Chapter 9

The next month went by with the speed of a stampeding horse. There was a brief pause for the midsummer celebrations, but apart from that he spent every day either out on the training fields or discussing matters with his captains. Not only the expedition itself needed to be organised, but also the security of their borders while they were away. Finally it was decided that Erkenbrand would be coming with him while Elfhelm stayed behind, sending his eldest son in his stead. The Dunlendings were still restless at times and Éomer wanted to leave an experienced commander in charge of the Mark, for they could not rely on the Ents coming to their help again.

Lothíriel meanwhile not only ran Meduseld as usual, but also started up a busy correspondence with dozens of merchants from Dol Amroth through Pelargir to Minas Tirith. Additionally she began to get ready for the influx of riders expected for the muster called for the new moon. A few days before the date set, the first men trickled in, some single, some already organised into éoreds, and like mushrooms after rain, tents sprang up all over the fields outside Edoras.

On the morning of the last day before their departure, he held a final meeting with his captains, when one of them, an earnest young man newly appointed to leading an éored, brought up the matter of carrying spare bridles with them. When had he got so caught up in details, Éomer suddenly asked himself. They had managed to ride to Gondor’s aid at much shorter notice after all. He stood up from the council table.

“I leave that to your discretion,” he answered the man’s question. “And now if that is all, I suggest we break off here.” Lately, he had hardly spoken to Lothíriel, and would not see her for several weeks, if not months. “I want to spend time with the queen this afternoon to discuss a few last matters, so any further questions will have to wait for tomorrow to be settled.”

At first his captains had regarded him with surprise at his abrupt dismissal, but now their faces cleared, though several had to hide a grin. Elfhelm clapped him on the back while the others filed out of the room. “Enjoy your discussion, my friend.”

Éomer groaned inwardly. He knew of course what they were thinking and hoped that Lothíriel would not find out, for he doubted that she would be amused by the idea of all his men speculating on what the two of them would be up to in their rooms. Little did they know about his darkness loving wife! He told himself he had no mind to risk a rebuff, not on their last day – and anyway, there was always the night. However, perhaps they could get away from it all and go for another ride. Yes, why not visit that clearing in the woods again where they had stopped over the other day. For some reason he had begun to think of it as their clearing, though they had only been there once, and in his mind he saw himself sitting by the pond again, watching his wife splash in the water. And then there was the hunting lodge further up the hill which his foresters kept stocked with firewood and a few basic supplies. Although that was probably not practical when they had to be back for the evening meal.

His wife, when he finally hunted her down in one of the store rooms in conference with Wulfrith, was dubious at first. “I’m not sure I can get away, there’s still so much work to be done here.”

“You go ahead and enjoy yourself, my lady,” Wulfrith told her firmly. “You work too hard.”

Éomer shot the housekeeper a grateful look. “Yes, give yourself an afternoon off.”

“I suppose so.” Lothíriel smiled. “Thank you, I would love to go for a ride.”

Yet at the midday meal they heard the ominous rumble of thunder and when he went outside to check he saw a dark wall of cloud moving in from the west, lit up from inside by lightning every now again. He watched with a strong sense of injustice as rain began to stream down in thick sheets, turning the roads to mud and washing away his picture of a sun filled clearing.

Back in their rooms, he found Lothíriel standing at the window staring out; she was dressed in a russet riding gown with the same red and orange scarf she had worn the last time twined into her hair. Just as he entered, a gust of wind rattled the window pane and the rain beat a hard tattoo against it.

She turned round to him. “What a shame! Do you think it might clear up later on?”

“Perhaps.” Though he doubted it and by then it would probably be too late. It was really most unfair! Was he not even allowed to spend a single afternoon with his wife? “Maybe we could at least go for a short ride?” he suggested.

She looked dubious, as outside the rain poured down. “Éomer, you don’t want to catch a cold just before riding to war.”

“Oh, I’m not that delicate.”

