Chapter 5. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 1
“Lord Éomer—have you heard? Gríma the leech has returned.”
After six years in the King’s Guard, Éomer—now twenty-two—had a squire of his own. Éothain had but lately turned fourteen, a lad of Eastfold stock. His father had once ridden in the éored under Éomund in the old days. Fair-haired, quick of hand and light of foot, Éothain bore a cheerful temper and a habit of darting about the city whenever left idle. No rumour ever stirred in Edoras without brushing his ears.
Éomer had only just exchanged a few words with Háma, who had told him that a courier had arrived at first light with news: Théodred, long absent on patrol in Westfold, had departed from Helm’s Deep and was expected to return to Edoras before nightfall. The tidings had lifted Éomer’s spirits—until Éothain uttered those unwelcome words. At once, his mood darkened.
“On such a fine day,” he grumbled, shooting his squire a glare, “could you not find something better to care about?”
Yet the thought lingered, in spite of himself. It struck him that the leech had been gone these two full years. And the more he considered it, the clearer it became: Gríma’s sudden departure from Edoras had not been entirely without connection to him.
He had just turned twenty then, newly granted the right to command, and was leading a mounted patrol for the first time in his life. The thrill of it needed no saying. But they had barely ridden beyond the city when he noticed a stir at the rear of the column. A closer glance revealed a sight that took the breath from his lungs: his sister—astride her grey steed, clad as a Rider and wearing a helm in a vain attempt at disguise—yet unmistakable.
His shock was matched only by his concern. He brought the company to a halt, his face darkening like a thundercloud, dismounted at speed, and bade Éowyn do the same. Then he drew her aside.
“You are the Lady of Rohan—”
“I know what you are going to say,” Éowyn whispered, cutting him off. “Théodred has said it often enough before. Can you not think of something new?”
Something new?! Had they not been surrounded by Riders, Éomer might well have torn off his helm and seized his own hair in frustration. As it was, he could only sputter, “Even if you care nothing for the duties of other maidens, that is no excuse to go taking after Hild!”
Hild was, in truth, Elfhild—Elfhelm’s younger sister. A year younger than Éomer, she was strikingly fair of face, with none of her brother’s roughness; and among the young women of Edoras, none drew more glances. But appearances could deceive—for, as the Gondorians would say, “A face is no map of the soul.” Though she bore the name of the late queen, she had little of her gentleness. Her most famed deed was still fresh in the telling: disguised as a Rider, she had slipped unnoticed into her brother’s éored and joined battle against a raiding host near the Fords. She unhorsed their chieftain and slew him in single combat, though her helm was lost and her face revealed. And he, dying, would not believe that it was a woman—and one so fair—who had struck him down, or so the tale ran.
The tongue of the Dunlendings was little known in the Mark, and Éomer suspected that last part of the tale had grown in the telling. But that Elfhild was fiercer than many men, he did not doubt. When he was still a squire, she would turn up around him constantly, always with some excuse or errand. Théodred, amused, had called it a girlish fancy and teased him without mercy. At first, Éomer too had believed it—but he had been sorely mistaken.
One afternoon, as he was grooming Théodred’s horse in the stable, she appeared without warning, seized him by the arm, drew him into a corner, and kissed him—hard and without a word. It lasted long enough to leave him blinking, dazed. Then she stepped back, frowned slightly, touched her lips, and muttered to herself, “Is that all? I cannot see why my brother and his friends find it so endlessly fascinating.” And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Éomer frozen where he stood—until the shock wore off and fury set in.
It was, indeed, a hard thing to endure. For one, he could not strike a woman. Nor could he speak of it—for what sort of man would confess to being manhandled by a maiden? So he swallowed the affront. The only mercy was that he had taken the lesson to heart: never once did he speak of it to Théodred, no matter how deep the cup. He had no wish to go down as the greatest laughingstock the House of Eorl had ever produced.
