Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When did you arrive?” Lothíriel interrupted them.

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

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

Amrothos laughed. “Too true!”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“You have no faith in me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eh, fairly often.”

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

“You tell me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“However did she manage that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

“This summer.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And the Rohirrim?”

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

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

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

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

“So you will come?”

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

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

She sighed. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good night.”

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

“How lovely for Éowyn and Faramir,” she said. “I must write and congratulate them. Indeed there’s a courier leaving for Minas Tirith tomorrow, isn’t there, so I’d better pen a missive straight away.” She fled from the room.