His words did not seem to convince her. “Fine, then let’s just say that I don’t intend to spend the next weeks snivelling and running a fever,” she answered. “You wouldn’t want me to, would you?”

“No, of course not,” he said stiffly. She was right really and no doubt a ride now would be a cold, miserable affair. “Ah well, I will just check my gear one last time.” There was something quite soothing about polishing one’s coat of mail, link by link.

And he needed soothing.

“Éomer…” Her voice arrested him on the way to the door. “I thought I might do a little mending. Would you like to keep me company for a bit? You could bring your hauberk in here.” When he looked at her in surprise, she bit her lip. “Only if you have nothing more important to do, of course.”

“No!” he exclaimed. “I mean, no, I haven’t got anything more important to do. It’s just that oiling mail is rather messy. However, my squire has an old sheet I can use to protect your carpets.”

She smiled. “Good. That’s settled then.”

So he went to fetch his things and when he came back found her crouching before the fireplace, lighting the fire. “Here, let me do that,” he said. Where had all the servants disappeared to? Lothíriel settled down in a chair with her basket of mending while he spread the sheet on the carpets and then sat down cross-legged at her feet.

His mail shirt was actually polished to perfection already, for Ceola took his responsibilities as Éomer’s squire extremely seriously, but it never hurt to check the hauberk himself, for after all his life depended on it. He took out a leather cloth and began to rub away at the finely spaced iron rings, cleaning off inexistent rust and inspecting them for brittleness. For some reason it was a very restful occupation, reminding him of the days when he was a young rider in his first éored, expected to care for his own things.

A companionable silence descended, only broken by the crackle of the fire and the rain drumming against the windows – they seemed to be caught in warm, softly lit bubble of tranquillity, sheltered from the hustle and bustle of getting ready. How strangely domestic, he thought. He had never really spent time with his wife just doing ordinary, every day tasks.

He paused for a moment and watched the firelight play across Lothíriel’s face, then suddenly realised the piece of clothing in her lap was one of his shirts. “Is that mine?” he asked. “You don’t have to do that, you know, the washerwomen also do mending.”

She held out a sleeve against the light to check her progress on stitching up a tear. “I know, but I don’t mind. It’s relaxing to have my fingers busy, but not have to think of anything.”

He could sympathise with that. “Every so often all this business of being a king and queen gets a bit much, doesn’t it?” he said. “Sometimes I wish I was simply the youngest recruit in Elfhelm’s éored again.” He grinned in reminiscence. “Although I had to dig the latrine. And fill it in.”

She chuckled. “I don’t envy you that experience. Amrothos and I had it better, we used to go sailing and pretended we were just ordinary fishermen with no princely duties at all. It was nice to have nothing but the empty sea stretching around us.”

“There’s that hut up in the mountains I told you about,” Éomer said. “It’s really quiet up there, all you hear is the wind, and that gives you a chance to listen to your own thoughts again.” He hesitated. “It’s rather simple, but maybe we could go there one day.”

“I’d love to,” Lothíriel said and her enthusiasm seemed unfeigned.

He smiled at her. “Around here, it’s almost the only way to get away from constantly being interrupted by people wanting something from you.”

“You won’t mind me coming along?”

“Oh, no,” he hastened to assure her, “you’re no trouble.” Belatedly he realised that was not a very tactful thing to say. “That is, you’re not constantly chattering away, demanding everybody dance attendance on you.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Thank you, though most ladies in Gondor would probably not take it as a compliment that they require little looking after.”

“That’s not what I meant! Just that you’re easy to handle and not very demanding…” His voice petered off under her sardonic regard. Had he just put his foot in? “I’m not expressing myself very well, am I?” he said.

Lothíriel held his gaze a moment longer, then suddenly she began to chuckle. “No. If I were Lady Malheril, I would have hit you over the head with my basket of mending by now for implying that I was not a delicate flower in need of constant attention.”

He shuddered at the thought. “Thank the Valar you’re not!” They exchanged a grin.

