Chapter 3. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 3

To serve as squire to the Prince was a privilege beyond the reach of most, for it granted early access to the workings of governance—an advantage few other posts could rival. The realm of Rohan differed greatly from that of Gondor. North of the White Mountains, its lands stretched far and wide—from the Gap of Rohan in the west, to the Wold in the north, and eastward to the Emyn Muil and the Fenmarch. Yet for all its expanse, the settlements of the Rohirrim were few, and most of the people still lived as horse-herders, roaming with the seasons.

The Kings of the Mark traced their lineage through but two lines, and counted only seventeen generations from Eorl the Young—a history not yet five hundred years old, far simpler than that of the Númenórean realms to the north and south. From king to commoner, the folk of Rohan had not yet strayed from the hardy ways of their forebears—ways which, to the eyes of the High Men in exile, still seemed rough-hewn and plain, untouched by the refinements of long tradition.

Éomer often stood at Théodred’s side in Meduseld, listening as lords both great and humble came to lay their tidings before the King. He was surprised to learn how many in the Mark still spoke no word of the Common Tongue.

Though the Kings of Rohan had honoured martial prowess since the days of Eorl the Young, the influence of Gondor had grown notably during the reign of King Thengel—grandfather to both Théodred and Éomer. Under Thengel’s rule, the speech of Gondor was adopted in the Golden Hall, and with it came a reverence for learning and book-lore. Thus, for Éomer, to serve as Théodred’s squire meant not only tending arms and honing his skill at arms, but also the study of letters and lore.

Some of Thengel’s companions from his years in Gondor had remained in Edoras as royal scholars, passing down their lore to those who came after. From them, Éomer learned songs and tales, both noble and grim, and came to know the tongues and histories of many lands. By now, he could follow most of Théodred’s references—even those drawn from Gondor—with little effort, and his speech in the Common Tongue was often praised for bearing the grace and cadence of their southern allies.

“You already know the meaning of A Hîr Annûn Gilthoniel?” Théodred had once said in surprise, quoting a verse from an Elvish lay beloved in Gondor. “I am impressed! That is worthy of a brother of mine.” [1]

Later, Éomer would often ponder those words. He never did find the right moment to ask Théodred what he had meant. Master Gléowine, the King’s scholar and minstrel, who had taught both him and Éowyn, had once been Théodred’s tutor as well—but whenever the Prince’s name arose, the look that crossed the old man’s face suggested anything but fond remembrance of a former star pupil.

At present, the Lord of Westfold remained Erkenbrand, who held command from the Hornburg in Helm’s Deep. The lands nearest to Edoras—from Dunharrow to Harrowdale—were held directly by the King and the Prince. Eastfold, once governed by Éomund, now stood without a settled lord. Éomer, born and raised in those parts until the age of eleven, naturally thought of it as home and took a keen interest in its condition. So when he was chosen to accompany Théodred eastward, he made his preparations with eager resolve, determined that the journey should not be made in vain.

Even while Éomund yet lived, the state of Eastfold had grown increasingly grim. Éomer, though still a child, had felt it. Darkness had returned in the East; Mordor stirred once more. Gondor’s strength was waning, and Sauron’s reach had begun to creep across the Great River and over the White Mountains. His messengers had even dared to ride into Rohan, demanding tribute in the form of horses. Éomund, fiery of temper and bold of spirit, slew the insolent spokesman on the spot and sent the rest fleeing. Thereafter, Mordor turned to plunder: what it could not take, it sought to lay to ruin. Orcs bearing the Red Eye—some larger and more savage than any seen before—began to harry the eastern border: burning, slaying, and stealing steeds. Their boldness roused Éomund’s wrath, and so they laid a trap for him in the Emyn Muil. Thus fell the chief Marshal of the Mark—and the Enemy rejoiced, for the thorn had been plucked from their side.

Éomer had not grasped these causes at the time. But in Edoras, with wider knowledge and Théodred’s guidance, the threads of cause and consequence began to take clearer shape.

“Eastfold is not the only region suffering,” Théodred had said. “There are scarcely any dark horses left in all the Mark. Whatever use the Enemy has for them, it cannot be for any wholesome purpose.”

