Chapter 12

Four days later they struck camp to make their way back to friendlier lands. Aragorn had arranged for specially sprung waggons to carry the wounded, but the going was slow and it took them three weeks to return to Minas Tirith. However, on their arrival the populace greeted them enthusiastically and in the evening there was a great feast in Merethond.

Éomer was pleased to see his sister, who had come from Emyn Arnen to meet them, but felt a pang when he witnessed Éowyn’s enthusiastic reunion with her husband. The two could hardly keep their hands off each other and Aragorn and Arwen were no better! He had the mad impulse to write to Lothíriel and ask her to come to Minas Tirith, but it would have been silly for her to ride all that way for just a week or so.

At least Éowyn looked in the best of health and literally glowed with contentment whenever she stroked her gently rounded belly. She was full of the small news of her new home and it eased his heart to see her so happy and relaxed. She and Faramir retired early, pleading fatigue – not that anyone believed them – and Éomer decided to follow suit. Lady Malheril and her like were on the prowl and he had no stomach to endure such insipid company.

Dismissing his guards to their own devices, he rode down to the Rohirrim camp on the Pelennor Fields. Aragorn had offered him rooms in the Citadel, but he preferred staying with his men.

A yawning Ceola took Firefoot’s bridle and led him away. From the campfires the sounds of revelry, laughter and singing drifted over on the warm night air and he debated whether to join his men for a couple of rounds of drink. However, he felt strangely discontented and would probably not have been good company, so he just called after his squire to bring him a jug of ale. It was foolish to be so low-spirited when they had gained a victory and he had nothing to complain about, he told himself. Perhaps getting quietly drunk was the solution to his unsettled mood.

Ceola had lit the lamps in the tent, and after shedding his cloak Éomer suddenly noticed a pile of papers on the table. What were they? His heart gave a funny lurch when he recognised the elegant handwriting. Quickly he sorted through the pile – no less than eight letters from Lothíriel. She had taken her promise to write seriously!

That moment Ceola entered with the jug of ale. “When did these arrive?” Éomer asked.

“A servant from the Citadel brought them down this evening,” the squire replied. “Shall I fetch you something to eat, my lord?”

“No, no.” Éomer waved him away. “You go and enjoy yourself, I won’t need you tonight. But go easy on the drink!”

Dismissing the lad from his mind, he sat down and sorted through the letters. His supremely efficient wife had even numbered them so he could read them in the right order! Briefly he felt guilty for not having written once beyond a short message announcing their success, but then he had never been a very good correspondent, as his sister often told him.

The first one was dated just a couple of days after they had left and was full of the small happenings of Edoras: little Wynn, Háma’s daughter, learning to shape her first letters, one of the servants announcing her betrothal, a funny account of the cook’s fearless cat defending its favourite resting place by the hearth against a deer hound twice its size and the birth of twins to one of the townswomen.

The words flowed easily from Lothíriel’s pen and it seemed to Éomer almost as if he could hear her speaking to him. Suddenly he longed to be home, to have a cold mountain breeze blow away the warm, stagnant air, to see the green, rolling plains, to hold his wife in his arms…

He sighed. Only a couple more weeks, surely he could stand that. The next letter, written a few days later, continued in the same vein with all the small, dear news of home and a brief report on the progress of his foals by Tidhelm, the Keeper of the Studbook. But when he reached the postscript his breath caught. It looked like it had been added after the main letter, the writing very precise: Éomer, I regret to inform you that I have not conceived.

His heart went out to her and at the same time he felt guilty. The one thing she wanted so much and that he had so far been unable to give her. Unbidden, the recollection of one of his uncle’s friends whose adored wife had divorced him for barrenness after five years of marriage came to his mind. She had gone on to raise a brood of children with another husband, whereas the poor man had died bitter and without an heir. Éomer pushed the memory away. Surely it would not take much longer, he told himself, after all they were both young and healthy.

Pouring himself a mug of ale, he reached for the next letter on the pile. Aldburg, in the Folde, it began. Startled, he sat up straighter. What was she doing there? Had she needed Elfhelm’s assistance for some reason? But no, she wrote that she had taken up Elfhelm’s wife on an invitation to visit their home. An account followed of being shown around the town by her host and hostess and taken to see some of the East Mark’s horse herds. Éomer couldn’t help feeling an irrational disappointment at not being the one to introduce her to the place where he had grown up and to show her his favourite spots. Then he bit his lip. He had nobody to blame but himself, he suddenly realised, not having taken her along to Aldburg even once all last winter.