“You know, I’ll miss this,” he mused as he took up polishing his chain mail again. “No doubt very soon I will be thoroughly wet and miserable. And longing for a warm fire, a hot meal and a dry bed!” Preferably with his wife in it, but he didn’t say that.

“Ah yes, all that a man desires.” She concentrated on her stitches again. “Yet it seems to me that you’re nevertheless looking forward to going?”

“What makes you think so?”

Lothíriel shrugged. “Just a feeling. So are you?”

He hesitated. “Yes…in a way…you see, it’s a simpler life, you only have to worry about the here and now. Just stay alive and keep your men alive.”

“And kill your enemies?” She looked up, but he fancied he saw no judgement in her regard, just curiosity.

“I’m a warrior,” he pointed out, nevertheless feeling defensive. “The Rohirrim all are.” Did she regret marrying him and not some Gondorian scholar who would stay at home all his life, safe and sound?

“I know,” Lothíriel said. “And never doubt that I’m grateful for it. It’s what saved my family.”

“It’s not that I enjoy killing,” he said slowly, “but you never feel as alive as in the middle of battle. You live in the moment, pit your skill against that of your opponent. Knowing every breath could be your last makes it all the sweeter.” Would she understand? Yet she came from a long line of warriors.

She nodded. “One morning some years ago Amrothos and I slipped out to go sailing instead of studying with our tutor. We were rather young and foolish, I suppose, but it was in the spring and we thought it was much too early for corsairs, for they don’t like to risk their galleys in the rough winter seas…”

“What happened?”

“We were beating round a promontory west of the harbour only to nearly run into one of their dromonds! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Amrothos turn the boat round quicker, not even in a race. We were lucky, for the wind favoured us and then we managed to get a lead by crossing one of the sandbanks where they couldn’t follow us with their deeper draught. I still remember the arrows whistling by though!” She looked at him. “But though I was frightened, the feeling of the wind in my hair and the salt spray in my face had never felt sweeter. When we got the better of them and managed to raise the alarm, I thought I could have conquered the world!”

“Yes! A battle is like that, you’re terrified and elated at the same time. And as a king even more, for you know you have all that power at your command, a word of yours unleashes the might of your riders, as if you were wielding a huge blade scything across the battle field.” Éomer sighed. “Oh, it’s a heady feeling, yet with it comes a huge responsibility.” He thought of their mad charge on the Pelennor Fields that had nearly ended in disaster. The Rage had consumed him so thoroughly, he still remembered only fragments of it: a curved scimitar gleaming in the morning sun, dark eyes behind a visor filling with surprise as he cut the man down, cleaving the black serpent banner to trample it in the mud. A collection of single, clean-cut images, as remote as if they were the memories of another man.

He sighed. “And then after the battle, you realise your losses…”

Lothíriel bent her head. “And yours were grievous, I know.” Had there been pity in her words, he would have bridled, but he heard only acknowledgement of his sorrow from one who had experienced it too.

He nodded curtly. “Yes.” But as he took up polishing his armour again, he felt a little lighter, as if he had shared a heavy load. While he would miss Théodred and his other friends to the end of his life, at least they had not died in vain. The Mark was as safe and prosperous as it had ever been and the very fact that they could now counter a danger before it touched their borders showed how much things had changed.

Nothing more was said, but when they settled to their tasks again a restful stillness enveloped them. They were poised between the scramble of getting ready in time and the rush to meet Aragorn, but there were a few precious moments of peace yet, like the hush that fell before a storm hit, when all the wind died down briefly.

Éomer found himself observing his wife out of the corner of his eye, seeing her as if for the first time. The way a small crease appeared between her eyebrows whenever she concentrated on her stitches, how her long eyelashes threw fine shadows in the firelight, the dimples in her cheeks that appeared too seldom: no longer the elegant stranger he had met in Minas Tirith and coolly assessed for her suitability as his queen, but a person with dreams and wishes, memories and needs.