And back to Éowyn—Éowyn had ever been headstrong. She had learned the sword from Théodred in her younger days, yet she had grown into a composed and stately lady of the Mark—no less the equal of any who had borne that title before her. That she would now attempt such a thing—he could only surmise she had heard of Elfhild’s exploits and sought to follow in her stead. The thought alone chilled his blood more sharply than the first time he had faced a warg-rider.
“I am your brother—I would never do you harm. Just trust me, this once.” He drew her a little farther aside and lowered his voice. If rebuke would not serve, then persuasion must—for that much, at least, Théodred had taught him. “And if that truly is your intent, then at least let it pass as such. Your hauberk fits poorly, you still wear earrings, and your hair is not braided fit for a helm. If I turn a blind eye, how will my Riders regard me?”
Éowyn glanced down at her attire, and her expression faltered. Éomer had only just begun to breathe easier when a voice sounded nearby:
“Long have I heard tell of our lady, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Were Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnach to walk once more in the Riddermark, she would be as this.”
Éowyn lifted her head at once. Éomer turned—and there stood Gríma the leech, half-veiled among the willows, a basket of herbs slung across his back. His lids were lowered, but his eyes gleamed with an uncanny light.
Ever since that man had once sown seeds of bitter doubt in his heart—turning him, however briefly, against his own kin—Éomer had found it hard to look upon him without anger. Worse still, he could never quite disentangle Gríma from that shameful misstep of youth which had brought embarrassment upon Théodred. The way the leech looked at them now made Éomer’s hackles rise—and already in a foul mood, he was ready to strike him then and there. But before he could act, Éowyn laid a gentle hand on his arm and said quietly, “The fault was mine. Let it rest.” Then she turned, mounted, and rode back toward the city.
With that interruption, Éomer had lost the will to strike. He cast a curt, “My sister is not for your idle speech,” over his shoulder and led the company away. Yet later, the more he brooded on it, the more it chafed. He half considered calling on Gríma the next day, to make plain what ought and ought not to be spoken—but the leech was gone. It seemed Gríma had read the wind and chosen the wiser course: he had gathered his wares and slipped from Edoras of his own accord.
Shaking off the memory, Éomer turned back to Éothain. “And what of it, if he has returned? Is that truly something worth fretting yourself into a panic over?”
“My lord, please—just hear me out!” the boy protested. “I would never trouble you over nothing. It is not merely that he has returned—folk saw him speak with the Lady Éowyn at the gates, and now she has ridden from the city with only two companions!”
At that, Éomer felt a sharp ringing in his ears. He ordered Éothain to ready the horses at once—but before they could depart in pursuit, a horn rang out. Moments later, an éored swept into view, riding swift and sure toward the city gates. At their head flew the green-and-white banner of the Mark—the Prince’s own standard. Beneath it rode two abreast: one in dark green mail laced with gold, the other in white, cloaked deep in green—Théodred and Éowyn.
Éomer found his cousin outside the stables, just as he was removing his helm. Éowyn was nowhere in sight—she had likely hastened to the Hall to see to the preparations. Théodred, catching sight of him, handed over his helm by reflex—a gesture born of their days as prince and squire.
“She surprised me—and pleasantly so,” he said, before Éomer could speak. “But what sort of brother lets her ride out with so little company, even knowing I had chosen to return early and was already near?”
Éomer lowered his head and accepted the rebuke without protest. Théodred eyed his cousin—taller by a couple of inches, yet wearing the look of a chastened boy—and let out a sudden chuckle.
“But I have just realized something,” he said, his tone turning solemn. “Éowyn is truly grown.” Then, after a pause and a crooked smile, he added, “At times, I think I am doomed to be outmatched by the high standard set by the women of your house—first your mother, still called the fairest lady in the Mark after all these years, and now your sister, grown into one who will surely outshine all her peers. With each passing day, I grow less certain that I shall ever meet one to match them—and begin to wonder whether I ought to say so the next time the King chews my ear about marriage.”
With that, he laughed and turned toward the Hall, striding away—leaving Éomer too stunned to muster a protest.
Notes:
Éothain is not my OC; he appears in the LotR as Éomer’s lieutenant.