Chapter 14

The Dunlendings were camped half an hour’s ride west of Edoras, in a dell with a stream running through it. Here at the foot of the mountains, a thin blanket of autumn mist still lingered, with solitary fir trees emerging like sad sentinels, dripping with moisture. They rode silently, the jingle of their gear muffled by the still air. Despite Lothíriel assuring them of their unwelcome guests’ peaceful intentions, Éomer and his men had donned all their armour and sent out scouts to make sure they would not be ambushed.

Eadbald had joined their expedition, nervously pointing out what precautions he had taken, but Éomer only acknowledged his words with a grunt and he soon he fell silent. At least the whelp had posted a ring of guards around the camp, although the rider who greeted them gave an impression of boredom. However, he quickly came to attention when he realised he was facing his king.

As they rode into the camp, the Dunlendings emerged from tents of worn, faded canvas to stare at them. Even though the guard had confirmed that the inhabitants were mostly women and children, Éomer kept his hand on his sword hilt and ordered Lothíriel to ride in the middle of their group. He was not taking any chances.

Mostly, the Dunlendings watched them in stony silence, but one of the women called something to Lothíriel, presumably a greeting, to which she waved an acknowledgement. Then whispers of ‘forgoil kuningas’, ‘king of the strawheads’ spread through the crowd. Éomer understood that much, although their language had always seemed to him more like the coarse call of beasts than the utterance of men.

Something was very strange though about the camp, he thought, then realised there was a complete absence of animals. In any Rohirric village there would be chickens running around rooting for food, pig pens round the back of the houses and goats, sheep and cows out in the pastures. To say nothing of the horses of course. Here not even a single dog barked at them. Had they all been eaten? It was unnaturally silent anyway, no sound of laughter or cheerful talking, no women singing over their tasks as they spun wool and wove cloth, as he was used to from his own people. They passed a campfire where a woman was stirring a pot of gruel, but her children just sat on the ground and watched lethargically. It gave Éomer a pang to see their dull, lank hair and hollow faces.

They halted in the centre of the camp where a woman and a young lad awaited them in front of the largest tent. The woman’s face was gaunt, though her high cheekbones hinted at traces of beauty, and her clothes hung on her thin frame as if they had been made for a much fuller figure. She rested her hands on the boy’s shoulders, whether to reassure him or to keep him from running away, Éomer could not tell. Identical black eyes stared up at him, neither hostile nor afraid. He had seen that look before: in those who had nothing left to lose.

“Urho, chief of the Tribe of the Red Deer, and his mother Ilta,” Lothíriel introduced the two, having somehow wormed her way forward to his side. “The boy is nine,” she added.

So much for his picture of a handsome Dunlending leader. Suddenly Éomer felt ashamed. His wife had been right; there was really only one word for this wretched, starving people: defeated.

He looked down at the woman and her son a moment longer, then swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. “My wife tells me you seek a treaty?” he asked and took off his helmet. 

***

They set out to return to Edoras in the bright afternoon sunshine, leaving behind a much more cheerful camp. The Dunlending children peeked out from the tents, and when Lothíriel waved at them smiled back shyly. His men also seemed relieved not to have to fight such a sorry foe and raised their voices in song.

Only Éomer rode in silence, lost deep in thought. Involuntarily his gaze snagged on the magnificent amber necklace now lying around his wife’s neck, a present from Ilta. A proud woman that, he thought, and unwilling to receive gifts of food and aid without giving something back. Lothíriel had been enchanted by the story that the chunks of amber washed up on the Dunlending shore were pieces of a mermaid’s palace broken up by stormy weather. She had promised her aid in trading some to the merchants of Gondor. Though so different, the two women seemed to have hit it off well, both determined to avoid more bloodshed.

Éomer knew he should have been pleased, but it irked him to see this pledge of friendship, glowing like rich honey in the sunshine. He had given Lothíriel nothing beyond the pieces of jewellery that were rightfully hers as Queen of the Mark, he thought suddenly, not a single thing since the traditional presentation of his morning gift.

