgown up and threw it on the floor – and for the first time he saw his wife completely naked. She blushed like a bride, but held his gaze.

Reverently Éomer traced the line of her hips and waist, feeling as if he was making love to her for the first time. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Lothíriel, may we leave the lamps burning?”

“Yes!” Hesitantly she stroked his face, as if for her it was all new too. “I’ve been wanting to see you, all of you, but I didn’t know how to ask.”

“You have?” Gently he brushed back a lock of her black hair. “Lothíriel, will you tell me why you wanted the lights off on our wedding night?” He wondered if he should really voice his suspicions, but then decided a policy of complete truth was best. “Was it because…you, well…pictured somebody else in my place?”

“What? Of course not!” She sounded surprised. “That wouldn’t have been fair to you, would it.”

She set herself very high standards! “Perhaps not fair,” he answered, “but understandable.”

“No, it was very much you in my bed that night.” His wife was blushing in earnest now. “It seems ridiculous in hindsight, but I was terribly nervous.” Lothíriel snuggled closer. “And at the same time I tried so hard to become the woman you wanted, that perfect queen…” She sighed. “Oh Éomer, I felt that only in the dark could I let go and just be myself.”

He gathered her to him. “Lothíriel, sweet heart, when you’re with me, you can always be yourself.”

“I know now.”

A/N: The description of the seal of the Stewards is from a footnote in the Unfinished Tales. The three letters on it stand for ‘arandur’, ‘king’s servant’

Epilogue

Two years later…

Elfwine, Crown Prince of the Mark, apple of the eye of the female population of Meduseld and his father’s pride and joy, was covered in mud. Éomer beamed down at his son and heir.

His son and heir steadied himself by holding onto his father’s leg. “Up!” he said imperiously. It had lately become his favourite word.

Obeying orders, Éomer swung his son up onto his shoulders and knowing what would be demanded next, he began prancing about like a stallion on the small lawn in front of the hunting lodge. The boy squealed with delight as he was bounced up and down.

“Éomer!” came his wife’s voice. “Remember, not too much excitement before bedtime.” She appeared on the veranda of the lodge, her strict words belied by the smile on her face.

“But I like excitement before bedtime,” he shot back.

She wagged her finger at him. “One of these days Elfwine will repeat one of your jokes and embarrass us all in front of the whole hall.”

“Perhaps. But not tonight. Tonight we’re all alone.” And a wonderful feeling that was.

Lothíriel seemed to share his thoughts, for she bestowed a happy smile on her husband and son. “Elfwine’s bath is ready.”

And such moments were precious, he mused while he swung the boy down again and helped divest him of his dirty hose and shirt. They managed too rarely to get away from Edoras and come up here to their hunting lodge in the hills. For most of the summer they had been away on a visit to Gondor, and though Éomer had enjoyed seeing his sister and showing off his family, he had missed time alone with just Lothíriel and Elfwine. In another month, this high up the leaves would begin to turn yellow and once the sun had set it would get chilly.

However, at the moment the air still held the afternoon’s warmth and Elfwine did not complain when they sat him in the small wooden basin that served as a washtub. From experience Lothíriel had placed it at the edge of the veranda – they had only made the mistake of bathing him inside once and paid for it by having to mop up the whole floor afterwards.

Out here Elfwine could splash as much as he wanted and he grinned up enthusiastically at his parents every time a wave of water sloshed over the side. Éomer joined in by imitating a sea monster that had a liking for little children’s toes, which led to a lot of wriggling and shrieking, while Lothíriel laughed, but insisted on the application of soap. As a result the boy’s hair slowly turned from mud brown speckled with green grass back to its natural dark blond colour. Éomer watched with pride, for he considered his offspring quite the most handsome toddler in Edoras, though admittedly he might be biased. The rest of Edoras seemed to agree anyway, doting on Rohan’s heir to a degree that if Elfwine hadn’t been such an independent child, he would have been carried everywhere and spoilt rotten.

When the water was nearly gone, Lothíriel fetched a dry towel and bundled up their son in it. “Time to come inside, sweeting.”

Elfwine grumbled a bit, but when she lifted him up, he slipped chubby arms around her neck and hugged her. The rays of the setting sun limned them in gold, two heads close together, one black haired, the other blond and Éomer felt his heart contract in his chest. They were so precious that sometimes it hurt. He knew that for better or for worse all his life’s happiness was bound up in these two. If anything should happen to one of them…

“Éomer?” his wife asked and took a step towards him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He gathered his family in an embrace. “Yes, I am.” And seeing Lothíriel with her face lifted up to him so invitingly, he could not resist claiming her lips in a kiss. Desire stirred within him at the touch of her soft skin.

