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.