She was full of the kind reception by Elfhelm’s lively family and how well they had looked after her. Lady Leofgifu insisted I use the room set aside for your use, though I would have been perfectly happy to share with Hild. She even had it strewn with fresh rushes and all the sheets aired. Involuntarily Éomer groaned at the picture of his wife sleeping in his big, wide bed in Aldburg. What was he doing stuck here in Minas Tirith when instead he could have been there with her!

Letter number four was dated in Edoras again, written in a more sombre mood and by coincidence on the day they had given battle to the Son of Sauron. I wonder where you are this moment, she had written, and if you have met the enemy yet? The usual small news followed, but it seemed to Éomer that her style lacked its usual spirit. However, the next paragraph was dated two days later and gave a vivid description of a visit to the foaling pastures that Hild had talked her into. They had seen Northwind and her son, now a high-spirited colt, and Lothíriel had written two pages full of underlined words and exclamation points describing their encounter. Éomer grinned at the enthusiasm that almost leapt off the page. Wynn had been allowed to accompany her big sister and had played with the colt, which already lived up to its name of Elfsteed.

Lothíriel sounded so alive, he thought, as if she had set loose a part of her that she usually kept tightly controlled behind the shutters of her mind. Was it because letters belonged to her world of books and words, where she felt safe and could be herself? Or because of his absence? What a lowering thought! He traced the elegantly shaped letters as if they could give him a lifeline through the smoke and mirrors of his wife’s mind to the laughing woman who had played hounds and boars with him. Like a maiden shut away in a tower, Éomer mused, only this one wished for no rescue. Or did she?

Shaking his head at his whimsy, he picked up the next letter. Dunharrow, it was titled. What? Quickly scanning over the beginning, he discovered that Lothíriel and Hild were staying a few days with the Lord and Lady of Harrowdale. Of course, Háma’s sister had married Dúnhere, who had been killed on the Fields of the Pelennor, so young Lord Dunstan was Hild’s cousin. By the date, Lothíriel had spent barely a week in Edoras before setting off on this visit! He frowned. Why was he getting the impression of a prisoner enjoying her freedom with her gaoler away? He vowed to take her with him next time he had to travel within the Mark, if only to keep an eye on her.

Then he nearly choked on his ale when he continued to read. Lord Dunstan very kindly showed us the avenue of púkelmen leading to the Dark Door and even let us enter the tunnel under the mountain. The man had done what! He had a vision of Lothíriel losing her way in the dark bowels of the Dwimorberg. I was a little apprehensive at first, but Hild assured me that there were no spiders and the dead had gone and indeed the atmosphere was not as eerie as I had expected, but rather empty and a little sad. Lord Dunstan is hoping to open the passage for trade with Gondor, which seems a promising idea, so I told him I could put him in touch with a consortium of merchants in Dol Amroth, who might be interested in sharing the financial burden of securing a navigable path and that I might even invest some money in such an interesting venture myself. In fact I would have liked to continue past Baldur’s cavern to check on the condition of the road, but Dunstan refused to let us go any further, saying that you would not want it.

So the man had a little sense left. He would have a word or two with him on the subject of how to look properly after the Queen of the Mark when next they met, Éomer thought grimly. Oh yes!

At least nothing more untoward had happened and the next letter was dated from Edoras again. By then Lothíriel had received news of their victory from Queen Arwen, which had resulted in a spontaneous celebration by the townsfolk, to which she had contributed several casks of ale. She gave an animated description of the dancing round the bonfires and a funny portrayal of the men’s condition the morning after, but only at the end of the letter did she touch on her personal feelings and that only lightly. I am relieved to hear that everything went according to plan and that you are well.

Éomer sighed. That was all? On the other hand, what else did he expect from his restrained, dignified queen? Those were the qualities he had married her for after all. And to be quite honest, he had not exactly poured out his heart either in his quick epistle penned during the days of rest after the battle. Regarding the sheets and sheets of closely written paper strewn across his table, he again felt guilty for being such a poor correspondent.

Two letters left. He picked up number seven. This one gave an account of the King’s Court she had held and would probably have been supremely boring to an outsider, but to Éomer it brought back a host of memories. A wave of homesickness swept through him and he wondered if he could put forward their departure from Minas Tirith. Surely they did not have to attend all the celebrations planned for them?

Settling back in his chair, he took another deep draught of ale and then broke the seal on the last letter, unfortunately only a single sheet of parchment.

The Fords of Isen.

Dear Éomer, you are probably wondering what I am doing here.