And secrets, he reminded himself. Yet that moment it struck him that several times lately she had spoken quite freely about her childhood in Dol Amroth, revealing an adventurous, mischievous girl quite unlike the quiet, controlled woman who ran Meduseld. Was she slowly coming out from behind her smoke and mirrors? At least for short moments?

Éomer sighed. He had no idea why he dwelt on that image so much when it might all be simply a figment of his imagination. Why did he even care, since their marriage had brought him exactly what he had asked of it? But the thing was, he rather liked the woman he glimpsed every now and again, he just wasn’t sure how to gain her trust. Now if only she were a horse, he would know exactly what to do! He grinned to himself at the picture of enticing his wife out with a juicy apple. Yet in a way she was like a shy filly that spooked every time you looked at her directly – and the trick to deal with one of those was of course to lure her closer while pretending not to notice that she approached.

“Do you ever have storms like this in Dol Amroth?” he asked casually.

She paused and leant back in her chair. “Oh yes, and worse. In the winter sometimes the wind blows so hard and the sea is so rough that our ships are confined to harbour for days.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Mostly stay inside.” She grinned. “Amrothos paces the great hall all day; it drives Father crazy.”

“And you?”

“Oh, running the household kept me busy enough. Or you can listen to the bards telling stories and playing music. Many courtiers also like to play games.”

“Not so different from here then,” Éomer remarked. “I bet my riders are all sitting in the hall, playing at dice.”

“Amrothos is like that, but Father prefers Shah. He says it hones his tactical skills.”

“And you?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I give Father a match, but really I prefer quicker games like hounds and boars.”

“Hounds and boars!” he exclaimed, for it was one of his favourite games. “We play that here; in fact I have a set. Shall we have a go?”

“What, now?”

“Why not?” he asked back. “Don’t tell me you’d rather mend shirts.”

“What about your hauberk?”

“Polished to perfection already.” He rose and stretched. “So are you up to a challenge?”

She raised her chin. “Of course.”

Éomer grinned to himself. What kind of opponent would she make? And should he tell her that in the Mark the winner claimed a forfeit? Usually just a mug of ale, but if a woman was involved it might run to a kiss instead and sometimes further favours were granted.

Smiling to himself in anticipation, he put his armour away on its stand in his room and rummaged through his chests for the game. But when he finally found the wooden board divided into eleven by eleven squares and the leather bag of red and white pieces, he paused for a moment and his throat closed. It had been a Yule gift from Théodred and they had played often. Never again now… Resolutely he pushed the thought away – he would remember the good times instead and honour his cousin that way.

“Shall we fetch another chair?” Lothíriel asked when he returned to her room.

“No need,” he answered. “Let’s just sit by the fire.” They had always played like that when out on patrol, sometimes just scratching a rough board on the ground and using dark and pale stones for pieces.

Théodred’s gameboard was more elaborate of course, with a border of finely etched knotwork running around it and the pieces carved into the semblance of the animals they were called after. He set up the white hounds along the sides of the board while the boars massed around the biggest piece, the king boar, in the centre.

Lothíriel had settled down cross-legged opposite him. “That’s a beautiful set,” she said and picked up one of the pieces to admire it. Each animal had been carved lovingly, the hounds snarling while the boars lowered their heads to charge. “Do you play to the best of seven here too?”

“We do,” he agreed.

She put the piece back. “The board’s owner may choose first, we always say. So what do you prefer, hounds or boars?”

“Oh, definitely chasing to being chased,” he shot back. “Hounds.”

At first she looked startled, then she grinned. “I should have known. But I must warn you, turn around is fair.”

“I’m also used to being chased,” he quipped. “You will find that the ladies of Minas Tirith have made me a master of evasion.”

She laughed out loud. “We’ll see how well you fare against this lady of Dol Amroth!”

