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.