Their son however got bored that moment and started to wriggle. “Down! Walk!” he commanded.

They broke apart reluctantly. “Not too much excitement before bedtime,” Lothíriel murmured with a mischievous smile.

He groaned. “Cruel woman!”

She set Elfwine down and the boy toddled ahead of them into the hut and straight to the table, where Lothíriel had already laid out bread and cheese for their evening meal. His mother managed to catch him and persuade him to put on his nightshirt, but then he clambered onto the bench and sat chewing a piece of bread while Lothíriel filled three bowls with beef stew from the kettle on the hearth and Éomer lit the lamps and poured the ale.

Simple fare, but he would not have exchanged it for a feast in Meduseld, he thought as they settled down round the table, Elfwine between them. Although to be honest his wife had put considerable effort into making the lodge more comfortable than it used to be. Of course it was small and consisted only of two rooms, but the larder was overflowing and the beds had new mattresses and sheets.

To the secret relief of Meduseld’s servants, she had relaxed somewhat in her campaign to bring the running of the hall to perfection – Éomer was pretty sure he had spotted cobwebs in the rafters the other day – but she still knew how to add those little touches that spoke of her, the vase with wildflowers on the table or the brightly coloured cushions scattered across the bench.

While they ate, they discussed their plans for the next day. Elfwine loved the pool in the clearing and never tired of trying to catch frogs, so it was decided to pack a basket of food and head down there for an outing. Éomer couldn’t help thinking that such strenuous activity was bound to wear Elfwine out and the boy would surely succumb to a midday nap. Which might leave his parents free to indulge in some strenuous activity of their own? They would be quite private, for anxious for the royal family Éothain always posted a couple of guards at the beginning of the trail.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by Lothíriel gathering up their son. Elfwine had slumped against her, his eyes already half closed, and he only roused enough to give his father a big, moist good-night kiss before snuggling up to his mother. While Lothíriel went in the other room to put Elfwine to bed in his cot there, Éomer cleared the table and rinsed the dishes, then he went to check one last time on the horses.

Firefoot and Maeweth shared a small paddock round the back and ambled over for a caress when they spotted him. The sun had set while they had their meal and the stallion seemed luminous in the dusk while by contrast the mare melted into the shadows, as dark and elegant as her mistress. He pulled up some grass to feed them, which they accepted greedily in Firefoot’s case and with graceful restraint on Maeweth’s part. When the stallion got too bold though, she laid her ears back with a threatening whinny and Firefoot hastily backed away.

 Éomer grinned. “You’d better not push your luck, old friend,” he said. “Not with this one.”

After patting them a last time, he continued on his tour around the hut, checking that all was well. In the east the first stars blossomed and on the still air the sound of his wife singing a lullaby drifted out of the open window, filling him with deep contentment. After Théoden’s death he had built walls around his heart as high and impregnable as those of the Hornburg, but somehow she had overcome them effortlessly – to his luck. He had been truly blessed! Not for the first time he thanked the Valar for giving him not what he had asked for, but what he needed.

It was their custom to talk or play a game on the veranda in the evening, and when he saw that Lothíriel had already put out his set of boars and hounds, he fetched the bearskin they used for sitting on and the cushions from the kitchen. They could have carried out the chairs of course, but Lothíriel liked to sit with her legs dangling over the edge of the veranda and claimed it was much more comfortable that way.

A little while later he heard her move about inside and then Lothíriel came out to join him. To his surprise she had wrapped his travelling cloak around her so it covered her completely.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked. It had been one of those late, warm summer days and the evening air was still balmy, surely she couldn’t be cold?

“Perfectly fine,” she assured him and sat down opposite him. Her clever fingers darted out from the cover of the cloak to set up the game pieces. “My turn for starting with the hounds, I believe.” She threw a laughing challenge at him through long dark lashes. “So what do we play for this time, my lord husband?”

She was quite irresistible. “The winner gets to take the loser to bed,” he decreed.

“Hmm.” She pretended to consider his words for a moment. “But what if the winner prefers to read one of her books instead?”

Her books? She was very sure of herself! But with a certain justification, Éomer had to admit ruefully. Ever since she had discovered how easily she could distract him at crucial moments, his victories had become few and far between, which seemed to provide her with no end of amusement.

