Hotspur and Steelsheen Ch. 2: Wanderlust and Rainstorms

"Where the blood of a husband silences wars for the girl who arises to meet him." John Mark McMillan

April 2942

Five riders stopped along the South Road that spilled out into the wide vale of Lossarnach in order to observe a curiosity, a road that split off from the beaten track. It disappeared into a shield of trees before the mouth of a valley tucked into the nape of the White Mountains. The arm of snowy peaks stretching east, ending in the pile of Mindoluin chiseled out by ancient masons to form Minas Tirith. The other arm tumbled south toward the Anduin.

Before them, under soaring beech trees, ran the greenway, a carpeted road of moss, flowers, and short grasses. It was not, of course, the Greenway which eventually connected to the Great West Road and fallen into disrepair. But then, roads had a way of sharing names.

One rider split off from his companions to ride a few paces down the lane. He stopped and removed his winged helm which had grown uncomfortably warm under the scrutiny of the rising sun, revealing startled, golden hair, cropped in the fashion of men who served Ecthelion, He'd banished the cloak of Ithilien green to his saddle bag just after they passed through the Rammas Echor and soon regretted the leather hauberk over his wool tunic, as well.

The shadowy forest looked inviting and cool. He felt something like wanderlust come over him. A novelty after the regimented lifestyle of one who ranged the eastern borders.

"Gladhon." The rider with the madcap hair gestured for another to trot up beside him along the narrow road. Gladhon guided the party as the one native of that fief and who stood out from his companions by his characteristic dark hair and eyes.

"Yes, my lord Thengel?"

"I have half a mind to see what lies that way," said Thengel. "How far would it take us out of our course to Garth Arnach?"

"The road runs west before it curves north into the crook between the mountain ranges. It ends in the valley of Imloth Melui. It leads directly out of our way, but it is worth seeing. The valley is the jewel of Lossarnach, or so we say. It's trees alone—"

"We have seen many trees, young Gladhon," the rider known as Cenhelm, said dryly. His braided gray and gold beard seemed to twitch with disapproval.

"Not these trees," Gladhon, replied confidently. "We've arrived at the best time of year. Lossemeren. The festival of blossoms."

At the back, another rider grunted. Guthere was a deep-chested, stocky man with red-gold hair that flowed from his face and head to cover him like a second armor. "Blossoms are all very well, but what about the hunting? We didn't come to pick flowers - or is that all the men do in this fief?"

Gladhon's face reddened as he scowled at the ribbing. He started to retort.

"Peace," said Lord Thengel, raising a placating hand. "I promised some sport, but let us not forget the first reason for our coming."

Guthere muttered into his beard.

Gladhon cleared his throat. "To answer our worthy Guthere's question, the deer are more plentiful than the farmers would like and the valley is full of other game. Foxes, pheasants, and rabbits. Once in a while the boars will come down from the mountain in the winter. We may still catch one yet."

"I wouldn't mind taking down a boar," said the last rider, Thurstan. He most resembled his master, though he chose to shave his beard and his scalp completely rather than cut it in the manner of the men of Gondor. Curious, twisted animals were inscribed in faded black ink on either side of his neck. He led the packhorse with their gear.

Lord Thengel shook his head. "I wouldn't attempt a boar unless we were twice as many as we are."

"I advise we keep to the South Road and arrive as speedily as may be at Lord Hardang's hall. We can hunt deer as often as we choose in Ithilien, my prince," Cenhelm pointed out.

He peered suspiciously into the valley. He did not like forests, as a rule, and a forest hedged in by high hills - the worst. They made it difficult to fulfill his oath as leader of the prince's honor guard to keep Rohan's heir alive and intact. A hunting expedition into unknown territory had not been his idea of a relaxing leave after ranging through orc-riddled Ithilien. That region was a nightmare, Lossarnach an irritation.

"Besides, the inhabitants may not know your name," he muttered darkly. "Can they be trusted?"