Éomer had always thought that playing against someone gave you a good indication of that person’s character. Well, he found out something very quickly about his wife: she played to win. Skilfully, using her head, making quick decisions, never dithering.

And utterly ruthlessly.

He had played other court ladies and usually found them reluctant to sacrifice their pieces or play an aggressive game. Not so Lothíriel. Before he had properly deployed his hounds, she had gored several of them and when he rushed to defend that side, coolly took advantage of one of the places he had to leave poorly defended to make her escape to the corner of the board.

“You’ve won,” he said in amazement.

“Yes. You were over-confident.”

A devastatingly accurate summary. “Yes,” he said grimly, “but not again.”

The next match took longer, each of them trying to gauge the other’s skill and temperament, which resulted in a number of cautious moves. In the end Éomer managed to slowly build up a numeric advantage on one side and then fought his way through.

“Well played,” she conceded.

He had the hounds back now, his favourite side, and was determined not to make the same mistake again. Lothíriel opposite him sat hunched over the board with all her concentration fixed on it. He was suddenly reminded of what she had said about adopting her brother’s tactics of going straight at an opponent. Could that be used against her?

So he offered her the opportunity to attack and when she took it, lured a number of her pieces into a trap. She extricated herself more gracefully than he had expected, but nevertheless it left her at a disadvantage. For the rest of the match he nibbled away at her from all sides until she found herself cornered by his forces. She did not give up though until the king boar was finally taken.

Having regained his confidence, Éomer started with fresh verve into the next game. Granted, he had underestimated her at first, but surely now he had taken her measure. His self-assurance did not waver until he had five boars taken, one after the other. How had that happened? When he studied the board, it dawned on him that she had used his own tactics against him! He had no chance to plug the hole she had torn in his defences in time, and though he fought to the bitter end, she cornered him easily. They were even again.

“You’re good,” he said.

She put her head to one side. “So are you.”

Suddenly they grinned at each other. “I should pit you against some of my riders,” he said. “If I bet on the outcome, I could make a tidy sum of money.”

She chuckled. “Men always underestimate me. Sometimes they even want to grant me a few pieces as forfeit in order to give me a better chance.”

He guffawed. “And what do you do?”

“Take them up on their kind offer, of course.” Her smile had a feral edge to it.

“Well, at least that’s one mistake I didn’t make!”

“Sadly not.”

They set up the pieces again and he put a couple more logs on the fire, for it was getting dark outside.

“Strange,” Lothíriel remarked. “Dordes must have forgotten to bring me my afternoon tea. I suppose she’s busy.” She lay down on her stomach on the soft carpet and propped her head on her hands, studying the board. “Shall we continue?”

The atmosphere was more relaxed now, but still neither one gave any quarter. Éomer enjoyed playing against her, for she was a formidable opponent with an exhilarating quickness of mind and the ability to surprise you. However, he had his hounds again and by clever manoeuvring he managed to hem her in more and more. She tried to break out and make a dash for the corner, but he caught her before she could make it. Their fingers met on the king boar.

“Do you yield?” he asked.

She pushed her piece over. “Only this once.”

The next game Éomer lost with embarrassing quickness. He made a mistake early on, and though he realised it at once, Lothíriel did not pass up her chance. His position was gutted in no time and his king boar surrounded.

She looked up at him through her long lashes. “Do you yield?”

He groaned. “Yes!” Then he recovered his equanimity. “Although of course I don’t mind being caught by such a pretty lady.”

Her eyes mocked him. “How gallant of you.”

She was plainly enjoying herself. And so was he. His plan to lure her out from behind her barriers and locked shutters had worked unexpectedly well. That this was the real Lothíriel he had no doubt. If only she would stay!

“Now for the deciding match,” he said.

She pulled herself up to kneel by the board and neatly placed all her boars in their positions. “You can do it,” she told the king piece before setting it down in the centre.

Éomer grinned. “Catch her,” he said to his hounds and like two fighters about to face off, they exchanged a nod of acknowledgement.