“Sorry, but the rules are very clear on the stakes,” he replied. “Unfortunately there is no mention of books in them.”

“Only of beds?” she shot back dryly.

“I’m afraid so.”

“The rules seem remarkably fluid,” she remarked. “Every time we play they change.”

“I am the king of this land,” he pointed out. “Making the rules is my prerogative. It’s the reward for all my hard work.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want my poor husband to go unrewarded,” she said, “so the stakes are acceptable to me.”

He stared at her, for he did not trust her in such a meek mood, but then decided he would show her that he would not fall for her tricks again. No, not tonight! Since he had the boars, the first move was his and he opened the game by jumping one of his pieces forward. That moment, as if by chance, his wife stretched out one of her legs from under the cover of his cloak. “Oh, have I shown you yet what Elphir’s wife sent me from Dol Amroth? It’s the latest fashion, imported from Harad.”

In disbelief Éomer stared down at a slim leg clad in trousers made from some kind of shimmering, transparent red silk. He was speechless. She still refused to wear trousers for riding and now this? He would never be able to concentrate! Which was of course exactly her intention, he realised. “You devious little...”

“Do you like them?” she asked, all innocence. “But I think it’s my turn now, isn’t it?” She leant forward to move one of her hounds and allowed the cloak to slip from her shoulders, giving him a glimpse of an equally gauzy top.

He had a better chance of defeating a nazgûl with a spoon than of winning this game! But what had that Gondorian king that Aragorn always liked to quote once said? When faced with certain defeat, throw your enemy into disarray by doing the unexpected.

Slowly he reached out and pushed his king boar over. “I yield.”

Startled, she looked up at him. “Oh! That’s…that’s…” But quickly she regained her self-possession and crossed her arms on her chest. “And now I suppose I have to take you to bed.”

He grinned, for unnoticed by her the cloak had slid down altogether. “I cannot help it, it’s the rules.” This had to be the only time he had ever won by complete surrender!

“I see that I have married a master strategist.” Suddenly a wicked smile spread across her face. “Very well, I accept your capitulation.”

Éomer chuckled and reached out to give her a kiss, but she wriggled away. “Not so fast! I’m taking you to bed, not the other way round.” She considered him for a moment and he got a sinking feeling in his stomach at the mirth in her eyes. “Take off your shirt,” she said.

“What!”

“Rules, my dear lord and husband,” she drawled. “Laid down by the King of the Mark himself, so they have to be obeyed.”

Oh, that was the way the wind was blowing? Still, as long as they ended up where he wanted to, he did not mind.

He took off his shirt.

Lothíriel leant forward and trailed her fingers up his chest and along his collar bone, slowly and tantalisingly, and it took all his self-control not to simply grab her. He narrowed his eyes at her and in response she raised a haughty eyebrow. But though she kept her face impassive, he felt her fingers tremble just a little.

“Your trousers.”

He got up and slipped out of his trousers, then stood there with his hands on his hips looking down at her. Leisurely she let her eyes wander over his naked form. His wife had better watch it or he would not guarantee his actions!

As if she could read his thoughts, her lips curved in a smile. “Kiss me,” she breathed.

With a growl he pounced on her and complied. “And about time!” he said when they had to pause to catch their breath. He pulled her on top of him, then in a swift motion rolled them over and pinned her against the ground. “You, my wife and queen, need to learn to play fair! Let me tell you that the means by which you win are more than dubious.” His hands strayed inside her silken top. “So tell me, are you enjoying your victory?”

Not the least impressed by his disapproving tone, she grinned up at him, her hair spread in wild disarray about her. “It’s sweet,” she conceded and slid her hands along his bare sides. “And how do you find surrender?”

Éomer groaned at her teasing, skilful touch. Then he decided to get even and began to trail a line of kisses down her neck and into the hollow of her throat, dropping each one as slowly and lightly as a falling snowflake. Her hands on him tightened and he felt her tremble. He moved up again and paused a finger’s breadth above her lips, not quite touching them. Her eyes half closed, she gasped involuntarily.

“Surrender is sweet too,” he whispered in her ear.

At that her eyes fluttered open and she gifted him with a wry smile. “Oh, I know. I yielded long ago.”

FINI

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A/N: As always, I owe many thanks to my wonderful beta, Lady Bluejay, and the ladies at the Garden for their suggestions and comments. Also many thanks to you, my readers, for coming with me on this ride. I really appreciate the warm welcome back after my absence of some years and the feedback I’ve received on this story. Hopefully it won’t be quite so long again until my next fanfic!

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