The prince stared upward as if he had seen a bizarre bird fly past. "This is Gondor, not Harad. Besides, there cannot be many inhabitants here," Thengel observed with amusement. "They certainly don't use the road."

"Very few live in that valley, my lord, though the road is used often enough by carts going back and forth with goods to Arnach and Minas Tirith. They green the road on purpose. There is a scattering of small settlements along the streams, mostly family-sized herb farms and bee yards. There is one large plantation renowned for its orchards. It is retained by Lady Morwen, daughter of Lord Randir. He was kin to Prince Angelemir of Dol Amroth."

"I know the prince's son," replied Thengel. "Adrahil lives in Minas Tirith for the time, does he not?"

Gladhon nodded. "I have heard that Prince Adrahil is coming with his new bride for the feast hosted in the great house, Bar-en-Ferin."

"Is that place nearby?" asked Cenhelm.

"It is a retired plantation deep in the valley between the streams that tribute the Erui."

"Who is this Lady Morwen?" asked Thengel. "Her name sounds familiar."

"She was Lord Hardang's cousin, somewhat removed on her mother's side. They share their great grandfather, Lord Halgemir. Hardang is the grandson of Halgemir's heir, Lord Hathol; the Lady Morwen descends from Halgemir's second son, Hador."

"It's about as comprehensible as any Rohirric genealogy," Thengel replied dryly. "Is she a free landholder?"

"No, she paid rents to Lord Hardang for the land."

"So we would not be trespassing if we journeyed into the valley?" asked Cenhelm doubtfully.

"No."

Thengel patted his mount's neck. "How much longer to Hardang's hall, Gladhon?"

"Another day's ride, lord."

"And the deer are considered a nuisance, you say?"

"Oh, yes. There is an expression in these parts that the deer are to Lossarnach as the orcs are to Ithilien." Gladhon frowned. "Of course, the refugees who came here from Ithilien don't find it amusing."

The comparison was tasteless, but to a farmer whose livelihood fell under constant threat of consumption it probably seemed apt. Lord Thengel considered for a moment a way to serve all the interests within the company. In the end, he had to sacrifice Cenhelm's.

"Gentlemen. What if we took a detour to lend a hand against this domestic strife?" he asked with a barely concealed grin. "We could make a gift of a haunch of venison to our host. A house in mourning might remember us better if we bring something to spread on their table."

All but Cenhelm answered agreeably.

"Then let us hunt." He reached widely to clap Cenhelm on the shoulder. "Relax, my friend. What could possibly happen?"

Cenhelm winced. He glanced grudgingly at the serene sky and light clouds scudding across it like swans on a pond. "It's an easterly wind."

Thengel laughed. "It's always an easterly wind to you. Gladhon, lead on."

Evening spread its cloak early over the valley. In a long, leaning house in the woods, a hearth fire danced shadows around the kitchen like a puppet master. When the kettle whistled on the hob, it took a moment for the two women seated at the table to notice it wasn't the sound of wind shrilling beneath the eaves. The housekeeper, iron-haired and slim as a gimlet, rose to pour boiling water into an old clay teapot for steeping. Fragrant, mint-scented steam issued from the spout to mingle in the kitchen with the smell of flour and rain.

"I'll tell you what," said the housekeeper to her friend, the cook, as she sat down again, "it's very glad I am to sit in doors at the kitchen table right about now. This house is groaning and shaking enough for these old bones of mine. Storm came up quickly tonight."

The fire sizzled in agreement as raindrops dribbled down the chimney.

"I pity any folk on the road and river without warning. The weather's that changeable." The cook puffed a frizzled strand of muddy hair away from her face that had slipped from its thick plait. "It caught my boy Gundor out in the back acres. He said a number of branches were already down."

"It's an ill wind that comes from the east," her friend replied sagely.

The housekeeper poured out the tea for them both. The warmth seeping from their mugs into their fingers, comfort in the wet spring night. The wind moaned between the house and the outbuildings, carrying with it the sound of the trees raking their branches together.