“Why do we not wage open war on Mordor?” Éomer demanded, his voice low with fury. To learn that his father’s death had not been some cruel mischance, but part of a far darker design, was almost more than he could endure.

Théodred did not answer at once. He had spent the morning in council, and his golden hair, unbraided for once, gave him a less martial, more contemplative air.

“When my father made that decision,” he said at last, rising to stand by the hearth, “I asked him the very same question.”

He gazed into the firelight, where the flames danced like restless thoughts. “It is not so simple. Rohan has never lacked for foes. To the west, the Dunlendings watch and bide their time. Isengard grows stranger with each passing year—its words more guarded, its purpose less clear. The east you know well. To the north lies the Wold, where even Eorl the Young met his end; and west of it, the Entwood, where none willingly tread, not even by day. And farther still, the Golden Wood, where dwells a sorceress—or so it is said—and none who enter ever return.”

“Well, if we already have so many enemies,” Éomer pressed, “what harm is one more? Is there not a saying—‘More lice do not itch, and more debts do not trouble’?”

Théodred, who had been frowning, burst into laughter. “Lice and debts will not kill you,” he said. “Remember this, Éomer: Frumgar led our people from the Vales of Anduin to Langwell, and Eorl the Young rode to the Field of Celebrant—not to court ruin, but to win a future. That is what a king must do.”

They said no more on the matter, and Éomer, in the end, chose to place his trust in the King’s wisdom. But Théodred, unwilling to rest on counsel alone, soon sought leave to ride and see the East-mark for himself.

The journey was to be a guarded one, undertaken with caution. Théodred brought with him not only his own éored, but two full companies drawn from the Riders of Edoras. At sunrise, the Second Marshal rode forth at the head of his host, passing between the barrow-mounds of the Kings. On each green grave, white simbelmynë bloomed in profusion, glimmering like frost in the early light.

It was late spring. The willows along the roadside had leafed, and the plains lay cloaked in green. The company planned to follow the East-West Road and make camp by sundown near the confluence of the Snowbourn and the Entwash. The land was smooth and open—by all accounts, the march should have been uneventful. But before noon, a Rider returned at speed and spoke to Théodred in a low voice. At once, his eyes lit with interest. He turned to Éomer with a grin. “A lucky day. We have a rare guest.”

Éomer did not understand—until he beheld the great grey horse.

It bore neither saddle nor bridle and, at first glance, might have passed for a wild steed. Yet no wild horse had ever looked so: its coat shimmered like silk in the sunlight, and its mane gleamed silver, like water in swift motion.

“That must be one of the Mearas!” Éomer gasped, nearly stumbling in his haste as he leapt from the saddle and rummaged through his bag. He pulled out an apple, sliced it cleanly in two with his knife, and stepped forward. “Here—this is for you!”

The horse did not so much as glance his way.

Éomer waited a long while before the truth dawned: he had been utterly ignored.

“A horse that does not like apples?!” he muttered, staring at the fruit in his hand, then at the horse—completely baffled.

Théodred, who had been watching from horseback all the while, at last raised a hand. A supply Rider dismounted, opened a pouch, and laid out a heap of apples before the horse.

Only then did the steed approach—stately and unhurried—and begin to eat, one by one, with serene composure.

Éomer stared, jaw agape.

“He is no ordinary horse,” said Théodred, now dismounted and standing beside him. “Even I hold no claim to his heed. That is Shadowfax, lord of the Mearas. He bears none but the King of the Mark.”

When Shadowfax finished, he lifted his head, and his gaze grew softer.

Théodred cast Éomer a sidelong smile. “Go on—he will let you touch him.”

Éomer stepped forward, laying his hand along the great horse’s neck and flank, scarcely able to believe it. Even when Shadowfax drew back a pace in courteous dismissal, he lingered, unwilling to part.

He watched as the silver-grey steed vanished into the wind-swept grass. Beside him, Théodred said, “I only wish he were less particular. Then perhaps, one day, you might know what it is to ride him.”

Éomer turned, startled. But Théodred met his gaze with a smile—open and unfeigned.

“You are as a brother to me,” he said. “Whatever I have, it is yours also.”

---

Notes:

[1] Quoted from HoMe 3.