At first both moved cautiously, aware that any mistake would be punished at once. They were evenly matched, Éomer thought, both in skill and temperament. Who would have thought that his cool, reserved queen possessed such fighting spirit? Although she did not look so reserved now with her hair escaping from its braid, lips slightly parted and cheeks flustered with excitement. The impulse to lean over and claim those red, inviting lips coursed through him. Was that how she looked when he made love to her?

He watched the emotions chase across her face, which for once she left unguarded as she considered what move to make next. Her fingers hovered over the board and she chewed her lower lip, deep in thought, then suddenly made up her mind and darted forward to move a piece before sitting back on her heels, satisfied.

Before she could catch him observing her, he quickly looked down at the board and jumped one of his hounds forward rather at random. It was deadly, of course. With ferocious speed she capitalised on his lapse of concentration and before he knew it, she had spearheaded an attack into his territory. He fought on, but the outcome was a given: his defeat.

“You’ve won,” he stated.

She regarded him and thoughtfully wrapped a strand of hair round her fingers. “So I have. You weren’t paying attention for a moment back there, were you?”

“No, I was thinking of something else.”

“You have a lot on your mind just now,” she pointed out.

Little did she know! “Yes, I have,” he said, “but it’s no excuse.”

“No,” she agreed with a mischievous smile, “I was just being a gracious winner.”

“Now listen, I won’t stand for that, my lady!” he answered in mock outrage. “This calls for a rematch.”

“Oh, can we?” But then she looked at the window. “Only it’s dark outside already; I didn’t realise it was so late.”

“When I get back from the expedition?” he asked.

Lothíriel nodded. “I would like that very much.”

“In that case I will hold you to it.”

His wife rewarded him with such a brilliant smile that Éomer could not help himself. He pushed the gameboard aside and leant forward. “Now you might not realise this, but in the Mark it’s traditional that the loser gets a kiss.” He claimed her lips.

“You’re making that up!” she protested when they came up for air, but did not pull away.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s the winner who gets it. From the loser.” He proceeded to fulfil his obligation.

Of its own volition his hand moved up to loosen her hair from its braid. Smooth silk ran through his fingers as the scarf twined into it came undone. He pulled her over on top of him and her hair fell like a dark, scented curtain around them. Yes! He had wanted to do that all afternoon he realised.

“Éomer…” she murmured, “Dordes will be along any moment to help me change for the evening meal.”

He paused and looked at his wife poised above him. Surely it was encouraging that she only objected to the timing, not his actions themselves. “We could lock the door?”

She smiled. “Poor Dordes, we would scandalise her.”

Éomer wondered at that. His wife might not realise the significance of the fact that not a single servant had interrupted them all afternoon, but he did. He ran his hand up her back and felt her shiver. “I’d be willing to risk that.”

Lothíriel sighed. “But it’s the farewell feast…” Was that regret in her voice or was she merely looking for a way to refuse him without offending him? “Your men will expect you to greet them with a toast,” she added. “And I wanted to look my best to honour them.”

He groaned inwardly. Would it be any use to point out that in his opinion she looked best when not wearing anything at all? But she was right of course. His men were about to risk their lives for the Mark; he could not possibly slight them by letting them wait for him. He had missed his chance…

Éomer let his arms sink to his side. “There are distinct disadvantages to being king! And to think that as a child I used to envy my uncle because I thought a King of the Mark could do anything he pleases. The contrary is true!”

She rolled off him. “Poor you!”

“And even my queen has no respect for me,” he complained. Of course as a boy his imagination had only run to unlimited plum cakes. Now he had different appetites.

Éomer got up and pulled Lothíriel to her feet. He still had her scarf in his hands and used it to catch her against him for a moment. “Still, there is always the night…”

She blushed.

A/N: if you’re wondering what kind of game they’re playing, I imagine it as a variant of ‘hnefatafl’, which used to be a popular board game amongst the Vikings and Germanic tribes.