It took him a moment to take in the meaning of her words. “What?” he sputtered. Was she out of her mind to travel right to the border of the Mark! For more sight-seeing? The Dunlendings might have been quiet since the Battle of Helm’s Deep, but that did not mean they would no longer raid the lands of the Rohirrim. Especially with such a promising target! And where in all this was Eadbald, Erkenbrand’s son, who was in charge of the West Mark? He smoothed out the letter, which he had crumpled in his agitation.

Forgive me for only writing so briefly, but the last few days have been rather busy. You see, a group of Dunlendings, mostly women and children, have gathered on the far side of the Isen, begging for food. They seem to be refugees of some inner strife amongst their tribes and Eadbald didn’t know what to do, so he sent word to Edoras, asking for advice. I thought you would want me to go personally to assess the situation, therefore–

Éomer leapt up. She had thought what! And that useless whelp of Erkenbrand’s had known nothing better than to drop his problem in her lap, rather than sending to Elfhelm? A red haze of rage obscured his vision for a moment. If anything had happened to Lothíriel… He snatched up the letter again.

–therefore I asked Hild to accompany me and we set off the next day. We took a company of guards along and Eadbald met us along the way with his own éored, so you needn’t worry.

Not worry! He remembered the Deeping-coomb filled with enemies from one end to the other, fires flaring up wherever they torched another farmhouse, murdering its inhabitants. He wanted a host of his men between Lothíriel and filth like that, not Eadbald’s single éored! What if it was a trap?

We arrived here this afternoon and I’ve already spoken to some of our guards posted at the ford. They estimate the Dunlendings to be about five hundred strong, but almost all of them are women and children, with few able-bodied men, and all desperately starved, some of them ill as well. Apparently there is a chieftain by the name of Urho, who seems to be leading these people, and I’ve arranged to meet with him tomorrow to discuss what to do.

And that was it. Just a promise to write to him the moment she knew more, the hope that this letter would find him in good health and her graceful signature.

Éomer stared down at it for a long moment, fear compressing his chest like a vice. He searched for the date, which he had overlooked at first. Written seven days ago, so it would only just have been delivered. However, anything could have happened in that time. He felt sick.

What if this Dunlending chieftain had abducted her? She might be deep in their territory by now, a frightened, bewildered hostage. Or worse! Too well did he remember what they had found in the West Mark’s farmhouses whose owners had not left quickly enough. Men with their bellies slashed open, children with throats cut, the women…

He refused to consider that possibility. Black, boiling rage welled up within him at the image of some Dunlending holding a blade to Lothíriel’s throat, laying rough hands on her. With her gentle, sheltered upbringing, she would be completely helpless…

He would kill this Urho! He would kill them all! Raze Dunland from the Isen to the sea. Before he knew it, he had grabbed his sword and stridden out his tent.

“Ceola!” he yelled.

Yet as the cooler night air hit him, he paused and took a deep breath. He needed to consider the matter thoroughly. His men would drop everything and follow him, but was that the best thing to do? Once before he had let fury rule him, and it had almost led him and all his men to their doom. He had sworn then that it would not happen again, that next time he would think before he acted.

And anyway, even if they set off at once, they would be days too late to do anything. Ice filled his veins at that realisation, replacing the hot fire that had run through him a moment ago. He needed more information…

Panting, Ceola came running up. “My Lord King?”

He came to a decision. “Fetch me our fastest horse.”

***

Everybody melted out of his way as he strode along the corridors of the Citadel. Only at the door to Aragorn’s private chambers did a foolhardy guard try to stop him.

“My lord, King Elessar has retired. You can’t go in there unannounced!”

“Then announce me,” Éomer snapped.

The man took one look at him, hastily slipped inside the anteroom and knocked on the door to the bedroom. “The King of Rohan to see you, my lord,” he stammered.

Aragorn must have been still awake, for he appeared almost at once, clad in a simple shirt and hose. “Éomer?” He shot him a sharp glance. “Let’s go in the study and you can tell me what’s the matter, my friend.”

While Aragorn lit a brace of candles, Éomer quickly explained the situation and showed him the letter. “And what if there are spiders? She’s afraid of them!” he finished, only to realise how inane he sounded. He raked his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite myself.”

His friend gave him a sympathetic look. “Of course not. But are you sure this Dunlending chief has abducted her?” he asked, poring over the parchment.

“Yes!…no…” Éomer took a deep breath. “That’s what I need to know. Will you look in the palantír for me?” His only hope.

“Yes, by all means,” Aragorn agreed at once. He unlocked a heavy oak cabinet and retrieved a bundle of velvet from it. Throwing back the thick fabric, he revealed a ball of crystal, which he set on the table.

Éomer had only ever seen the palantír briefly and had expected it to be more impressive somehow, not just a globe of shiny black stone. “This is it?”

“Yes, it’s the Orthanc stone.” Aragorn motioned at the palantír. “Do you wish to look yourself?”

Éomer shied back from it; he did not like to meddle with wizard’s devices. On the other hand…to see Lothíriel for himself… “That’s possible?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Mind you, if you don’t concentrate, the stone will present you with dozens of erratic images, depending on what you think of that moment. You need a firm purpose to direct it to show you what you desire to know, but I believe you have firmness of mind enough for that.”

Éomer hesitated. Now that it had come to it, he was deathly afraid of what he might see. Taking a deep breath, he bent over the palantír. If only Lothíriel was all right! He would never complain about anything life threw at him or ask another favour of the Valar, he vowed, if only she was safe and sound. However, the stone showed him only a dull, distorted reflection of himself.

“Think of your wife,” Aragorn whispered.

Éomer touched her silken scarf that he kept tied around his upper arm and pictured Lothíriel as he had seen her the last time, on the morning he had left: grey eyes large in her pale face, her hair caressed by the wind, the feel of her in his arms. More images rose in his mind, Lothíriel laughing at him over their game of boars and hounds, serving ale to his men in Meduseld, splashing in the pond on their excursion to see the horses.

Where was she now? He needed to know! Something flickered in the depths of the crystal globe and he leant closer. Was it simply a reflection of the candles? But no, the stone slowly grew transparent, as if it were made of glass, and a tiny image formed inside. Éomer concentrated on the light until it grew to fill his vision. It was an ordinary oil lamp standing on a desk, he realised. But where was Lothíriel? He wanted to see her!

Then there was a movement to the side. As his attention was caught, the focus of the palantír shifted and suddenly he saw a piece of parchment, an ink well and a hand holding a quill. Lothíriel? The moment he voiced her name in his mind, the vision jumped to include her. She was sitting at the desk, staring down at the lines she had written, tiredly rubbing her eyes.

“Lothíriel!” he breathed. He recognised the place now, she was in her study in Meduseld!

Her eyes flew up in surprise. But the wave of relief sweeping through him broke his concentration and the vision shattered. He swore.

“Bad news?” Aragorn asked, looking grim.

“No! She’s fine, she’s in Edoras! But I lost the vision.” He sank down on a chair. “Lothíriel is all right,” he repeated, still finding it difficult to believe. Then a new anxiety hit him. “The stone doesn’t lie, does it? She’s truly fine?”

“The palantír reveals what happens somewhere else this very moment,” Aragorn assured him. “It might not always show you what you want to know, but it will not lie.”

So she was in her bedroom in Meduseld, staying up in order to write him yet another letter. He really had to do better than his single disgraceful scribbling! There had been lines of tiredness on her face, he thought.

Unnoticed by him, Queen Arwen had joined them, dressed in a flowing night gown, and her husband murmured a quick explanation to her. “What will you do now?” she asked.

Éomer drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re still worried?” his friend asked.

“What if she decides to go back to the Fords?” he burst out. “Or does something else that’s dangerous?” It seemed to him that you never knew what to expect next with Lothíriel! He would not have a moment’s peace now.

“Perhaps you should go home and tell your wife what you feel?” Aragorn suggested quietly.

Go home! “But the celebrations,” Éomer said. “And I still have wounded men in the Houses of Healing.”

“You’re the king. Surely there’s somebody you could leave in charge here while you take care of matters in Rohan. They will understand.”

“There’s Erkenbrand,” he admitted. It would also be a fitting punishment for having fathered such a useless son. “Yes,” he decided, “I will take my personal éored and ride first thing tomorrow morning.” He rose and clasped Aragorn’s arm. “My thanks for your help and your advice.”

“No need to thank me, we’re brothers,” Aragorn said. “And perhaps next time you come to Gondor, you will bring your queen?”

“I hope so.” He bowed to Arwen. “My lady, I’m so sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”

She slipped her hand inside her husband’s and smiled at Éomer. “There is no need for apologies when you worry about the one you love.” Her gaze seemed to pierce him to his very soul. “None at all.”

Éomer stammered some kind of reply and took his leave. Only when he was in the empty corridor again did he allow himself to consider Arwen’s words.

And with a sinking feeling in his stomach he realised that he could no more do without Lothíriel than he could do without air. He had thought his heart safe behind the walls he had built around it, but somehow she had slipped past his guard all unnoticed. And here he’d sworn not to give another hostage to fortune, to hold himself aloof from all further entanglements of the heart!

He took a deep breath. His whole body was tense with worry, so much that it hurt. And yet, he thought suddenly, when a limb has gone numb and comes to life again, that hurts too.