Well, he might have bought something in Gondor, but his stay in Minas Tirith had of course been cut short by that abortive rush back home. Abortive and utterly useless, he reflected. It had become clear to him that Lothíriel had never been in any real danger and he had worried for nothing. What a fool he had made of himself!

He became aware that Lothíriel too was silent, sending him worried sideways glances. She deserved to hear that she had been right, even wise, in her judgement of the situation, but at the moment he could not find the words to admit his own ill-conceived fears and actions.

It was a relief when the training grounds outside Edoras came into sight. “I’ll just check how Swiftfire is coming along,” he announced, then hurriedly took his leave of his wife.

However, though the stallion had made steady progress through the summer and responded beautifully to his rider, Éomer could not shake his disgruntled mood. In the end he took Firefoot for several runs along the training course, hoping to lose himself in the physical exertion. There were some new refinements, including a fiendishly placed ditch full of mud, but even that only managed to cheer him up briefly.

He had finished his fourth run and was walking Firefoot to cool him down when he noticed Aedwulf leaning on the rails surrounding one of the practice rings.

“Greetings, Éomer King,” the old man called. As former master of the studbook, he often came down to see what had become of the foals he had helped bring into the world.

“Well met, Aedwulf,” Éomer returned the greeting.

The old man held out his hand to Firefoot and scratched the stallion’s poll. “I remember the foaling of this one, Dawnwind’s last.”

“And best,” Éomer replied.

“Aye.” Aedwulf smiled, showing a row of yellow, crooked teeth. “That he is.” He launched into a string of reminiscences about Firefoot’s bloodline to which Éomer listened absentmindedly, but then the old man suddenly shot his king a sharp glance. “I hear you’ve been to see those Dunlendings?”

“Yes. I’ve offered them help.”

“Ahhh.” The old man nodded to himself.

Roused to sudden interest, Éomer bent down to him. “So tell me, Aedwulf, what do the people of Edoras think of them?”

“Well, of course there’s no love lost between them and the Eorlingas.” He spat on the ground. “Yet once you meet them…nobody wants to make war on women and children.”

Éomer sighed. “No.”

Aedwulf shot him another glance. “Mind you, not everybody was pleased with the queen’s actions and there was talk.”

At that Éomer frowned. Did that explain some of the strain he’d seen in Lothíriel? “I gave the queen full authority,” he snapped. “That’s why I entrusted the royal seal to her.”

The old man grinned. “Don’t bite my head off, lad! I think she did well. Comes from good stock, that one.” He patted Firefoot again. “Of course, if she bore you an heir that would give her more authority than all the seals of the Riddermark.”

Éomer groaned inwardly. Trust a master of the studbook to reduce everything to bloodlines! 

***

That evening there was a victory feast for Éomer and his men. When he got back from the practice fields, the hall was already filling up, a bath awaited him and fresh clothes lay ready on his bed. He would have liked a talk with his wife, but all he got was a glimpse of Lothíriel deep in discussion with Wulfrith over some domestic matter.

Meduseld looked splendid that night, the light of the many lamps reflecting from freshly polished columns and beams, the patterned floor rich with colour and the tapestries on the walls cleaned and redyed. Lothíriel and her ladies served the welcome cup of mead themselves, giving every rider a word of praise for his valour. Half the men were probably in love with their queen, Éomer reflected, and no wonder, for in a wine red dress with her raven hair caught up in a hairnet dripping with pearls she looked as if she had just stepped out of an ancient tale.

The only thing missing was a real smile. Yet once again he seemed to be the only person aware of that fact. The kitchen served one course after the other: venison pies flavoured with cloves, roasted piglet glazed with honey, pigeons in saffron sauce, stuffed chickens, pears baked in white wine. His men’s boasts got more impressive with every tankard of ale consumed, but he felt curiously detached from it all.