"I love a good spring storm, though. Nothing says winter's finally gone to bed like a spat of lightning and thunder." The cook tested the tea with her small finger, then shook off the few drops clinging to her skin. "We need the rain. Should help the buds along."

The housekeeper nodded. "Puts green back in the valley." Then her expression pinched. "The lady's not best pleased about her trees though."

The cook and the housekeeper shared a knowing glance.

"As if Lady Morwen could change the weather, though she's used enough to getting her way around here." The cook shrugged. "Anyway, let's hope that the wind leaves a few blossoms up for the festival. She's set on everything going beautifully."

"It's fitting if it doesn't - and I'm just saying," The housekeeper muttered with a sharp look out the south window. "What with Halmir and his brother coming up from Arnach when they ought to stay put. If Lord Hardang's widow won't come, I don't see why his brothers should. It'll be that cheerless."

The cook harrumphed her agreement then sipped her tea. "We could do with more cheer after the year we've had. First Lord Randir, then Lord Hardang. Why did Hardang want to go to Ithilien himself? He might have sent his brothers." She shuddered at evil memories.

The housekeeper grunted. "They may yet. Captain Ecthelion's that set on building his army."

"Some days I'd give my right arm to see those woods again - but it's a lesson to anyone who's thinking of leaving Lossarnach where it's sensible and safe."

Both the women jumped when thunder cracked over the house, sendings its echoes deep into the valley. They listened to its fading rumble like the sound of a dragon falling to sleep.

"Safe enough," said the housekeeper, then she gave the cook a shrewd look. "Did you do as I asked this morning?"

"See for yourself." The cook nudged her chin toward the fire hissing in the hearth.

The housekeeper squinted. "I don't see anything but fire and ashes."

The cook gave her a satisfied smile. "Well, then I was thorough, wasn't I?" she said. "Didn't you tell the lady that her black handkerchief fell in the fire?"

"I did." The housekeeper nodded conspiratorially. "I didn't tell her which fire."

The cook poured out the last of the tea, then asked, "What else did you tell her?"

"What? When she asked about the dress we dyed last summer for Lord Randir funeral?" The housekeeper sniffed. "Well, she caught it in the wagon wheel last harvest, didn't she? Ruined a whole panel. I cut up the rest for quilting."

"Her stockings we dyed with the dress?"

"Run through with holes after she went for blackberries."

The cook clucked her tongue. "I keep telling her to send Ioneth for a change. That girl could use a long walk - up hill both ways if possible," she muttered. "What else?"

"Oh, she wanted to know about that scarf Lord Randir brought her from Minas Tirith back when Lady Hirwen passed. I felt too badly about that one to hurt it, so I sent it down to old Midhel for dying. It was looking rusty after so many washes." She frowned. "Midhel probably won't have it back before summer's out, she's that slow these days."

"Is there anything left for mourning we haven't thought of?" asked cook. She tried to picture the contents of the linen cupboards.

"Naught but her own black hair."

The cook nodded in satisfaction. "It's been too long, as I said. Was Lady Morwen upset?"

The housekeeper blinked. "Upset? No, but I think she's on to us. Was sort of snippy about it only being a month since Lord Hardang fell."

The cook straightened up in her chair like she was ready to spring. "Well a month is all the folk down in Arnach gave before they put their weeds away back when our master passed - and he was Hardang's uncle by marriage. That's what your sister down at the garth told us."

"And so I told Lady Morwen," said the housekeeper, worry lines webbing her face. "But she said Randir wasn't the Lord of Lossarnach.

The cook brooded over her tea. "Well, and there's the question. Who is the Lord of Lossarnach?"

They fell into uncertain silence. Outside, the clouds hung their head over the valley walls, listening to the wind blow.

Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for feedback! And thank you for leaving a review.

Characters:

Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin

Angelemir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's

Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.

Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon

Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper

Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach

Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat

Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard

Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir

Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach

Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother

Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach

Hareth: Morwen's cook

Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother

Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang

Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant

Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui

Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan

Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard