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.