His whole being seemed to focus on the woman sitting next to him: elegant and regal, the perfect hostess, as smooth as polished stone. Exactly the kind of woman he had sought in Gondor for his queen. How ironic that now he wanted something completely different! Yes, fate had given him exactly what he had asked for. So why did he have the distinct impression that somewhere out there, the Valar were laughing at him? He had bargained for a queen to run his home and fill his bed and instead had lost his heart to her – not to this statue of marble of course, but to the girl with the shy smile and eyes crinkling with laughter.

And what did his wife think of their agreement these days? So he had made her Queen of the Mark, but he had the impression titles mattered little to her. And the promised children he had failed to provide so far. Did she think it a poor exchange? What if she regretted marrying him, but was too honourable to voice her true feelings? On the other hand, her passion last night had not been pretended.

She was tense, he suddenly thought. Only somebody who knew her well could have told, but there was a certain rigidity in the way she held herself, a tautness in her whole bearing. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and caught her looking at him. However, the moment she noticed his regard, she quickly turned her attention elsewhere and encouraged Éothain sitting next to her to tell her of his exploits in the battle against the Easterlings. Éomer sighed inwardly. There would be no getting through to her in this remote, formal mood.

Once the feast finished, the men piled some of the tables and benches against the walls to make room for dancing and the musicians struck up a lively tune. This was the sign that the official part of the evening was over and as if she was eager to flee his presence, Lothíriel jumped up and went to chat with Hild. Éomer debated with himself whether to follow her, but before he could make up his mind, Eadbald had descended on the two women and Éomer had the dubious pleasure of seeing his wife whirled away, black and flame coloured heads close together.

Éomer knew that he was probably glowering at them, but he just couldn’t help it. In vain he told himself that she had every right to talk to somebody closer to her age. All the young people had joined the dancing now and there was much laughter when Hild’s partner suddenly lifted her in the air and she gave a squeal of surprise. At least the whelp didn’t have the audacity to follow his friend’s example with Lothíriel! And then, as the dance finished, they paused for a moment and Éomer got a clear view of his wife’s face. Eadbald leant forward to say something to her and she smiled at him.

A real smile, not one of the pretend ones she had handed out all evening.

Red hot rage shot through Éomer. For a heartbeat his vision went black and all he wanted to do was to charge down the hall and gut the man. Or snap his neck! Strangle him! He deserved to die a dozen times over! The thought brought him back to the present and he found that he was gripping the table so hard it hurt. Slowly he exhaled his breath. How could he think such a thing, had he gone mad!

He perceived that Éothain was looking at him funnily. “I need some fresh air,” Éomer said. And without waiting for an answer, he rose and strode out the door at the back of the dais, then after turning right along the corridor pushed open the door to the terrace surrounding Meduseld.

Cool night air hit his face, a welcome sensation. The guards at their post spun round in surprise at his precipitate exit, but he waved them back. “Leave me,” he snapped.

As they retreated hastily towards the front of the hall, he took a deep, calming breath. The stars sparkled in the sky like a dragon’s hoard of diamonds and far to the west Eärendil was setting over the White Mountains. Below him, Edoras lay quiet and peaceful and the music from the hall was muted out here. Slowly his wrath drained out of him. What had got into him? He had thought he had mastered the Rage and harnessed it to his will, but it had nearly got away from him there. And all over a smile by his wife!

Like a punch to his stomach, a horrible thought struck him. He couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he? No! Not of a pimply youth with the brain of a dandelion, one moreover that he could snap in half without even breaking into a sweat. It didn’t bear thinking about!

Behind him the door creaked and at once he knew exactly who stood there.

“Éomer?” she asked. Just his name, in a voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

When he turned round, she looked up at him silently. With her gown melting into the shadows, her pale face seemed to float above it, the pearls in her hairnet shimmering in the starlight. Beautiful and remote, yet also strangely fragile, as if a wrong movement could break her into a thousand pieces. And as always far too desirable for his peace of mind.

Éomer only knew one thing for certain: he could not go on as they had. “Lothíriel, I need to talk to you,” he said roughly. “Let’s retire.”

She jumped. “Now? But your men–”

“As long as the ale doesn’t run out, they’ll be fine.”

After a moment Lothíriel ducked her head. “As you wish,” she whispered.